Once a King Pt. 17 - I die ...

Part 17: I die and am reborn as a King.

(Thanks to my editor, Kenji Sato)

Skryba, you are of the faith that believes that a man died and was brought back to life? Yes? Well...here you see such a man!

You smile, skryba? You think it is the samahon talking? All the People died, or were captured as good as dead for one who knew the harsh freedom of the stypia.

I, alone, Pawel of the Council of the People, lived. And yet, I died, too. Died as one of the People. All their memories! All their pain...I felt it all. The last thing...it all came to me!

It was too much, the misery, the shame, their past joys, their lost future. I saw what Genowefa did. She sent me her last thoughts—they were lust-filled, fear-filled, disgusting, sad, and the most pitiable thoughts. She wanted the seed of all men, not just those she summoned of the People. The love of all women. The horrible death of those who had killed the People. And...one last time in the cool water of the bathing pool.

As the war arrow pierced Filip, he 'saw' his beloved horse's herd for the last time. He sent me his unique gift...I then knew not only the minds of the People, but the desires and feelings of the horse herd...at least when they were close to me.

In a similar fashion, I received Hirek's sight, his sense for the nearness of danger, his eager, simple lust for women, his horror as he died with his manhood choking him.

Jadzia, all the wisdom of the women, she was connected in that way. Not the power of Genowefa, but a keeper of secrets of female expertise. All their wants, needs, desires and lusts. Their loving care and special skills—The Lore of the Coicie...all was mine!

As for Nik, I learned of his mutilation as a boy, at the hands of holy people. They believed he was to be saved from the distractions of lust by the removal of his kulki. After many decades, he felt the loss...though he lost them early and never knew the weight of them hanging low in the summer heat. In some ways, our wise man remained a boy. Perhaps, so it is with all wise people. A certain innocence, an unworldliness allows visions the rest of us cannot see. From then, I could see as he had.

From Gustek, his signature gift, a small thing in life, yet the one man obsesses over; he alone controlled the transformation of his buc. It was not in the power of the Coicie. This he gave to me, a blessing and a curse. He did not give me his samahon distilling skills...eh, skryba!!!...haha. I make do with this poor moonshine.

It was too much—all this—all the gifts, the faults, the fears, the deaths...of the People. All on me, all on me. So, it all KILLED ME.

I was drowning in the People. All the People were in me...those I knew well, those I had seen but never even spoke to. Sad. So few were the People. Only in the moment of death, did I know them all intimately. It was all new...it was all too much. I was tired, defeated, running away—I was drowning.

In fact, I WAS drowning. My lungs filling, my throat burning...all was black, then white...I felt no more pain...so...this is death...a curiosity...something to be learned, lived with. Ha-ha...Then, I will live with death...forever, though I lived a life for barely two decades.

Then...I was no longer dead. The pain returned, a wracking cough...a dull gray light...and one of the ugliest faces! I was reborn. My 'savior'...man or woman? Long, wet hair...filthy, moss-encrusted tendrils, gray-brown, snake-like tresses, waist-length, tied back.

A leather thong around the neck, and another about the waist. Ghastly breath. Tall, at least taller than most People of the stypia. Pale-blue eyes and fair-but-leathery skin. A pouch with a large flint knife hung from the waist thong between 'their' legs, concealing 'their' sex. 'Their' chest was strange...flat, but with prominent erect nipples.

'They' pulled me through the shallow, brackish water to a swifter-flowing channel of clear water. Except for the well-watered place, in all my days, I had not seen such water. Only small trees and brush grew on the banks of the clear channels. Where the swampy margins met the clearer waters, 'they' had breached 'their' watercraft. In the stypia, there was little material culture, we made our clothes, simple weapons and tools, our huts of twigs and woven stypia grasses. This creature was poor, no doubt, but 'they' or one of 'their' kin, had fashioned a light but efficient craft. Hollowed out from a log of light buoyant wood...the interior had been burned, then carved out. The exterior bore carvings of swamp creatures I had never seen, and other animals I knew well, small deer and rabbits.

With long, sinewy arms, the creature, which I found out was a man, his knife pouch lifted as he raised me into his vessel. A matted mass of curly, oiled hair, mostly concealed his kulki and buc.

