Stephen Thomas - The Four Lights: Free chapters: In the Day of the Flood

In the Day of the Flood - Chapter Index

Stephen Thomas — Thu, 30 Apr 2026 08:06:25 GMT

Chapter 05. Every breath - Lanaháha

Stephen Thomas — Fri, 17 Apr 2026 09:19:27 GMT

Láko sipped at his mead and began.

‘Séku had brought ochre. As we walked to the old valley down near Kurazáma, he and Dúrku taught me the hunting-song. We sang as we walked behind the fathers, and when we arrived at the hunting-ground the sun was not even at its full height. We poured out the offering on the ground, and they drew the spiral on my chest, and also on each other. See, it is still here.’

Láko lifted up the front of his tunic to show the large spiral, drawn boldly in red, centred on his heart. It was red ochre, baked to alter the colour and mixed with fat to make the pigment stick. Deghóm recognised the symbol from Pérha’s mead-pot. The kúru, the cycle of days and nights, moons and years, life and death. It was rare for a hunter to wear the spiral here in the hills. It was a Méri thing. However, it was Láko’s first time at the hunt and he was Méri. The spiral was a symbol of the coastlands and they wore it out of respect for their friend.

On the hunter’s chest, the shape seemed to take on a darker meaning. It seemed to show the path of an animal trying to flee from the hunters, goaded and lured, afraid and exhausted, bent to their will, spiralling inward until it reached the killing field in the centre. Deghóm did not like to see animals suffer. When she was told of a spear piercing the beast, she felt the sharp point entering her own body and shuddered.

Láko had held up the tunic for a long time. Even in his sorrow, he was proud of his hunting-paint. The muscles on his chest and shoulders were bulky, swelling as he spoke and moved. The spiral reached all the way down to his belly, firm and flat as six hearth-stones. Deghóm stared at the spiral for a long moment. It was executed boldly in good, thick ochre, large, circular and perfect. The decoration was a little smudged from walking and rubbing against his clothing. Despite her dark thoughts, the colour was bright and fascinating. It made Láko’s firm body look complete. He was a boy becoming a man, and now he was also a hunter. Despite the scratches, his skin was strong and clean over the muscles.

Láko had let the tunic fall. ‘They told me that antelope sometimes pass at this time of year along the forest-path, near the ravine. The path goes through a long clearing and then splits into two. Antelope have to choose the left fork to continue along the path. The right fork goes over the cliff.’

‘One hunter stands in the trees near the dividing-point and another rushes an isolated beast from behind. The aim is to startle it. As the animal bolts, if it chooses the right-hand fork, the path to the precipice, another hunter behind will rush it again, banging a drum. If it runs forward, it is committed to the killing-path and runs down the slope. Otherwise it must turn and fight. The ravine grows steeper as the path descends. Once it is trapped, we all follow with spears, shouting, pushing it on. The walls cut off its escape to either side; it has to run or turn and fight.’

‘If an animal does turn, the hunters have the advantage of height and must use their spears. If it runs forward, it passes over the precipice and down to death. Usually it dies in the fall, but if not, hunters are waiting below with spears. Even with a broken leg or a broken back, a beast of that size is dangerous. A kick from an aurochs…’

An aurochs had taken Pérha’s husband. She was surprised that Láko dared to name the beast in her presence. Not out of fear, but out of respect. She sighed. Her grief was old now, but it was difficult to listen patiently to all this hunting-talk. The pain in Láko’s eyes was as clear as an open wound. It was obvious that something terrible had happened.

‘What happened when you reached the hunting-ground?’ Pérha’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

‘There were no antelope. Dúrku’s father was sure that they would be coming through after the rains, but there was no sign of them. I think we were too early. All afternoon it rained hard and cold. We had no shelter that day and the trees were worse than useless. I began to wish I had not gone on the hunt.’

‘On the first night we dug a tiny camp-pit in the rain. That was miserable. Even Dúrku complained, although Séku was still dreaming of his aurochs. We did not eat. It is the fast of the hunter, in expectation of the kill and the feast. With five of us we took the night watches in pairs, except for the uncle, who insisted on taking the last watch alone.’

The next morning the sun shone. We knew we had to hunt that day or return empty-handed. Many a hunter has come to harm from remaining too long. We chatted amongst the trees. I began to enjoy being out in the forest with my friends, even though I was hungry and nothing happened all day long. At least I was no longer cold and wet.

‘It was late when we decided to pack up our things and return to the village. I was feeling disappointed. We had broken the hunter’s fast, as is usual on the day of homecoming. We had to set off before sunset so we could be very close to home by nightfall. Without warning, Dúrku hushed us. He said he felt hoofbeats under his feet. Not the distant, thundering sound of a herd, but single beats. A small number of larger animals. The fire had gone out long before. There was nothing to alert them except possibly our own scent. I knelt and listened, my face to the ground. He was right, there were just one or two hoof-beats. Distant, not very loud, but heavy. The animals were walking, not running, and there were only one or two. If they were larger animals, that would be perfect for our small hunting-party. They were probably antelope. Silently we positioned ourselves in the trees around the dividing-point, and waited.’

‘They were not antelope, they were aurochs. Three of them came, all females, not the immense bulls of the old tales, but still huge. Even the smallest stood as tall as me at the shoulder. They were simply walking through the forest along the main path. They seemed unafraid, just passing slowly along and browsing on grasses and herbs as they walked.’

‘When they were two or three fields from us they all paused, as if they had caught a scent. They did not bolt or charge, but they began to walk steadily, right towards us. They were no longer browsing. Something had made them decide to move on a little more quickly, but they had not seen us or caught the human scent.’

