Daughter of the Falcon God Read online

  Aya heard a shrill cry and turned her attention to the sky. She saw the falcon circle one last time, then arrow rapidly north, in only a few moments disappearing from her sight. She understood it was time for her to head home. I’ll convince my people to return with me to Ta–she, she vowed to the falcon god. They’ll be able to thrive and prosper here, as they’ll never be able to on the savannah. After one last satisfied look over the river valley, Aya bent her steps towards the North.

  ***

  “Where have you been? You left camp a week ago! I was just about to go looking for you – or your dead body.”

  “I’m sorry, Father,” Aya said contritely, though she wasn’t at all. She had no doubt Hannu would never have stirred from camp to search for her. For one thing, he didn’t really care for her, and for another he wasn’t one to expend much energy doing anything. “The herbs were harder to find than I expected, what with the lack of rain. I could hardly come back empty handed with Grandfather in such need, could I?” A reasonable excuse for her extended absence. Aya had no option but to lie to her father, for her patriarch, Bek, should be the first to learn of the falcon god and the lake country, not him.

  “Brew the broth,” Nubwenet said urgently, interrupting Hannu. She was Bek’s woman, Aya’s grandmother, Hannu’s mother. “Take it to your grandfather. Quickly! He’s been getting weaker these past three days.”

  “If I find out you were staying away from camp to get out of doing your chores…” Hannu threatened.

  “I wasn’t, Father,” Aya said, dropping her pouch beside the fire and immediately falling to her knees.

  “Your grandfather is talking with his brothers,” Hannu said. “Amenemope and Bebi are trying to force his hand, make him leave this place. Can’t say I disagree. Take him the broth, then return to this fire immediately. Don’t disturb them. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Father.” Aya spotted her three year–old sister, Takhat. “Fill a jar with water for me,” Aya said. As the girl headed towards what remained of the shrinking shallow pool just beyond camp, Aya opened her pouch and pulled out some of the herbs she’d collected and dropped them into an empty bowl, then ground them to powder with a rounded stone. Then, waiting for her sister to return, Aya sat back on her haunches, exhausted. The trip had been long, and she’d rested only during the hours of darkness on the way home. The trail through the wadi had proven to be a good one, passing at a gentle grade through a wide gap in the sandstone cliffs that divided the depression from the higher savannah. Unfortunately, the wadi had taken Aya to the far eastern end of the savannah, and she’d had to walk many extra miles westward to reach her camp. In fact, she’d spent most of the last hour stumbling in the dark, guided only by the stars, until she’d seen the fires of her camp flickering in the distance.

  Takhat returned, carrying the jar of water carefully so none would spill. Aya smiled at her and dumped some of it in the bowl containing the herbs and set it on the bed of coals. When the water was boiling Aya removed the bowl, let the liquid cool a bit, poured a generous portion into a large earthenware cup. She hung the pouch that contained what she’d carried from the lake country over her shoulder, then picked up the cup. Holding it with both hands, she headed towards the clearing in front of her grandfather’s nearby hut. He was seated on the ground with his three brothers, in a circle around a collection of bowls and platters nearly emptied of fruits and vegetables and meats and bread. Bek and Amenemope and Bebi and Kakhent were arguing, loudly. Aya approached, unnoticed.

  “It’s time for you to face reality, Brother,” Bebi snarled.

  Aya saw her great–uncle’s face was contorted into its usual frown. He was the second oldest of her great–grandfather Didia’s sons, aged forty–nine, perpetually unhappy, constantly challenging the decisions made by his year–older brother, Bek, the band’s patriarch. Bebi felt entitled to do so; if he outlived Bek, he’d succeed him in that position. Amenemope, the third oldest brother at age forty–seven, looked just as angry as Bebi, who was seated to his right. Kakhent’s face – he was, at forty–five, the youngest brother – was a mask; Aya could not tell if he was aligned with Bek or Amenemope and Bebi in whatever was being debated.

  Aya stepped to Bek’s side and hunkered beside him and handed him the cup. “Drink this, Grandfather,” she said.

