The rains beat a heavy tattoo in the upper courtyard of White-Oak Inn. The dry ground anxiously sucking up the wet, filling the air with a heady aroma. The late-summer thunderstorm is more than the ground can take, however, and the drainage ditches are flowing over their brim.

Thankfully, the pottery workshops have remained relatively dry, and so have the main cooking facilities.

She’ll have to check on the stables, loos, and residences of the lower courtyard soon—but she’ll wait for the wind to die down.

The cracks of thunder fill the sky as she gently puffs tobacco on her stool. Her lunch, brireti filed with fermented and smoked blood-sausage and pickled pawpaw, is largely untouched on the table beside her. She managed to eat most of her duck-sausage as well as some pickled lotus-root, but her appetite is little these days.

Her two sons are both off at war. The camp in these storms must be miserable: unable to move and drowning in muck—she prays they don’t get dysentery. Far be it for her to question the wise mothers of KobuThonu, but what’s the benefit of yet another war with Boturomenji? It’s over what, the taxes of one town and six villages? And somehow that’s worth the deaths of hundreds. The mothers cry that it is for the honour of Narhetsikobon, to revenge the disrespect done by Boturomenji.

Which case of disrespect? The initial exile they won’t start moaning about (despite it being what, a thousand years ago?), or the complete failures of the last four wars to make any real change in the balance of power?

Still, they keep demanding that young men of good homes, those who can arm themselves with spear and shield, come serve the armies of KobuThonu—with those most valourous marrying into the clan. And the reward there is even more war! Absolute foolishness.

War is also bad for business. Narhetsikobon is the harder, longer trip for the Jeli and Serenji: and it’s made all the harder by war. Sure, the northern-lakeshore remains a reliable source of trade, but the traders of Konuthomu prefer the far inferior DjamäThanä inn at the southern market.

At least she has her daughters: good women to manage the inn, and offer guidance and direction to the kabāhä who serve the house. And thank god for her nephew and brother-in-law. Men of good sense who know that there’s more honour in glazing than in dying for the stuck-up and elitist crones on the hill.

It’s all Ponutoku’s fault. The most useful thing her husband ever did was get the good sense to catch a flu and die. But it was too late, he’d filled her sons’ ears with visions of glory which are now going to get them killed.

She refills her pipe from the tobacco pot, and wonders if she could indulge with some maple-glazed pecans.

Kabohutsārhä sits in her garden.The courtyard is open to the lake on its east side, and the morning light streams deep into the covered learning hall. Soon her students will finish their breakfast, or arrive on her island from the city proper to hear her speak. She was not born with this name, and she was not born featherless, though she chooses to go without her Kemihatsārä. How the times change, she thinks: what was once considered scandalous is now in vogue for all the aspiring intellectuals.

Of course, for them it’s just a phase. They learn just enough to wow guests over wine, without realizing the depths of their own ignorance.

Her task is thankless.

But a lucky few truly understand.

She drinks her tea of pine-nuts and smokes her pipe.

She has achieved renown in Boturomenji and is invited to the palaces frequently, her words repeated back to her. “A clan-mother of Boturomenji and a parrot: empty, deedless, and repetitive.”

She refuses the invitations as much as possible. But when the wise mothers of Sparrow—who unfortunately happen to also be her sisters—requested her the past moon she could not say no.

They love to repeat my proverbs and my verse, but do not actually hear them, she thinks.

They asked her, “What can you teach us to prepare us for the war with Narhetsikobon?”

Her answer was simple: “War and furrowing a lotus paddy: as pointless as it is destructive.”

At least they won’t be quoting her at their next party—or inviting her.

Her tea is lovely: earthy and nutty. Her students stream out of the dining hall and join the already present crowd from the city. A visiting youth from Kamābarha had asked if she could write down her words today—despite her distaste for that silly Rhadämā method, how can you learn anything from birchbark? Learning is only possible through listening. But, “The young and new shoots: both appear structurally unsound/insupportable but grow to fruit.” She’s not the first to find the youth foolish and she shan’t be the last. But yes, despite her dislike for writing, her message today may only be receivable in Kamābarha and Konuthomu. The city of her birth grows more alien by the day.

The crowd is expectant now. She has a kabāhä fetch her another cup of tea as she refills her pipe. It is time to start,

“War and furrowing a lotus paddy: as pointless as it is destructive.”

A murmur from the audience, there is no turning back now.

“A farmer punts through a paddy. Falcon soars overhead…

Her poem shall be a call for peace and an end to this interminable rivalry.

If only people knew how to listen.