‘They were magnificent females with long, curved horns. Even the calves were large, but the mother was enormous. Dúrku and I had each been promised an antler or horn if we were blessed with horned prey. These were like nothing I have ever seen, long, thick at the base but tapering to a sharp, vicious point. Curved gracefully like the undulation of grass, or the leaves of a birch-tree. From such a horn, you could make…’

Pérha was becoming impatient again, and this time Láko noticed without her needing to speak.

‘My place was at the dividing-point with my spear and the drum. That is considered safer, because it is a rush from the side. The two smaller animals were clearly pressing to the left, on the safe path. They appeared to have no intention of going down the killing-path. The larger one came along behind. She stopped, uncertain which path to follow. It was odd, because the calves had already gone the other way. She was walking straight towards me. In a moment she would see me. This was not the plan. I jumped out from the foliage in front of her, shouting and banging. She froze for a moment, and I threw my spear in her face, but missed. Séku threw his too, from the trees behind her, and it struck her hard in the right flank.’

‘I was angry with him at first. I thought he would scare her onto the safe path. Instead of running to the left as I expected, she charged straight at me as if she were a bull. I had no time to decide what to do, so I ran across the killing-path to the other side. You know the saying.’

‘You cannot outrun an aurochs - you have to run to the side,’ said Pérha. It was harrowing, hearing how close Láko had been to danger.

He was in full flow now. ‘My other spear was on the ground, so I had nothing left to throw. She stopped in mid-charge, turned and ran straight down, right past Séku. He jumped back. He had another spear in his hand and waited until she had passed. I have never seen him throw so hard. Again he hit her on the right side, from close range. The spear penetrated deep into her, enough to cause her to panic. She was his kill.’

‘Now the huge beast was bolting in pain, caught on the killing-path. We ran after her, shouting and throwing spears. I missed her a second time. About halfway down she slowed, then stopped and half turned to look at us. I thought she might charge. It was terrifying. One of those horns would have gone right through me. I would have been impaled without even slowing her down.’

‘We continued to run straight down towards her, and she turned away and ran on. If she had charged us perhaps we would have run from her, but she lost her nerve. She turned and thundered away from us, faster than we could run. By the end she was more than a spear’s throw away. She never slowed her pace or tried to stop at all. She was completely unaware of the precipice. She crashed through the branches we had placed across the end of the path and went right over.’

‘Dúrku’s father and uncle were at the bottom, ready to dispatch her if necessary, but she fell heavily and awkwardly, landing with a great crash. Her head smashed into a large rock, her huge neck broken by the weight of her body. We heard no sound after the crash.’

When we looked down we saw her lying there, motionless. They speared her neck several times to be sure and the rock was drenched in blood, but it was over. We all looked down in wonder. I could not believe that we had slain something so huge and powerful. I shuddered in awe.’

‘By that time the rain had stopped and it was not long before the first stars would come. I had the fire-kit, so I made the new fire in the clearing at the bottom of the precipice. We sang songs and told stories. We burned herbs to honour the life of the aurochs, then gorged on the hunter’s portions, roasted over the flames with forest herbs.’

We had killed the aurochs. The skull was broken so the horns were divided. One went to Séku, the aurochs-slayer, and the other came to me. They did not name me aurochs-slayer, but I did not deserve that. The horn was because it was my first hunt. What a treasure. I never thought I could own such a thing.’

‘We talked into the night, our voices shrill and excited, but the older men soon lay down and slept on the forest moss. They looked as comfortable as if they were on straw at home. I had the first watch but it was already late, so there was not much left of the watch. Soon the brothers were asleep too. The fire was warm and my belly was full of meat. Again and again I saw her running. Each time the memory made me gasp. We were part of a hunter’s tale. I clutched the horn, thinking of the tale I would tell you in the morning. The animal was so immense. We would need to bring the whole village out there to collect everything.’

‘When I woke up it was cold. I blushed in shame as I realised that I had fallen asleep on watch without waking anyone. The fire had been dead for a long time. I had been sleeping with my face towards the carcass. Dúrku’s father and uncle were closer still, but they were nowhere to be seen, and neither was Dúrku. Then I saw the strangers, standing silently in the clearing. They had not seen me.’

‘Seven men, tall and light-skinned, their bodies bearing a red ochre mark, huge and round, sharp at the top, the shape of a drop of blood. Each one had a long spear and at least one had a long hafted dagger of black blade. They had painted large red circles around their eyes. They looked unnatural and terrifying in the firelight. The men were thin but strong-looking, a symbol in red reaching from the neck down to the loins. The death-mark. Séku drew it for me once. They call it “the sky-blood”, almost as if it came from Déya.’

Deghóm scowled at him.

‘A god made of blood,’ she spat.

She did not like this talk. What could such a thing be? It was wrong. People should respect the bright sky, the generous earth. What was blood apart from the creature? The feeling was visceral, the fear and hatred of taboo.

‘Continue,’ said Pérha, her face pale.

‘Séku was standing over the carcass and he had no spear. I didn’t know where the others had gone. The strangers spoke harshly.

‘What are you, a woman?’ said the smallest one, pushing Séku hard in the chest.

He staggered but did not fall. He said nothing. The others laughed in his face.

‘Gunasénka! You are a woman hunting!’