  “You’ve returned. Finally.” Bek took the cup gratefully and sipped at it. Aya rose and stepped backwards and melted into the shadows beside his hut a few paces away, close enough to hear what was being said without drawing attention to herself. Her father had ordered her to leave the elders in peace, but she was too curious to comply. She was certain her father would never approach the fire and drag her away; he feared his father and uncles. She assumed she’d have to face the consequences for her disobedience later, but that didn’t matter. She had news these men needed to hear, and since they were gathered in one place she could not let the opportunity pass. She just needed to wait patiently for an opening before interjecting herself into their discussion. She slipped the pouch from her shoulder, removed the talisman from it, tucked it in her left hand. She trusted the falcon god would provide that opening.

  “We’re down to our last handfuls of emmer and barley seed,” Amenemope said. “Not that it matters – the ground’s too hard to plant it – the cracks in the earth are wide and deep again this year. Nothing’s going to grow. And need I remind you that this is the fourth year in a row without adequate rain?”

  “Even when there was rain enough, the yield from what we planted was insignificant,” Bebi added.

  “Our cattle and sheep and goats are gaunt. There’s not enough grass left to graze around here,” Amenemope said.

  “Didia has been dead for two years, and Iuput too,” Bebi said. “They’re the ones who obsessed about raising emmer and barley and herding animals. And Iuput wasn’t even one of our people. He talked Didia into this foolishness. It’s long past time to give up their misguided experiment.”

  “Our band had hunted and gathered from time immemorial until we encountered Iuput,” Amenemope said. “All the old stories say so. It’s time for us to return to the life we know best.”

  Aya was shocked. These men were debating whether to give up the way of life her band had followed since before her own birth. She’d returned to camp in the nick of time. The falcon god had just revealed to her a land where her people could prosper as farmers and herders, given her a dream that confirmed a bountiful future. She realized her task this evening was even more complicated and daunting than she’d expected. She had to overcome more than opposition from the elders to leaving the savannah. She had to fight for her people continuing to farm and herd.

  “Father saw a better future for all of us than that,” Bek reminded them.

  “Better?” Amenemope asked. “Why is farming and herding better than hunting and gleaning? We used to gather wild grasses as we moved across the savannah. We used to follow the herds, wherever they led us. So did every band we ever encountered. We still do half the year.”

  “The grains of emmer are more robust than those of wild grasses, and each stalk yields more grain, and the bread produced from emmer flour is superior,” Bek replied. “Admit it – the beer we brew from barley is tastier too. Because we plant grain, we know where to find it. We don’t have to hope to stumble on it. We can store the seed for a long period of time, too, plant when and where we please. Just as we can keep meat fresh and alive, in the form of our cattle and sheep and goats. We’re not dependent on stumbling across oryx or gazelle or aurochs.”

  “Not to mention the milk and blood we take from the animals daily, and the wool and hair which we use to make our clothing,” Kakhent added.

  He supports Grandfather, Aya thought. One ally for her cause, at least. Though, as the youngest brother, Kakhent’s words carried little weight with his siblings. Aya almost laughed out loud. As if mine carry any at all.

  “But you won’t let us slay any of the animals for meat,” Bebi compla
ined. “They’re just extra work for us – protecting them from predators, moving them to fresh pastures, milking them every morning.”

  “Because there aren’t enough of them – yet,” Bek retorted. “Some day the herds will be large enough for us to harvest the animals the same way we harvest grain. Mark my words – our welfare and that of our cattle are inextricably linked.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” Amenemope said, irritated. “It’s not. I grant you that if our emmer actually grew our women would not have to spend as much time seeking out and gleaning wild grasses. But that reduced search time is offset by the amount of time we all spend sowing the seed, weeding the fields, protecting the growing grain from pests. And that doesn’t even take into account that the labor is wasted if there’s drought, or disease, or pests or predators that eat or ruin the crop before we can harvest it.”