He saw my eyes were open and smiled...revealing surprisingly good teeth...still his breath was deadly. Later, I found that all dwellers of that watery region, smelled the same...all the fish and other water creatures they ate. And the water, itself.

He, my rescuer—my resurrectionist—sat easily balanced in the rear of the watercraft...I was propped up in the front. Between us were the waterfowl this hunter had snared in the swamps. He paddled easily, slowly, economically, as one who had a great distance to go, and routinely husbanded his energy.

Fully laden, the craft barely escaped filling with water. My paddler showed no concern...there was only a slow current, and he propelled the craft slowly against it. He spoke softly, as one does to a hunting companion, so as not to spook the game that may lurk nearby. I understood not a word of what he said...but he may not have been speaking to me. Perhaps a mantra for a safe journey home, a prayer.

Hours passed, or so it seemed to me. I drifted in and out of sleep.

Dreams informed me of what had transpired since the battle—HA! No, the massacre at the well-watered place. If that was the well-watered place...this was the over-watered place. Ha-ha!

Since the massacre of the People, Adira had taken me away from the men of the Bull. The mystery—had they considered the People brothers? Why? How can the Eagle and the Bull be connected?

Other thoughts, disconnection, filled my dreams. All my loves, all the women who had summoned me. Back to my escape. I was to save the memory of the People. I had become the People, as much as one poor soul can absorb a People. The dreams did not tell me how long Adira and I were on the stypia. We did pass the Pia Fidelis, and the bathing pool. We avoided the destroyed camp of the Coicie.

In the distance, we had spied riders...but they were far away, heading away from us and did not see us. We drank from stagnant pools, found forage for both human and horse...we continued...deeper, to the far reaches of the stypia. Even here, we had been followed.

One of the men of the Bull. When all our 'Holy People' had died, their guards inspected the area where they lay. Only then, was it noticed one was missing. I, Pawel, had escaped, though they did not know my name. They were not allowed to kill me. But I must be followed, and 'allowed to die' so I could not curse them, perhaps bringing bad luck down on them, the anger of my gods. My gods were not vengeful gods, but they did not know that, and were fearful. No, not fearful, simply practical. If there was any chance of avoiding misfortune, it was prudent for the Group to take those measures.

That measure was the sending of Verbosus and his rider Eustathios.

Eustathios rode without his heavy armor, relieving Verbosus of his heavy protection also. In place of the armor, the warrior carried on his horse extra water and food for the journey. He replaced his usual weapons with a heavy war bow. Though not normally an archer, he was practiced in the art, as were most of the older warriors. The younger men were not so versatile, they might be good with sword or spear or bow, but rarely more. The older men learned skills that they hoped would give them longevity as warriors. Though a warrior's life could be cut short at any time. Still, so could hunters or farmers.

The warrior of the Bull kept Adira in sight. He had no plan, but he hoped that I would sicken and die without his intervention. The stypia grew ever harsher as we journeyed. It was not stypia any longer, but a wasted land, devoid of water courses or even stagnant pools. As the land fell away before us, Adira sniffed. Inhaled deeply...Whinnied to me. I understood that there was water ahead.

The warrior's steed caught the scent, as well. I have his thoughts in me. 'The Bagnisko...if they enter the Bagnisko, I cannot follow. The Magician may escape.' The warrior studied the land, so he could close with us unnoticed. Reaching a spot ahead of us, an easy bow shot from us. I saw him for the first time. Tired, my thoughts formed slowly. I wanted to urge Adira on...but my thoughts were stopped by an arrow impact. A war arrow was embedded deeply in Adira's throat. She was bleeding heavily and soon collapsed to her knees.

The Warrior...circled us. As he closed, he halted looming over me and the dying Adira. A finishing shot to Adira's exposed flank pierced her heart.

He pointed with his bow towards the water we had been seeking. I understood his words...or, at least, his meaning was clear to me. "There, magician, lies your doom, the fetid waters of Bagnisko. You may survive their poisons...but if you do, No One Ever returns from Bagnisko."

He left, having done his duty to the Bull. Through it all, he was not boastful or arrogant, he had done his duty and now departed to report that the Magician should not to be a cause of worry for the Bull.