They pushed him from one to the other. Poor Séku was absolutely in their power. I was afraid. They were behaving like animals, like wolves around a sheep. Perhaps they would kill him. I had no idea what to do. I should run out with my spear and die with honour at his side. I grabbed my spear and stood up silently. It was only a brief moment of hesitation, but before I could run towards him, strong hands grabbed me from behind and pulled me into the forest. It was Dúrku.’

‘Come,’ he hissed. ‘We must follow the others.’

‘We cannot leave Séku!’ I whispered, struggling.

‘He put a finger up to his lips. A fierce look in his eyes. Then he pulled me again, deep into the forest. Dúrku is stronger than me. I knew I had to tread silently, even as he dragged me along. They had not seen or heard us with their loud shouting. As we crept through the trees, I began to hear the sound of a chant behind me, loud and tuneless, careless, repetitive, banging on a drum. My drum.’

‘Their chant was horrible. “Sánga, sánga, sangadónu, sánga síndu dónami. Blood, blood, giver of blood, we give you blood.”’

‘They shouted it again and again. The words were in the common tongue, although with a rough accent. They did not come from anywhere I knew. We do not sing such things. It was like a ritual song, a dekakána, but dark and horrible, a sacrifice-song to a blood-god. It was frenzied. They sang faster, almost screaming, banging the drum, but the sound became quieter as we slipped into the wood.’

‘The noise stopped. We were on a grassy path by then, running for home. We had caught up with the others. I was so afraid for Séku. What would happen to him? Then I heard a thin scream, far behind us, a sound drifting on the wind. The sound of death.’

There were tears in Láko’s eyes.

‘I knew it was Séku.’

END OF FREE SECTION

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Chapter 04. The love-gift - Lubadóna

Stephen Thomas — Wed, 15 Apr 2026 09:27:09 GMT

Deghóm picked at her food, dipping the flatbread into the steaming stew but only nibbling at it. It was delicious, Pérha’s long-boiled stew of lamb, thickened with swollen grains and full of tender onions, wild garlic and both sweet and bitter herbs. The food was good, but to her it had no taste, none that could overcome the heaviness in her heart, the fear of disaster. None that could tempt her to enjoyment.

‘Eat,’ said Pérha firmly. ‘He will return.’

They both knew that Pérha’s confidence was a pretence. It had been two nights and almost three days since Láko had gone off with the two brothers, the hunters. His first time at the hunt. He had argued with his mother.

‘I am a man. I must acquire something of value, something of substance, or else I will remain alone. It will be good for both me and you. Even for Deghóm.’

‘You are a man, it is true, but you are no hunter.’ Her eyes had blazed at him, trying to make her point forcefully enough without seeming to mock his inexperience. Hunting had cost her too much. ‘How will you become in a moment what those boys have become in many years? They are foolish to invite you.’

She had blinked away tears, frustration mixed with fear, her words jarring against her inmost thoughts. Láko had replied quietly, but with determination.

‘I cannot always be only a milker and shearer of goats. That is not enough to bring a woman into this house.’

‘There is time for that,’ she had said, as so many times before, but his look had stopped her. They both knew it was no longer true. He had grown tall and strong. He was a man.

The next morning, with an uncertain wave but a steady step, he had walked away towards the hunting-ground. His spear-points were long stored, carefully crafted from the best flint, not black blade but strong and sharp enough to make blood spring from a careless finger. A few spear-heads remained that had belonged to his father, but Láko had taken pride in learning the craft, walking to the quarrying-place, selecting and testing a stone, then trying and failing until he produced a sharp, effective weapon. He was proud of his spear and he had a right to be.

Deer and antelope had passed along the valley of the hunters for generations. At times there had been wild horses but these days the aurochs rarely came. Nothing so large or valuable had been taken by anyone from their village, nor had new aurochs-horns been seen or traded. Not for many years. The clan-heads from beyond the river no longer came to this place. There were better lands for hunting, further north and east. They laughed at the Dókhali hunters, amateurs brandishing spears and making traps like characters from an old tale.

‘What will we do if he does not return?’ said Deghóm suddenly. Once the words had left her mouth, they rang in her ears, portentous, inviting disaster. They could not be unspoken.

‘Zéko ne wóka,’ retorted Pérha sharply, her eyes dark, even threatening. ‘Do not speak thus. He will return.’

The valley was a morning’s walk away, and it took another morning to return. The hunters usually returned to the village before the second night. Out in the deep forest, wolves and bears might be a risk for such a small group, for all their spears and fire, and there were other dangers lurking in the forests. They spent a single night in the forest, protected by a fire and watching by turns, but to stay away hunting a second night was too risky without a shelter.

On the evening of the third day, the hunters still had not returned. Pérha and Deghóm both knew that this meant something was amiss. Hunting accidents were not always serious, but until the hunters appeared at the top of the hill, anything was possible. Including the worst.

The air was still in the reddish glow of the late summer evening. Smoke from the village-fires rose almost straight into the sky. Scents of roasted meat, snatches of song and the shrill squeal of children carried easily on the still air, but there was no laughter in their corner of the village. All four men from two families had gone to the hunt together with Láko. The women sat on tree-stumps, silent now, no longer able to conceal their unease. Deghóm felt nauseous.

She jumped up and pointed at the horizon.

‘Is that him?’ she shouted, her finger jabbing towards four tiny figures appearing over the brow of the hill to the east, still illuminated by the sunset. She stood on tiptoe, as if to see them better.

‘It cannot be them,’ began Pérha, also standing and peering. The air was very clear. ‘There are only four. He went with the two brothers, their father and their uncle from the other side; they were five. They all went, none remained behind. Those four must be strangers.’