  “I can’t dispute that in these last few years farming has not been profitable for us,” Bek admitted. “But someday the rains will come. Someday we’ll sow vast fields and harvest grain enough to last an entire year. Someday the crop will reward us for our patience.”

  “Not in my lifetime,” Amenemope snarled.

  “How are the risks of farming any less than the risks of hunting and gathering?” Kakhent asked. “What if we don’t encounter wild grasses or other food sources as we travel? What if the herds don’t appear? What if we follow them into another band’s territory?”

  “Yet we still depend on those sources, and on the meat our hunters bring in,” Bebi charged. “You know that better than anyone, Kakhent, since hunting is in your charge. By farming, we’re tied to the same spot for half a year. We have to worry about exhausting nearby pools of water. We have to move our herds ever farther from camp as they graze the grass to nothing. Our hunters have to travel farther afield to find game, and haul it a greater distance back to camp. Our women have to travel ever farther seeking new patches of food as we deplete those close at hand.” He snorted. “It just took Aya a full week to find and bring back the herbs you need to stay alive, Brother. You could have died in that time.”

  “But I didn’t,” Bek said.

  “Face facts, Brother,” Bebi said. “We’ve barely survived three consecutive years of drought. The rains haven’t come this year either. We won’t be able to plant our remaining seed. What other sign do you need that the gods want us to resume hunting and gathering?”

  Aya perked up her ears. The conversation had just taken a turn in a direction she needed it to.

  “We’ve angered the gods by giving up our traditions,” Amenemope charged. “The fireball a week ago was a clear sign from the gods that we should abandon this life.”

  “And which of our gods have we angered, exactly?” Bek asked. “The god of the sky? The god of the earth? The fertility goddess? The god of the hunt?”

  “A better question is which god sent the fireball as a sign that he’s looking out for our welfare,” Aya called boldly from the shadows.

  The men around the fire fell silent, turned towards the sound of her voice.

  “Come here, child,” Bek said, gesturing.

  Give me strength, Aya prayed. She stepped into the firelight, moved next to Bek, clenched her hands into fists to keep them from trembling. The talisman dug sharply into her left palm.

  “You have something to say?” Bek asked, looking up at her.

  “I can’t believe you’re asking advice from a twelve year–old girl who’s spoken out of turn,” Amenemope snorted angrily, shaking his head. “Aya thinks because she knows more about growing things than the rest of us that she’s entitled to special treatment. If she was my granddaughter…”

  “You’d beat her half to death for her transgression.” Bek sighed. “I’m aware. I, however, will hear Aya.”

  Aya took a deep breath. She knew the next few moments were the most important of her life, that her destiny and her people’s depended on her ability to convince these men to go to Ta–she. “I saw the fireball streak across the sky when I was seeking your herbs, Grandfather,” Aya began. “From my camp I saw a column of smoke rising into the sky from where it crashed to earth, the column lit from underneath by a fire that raged on the savannah many miles distant. I watched it all night. It was like a mighty torch in the darkness. At dawn I saw a falcon circling high over my campsite. He seemed to want me to follow him south, towards the smoke. So I did.” Her heart began to pound. “The falcon was not just a bird, Grandfather. I believe the falcon was a god.”

  “The child claims to have been visited by a god!” Bebi exclaimed, throwing up both hands. “Preposterous! Our people don’t know a falcon god. Do we really have to listen to any more of this?”

  Bek raised a hand for silence. “Go on, Aya.”

  “I followed the falcon for many hours across the savannah, Grandfather. Eventually I found myself on the lip of a great sandstone cliff that stretched for miles to east and west and edged a massive depression.” Aya dropped to her knees, drew an arc in the dirt with her right index finger. “I made my way down the cliff to the plains below, continued south.” She drew ridge after ridge. “When I topped this ridge I saw a great burned slash in the prairie. The falcon was circling directly overhead. In the middle of the burned area I found a crater where an object had smashed into the earth. I dug it up.” Aya opened her left hand, revealing the talisman lying flat on her palm. “This talisman is, as you can see, the very image of the falcon god.”