The rain had stopped the night before last, but the camp is still composed of mud. The latrines had overflown, and his brother Periteki is now down with a fever. Belonging to the wrong clan, with the single jay feather in his ear, feels more like a death sentence than an honour in weather like this.

And of course, the one bit of dry land, the hill, is occupied by the husbands of KobuThonu—bowmen from the Themilanan.

His mother said as much would happen, but he had visions of glory and of a beautiful noble wife.

How can pottery compare with the glory of war?

They’d taken two villages before the rains set in. Both had submitted without a fight, offering up their food to the champions of KobuThonu. Spirits were high in those days: Periteki and him would lie awake at night talking about their future wives. And now he lies sick and I’m shovelling shit.

Scouts had reported the army of Boturomenji just across and down the river. Our great and wise leader insists we take the battle to the foe, despite the weather. Insists that this is how we win and avenge the disrespect committed by that city of effeminate and disrespectful fools.

Before this war, he’d known men of Boturomenji as merchants and guests in his mother’s inn. Sure, they might be a bit too obsessed with original proverbs—rather than repeating the time-tested wisdom of the sagas, but that’s hardly cause for anger. They’d been courteous and clean—making far less work for him than when they hosted Jeli.

If their leader gets his way they’ll swim across the river. Sure, there’s a spot where horses can ford, but it’s too deep for people… thank the spirits the river moves slow this time of year.

After finishing his digging, he washes his hands and goes to eat dinner.

They’re a gaggle of six, all spearmen seeking good marriages into the clan—and all tired of the mud.

As a meal, they share a bowl of muddy-rice and a single blood-sausage.

“It’s been decided, tomorrow we’ll ford upstream.”

“Drown you mean.”

“And here I thought you were a strong swimmer.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll all be dead soon enough.”

So it’s actually happening. And what of their sick? They’re in no condition to cross the river—are we really just leaving them behind?

“Did he say anything about the sick?”

“He’ll have the people of Dogwood-Stream take them in.”

“And you believed him?”

“I’m not going to question him during his speech.”

“I’m sure your brother will be fine,” his friend Porubōsu says, patting his arm.

“Well, how could our great leader lead us wrong?”

A single rabbit split nine ways. This is enough for maybe three, not nine.

Their camp on the low-ridge managed to avoid the worst of the rains, but they’ve already near-exhausted the land with foraging and their bellies growl loudly.

Sure, his horse still has rotu and two sausages, one liver, one blood, but he’s only got one bottle of rotusānä left.

It was bad enough he was called away from his studies—learning poetry and wisdom under Kabohutsārhä—and told to put back on his cardinal feather, prepare a horse with supplies, and march to war.

He is a talented archer, and brings with him two kabāhä: one to bear shield and spear, the other to tend the horse.

But he has duties to his clan and it is a wicked man who feasts while his brethren starve: and supplies for three men don’t last as long when split nine ways.

Oh ancestors, why did we embark on this accursed campaign?

He’s due at a planning meeting soon as one of the nobles of NaräthātsäThanä. And the only one with honour, it seems. The rest of the nobles had packed more horses—holding vast herds of their own to help manage their bison. But his focus has been on truth and beauty and history: pursuits of the mind, not flesh. But he was still called on this foolish endeavour.

Absolutely typical.

But the other nobles eat sumptuously while their men go hungry. I’ll make a claim for my men at the meeting, for all the good soldiers of Boturomenji. No man should starve in service to the city. We can retreat to Great-River-Meets-Lake and resupply. If the weather holds, we’d be back here in two days. Is it really all that awful if we let Narhetsikobon cross the river too? We can meet them and end this war in time for the early harvests. The waiting game across the river does nothing but guarantee an incomplete harvest and empty bellies in winter.

Finishing their meagre meal, Naräthātsä Pēzjeceni-Länadjädō offers a hand of sausage to his men and heads to the war council to argue for the common soldier.

It does not go well.

Apparently Narhetsikobon has prepared to ford the river and shall be across by nightfall. They went north along the inland route and their scouts only found them after they’d established a beachhead. So they shall spend the morrow marching, with plans to meet in battle in two days.

At least it’ll be over soon, even if we’ll be weak and starved by the time it ends.

All in all the damage is manageable, thinks Sibēboru as she directs the cleaning of the stables. No horses were drowned and anyways, ‘mistakes and hay: both are plentiful and easily reaped.’

The ceramic workshop was also fine, though the clay cellar had some flooding. Periteki, her nephew, not her departed foolish husband, said he’d turn the accidental-slip into glazes though: that the red clay will allow for some particularly handsome blacks. ‘Shelter for the storm, but eat what it brings you.’