Deghóm did not care. She ran along the path between the widely-spaced huts, past the cave, along the river bank. Each family had a large enclosure for animals, with small areas unfenced and uncultivated in between. The path was well-trodden and she knew it perfectly. Soon she was out of the village and at the foot of the hill. From there she could see that she had been right. It was Láko’s friend Dúrku, his father and uncle, and her milk-brother. He was safe. There was something odd about the way the men were walking down the hill. Their pace was slow, solemn. They had seen Deghóm approaching and stopped. She ran to them up the slope, and by the time she reached them she was panting hard.

‘Láko!’ She stood in front of him, tears in her eyes. ‘You are injured!’

‘It is nothing,’ he said. He did not look at her. His tunic was torn but there was only a little blood on his shoulder. ‘These are only scratches. But Séku.’

‘Yes, Séku!’ She stared at him, questioning. ‘Is he behind you?’

She scanned the horizon behind them. The two older men had already turned away. Their wives were walking up the hill to meet them, and they did not wish to talk to Deghóm. Not today.

‘Where is Séku?’ repeated Deghóm.

Láko looked at her now, but his eyes were hollow, as if looking past her.

‘It is a great evil,’ he said slowly. ‘We should go down to the house. I must see mother.’

He did not need to approach the house to see Pérha. Even as they reached the bottom of the hill she was there, scolding and fussing over her son. He did not complain and allowed himself to be led back to the enclosure. ‘Like a lamb,’ thought Pérha, puzzled and a little worried. She did not rush him. It was beginning to grow dark when the three of them sat down on the tree stumps. Midges buzzed and landed on the women, but they neither saw nor felt them. They could do nothing but look helplessly at Láko and wait for him to speak.

‘Please give me a drink,’ said Láko. A drinking-cup of water was gone in a single draught, and afterwards he nursed the small beaker of mead his mother had given him. Her special cup from Salúti, hard from the fire, decorated and burnished. Deghóm looked at the perfect red pattern on the surface, her eyes following the spiral from the edge to the centre and back out again. She was not sure whether she wanted to hear the hunter’s tale or not. What had happened to Séku?

‘From the beginning,’ said Pérha quietly.

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Chapter 03. Child of earth - Gomanéna

Stephen Thomas — Mon, 13 Apr 2026 07:09:42 GMT

The ewe lay limp on the grass as the rest of the flock started moving towards Láko. It lifted up its head slightly but clearly something was wrong. Immediately he walked back to the hut, pushing backwards between the strips of hide over the doorway, his empty bucket tipped over beside the entrance. Without looking over his shoulder he called to his mother as she knelt at the other end of the hut, grinding at the quern. His tone was loud and urgent.

‘The ewe is sick in the pen. Please bring a poultice. I think she has udder fire.’ He was gone, running to save a child of the flock.

His diagnosis from a stone’s throw away had been accurate. The udder was engorged, red and hot. The animal kicked and bleated weakly when it was touched, and its breathing was too rapid. It lay on its side, muscles too slack, head on the ground. The infection had taken hold. Láko stroked the short fleece on its neck and murmured quietly in its ear.

‘Ne múrh! Ne múrh!

Do not die! Do not die!’

In a moment, his mother was at his side. Pérha sat down beside her son and the sick ewe.

‘Every hand goes into the fire,’ she sighed. Suffering came to all.

Her deft fingers, wet and pungent from preparing the willow-bark poultice, were working on the bindings even as she spoke. The bark of willow had the magical property of reducing swelling and soothing pain. The poultice also contained wild garlic from a clearing beside the river, and curdled milk. Mixed and kneaded with ash, clay and animal fat, it remained in place, soothed and brought healing. The poultice for udder fire was simple and effective, known from time immemorial, bringing healing and life to ewes, mares and women. It would also save the lives of those who depended on their milk.

Pérha was tall, her arms thin and muscular. She was not born in the village of Dókhali where she now lived, nor anywhere in the hills. Her mother-village was Salúti, many days away, along the curling river and down the black river, beside the sweet sea. That village had been surrendered to the slowly encroaching water. Her native tongue was Méri, the language of the sea-coasts, but the Dókhali villagers still understood her. Her husband had always smiled at the way she spoke, but never mockingly. He was a good man.

When he came down to Salúti with hides to trade and found her there, he recognised her beauty and wisdom, and she saw the strength and truth in him. She had left her family and paddled with him up the Néra river to live this simple life, two long rivers away, here in the hills with her black-haired man.

Working with the herds here was hard but not complicated. After twenty years of milking, tending and shearing sheep and goats, every task had long ago become second nature. For every situation there was an act, for every act there was a word. Whatever happened, she had herbs and incantations ready. Still she was no shaman; a herder’s wife and a widow, she was a strong mother and loyal guardian of the milk-child who had come to her from the sky. She was also a mother to the many herd-children, the ones who gave of their wool, their milk and sometimes their meat.

‘Gomanéna, ne múra!

Ne múra, gomanéna!

Child of earth, do not die!

Do not die, child of earth!’

She spoke quickly, forcefully. Prayers came more naturally in her native Méri. She had heard Láko speaking exactly the same words, the command to a sick animal to be healed, but he spoke in the village dialect. Pérha spoke to reassure, but also to command. She expected to be obeyed. The animal must not die.

‘Ne múra,’ she began again.

‘Gomanéna,’ added Láko, smiling, imitating his mother’s accent. ‘Child of the earth.’

He paused, and stroked its head again.

His two friends, Dúrku and Séku, were striding across the field. They had been walking along the village-path but stopped when they saw Láko beside the sick ewe.

