The Forgotten

The two robbers looked down at the figures of a man and a boy on an ass. “Don’t look like these two are carrying much in the way of gold or silver,” Shariq said in a bleak tone. He sized up the potential prey with the eye of a seasoned professional.

“Don’t look like much of a risk if we find out,” responded Daku, Shariq’s partner in devilry. “Besides, these may be our last victims before we get to the river valley. We can praise the gods we stumbled upon them.”

The two robbers crouched at the top of a hill. Below, the donkey was passing slowly by. The robbers slithered stealthily down towards their prospective prey, but something gave them away. Suddenly the man and the boy were off the ass, swords at the ready. Surprised and startled, the two marauders came to a speedy halt.

“Who are you?” the man demanded.

The robbers could see that this man, while no longer young, was a formidable opponent. His hair was still black, but his lined, tanned face spoke of long years in the desert. His deep-sunken, black warrior eyes, the eyes of experience, held true authority.

“My lord bears himself on an ass,” Shariq sneered. “Forgive us if we mistook him for one.”

“My people know what it is to be a thief,” the man laughed. “But neither do we have anything worth your trouble. Go on your way to where the real pickings are.”

“And who are your people?” asked Shariq, whose northern upbringing had not given him much experience with the peoples of the Sinn desert.

“I am Iddin, leader of the Waradu.”

At this, both of the thieves laughed. They had met their match. The Waradu had a reputation for raiding caravans.

“And who are you?” Iddin repeated pointedly.

“My name is Shariq, and this is my colleague, Daku. These are only our professional names, of course.” Shariq, the taller of the two thieves, was beginning to regret this encounter. A word wrong, and maybe this warrior chief would turn on them. Shariq was a good judge of prowess in battle, and he was prepared to wager that Iddin had fought in pitched battles where he had held his own against three, four warriors at a time.

“I understand the meaning of your names,” Iddin said sharply.

The two looked taken aback. They were silent for a moment.

“Well, we shall be getting along. Slim pickings here. Not many people travel through the mountains at this time of year. We’re enroute to the Baqu Valley, to ply our trade in a more rewarding setting. Nice meeting you. I hope we meet again in pleasanter circumstances.” So spoke Shariq, in the suave tone of one who had made something of his years in the world, unlike his wooly companion. He smiled, and his smile almost hung in the air, so hurriedly did he and Daku turn tail and flee. Iddin watched them go. His son, Abulsin, a boy of twelve summers, laughed and waved his sword about. “They’re afraid of us, father,” he cried, rejoicing in his own fancied formidability.

Iddin smiled. “Two Waradu are too much for two Amurru, especially when one of the Waradu is next in line to rule.” He lifted his heir affectionately onto the donkey.

They rode on for some time, making slow progress as the foothills grew stonier and harder to negotiate. Abulsin could not take his mind off the incident with the thieves. “Father,” he finally asked, “Why did you ask those brigands their names?”

Iddin grinned at his son’s blossoming intelligence. “Names are important, Abul. The trade names that these villains take tell what kind of work they’re willing to do. The tall man Shariq—he’s an ordinary thief. The more uncouth one, Daku was the more dangerous. His name means “killer.” I’m sure they didn’t expect me to understand Amurru.”

“Father, what does my name mean?”

“Why nothing, as far as I know!” Iddin laughed. “Some names are just names.”

“Why are we going to sacrifice in the mountains?” the lad continued, hoping to continue to interrogate his father.

“It’s funny you should ask that now, when we’ve been discussing names,” remarked the chief of the Waradu. “One name of this mountain range is Shadê-ili, “mountains of god.” Our people came from these mountains a long time ago, and I think that we had a god then whom we have now forgotten.”

Abulsin was disappointed. “So what? We have so many gods. Why do we need one more? And how do you remember this god when everyone else has forgotten him?”

“It’s not that I remember the god. I simply have come to believe our people once had such a deity, exactly why is a long story. You’ve heard tales of my father, and your grandfather, Shulgu, have you not?” Iddin asked pleasantly.

“Yes! How he killed two lion cubs with one arrow, how he robbed a caravan with them not even knowing it, how—“

“Yes, yes,” interrupted Iddin. “Yet no one has told you how he died.”

Abulsin’s ears stood up like siege towers. It was true that he had heard tales of many exploits of his legendary grandfather, but never a whisper as to how he had died. He looked at his father expectantly.

“We’ve been encamped in the area of the Baqu valley, with its rivers and cities, for only a few generations. This may seem forever to you, Abulsin, but it is only a short time in the life of our people. Shulgu, my father, wanted to conquer a city for us to live in, thus putting an end to our unsettled existence. The city he chose for us was Uruzi. It lies no great distance from our people’s main camp. Uruzi has a weakness that cannot be defended. Its heart is in the desert. You follow me?” If he didn’t there was no use going on with the tale that continued to rend his heart.

“You mean the Sacred Oasis, father.”