A travesty that he’ll have to get married and leave them, a travesty.

She directs her kabāhä, “No, you take it to the workshop to dry. Did you lose your wits with your feathers?” One thing to be said for war, it does create plentiful njäkabāhä. Although perhaps she shouldn’t be cruel. After all, ‘Feathers and wisdom: without one you lose the other.’

Her brother-in-law is already preparing the kiln to turn the hay to ash—so she supposes she can’t complain too much about the damage.

Most importantly, none of her guests were killed or had their goods ruined. They’ll leave praising the sturdy construction of the White-Oak-Inn. She heard DjamäThanä inn got washed out: that the food cellar flooded. The spirits giveth, and the spirits taketh. ‘A duck and a deer: one may lose the first to gain something greater.’

Maybe the next round of firing should be proverb pots? They are deliciously funny and perhaps that’d help make traders from Konuthomu and Kamābarha stay at her superior inn, not that washed out cesspool in the southern harbour.

Despite her gloating and business, she can’t help but turn her mind to her sons. Please send them home safe.

Golden Eagle Clan had demanded her head. Treason they said! Is it treason to call out folly? “Water Mimosa and truth: bitter while uncooked, but healthful.”

Not wishing to be kin-slayers, her sisters gave her an ultimatum: leave Brotumeji or face the decision of the Great Council.

So she was allowed to bring her kabāhä in three boats—buoyed by some of her wealthier followers accompanying her—and made her way into exile. ‘The wise woman and a pigeon: both flee a burning forest.’ A daughter of NaräthātsäThanä accompanies her—the sister of that boy Pēzjeceni who actually seemed to listen for a change. And now they’ve sent him off to die for nothing. But this girl had been to Konuthomu and could make introductions for her at the clan-hall there. All in all, their party numbers 16 in number, counting the servants. Auspicious?

Kabohutsārhä is accompanied by the Rhadämā scribe as well. Under the hot, late-summer sun, she thinks: With nothing better to do on the long boat voyage, she might as well write down my wisdom. And perhaps I’ll compose a new poem.

One which tells of a fall from wisdom and an exile. One which tells how nothing good can come of grudges, and that wisdom and honour may come into conflict. The right path is the wise path, after all, not the path that leads you dead in a bull-ring because some kid ogled your wife.

But yes, write down all my wisdom child—so that our children's’ children will know that there were those amongst us who opposed self-immolation in the name of honour and grudges.

So my brother’s left abandoned in some half-civilized village, and two soldiers close to me perished in the ford. My clothes can’t dry because our wise leaders in KobuThonu demand we camp at the river’s bank to wait for supplies from upstream. What sort of fool would still believe supplies are coming? Nolunaman thinks as he digs yet more latrine trenches. Fight for the honour of Narhetsikobon, they said. Fight for the wise and lovely girls of KobuThonu, they said. Fight for your future, they said! And I’d believed them… my father told me of his time in service, and his triumphs and how that earned him a rich and lovely wife—the proprietor of White-Oak Inn. But mother knew better: a potter’s life has all the glory of war with none of the risk. ‘A pot and an arrow: made with care for opposite purposes.’

“I think that’s deep enough, don’t you Porubōsu?” he asks.

“Should be plenty,” Porubōsu drops his voice to a whisper, “plus its not like the KobuThonu husbands this is for will know how deep it has to be—can’t sully their perfect bowhands.”

They laugh. At the very least, despite the dire straits—yet more rain set in and they’re now even further from home—they have each other. Plus some of the KobuThonu’s supplies were swept away or spoiled in the fording: it was deeper than expected. Perhaps they’ll learn a little bit about life having to live like the rest of us.

At least this camp is on a decent hill. But we need food and this new burst of rain is the opposite of helpful. Is the War Council composed of deaf men? The hunger in the camp is palpable. If we’re not fed, we’ll soon be led by dead men… Please don’t include me with those selfish fools. Pēzjeceni is sick and tired of the prideful and foolish leadership. And all the while, the enemy camp is half a day's march away.

They’re still starved and lean faces cause desperate men. ‘Dogs and men: loyal when fed, lash out when hungry.’

Will the rains ever stop? Why hasn’t the army returned home, or at least to a reliable village to restock and wait out the rain? Last she’d heard they were still across the river.

She knows her sons have probably perished in this foolishness, but all she can do is help dig her drainage ditches deeper and steeper: keep the flooding from destroying that which is in front of her.