‘Can we help?’ asked Séku. ‘We are done milking.’

He was always willing to help, Séku whose name meant “hunter” but who was really a dreamer, often distracted. Láko guessed that it was Dúrku who had done most of the milking.

‘Séku! Dúrku! I do need help. Ask your father if I can come on the hunt!’

Pérha looked quickly at him, still stroking the ewe, but said nothing.

Dúrku prodded him. ‘Come on Láko, you know it’s too dangerous for you, milky boy!’ He was very fond of Láko, but it was partly true.

Láko aimed a cuff at his friend’s ear, but he dodged.

‘I dreamed of an aurochs,’ said Séku suddenly. ‘I think we will see an aurochs.’

‘Let me come and see it too!’ laughed Láko.

Séku looked at him more seriously. Láko was taller, more muscular. Almost as strong as his brother Dúrku. He was easily old enough for a hunt. Pérha was glaring at him, guessing his thoughts.

‘Láko…’ she began, a warning tone in her voice.

‘No, I am not joking,’ continued Séku. ‘I think we will see an aurochs. In my dream it was a huge beast, beautiful. I saw it running from us, running with my spear in its side, right over the precipice.’

‘Fat chance of that,’ said Dúrku, already at a safe distance.

‘I stood by its body, the great aurochs,’ Séku continued. He looked serious. ‘When I looked down it was long dead, filled with worms. Its head was broken.’

‘That’s no good,’ laughed Pérha as the two brothers walked away. ‘You might as well milk the flock as hunt for rotten meat.’

‘I will speak to my father,’ Séku called over his shoulder. His call was well timed; the boys were already too far away for Pérha to scold or contradict. Láko stood up.

‘Mother, here she comes. Deghóm.’

The young woman was walking rapidly towards them, almost running, her light-skinned face flushed, dark hair blowing in the wind. She had seen them sitting and talking beside the ewe, the rest of the flock standing on the other side of the field, far from the sick animal. Like Láko, she understood the situation long before she arrived, the words of healing forming in her mind as she hurried across to the enclosure.

Every morning Deghóm walked two hundred steps across the field – much more slowly than today – from her little hut to the house of Láko and his mother. In the evening she returned the way she had come, after many more uncounted steps in between, out onto distant pastures with the flock, off to the streams for herbs or water, along the many paths that criss-crossed this familiar land. The duties of the family were her duties, and their flocks were hers. She slept alone in her hut, but her days were spent with them.

It was unusual for a young woman to have a separate hut, but the odd lifestyle matched Deghóm’s status. She was born to sleep alone.

Her name made her a kind of mother already, so for her to be a wife or bear a child in the middle world would not be fitting. She could not survive without grain or animals, nor could she manage all the work of a flock and tending crops herself, so she lived attached to Pérha, walking morning and evening from her little hut to the house and back again. It was the way of things, as self-evident as the dawn.

‘I will milk the others,’ she began, slightly breathless.

‘No, Deghóm,’ said Pérha. ‘I will milk them. Tend to the child.’

In a moment she was seated beside Láko, her hand over the poultice. To question Pérha did not occur to her; it did not matter who performed which task, only that everything was done.

Deghóm stretched out her hand over the ewe.

‘Ghomagwén, ne múrh!

Ne múrh, ghomagwén!’

She spoke in the village-tongue. The final “rh” of “múrh” rolled into a long, coarse breath, harsh like the rasping sound of a dying animal or a dying man. The word for death carried the sound of death, and it must be properly named to turn its influence away. Her words carried authority. The sounds rattled in her throat as if she herself were dying.

‘Ne múrh! Ne múrh!’ she commanded quietly.

Láko felt the power in Deghóm’s whisper. If she commanded it, even the sparrows would be silent or line up in a row. Her voice made him shiver in a way he did not fully understand.

Ne múrh, ghomagwén!’

Her voice was quieter still, almost inaudible. The ewe’s eyes were closed now, not in death, nor sickness, but in sleep. Her chest had been moving rapidly, the movements shallow due to pain or fever, but now they were slower, regular, matching the calm of the woman beside her. Láko and Deghóm both understood the rhythm of the ewe’s breath. Their ears knew the tone of its bleating, the quality of its silence. Their fingers were familiar with the texture of its fleece in every season and felt every tick and burr. Without counting or measuring, they knew in their bones that the animal would live.

The sun was rising higher in the sky, the ewes had been milked and were lying in the shade of the largest tree, the sick one among them, isolated no longer. Pérha and Deghóm had been in the house preparing food. The younger woman emerged, at first stepping purposefully towards the flock but then adjusting her course slightly to pass closer to Láko. He sat knapping at a spear-head, brows furrowed, the sun on his back. As Deghóm approached him and sat down, he felt the warmth of her slender body beside him. Something moved in his stomach.

‘She will live,’ Deghóm began.

Láko interrupted her. ‘Yes, she will live. Life has returned to her from the formed earth.’

She glanced sharply at him. There was a double meaning in his words. He had said “formed earth”, deghóm, but the same word was also her name. The way he said it was familiar and respectful but there was also something else, something ill-defined.

‘Yes,’ he continued, bolder, reckless now.

‘Life has returned to her from lubhaghóm. The beloved earth.’ He looked into her eyes, affection unveiled. His words had not been accidental.

‘I am given,’ she replied, quickly but quietly, looking into his face, unashamed of his gaze. ‘Given from birth.’

‘I meant no disrespect,’ added Láko, embarrassed. He dropped his eyes. ‘I am glad you came early.’

She, too, was glad.