I could still walk...the only hope was the swamp, or Bagnisko, as the warrior called it. Without Adira I could not survive the waterless wasteland we had just traversed. Water was life.

But when I saw the fetid waters of the Bagnisko, I despaired...green with slime...masses of insects hovered over the stagnant waters.

In the far distance, I spotted some twisted vegetation that might indicate dry land. I tested the waters...mostly they were knee deep...carefully, I waded to the 'dry land'. Exhausted one hour later, I collapsed onto the rotting mass that was barely above the fetid waters. I fell into a restless, fevered sleep.

Night came and went. I was conscious part of the time...creatures floated through the night waters. I could see their eyes reflecting in the moonlight. None approached me. In the morning, vultures floated in the gray sky above. I resolved to try for another patch of dry land, even further into Bagnisko. Here, the waters deepened. Snakes slithered on the surface. They ignored me. I wondered if I had some protection from the People that protected me from the dangers of this swamp. The waters were now waist deep, then I stepped into a deep pool. A lifetime on the stypia, does not make one a swimmer. I foundered. I panicked. And I died. To be saved...by the one paddling me to???

I awoke when my rescuer beached his craft, near a small hut on an actual dry patch of land. I was unceremoniously, but not roughly, tumbled out of the craft by the simple expedience of the craft being overturned. I awoke with my face in the sand, near the dead waterfowl and the nets, that had caused them to meet their doom.

My view was that of the scrawny tylek of my rescuer, as he greeted the hut. Another swamp dweller emerged, from what I later learned was the rear entrance of the hut. This person had some of the same features as my rescuers, though even taller. The main difference was that he (I assumed male) was clothed and was much cleaner. His clothing consisted of drawers that reached to the knee and a colorful shirt decorated with elaborate embroidery. A rather incongruous item of attire in what was, otherwise, a simple setting.

I was drifting in and out of consciousness, having just recently been 'resurrected' and also very tired and hungry after an arduous journey. I knew their language was some variant of what the People spoke, but a far more archaic form; also, the accent was such, that it barely seemed human speech.

They spoke softly to each other, perhaps that was the way of these swamp dwellers. Besides the homely greeting, there was inquiry, I could tell from the tone. "How was the hunt?" and then on seeing me, "What prize have you discovered for us?"

Apparently, I was a rare find and...quite valuable.

The pair rolled me onto a mat they had retrieved from the hut, and pulled me up to the front of the hut where there was a small dock or porch jutting out over the slow-flowing waters of the channel.

I guess they planned on bathing me, but before that happened, the clothed one insisted that the hunter bathe first. I gathered they were not normally filthy. This was merely the way of the hunter, a camouflage when hunting and a way of preserving their clothing from damage in foul weather.

My rescuer plunged into what were the much deeper waters of the channel that flowed by their hut...I was alarmed by the time it took for him to emerge from the depths. As a stypia dweller, I had no experience of swimming at all, and certainly none of underwater travel. Later, I would learn that these two were remarkable, even among their kind, for their talents in the water.

There was another peculiarity. When my rescuer emerged from the water, he was much cleaner. Hauling himself onto the dock with thin-yet-muscular arms, his buc had emerged from his previously matted pubic bush in a state of arousal.

I assumed his transformation was due to the stimulation of the waters. Only later did it dawn on me, that as he was clean, he was desirable to his companion. If I had been aware of such a thing, I would have noticed a swelled, prominent bump in the front of his clothed companion's drawers. But this item of clothing was new to me also...being used to the shifts of the coicie and the short tunics of the hunters, our arousal was impossible to conceal.

The 'clothed one' addressed his companion, indicating that now was not the time, that there was work to do. From this exchange, I deduced that the 'clothed one' was named Rada, and the hunter was Makar. Makar was to dress as was proper when he was not hunting, and tend to the waterfowl he had harvested.

Rada would bathe me. Through his gestures and snippets of speech, I could understand I was able to sit up on the dock. The planks of the dock were narrow and spaced a thumbs-width apart, to let water drain through. Rada helped me to stand. I wobbled a bit, but soon steadied myself. Rada stood a good head taller than I. He inspected my body rather dispassionately, as though looking for wounds or imperfections.