This is the wettest Plum-Moon in memory, and yet they insisted on amassing a once in a generation army for a once in a generation catastrophe. No, she shall make certain that no more sons of Blue Jay Clan die if it can be helped. KoduThonu can listen to the other clans, or Narhetsikobon can become place-whence-falcon-fled.

“Bravery and foolishness:

“Attractive to maidens, repugnant to sense

“A story of nine men led astray by greed and want and madness…

Their warchief is sick, half the council in fact. It finally happened. And with them so occupied, Nolunaman and his friends moved to the edge of the camp on higher ground. Not far enough to be disobeying orders exactly, but far enough that the rains affect them less. Easier access to forage and hunt too—and each day, they go further and further afield. The lands north of here are rich in game—along the great river. Decent spots for farmland too if one’s willing to put the work in, and with so few people—mostly just shepherds with their herds in from lake country. What I would give to be farming there instead of listening to these fools die of dysentery.

The war chief is dead! Felled by an arrow while scouting the Narhetsikobon camp—the fool. Perhaps now we’ll end this folly and retreat to food and shelter and wait for the rains to end.

He argued passionately that evening, but the War Council dismissed him from his post and his command. They were more concerned with who will get to claim the glory of the main attack than with the lives of their men.

I suppose there only remains one choice.

Pēzjeceni turns to his squadron, “How would you all like to say goodbye to this war?”

The news reached her: Periteki died of sickness on this side of the river, and was cremated with honour. Nolunaman forded with the main force and his whereabouts are unknown.

Narhetsikobon shall not wage war for as long as I am breathing.

Finally, an audience which appreciates wisdom!

Though in truth Kabohutsārhä knew the only reason the good mothers of Konuthomu found her poem so delightful is because it’s not about them. Call it ‘The Mallard’s Vanity’ or ‘Kingfisher’s Mistake’ and she’d be on the route to Kamābarha or worse.

She’d been received well. Her work can continue here to a new audience—and with birch bark scrolls of her words heading south, who knows? Perhaps peoples’ ears can still hear wisdom, just not in the city of her birth.

The only thing left for the army of Narhetsikobon to do is retreat, and its leaders are too incapacitated or stubborn to do so.

Nolunaman wishes he had another choice, but once he’d floated the idea once it had spread like wildfire. It’s either act now or make discovery a surety. Desertion, a dirty word.

It means he’ll have no home in Narhetsikobon going forward, but at least he’ll have his life and the lives of his comrades.

The waning quarter lights their midnight passage as they head north from the camp. Escape the rain and reach more plentiful hunting grounds. Once there, well, homestead he supposes?

He leads a group just over two hundred strong—in truth it's a majority of those still capable to fight.

Suddenly, before him, the sounds of rustling up past a canebrake.

Ghostly from the moonlight a column emerges, what are soldiers of Boturomenji doing so far north? What could they hope to accomplish? I need to ready my bow.

The men from Boturomenji look surprised to see them. The man leading the column, with red-feathers on his ear and a leather poncho protecting him (and likely a feathered cloak)—typical noble demanding excess even in war—has his bow drawn, but he refuses to point it at me?

“Hail, I am Naräthātsä Pēzjeceni-Länadjädō. I mean you know harm. My men have tired of this foolishness and need to eat. We are leaving the field of battle and have no quarrel with you.”

“I am… well, I suppose I’m only Nolunaman now. How can we believe you and that this isn’t a trick?”

“Trust and streams: sometimes one must leap across.”

“Proverbs and wine: there is one for every season.”

“Seeing at night: only the moon’s holy light illuminates.”

“Rain and action: both have causes stretching back.”

“A clan-mother of Boturomenji and a parrot: empty, deedless, and repetitive.”

Nolunaman can’t help but laugh at this. So he’s really serious, they mean to desert as well.

“Y’know, I think that applies to Narhetsikobon too: ‘A clan-mother of KobuThonu and a parrot: empty, deedless, and repetitive.’” Maybe these original proverbs aren’t so annoying after all.

“I sent a rider to Boturomenji. If the mothers listened, boats should come to rescue the survivors. But I want no part in that city of fools anymore.”

“The land upriver is fertile or rich, ‘war and paddies: both are faster with many hands.’”

“'Friendship and cranberries: after blooming comes fruit.' It is nice to finally hear sense again.

TLDR: Boturomenji and Narhetsikobon went to war, this turned into a disaster because of a particularly harsh monsoon season, deserters fled up river settling a new province. Similar effects of people fleeing war, as well as seeking new opportunities, led to the provinces further east being settled as well.