At the village council, the day after the omen, Pérha had volunteered to be Deghóm’s milk-mother and guardian. They had lived their unusual shared life ever since. Pérha had been to her as strict as a mother and no less tender, but always respectful. A mother of two children, with no husband. He was gored and broken on the hunt, his body returned to the village stiff and without breath. What remained of him lay now in the house of the earth, under the gomabéga, near the body of Deghóm’s mother and father. Here in the hills, the dead were buried under the ground, their arms around their knees. Her people in the forests along the shore had different ways.

Deghóm had lost her father, before memory, and then her mother as well. Now she had only her milk-mother, and Láko. They were so close in age that they could have been twins. His people were her people. There would be no more children to Pérha without a husband, and she would never take another now. Deghóm was given, so she could not be joined to a man. They were like a family barren, three people in two houses, their relationships fixed and unchanging. At least until Láko brought home a wife, if that ever happened.

Deghóm had watched him over the years, observed him changing. In her long solitudes she often thought about the young man and how he grew. It was slow and imperceptible. She saw the changes in quieter moments, working in the field or carrying a lamb around his neck, his back broader, his arms thicker, his beard downy and then luxuriant. When he shouted across the field the tone was deeper, the sound stronger.

He was dear to her, like the words of the old cave-song: “the earth is dear to the sky”.

Deghóm realised with a shock of shame that she had been gazing at his face. For too long. Glancing up at his eyes she saw that he was looking at her too, intently, in silence. Smiling gently, eye to eye. Quickly she turned away, blushing.

‘The ewe.’ She spoke without looking at him, a word in the wind, as she strode across the enclosure towards the animals.

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Chapter 02. Child-song - Nenakána

Stephen Thomas — Fri, 10 Apr 2026 19:56:10 GMT

Demagóma, novanéna,

Kunemáta, kunepáta.

Pahagúna kotasúta

Nenakódu kotadúta

Nénaze tugúrata

Nénaze tudéyata

Pahagúna múrata

Demagóma wítata

១

Deghóm, new-born,

Without mother, without father.

The priestess raised the knife,

Brought it down to the child’s neck.

The child thundered,

The child flashed lightning.

The priestess died,

Deghóm lived.

Listen to the song (from Suno, Balkan style)

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Chapter 01. The Sky-cave - Deyadóha

Stephen Thomas — Wed, 11 Mar 2026 22:20:33 GMT

The first raindrops dripped through the roof of the hut and onto the rammed-earth floor. Deghóm’s simple dwelling stood on a slight incline. Uphill, a ring of stones directed ground water away and down the gentle slope. Still, the floor was below ground level, so it stayed damp when the rain came in.

She looked at the bundle of rushes beside the wall. There were plenty left and the easier leaks in the roof were sealed. Perhaps Láko would help with the ones she could not reach. She imagined her milk-brother lifting the bundles with ease and tying them in place. Dear Láko. But now it was time for the cave-song.

Hanging near the entrance was a thin cloak of fine wool, its natural colour a very pale grey, almost white. It had been strongly dyed with yellow weld. Pinned to one corner was her brooch, her mother’s parting-gift. As long as her thumb, made from a carefully carved and polished bone, a single bead of sun-stone set into the head. It was unusually large and slightly irregular in shape, a very pure colour, rich and clear. A thing of beauty and value. It caught the sunlight and made people stare.

Outside the gloom of the hut the sky was dark, with low, thick clouds moving rapidly overhead in the gathering wind. A storm was coming.

She donned the cloak and attached the brooch. Pushing between strips of hide over the entrance, she started walking slowly towards the cave under the rain. The earth was soft under her bare feet. A few young men from the village were already striding in the same direction. They held spears and tallow torches, ablaze and bright under the darkening sky.

Rain was falling more steadily now. There was a faint rumble in the distance.

As Deghóm entered, she walked swiftly towards an impression on a low rock near the centre. Her seat. Two older women were already arranging tinder and sticks for the fire. Both looked up and inclined their heads to Deghóm.

‘Deghóm,’ they murmured. She inclined her head in return. Her special status had come to her unbidden, and she wore it uncomfortably.

One of the women setting the fire was Widhára, whose name meant “seeress”. She spoke quietly to her neighbour so that no-one else could hear.

‘Sixteen summers and the girl thinks she is a priestess already.’

‘Hmm,’ replied the other fire-setter, a little embarrassed by these words. It was not fitting to speak in this way of Deghóm, even as they were preparing for the ritual. She did not contradict Widhára.

‘Is it necessary to sing so loudly? Does she think Déya is deaf?’

‘We will all be deaf, if there are many more storms.’

Widhára chuckled.

As the last of the young men arrived, one thrust his torch into the fat-soaked tinder and the fire sprang to life. The darkened space immediately filled with orange light, revealing further entrances and deeper hollows within the cave. Shadows flickered everywhere. Deghóm caught the sweet aroma of winter-green smoke. She breathed deeply and stared at the fire.

Milagówa, the village elder, was almost the last to arrive. He walked slowly, carrying a staff but waving it in the air, refusing to use it for support. Deghóm looked over and smiled at him, silhouetted with the day behind him. He nodded gently three times towards her, raising his eyebrows very high to a smile, as if pointing towards the ceiling.

By now the young men were standing in a semicircle deep within the cave, proudly erect, their torches flaming brightly and illuminating the area deep within. Spears vertical. Her milk-brother Láko was among them, not quite as tall as the rest, but no less proud, his face stony, on duty. All others were seated. The village waited in silence.