Skryba, you may be surprised that I stood mute through all this. Indeed, in retrospect, I, too, am surprised. I was still stunned by the near-death experience. Also, I was starving, thirsty, and tired.

Rada retrieved a bucket from the hut and tied a length of rope to its handle. This, he lowered into the waters beneath the dock. Several buckets full of the cool water he poured over my head until I shivered in the gray light of the swamp day.

Rada wiped me down with rough toweling...still finer material than we of the stypia made. I nodded my appreciation of his efforts. He then gave me one of the shirts from the hut; whether it was his or Makar's I knew not, but they were of similar size and so the shirt was down to my knees, while it fit them to the waist. Only at the shoulders was it a bit tight. Though I was shorter than either of them, I was slightly broader through the shoulders. And although the drawers were long on me...we all had narrow waists, and in any case, the drawers were secured by a drawstring at the waist.

Rada then produced an object I had no previous experience with...a hairbrush, combs we had in the stypia, to comb out the twigs, dust and insects that embedded in our hair. This brush was a finely made object, a product of much labor. A thing of luxury for one of the stypia, but a common object here.

Rada took pleasure in grooming me, not a selfish pleasure as though he lusted after me, but a genuine pleasure in doing for another. As he brushed, he hummed a soft tune, a rhythmic thing that matched the stroke of his brushing. I knew as well as I knew anything, that this was a tune a loved one sang as they brushed his hair when he was a lad.

You settled folk will note that I did not say 'mother' because I knew not my mother, none of the people did, nor did we know our fathers. Our lovers were sporadic and incidental; the men had our hunting squads and the Coicie, well they were the Coicie.

There was no one person who doted on any one of the People. I was the last of the free (was I free?) People and I were thirsty for what I had never known. Rada's ministries were bliss.

When Makar came in from his chores, (by this time Rada and I were seated on mats in the hut) it was time for the midday meal. I had been so disorientated that I would have guessed it was time for the evening meal. But that dates to another time. On the stypia, we ate when there was food. The only constant was tea, hot or leftover cold tea for breakfast.

This midday meal by many standards, was special for me...all the time at Rada and Makar's was special. Regular mealtimes, frequent bathing, and good companionship.

The food was simple, but there was always something. Simple cakes and breads, some butter, dried fish, eggs, small portions of meat, fruits, berries, and tree nuts.

Makar and Rada were good to me; letting me heal and rest. I got past their accent and archaic dialect, and could understand them well after a month.

They lived by hunting, fishing, fowling and trading. Their knowledge of the swamp was unsurpassed. There were other swamp dwellers who barely survived. I saw some of them when I accompanied Rada or Makar on their forays deeper into the swamp. Deeper was mostly back in the direction I had come from. I learned that Rada and Makar's homestead was on the edge of the swamp, closest to Bagnisko. Despite the Mounted Warriors' words, this was not Bagnisko. The swamp was a place of outcasts with no government and no organization.

From what I knew of Bagnisko, through Makar and Rada, was that it had farms run by the men, and herds of sheep and clothing production run by the women. There were also breweries and distilleries, the only industry. If it could be called government, the group of Wise Women served as such.

The Wise women were the Bagniskos connection with the people of the swamp. The settlement of the Wise Women was the closest to the swamp and therefore at the edge of Bagnisko proper.

Beyond the farms, breweries, distilleries and sheep herding the land stretched to the coastal mountains the source of Bagniskos relative fecundity, as far as agricultural surplus was concerned.

The fecundity of the human population was somewhat in question. That will be the subject of a later part of this story.

Makar and Rada were prosperous by the standards of the Swamp People because of their success with what the swamp provided. They had surplus which they traded for the clothing they wore, utensils they did not make for themselves, and foods that did not flourish in the swamp.

The hut was just one room—cooking space, food and other storage, sleeping space—all one.

I was so tired the first week, I did not question the sleeping arrangement. I slept very deeply and for many hours.

After a week, I noted that if I awoke in the middle of the night to make water, I would make my way out of the hut and stand and piss over the side of the dock. At these times, I sometimes noted that Rada and Makar slept very close together. After a month, I knew enough of their speech that the murmured sounds I heard from their shared bed were sounds of endearment, occasionally, lust and passion.