“That’s right, Abulsin. Uruzi is under the special protection of its god, Athar. Should the Sacred Oasis fall, the Uruzis would know that their god had deserted them, and the city would fall flat before us like a pancake. That’s what Shulgu thought. He asked, what is there to stop us from attacking the Sacred Oasis and slaughtering the priests? He picked his bravest men and set off to wipe out the Oasis, which has no human defenders. They headed straight for the Oasis and didn’t find it. As the sun went down into its sleep, they were completely lost in the wilderness. Shulgu, who knew the desert like the nose of his camel, was wandering hopelessly in circles! Even after they had given up and tried to retreat, they continued to circle. They grew faint with weariness, chilled by the desert night, thirsty by the fire of the morning sun. Finally, the god of Uruzi, Athar, led them into the Sacred Oasis. The god had seen to it that by then Shulgu would be easy prey for the priests. They bound Shulgu to the top of the great horned altar, where he lay helplessly until Amar, the High Priest, disemboweled him in sacrifice to Athar. Amar slaughtered him like a goat or sheep, using an ancient knife of stone. This account I pieced together from the lone survivor of the expedition who wandered into our camp. Amar dispatched him as the god’s messenger, to tell us what befell. We have survived too long as a people not to have had a god who could defeat Athar.”

The memory of Shulgu before he had set out for the Oasis had never left Iddin. Shulgu’s son was then even younger than Abulsin was at present. Iddin had been a lad of eleven summers when he last saw his father, then a man burning with enthusiasm. Shulgu had explained to him all his plans for the Waradu once they conquered the city. He had sketched a vision of a better life for his people, and those of the city dwellers who would willingly join them. Iddin’s father was not merely the quintessential man of action, but a visionary who believed in a great destiny for his people. And he had died in agony on the altar of an alien god.

Abulsin said nothing. He was stunned. Yet at least he understood now why his father had brought him so far in search of another god. When they dismounted in order to bed for the night, his father confirmed and enlarged his understanding.

“So, you see, the Waradu must return to the god who brought them into being, whom they served untold ages in the past, who is punishing us for our ancient neglect. We cannot beat Athar with the gods we picked up in our journeys in the desert, nor can we find our ancient god in the Baqu river valley, with its many cities. Perhaps because we came here, we’ll find that the age-old god of the mountains may have the power to destroy the god of the city, and enable us to avenge the death of my beloved father.”

The sun had stumbled below the mountain range that stood still in the distance. Iddin scanned the surrounding hills, on guard for the anticipated return of the thief and the killer. Abulsin suddenly bolted up the nearest hill. Iddin swore, but did not call the lad back. Unless ill chance led Abulsin into Daku’s grasp, it would be all right. Abulsin could take care of himself.

Abulsin reached the top of the hill. The stars were appearing, the heavenly abode of the great gods, the Igigi. The Worm of Darkness had swallowed the sun whole, and would only disgorge it reluctantly at dawn. Abulsin could no longer see the northern mountains that were the goal of Iddin’s search for the forgotten god. Abulsin could no longer discern the donkey below, nor could he make out the shape of his father. The lad thought of possible names for the old forgotten mountain god. “Ushumgallu,” he thought, but then he realized that was the name of a monster. “Athar,” he thought, but he frowned at that for that was the name of the city god that had killed grandfather. Suddenly Abulsin became horribly afraid. Could Athar reach him out here? Would the mountain god protect him?

Now he heard something truly frightening, the dull sound of the clash of iron weapons. The two robbers had decided to try their luck on the sun-bitten warrior and his son in the dark, in the hopes of killing the father and taking the son for ransom. Unfortunately for them, they had chosen a moment when Iddin was especially on the alert. He saw the indistinct form of one of the robbers, and drew sword almost noiselessly. When the robber drew close to the donkey, Iddin leapt and struck out in one swift motion of his double-edged blade. There was a brief engagement, which Abulsin heard from above, and Iddin0’s prowess was such that the robber fell down at his feet, a dead man. Yet the other Amurru cutthroat jabbed Iddin from behind, having circled quietly around the indistinct form of the donkey. As Iddin shouted in pain Abulsin was there to stab the ruffian from behind; he found his father’s attacker’s unprotected leg with his sword.

Shariq lost his footing from surprise and pain. He came down heavily onto a thorn separated from its parent bush, and howled like a hyena. He had dropped his sword as a result of his fall, and was helpless when Iddin, who had only received a flesh wound, put a sword to his throat. Abulsin peered in the starlight, waiting for his father to put an end to the murderous wretch.

The full moon came out from behind a cloud. Shariq stared at the warrior he had surprised but who unfortunately had turned the tables on him, and he shuddered in fear and pain.

“”I thought we might meet again,” Iddin said.

Shariq did not reply at first. With great bitterness he recognized that instead of letting his fate come upon him, he had gone to his fate. He tried to think, despite and through his agony, of a way to persuade Iddin to spare him.

“What is it you want, lord? I have a hidden treasure I was saving for my old age. It is yours, lord. Women? I can provide you with nubile women from all quarters, fit not only for an evening’s pleasure, but to function as permanent concubines in your wife’s house.”