Suddenly, without a signal but in perfect unison, the men strode towards the furthest opening on the left, thrusting torches into the entrance, spears horizontal, teeth bared, yelling.

‘Yaaa!’ The aggressive sound had a sharp attack, designed to startle and surprise. It was also the rejoicing-word. Cave-animals would freeze at the sudden sound and the sight of fire, giving the people time to react.

As they entered the enclosed space, its interior became visible in the torchlight. There was nothing within the sub-cave but the clean, sandy floor.

‘Púra! Clean!’

Their shout rang round the cave like a hunter’s whoop in the forest. It was the sound of safety. One by one they performed the same sequence at the mouth of each of the five openings into smaller caves. Torches, spears, shout, clean.

Deghóm’s seat commanded a very good view of the cave system, but still she could not see into the darkest crevices of all the hollows behind. One by one the torchlight at the entrance and the cries of the young men confirmed that they were all empty. She smiled as they returned to their places, wiping off moisture that had dripped down from the roof. Everyone knew the caves were empty. They were not deep, set in the low cliff near the winding river, close to the village. Nothing living had been seen inside since she was born.

Old women told stories of lions and a bear. When Deghóm was a child she had seen their carved shapes and cried when she was told they ate people. She could see the lion now, by torchlight. It stood above the mouth of the first chamber, poised to pounce. The lion and the fear were now distant in time, a flat image on the rock, existing only in art and memory. Above the animal were two jagged lines, like crashing waves on the sea, scratched into the rock. Why was the sea above the lion? And why two waves? Were there two seas? The marks were old and the tale was lost, but it was unsettling.

Silence descended once again, except for the crackle of twigs in the fire and the sound of rain outside.

Long before they arrived, Widhára had heated water with crushed herbs. Now she poured the strong infusion carefully into a sharing-cup. Solemnly she moved around the room, presenting it to the adults. Each sipped or slurped carefully at the sickly, bitter fluid. The potion was hot and tongues had been burned before.

Rain was sheeting down outside now, and a flash of lightning illuminated the main chamber. The loud crack of thunder nearby was almost immediate, with a note of menace. That was the signal. Deghóm stood up.

‘Luuu-uuu-uuu’ she sang, beginning suddenly and very loudly at a high pitch. Slowly and smoothly, she lowered the pitch of her voice until the cave began to resound with the frequency. The resonant sound was louder, filled by the echo. Gradually more women and children joined her.

One of the young men had also started singing, the same vowel, ‘Uuu-uuu-uuu’, but on a much deeper tone. Like Deghóm, he adjusted the pitch of his voice, the note sliding smoothly higher until he found the cave’s natural resonance and a consistent, booming echo returned from the depths. The high tone and the low tone formed a harmony that was mostly pleasing, but there was also a slight clash between the notes, an edge of discomfort. Shrill harmonics appeared and vanished again, like sparks from the fire.

The cave was alive, echoing and resounding, adding its voice to that of the people. Each individual sang until they needed to breathe, but not everyone breathed at once. Each person’s song was interrupted, but the sound produced by the community and the echo from the cave continued. The unbroken, amplified sound was a kind of miracle, a parable of their life, a continuous sound with a magical response.

‘Uuu-uuu-uuu,’ they continued. Everyone had found the resonance of their voices and the air was filled with sound, illuminated with orange firelight and scented with aromatic smoke. Deghóm’s heart swelled. She loved the song. There was another flash and a complex peal of crashing thunder from outside, different in character from the first and loudest one. Under the sky, it would have been threatening. Now the sky had joined the song.

The one who had saved her life.

Deghóm stopped and raised her hand. Most eyes were on her, so the voices fell silent. Almost immediately she began again, the second syllable. It was quieter at first.

‘Baaa-aaa-aaa…’

It was a simple invocation: Lubadéya supáta, “Beloved sky, father above”. It was one of the titles of Déya, the daylight, the bright sky. The first four notes were all sung on the same resonant note, booming and piercing back to the singers from the sacred cave. The storm set the pace; Deghóm knew when to pause after a peal of thunder. Four tones, the hiss, and the final shout.

The herbs in the potion were having an effect. Her voice and body seemed disconnected, as if she were floating in the air, a singing spirit. The quality of the sound had become deeper, more significant. The awe of the sky and the warmth of the village-bond were more refined, more intense. As the sound became sweeter, the knowledge that the all-seeing sky was watching and accepting grew more certain. The feeling was welcome, familiar.

Food, grass for the animals, grain for the people. Everything came from the love between the sky and the formed earth, deghóm. She carried that name, as she had been told so many times on Pérha’s knee.

Pérha came from the coastlands and spoke with a foreign accent. She pronounced Deghóm’s name in her own tongue: Méri, the common language of the peoples along the sea-coast. She told her birth-story solemnly, like a prayer taught to a child. Even amid the song, she could hear echoes of her milk-mother’s soft voice as she told the tale.

***

‘She was so weak, that dear woman. On the morning when you were born, your mother’s breath failed. She went to the house under the earth and left you here alone in the middle world. Your blood-mother, my dear friend. It was deep in the second night of her pain. I was there with Widhára the midwife, skilled and tireless. Your mother was beautiful, with a smile like the sunrise, but your father had gone to the pasture and never returned. The flocks found their own way home and he never saw your face. All through the day, the night and the second day, her pain increased and her strength waned. There was nothing we could do to help, not even Widhára. In the end, close to midnight on the second day, she gave one long, final scream and brought you into the world. You seemed to be dead at first, but then you gave a cry. I saw your mother smile once, weakly, but then we saw the blood. It was too much. We could not stop it, however we tried. Her eyes were closed, a mother without breath, a child without parents. Such a child could not live.’

