Gods of Green Mountain (2 page)

Baka the Untiring

O
n the very edge of the upper temperature zone, nearer the cold side than the hot, lived the most industrious, the most diligent farmer of them all. He was called Baka. When the citizens of that land became aware of just what type of man Baka was, they called him Baka Valente, meaning Baka the Untiring. And in most ways, Baka was, indeed, untiring.

Baka's farm was the largest and most productive. His herds and flocks of animals the hardiest, and seemingly the cleverest at finding forage, whereas the flocks of others could find little, or sometimes none. Baka's house was also the largest, the finest. It was molded of the soft inner-earth, then after shaping, and after hours of baking in the hot scorching suns, the mud became rock hard. It was then covered with the strong, tough puhlet hides to keep the driving waters from softening and washing the house down into mud again.

A baby puhlet was called a puka. They came into their doomed short existence all rosy pink and bare, and so tiny they could be cupped in a human palm. In seven days they would double in size, and would be covered with a fluffy yellow-green fuzz that was not quite feathers, and not quite hair. As a puka grew older, the fuzz gradually turned into thick, silvery, smoke-blue fur. This was the very color all inhabitants of that planet wore. Fortunately for them, its neutral color went well with their pale citron complexions and fiery red hair and deep purple eyes. Once the pukas reached the smoky fur stage, they matured quickly. As they had to. As all life on El Sod-a-Por had to.

Baka had need of his large fine home, for he had twelve sons and one daughter. His good wife, Lee-La, was strong enough, and willing enough, to give him thirteen more children, if need be. She knew--Baka knew, all Sod-a-Porians knew--that at any moment the storms could take a child or two or even all. That was the way of it. One day you thought you had it all secure, the next, everything was gone.

Every crop had to be shielded from the frying winds. Rows and rows of fires had to be made to protect the crops when the cold came. Be it hot, or be it cold, both extremes knew exactly the most vulnerable time of any seed they planted--and that was when the storms were certain to visit! Though either extremity brought some measure of disaster, of grief and loss, it was as nothing as compared to the times when both hot and cold winds raced in and collided! Then the air would swirl and twirl, spinning faster and faster, until hundreds of wind funnels touched down on the ground, taking all that was before them. Fields of grain, houses, fences, windshields, storage bins, animals, barns, and families. For those that survived, hiding in the underground caverns, all would have to be started over from the beginning.

Hardly ever did Baka permit himself to think of how many beginnings he had made, of how much he had lost. If he had all the children he had sired, he might have fifty. If he had all the sod houses he had built, maybe a hundred. God knows! He didn't keep records. He ploughed on, planning for today, tomorrow, and maybe there was a time in the future when he could sit down and think of how to devise a way to secure all that was his--make it
permanently
his.

He looked around at the family his third wife had given him, very proud. Twelve sons still alive. That was a feat in itself. One small daughter was left, Bret-Lee, just as industrious as any of her brothers. Side by side she had worked with her mother since the age of three: cooking, cleaning, spinning, weaving, and sewing the dull gray cloth into clothes. Besides a hundred and one other chores she did willingly and well. For the children of El Sod-a-Por, the carefree easy days of childhood were short indeed.

As successful and admired as he was, Baka had one annoying itch that he just couldn't scratch! That dissatisfaction was his youngest son, Far-Awn the shepherd. While his older brothers toiled endlessly in the fields, or industriously burrowed in the depths of the cavernous inner-earth, making every moment of the day count for something, Far-Awn could be counted on to find a way to shirk his share of the daily chores. At least it seemed to Baka that way, and his elder brothers as well. The boy had absolutely no sense of duty, of obligation and responsibility! That a son of his could be lazy smoldered in Baka's brain like a pot of stew always on the stove. Many were the times when Baka would miss his youngest, and after long searching, he would find Far-Awn in some recessed, isolated place, just lying on his back, idly staring up at the violet-blue sky and the drifting long clouds.

Fool! "What's wrong with you, boy?" Baka railed each time, then thoroughly reprimanded him for being lazy, careless, indifferent, irresponsible--didn't he know there was work to do? Didn't he know everyone had to pull his own weight--there were no freeloaders!