When Iddin did not take up these generous offers, the thief gave out an unctuous chuckle, which sounded more like a death croak. “My lord has many fine women in his harem, of course.” Shariq tried a winning grin, but it was not effective in the gloom. Shariq was sweating, but he did not give up. “Perhaps my lord is interested in the occult scrolls of the shades of the dead? I can provide these along with an enchantment-priest who can skillfully extract and interpret the magical secrets of the sorcery god, who can feed you the plant of immortality.”

“What is the name of this god?” Iddin asked.

“He is the patron of many peoples. We call him Bel.”

Iddin had heard of this god, and he knew it was no mountain god.

“Then I commend you to your patron. In your life he has perhaps served you well.” The Waradu chief pressed home his blade, to Abulsin’s relief. The lad who had just drawn his first blood had feared the thief’s honeyed tongue would trick his father into sparing the rogue. Abulsin rushed to his father’s side, brandishing his bloodstained blade in the process. “I did it, father, I felled the rascal!”

“Good, my son. But I am also wounded, if not sorely.” Iddin grimaced, as much from chagrin as from pain. How infuriating, he thought, to pass through so many dangers unscathed, only to be wounded in a minor encounter in the dark with some thieves, in a territory forsaken by man and beast, and devoid perhaps of all gods.

Abulsin cried out in consternation. Yet then he recovered himself. He could see that his father was just annoyed, and hence was not afraid of an immediate death. “We must wash the wound, father, and pray to Gula that it may heal fast.”

“Fetch some water.” Now that the menace in the dark was over, Iddin’s wound started to throb with pain. Along with that came a throb of pride: his son was a miniature warrior.

“The moon and stars are suddenly covered by clouds,” the boy called out. “I fear it is going to rain.”

Hardly had the word, “rain” come from Abulsin’s mouth, and then as if he were a rain caller, rain lashed down at the two Waradu and their donkey, which grunted in displeasure. Lightning flashed and almost simultaneously a thunderbolt crashed.

Soon Abulsin forgot everything as he cavorted in the warm summer water from heaven.

It was almost dawn before the rain stopped, yet the two had set up their tent and were sound asleep when suddenly something aroused Iddin. Opening his eyes he found himself staring straight into the eyes of what Iddin took to be a god.

“Iddin, you are to go no farther,” the apparition said. “You’ve been steadfast. The god you are seeking is pleased. He asks of you no more than you have done. Return to your people.”

A bolt of lighting flashed, illuminating the ‘god.’ She was a head taller than the tallest man. Her hair was cropped short, but it was blue, as were the skin and the eyes. Iddin prostrated himself, stricken with awe, terror, and fascination. Iddin noticed the hands that were massaging his wound had seven fingers. Seven was a holy number to the Waradu. Iddin doubled over in pain at the feel of that hand, but then felt exquisite relief and pleasure as his wound was healed.

“Thank you, O Goddess,” he quavered, a warrior chief who had yet to quail at things of this world.

“I am not a goddess, I am only a messenger.”

“Ah, then you are one of the la’iku of ancient lore preserved by the tellers of tales,” Iddin breathed, struck once more with awe.

“Yes, for the meaning of ‘la’iku’ is simply ‘messenger’ in your speech,” the emissary confirmed.

“What is the god’s name so that I may properly bring offerings to him?” Iddin dared to ask.

“The god wants nothing else from you, as you have offered yourself,” the ethereal being replied. “As for the name, I shall tell your son. It’s he who must know it.”

So saying, the la’iku stepped over to the soundly sleeping Abulsin, and whispered briefly into his ear. Much as he strained his ears, Iddin could not make out what the messenger said.

“Your task is to guard that boy,” she said, turning back to Iddin.

Even the gods cannot heal without pain, Iddin suddenly thought, feeling his healed side. “It seems that the boy has guarded me,” Iddin replied.

“Return to your people,” the emissary instructed for a second time.

Iddin bowed. “I thank the Forgotten God.”

Soon the la’iku had disappeared into the night. Iddin was left to ponder over the amazing sight of the female healer and messenger who had put a sudden end to his pilgrimage. He could not sleep. He pondered and prayed the rest of the night, wondering if the emissary had told Abulsin a name Iddin would recognize.

When the Worm of Darkness had disgorged the sun, and the sky was blessed with sunrise, Abulsin awoke.

“We’re turning back,” Iddin said to his son, hoping to hear news of the mountain god.

“Why, father?” Abulsin asked. “Are we giving up?”

“A messenger of the mountain god appeared last night. He whispered the god’s name in your ear last night. You remember it, don’t you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, father,” the boy replied.

“I pray that you come to remember,” was all that Iddin said.

Iddin, his eyes narrowing and his forehead contracting into wrinkles of consternation, told the story of what had happened. He displayed his perfectly healed side. Abulsin’s eyes grew as round as signet rings, but he could remember nothing. Iddin sighed and prepared to move out. He looked up and gasped at the beauty of the sky. The sky, as cloudless and unruffled as the first day of creation, was an unnaturally bright shade of blue.