‘My Láko was still a babe at the breast, and he and I were alone, so I took you to myself as my milk-child for your first and last day in the middle world. With both parents under the earth you were named Demagóma, formed earth. This was the custom. Thus you were named and honoured, and thus you would die. The very next morning the priestess of Demagóma held you in her arms, ready with the black blade that would open your neck, draw out your breath and end your life as it began, the short life of one orphaned at birth, returned to the earth.’

‘A Demagóma could not remain a second day. The next morning there was thunder, sharp lightning and heavy, persistent rain, but still she took you out. Drenched she stood beside the altar stone in front of the elder’s house, beneath the sacred oak in the centre of the village. The storm raged overhead. Very few attended for the sacrifice in such rain. She placed you on the soil beneath the altar, on the bosom of the earth. Kneeling down, she raised the blade and brought it down gently at the side of your neck as you lay there quietly. She would make a path for your blood to enter the earth. It was black blade.’

‘Suddenly I was blind. There had been such a flash, I saw only darkness. In the same moment there was a deafening crash of thunder. Déya was upon us. No longer overhead, but upon our bodies. As my sight returned I saw the priestess lying dead, her arm charred down to the grass, hit by a bolt from Déya. There was a stench of burning. The knife had not entered your neck, but I thought you, too, must have been slain before my blinded eyes. I was terrified.’

‘I cried out from fear and sorrow. You lay there, a scrap of earth, a tiny reflection of Demagóma, returned untimely. But all was not as it seemed. As my sight returned I heard your tiny cry amid the pelting rain and saw you moving in the mud. I picked you up. There could be no doubt. Déya had visited the village. He had taken the priestess of Demagóma and spared you, for a purpose known to him alone.’

‘A child is named Demagóma for one day, for that child must die. This omen from Déya meant that you must carry that sacred name forever. You were Demagóma, spared by the sky, set apart. They said you could never marry, and you would sing in the cave. Until then, you were my milk-child. I kept you under my roof and raised you, a milk-sister to Láko, until you were old enough to sleep alone.’

***

The singing was continuing. Deghóm saw the children of earth singing to Déya the sky. She saw the sky giving rain, the grass and grain springing up from the soil. She sang lustily to the one who had saved her from the knife, and the sky growled and crashed its approval. Everything was as it should be. She was very light-headed now. Shadows were blurred, senses merged. Flames danced but their crackling sound was orange. The scent of smoke whispered in her ears. The mixing of sensations was familiar.

Almost without noticing, Deghóm had stopped and led the village in the next syllable.

‘Deee-eee-eee.’ This was quieter, but then came ‘yaaa-aaa-aaa’, a loud sound that grew louder still until it was the loudest, most jubilant of all. Déya.

At length a quieter rumble told Deghóm that the storm was passing. The song was nearing its end. She prepared for the hiss. After a distant peal of thunder she raised her hand for silence.

‘Sss-sss-sss’ she hissed quietly. Slowly everyone joined, hissing softly at first then growing louder. Some stood erect, swaying slightly under the influence of the herbs. They hissed as loudly as they could, grimacing to create a louder sound. The sound was different, quieter than the tones but harsher. The echo modified the sound, but there was no booming resonance. It was white noise without a tone and they could not sustain it for long.

The children giggled and jumped; they loved the hissing. Their spit wet the other children’s faces or fell onto the floor but nobody cared. At Deghóm’s nod, the young men doused the fire, creating a second hiss as water touched hot stones. The invocation of the name was complete. Torches were doused in the wet mess of the fire pit, dimming the light as the sound ebbed away. Deghóm raised her hand a final time and everyone watched her, still hissing quietly.

At her signal they shouted with one voice: “supáta!”

That was the end of the invocation: Lubadéya supáta! Beloved sky, father above! The song was complete, and so was the storm-visit.

Darkness and smoke had filled the cave. A few people began to brave the torrential rain outside, returning to their homes as Widhára, busy and sharp-eyed, tidied away pots and swept away muddy ashes amid the gloom.

Deghóm remained in her place for longer than usual, staring at the jagged shape of the double wave. The symbol scratched at her mind, like a small pain demanding attention. Still hazy from the herbs, she could not guess at its meaning, but the feeling grew stronger and more unpleasant the longer she stared. It was fear.

The thunder was still rumbling, distant now, echoing behind the western hills. She looked out through the cave-mouth into the rain. The stream near the cave had burst its banks and water had poured into the first field, breaching the doorway of the hut. That had never happened before. The animals had wandered up to the highest corner of the enclosure, leaving the occupants and a few neighbours soaked to the skin, trying to rescue pots and furnishings from their flooded home.

The last raindrops splashed onto the ground under a brighter sky as Deghóm walked barefoot through the mud, back to her dripping shelter.

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Chapter 00. Prologue - Sukána

Stephen Thomas — Sat, 07 Feb 2026 15:24:14 GMT

Séka the huntress pressed forward, close to her grandfather’s body, his ribs vibrating from the song. It was ancient, a tale from before memory. She had never heard it before.

‘Deyalúra,’ he half-wailed, half-muttered. ‘The sky wept. The sea chased the people. Its teeth ate them all.’

His voice fell to a low growl as he reached the end of his memory. ‘Tuméra. Too-much-sea.’ He fell silent. Drops from the roof hissed in the fire.

There was a sound outside, the light thump of a falling rock. Everyone froze, pressing closer together, spears outward. The lion.

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