  Bek put out his hand and Aya placed the talisman in it. He felt it, studied it, passed it to each of his brothers in turn. Kakhent was the last, and he gave it back to Aya with an inquisitive look.

  “So you found an object shaped like a falcon,” Bebi said. “Based on this you claim there’s a falcon god looking out for us? Unbelievable!”

  “The talisman confirmed the identity of the god. It didn’t help me understand his message,” Aya said. She closed her fingers over the object again. “The falcon god headed south once more. I followed.” She sketched again. “Eventually I scaled this ridge. A hundred yards to its south was a massive lake.” She drew the huge body of water, including the channel in the south.

  “Surely you’re exaggerating its size,” Amenemope objected.

  Aya pointed twice. “I walked all the way from this ridge to this channel,” she said. “It took me the better part of two days. And you all know how fast I walk.”

  That silenced him.

  Aya addressed Bek. “Grandfather – I believe the lake the falcon god led me to is Ta–she.”

  “The lake in our band’s ancient tales?” he asked, in wonder.

  “Surely that was a fable, exaggerated in the telling,” Bebi said.

  Aya shook her head no. “Here’s what really matters,” she said, her eyes sweeping her elders. She sketched the river, separated from the lake only by the wide eastern ridge. “I followed a game trail across this plateau, discovered a mile–wide valley with a mighty river at its heart, flowing from south to north, bounded on east and west by high plateaus. What I learned there is this – every summer the river swells, filling its valley from plateau to plateau. The river carries soil from somewhere far to the south. When the flood subsides and the river returns within its banks the adjacent plains are covered thickly with fresh rich soil, ready to accept seed.” She let that sink in. “The river must be joined to the channel many miles to the south, for that same water moves up the channel and fills the lake so full that it overflows its banks too. When that water subsides, the plains along the lake’s edge are also covered with rich soil.” She traced multiple circles with her finger. “We can plant all of these areas with emmer and barley, as much as we want, right now. We won’t even need to dig furrows. We can just drop the seed on the ground and trample it into the soil.” She surveyed the elders once more. “Can’t you see? This means we’re not dependent on the rains anymore to raise our crops. We no longer have to fear drought. The falcon god has given us a gift, a new land to assure our survival. The
fireball was his sign, to show us the way to it.”

  “You said you walked all the way to the lake’s outlet, and to the river?” Bek asked, still skeptical. “Did you see any other bands?”

  “There are no other people anywhere around the lake – yet,” Aya replied. “But there are herds of game animals beyond counting, and patches of tubers and fruits within an easy walk of the lake, and trees for fuel, and wild grasses to supplement our emmer, and reeds and sedges, and marshes, and waterfowl, and fish trapped in pools that we can catch by hand. There’s plenty of grass for our animals to graze. There are cobbles to make tools and weapons. I brought some back with me. I can show you later. It’s a paradise, Grandfather. We should take advantage of Ta–she and its surrounding region, of the falcon god’s gift. We should migrate there.”

  “Are you seriously considering staking our lives on the unsubstantiated claims of a child, and a girl at that?” Bebi asked Bek, incredulous.

  Aya held up the talisman. “The falcon god sent me a dream my first night at the lake. I’ve had it every night since, and its always exactly the same. I’ve seen camps on every ridge, and fields of emmer on every plain, and vast herds on the grasslands, and hundreds of people. We have the opportunity to be the first band at Ta–she. We won’t be the last.”

  Dreams were powerful, and magic, and Aya could see that hers had made an impact on the elders.

  “Suppose you’re right, and I’m not saying you are. What about our animals?” Amenemope pointed to Aya’s map. “How would we get herds down a cliff face?”

  Aya sketched again. “I returned to camp up this wadi. There’s a gap in the plateau here. The grade is gentle. Wild herds use it when they move from the savannah to the lake.”

  Bek studied Aya’s face for a moment. She did not flinch from his scrutiny. She saw in his eyes he’d made a decision. “I am inclined to take our families to Ta–she,” he said.