"I was thinking," Far-Awn replied, apparently indifferent to his father's wrath. "Look at those rocks over there...the colors in them...look how it stains the earth...look at the clothes we wear. Dull gray. Wouldn't it be nice if we could somehow use that color to brighten up our clothes?"

"Idiot!" Baka shouted. "What difference does it make what color our clothes are! They keep us warm when it's cold, and protect us from the suns! What else is needed of clothing?"

"Nothing, I suppose," answered Far-Awn, subdued into thinking his notions were foolish. Colored clothes or not, it was still a dreary, hateful place he had been born into. Work, work, work, from morning until night. Grab a quick sleep before another day of work began. Surely there could be something more. There wasn't even time to look at the glorious day dawnings, or sun-downings, not if he would live the way his father and family dictated...

Then he smiled at his father, charmingly apologetic. "What is it you want me to do?"

To Baka, that smile was the most infuriating thing of all--even more so than Far-Awn's stupid question! What was there to smile about? Was that all that boy thought about, colors? When everywhere there was work to do, and it didn't require any thinking--it was there, always--waiting, plain to see without thought, without orders. Knowing how to work was bred into them, like the red hair that grew on their heads...you accepted it, just as you accepted the color of your skin, green! He looked again at his son, half-pityingly...for Far-Awn's skin was a pale creamy color, not even tinged with green...and his hair was strange, red-gold, not brick red like everybody else's...

On another day, he went searching for his youngest, strangest, and most unpredictable son. And as was to be expected, he was again sprawled in the shade, on his back, hands tucked beneath his head.

"There's soap to be made, and grain to be harvested, and hams to be smoked...yet there you lie, flat on your back," Baka began with heavy sarcasm. "Am I interrupting some heavy thinking?"

"No, Father. I was dreaming!"

As if that were possible--dreaming with the eyes open! Imagine. Not once in all Baka's life had he dreamed with his eyes wide open, in daylight. Dreams came seldom to him even in his sleep--except for those blissful few times when he had enough to overeat. But those dreams were terrifying experiences. Certainly nothing a boy would go searching for, and smile when he found them.

Baka said with all the patience he could muster, and he was not by nature a patient man, "Son, I am making an effort to understand you. So, if you are sick, then tell me where it hurts, and I'll do what I can to help. But if you are well, and are just lying here resting, so you can 'think' while the rest of us break our backs working, including your small sister--then, by the gods, I'll have the hide from your back!"

Very quickly Far-Awn jumped to his feet. "That's it, Father--that's what I was dreaming about. A way for all of us to live
without
breaking our backs, working from morning until night, too tired to enjoy ourselves, growing old before our time."

Dumbfounded, Baka stared at his son. Blasphemy! What other way was there than work? Oh, he
was
sick! Sick in the head! Sorrow washed through him. Of course, this explained all the boy's oddness, the way he sometimes laughed. Nobody laughed--except this fool son of his--and at the most unexpected, embarrassing times, letting the neighbors, complete strangers, hear and see him.

Time and again, Baka and Lee-La had to explain their youngest had a touch of the "sun-madness." Those who had heard Far-Awn's laughter would look away and sadly agree this must be the case. Though in secret, these same people went home and conferred with each other, and usually agreed they never before had seen a case of sun-madness take on this particular and peculiar manifestation. Those who knew Baka and his family well suspected it was much more than just a temporary touch of sun-madness which troubled the brain of young Far-Awn.

Secretly they were pleased that Baka had at least one failure in his crop of superb children. For in truth, everyone was envious of Baka, who was more successful in everything than anyone else. Too successful in the opinion of some. Who else had twelve sons? Not one.

Baka guessed what his friends thought of Far-Awn, for he himself was a thousand times more guilty of the same thoughts. But then, he had a thousand times more evidence to convince himself the boy was more than a little mad. He was crazy! To add the crowning touch to a long list of bewildering idiosyncrasies, belonging only to someone severely afflicted, the darn boy was often heard
singing!
Far-Awn was just as indifferent as to who heard him sing as he was indifferent as to who was watching and learning of his other quirks! Oh, he was something to bear. A curse to punish him. There was no more reason for singing than there was reason for smiling.

Reaching desperately for hope, Baka reasoned that the boy
could
be just maddened by the blazing suns. It happened occasionally. And his brain
could
be so wind-stirred he didn't realize all of life was a desperate battle. No need to show joy or laughter. The Gods already knew they existed. Far-Awn didn't have to call it to their attention. Sooner or later the Gods of that Green Mountain would hear his laughter, or his singing, and in their jealous envy of a mortal's pleasure, they would take it away. Send down the wind funnels to destroy him--and perhaps everyone and everything else! How many times had he warned his most foolish son of this very thing, uselessly it seemed. Far-Awn never appreciated, or even appeared to take seriously, any of the religious fervors all others so firmly believed.

The rest of the family had to make amends for the boy's disrespectful behavior. Woefully their spines would bend in supplication. Sorrowfully their shoulders would sag. Longer than ever their dour expressions became--and all just to convince the Gods they had no real cause for envy. Everyone knew they were being punished. They should have stayed rooted, never sprouted legs and used them. The Gods
never
moved. They stayed where they were. No wonder they were jealous. Living there, by the Green Mountain, beyond the Scarlet Mountains, awaiting their chance for total revenge.

As Baka headed for home, his son following, his head bowed even lower.

Far-Awn the Dreamer

T
hat night, when Baka had all his family asleep and secure on their beds of puhlet hides, he went to stand over Far-Awn, studying the strange young face. Though he wondered every day why he had been so cursed by this complex, paradoxical son, paradoxical because deep in his most secret heart, for some reason not understood even by himself, he loved this son more than any of the others. Just to stand here and look at him asleep put a glow of warm pleasure in his heart.

Far-Awn was taller and slimmer than his brothers. His movements were quicker and more agile, giving him a singular kind of grace that made all others seem unnaturally clumsy. But it was more than his odd beauty--if it was beauty. There was something in his face, behind his eyes, something different, something unknown, something that hinted of mysterious forces. When the boy was singing, although Baka would never admit it, a heaviness would lift from his spirit. He could almost forget all the troubles and anxieties that besieged him daily. That was the trouble with things like singing: one should never allow this lightness of spirit; it took the mind from current problems. Forgetting one's troubles made one unprepared--and that was when disaster was sure to come. It had, time and again. Precedent and experience made the truth. Of necessity, to survive, pleasure had to be snuffed out quick.

As for Far-Awn, he had none of the conflicting doubts that so plagued his father. He knew from his very first remembering that he
was
different from all of the others. He was unique unto himself. He didn't have to peer into a pool of underground water to see his reflection to recognize the differences. He felt it inside, deep. Though, loving his father, he would please him by conforming, if he could. When he was very, very young, and very needing of affection, he had struggled mightily to fit the mold his parents would press him into. After awhile, he realized he could never be what they wanted, so he gave up trying. Though it pained him to see his parents so distressed, it pained even more to deny the differences that flowered within him.

He knew his older brothers only tolerated him, considering him weak and feebleminded, if not outright crazy. His slender body was much stronger than any supposed, but who would believe that? Not his father, not his brothers. Condescendingly he was given the easiest of chores; among them, he was shepherd to Baka's flock of one hundred and forty puhlets.

Just to think of the puhlets caused a smile to curve Far-Awn's lips. Of all the farm animals, they were his favorite, his pets. There were other animals, but none had been so successfully domesticated and bred as the sturdy and tractable puhlets. No other animal had evolved so physically advantageously, so they, and they alone were able to survive the sudden and drastic climate changes without one bit of shelter. And that alone was a marvel.

Sad though, that the very animals he loved most was the main meat supply. From their hides all on El Sod-a-Por fashioned coverings for their houses. They used the hides for beds, for chairs, for coats. Their fur was spun into a coarse cloth and sewed into dull, unimaginative clothes. Their fat was boiled down and made into soap, their hooves and horns into utensils. Oh, they by far contributed more to the survival of those inhabitants than any other single element--with the exception of their own tenacious, diligent nature.