Why does there have to be so many bugs? Buzzing and fluttering and filling the horizon with almost a haze of black. It was worse just ten years back, before the honourable Clan Mothers of DjamäThanä introduced perch to their paddies. But this year has been rife with them. The stagnant, muddy water seems to produce them faster than the fish can get through them. The summer has been dry, and hot, and hot.

She removes her wide straw hat and fans herself with it.

Still no wind… what I would give for rain or storm or thunder. She thinks of the spirits of her grandmother—now what did she call it… Nasäbacotsun! Yes, please Nasäbacotsun, grant us with wind and rain and a respite from the heat.

Sanärholu crouches in the muddy water of the paddy. The länadjädō stretch green tentacles from the paddy bank, the roots and leaves desperately sucking up moisture. Her back aches from the bending and weeding, but there’s always more to do. She grabs a scraggly, spiked weed with a well-calloused hand and pulls. Oh, that’s rooted deeper than I thought. Guess it had to dig deep to drink. She adds a second hand and puts her weight into it. She’s short, even for a kabāhä of the fields. Finally, she feels the weed give, till all at once it pulls away and she falls flat-on-her-back into the stalks of zizania.

She stands up fast, but that just makes the pain in her back worse. Sanäholu survived seven pregnancies, and brought three kids to adulthood. She should be at home, or in a workshop, weaving and smoking. Like any respectable woman of her age would be doing. Where did it all go wrong?

Sanärholu’s family has been in service of DjamäThanä for generations. They were granted refuge, and granted homes and fields to farm. It’s hard work, made all the harder seeing the rice sown and harvested through their sweat carried up to the Themilanan, with the scraps distributed to them. I can’t complain too much though… We were given that dry-land plot for tobacco. brōmu, and ginger—and that produces all for us. Plus our house is on solid ground, we’re not stuck up on stilts in the fields like my parents were.

A lifetime in service has made her accustomed to hard work and little thanks. But her family has always had enough to eat, even in tough years. Her eldest daughter Jalädjararhä married a single feathered kabāhä—a shield-bearer in service of NapäkoduThonu and moved into one of their palace complexes: weaving for their duNothudo. She’s now pregnant with her first grandchild… What a happy day that’ll be.

And her eldest son, Kepilemimeki has gained a single mallard feather. He bears the shield and cup and looks after the dogs of Djamä Tōjukonu-Sōtubonu—a cruelly handsome man, but Kepilemimeki says he’s kind and good to him. Please don’t let him be led astray.

My work may be unending, but at least I give my kids the chance at a better life.

Tōjukonu laughs, throwing his well-defined chin back in glee. He liked that one, thinks Kepilemimeki, a slim and well-muscled youth nearing his twentieth year.

They sit on plentiful furs upon the wood floor of one of the many annexes of Djamä Rēsilenjilērhi’s palace. This is a smaller courtyard, and a smaller annex. But it gives them privacy.

“Please, let me refill our wine.” he says, as Tōjukonu finishes laughing.

He fetches the large bottle of sanäsāmä off to their right and fills both of their cups.

Tōjukonu cracks one of his wolfish smiles, the glint in his eyes almost predatory, “It’s nice having someone so well trained at hand.”

Kepilemimeki blushes at that, the swine, teasing me when he knows full the instruction I’d received. But I have to answer, “A stream and a human: both follow their kacä.” Another laugh!

It’s a queer scene. Mirth unequally distributed.

Tōjukonu cuts a slice from the maple, rabbit, and cranberry sausage on the platter before them, he puts it out before Kepilemimeki’s face, “Dogs and kabāhä: feed them a treat when they’re well behaved.”

Oh spirits, neither his mother nor the senior single-feathers taught him what to do here.

He waggles the slice of sausage.

The other he gulps, leans his mouth forward, and takes a bite.

“Good boy,” the superior says as Kepilemimeki chews, “have I ever mentioned how handsome the line of your brow is?”

The monotony is the hardest part.

The labour itself fades to slightly-interesting repetition, and the finger cramps disappear not-long after the finger-tip calluses develop.

But still, even the ‘interesting’ patterns become mundane when you’re doing the fourth kingfisher shawl in a single week.

A kick and a cramp, what I would give for a nap.

It’s been an exhausting pregnancy—though that’s unsurprising for her first.

The hot weather makes it all the worse, at least the palace has a regular breeze and is away from the worst of the insects—I hope mother is surviving… we should see each other at the Cakäma, at least. Maybe I can gift her some wine, if the steward is feeling lax or the Mothers are feeling generous?

Her husband is off, aiding the nobles in overseeing paddy construction. She misses him; and yet, our attic space sure is cooler with just one body.

But where’s the kabāhä with the clean water? She doesn’t want to drink wine—it’ll just upset her stomach, and the Mothers would disapprove of her expropriating tea.

The hot, dry weather—for nearing two moons now—has slowed the stream closest to Konuthomu to no more than a muddy trickle. So the Mothers demand kabāhä like her—though normally the featherless, not the one-feathered like me, she reminds herself—walk all the way to the proper-flowing stream with jugs upon their heads. This also means there’s far less water to go around, an unwelcome edition for someone both wracked by thirst and left off of the palace’s genealogy-posts.

At least one of the older kabāhä gave her a proper cushion to rest upon while weaving.

The shawl is looking handsome, this fibre has the most delightful indigo.

Her sleeping platform can’t get comfortable this evening. As always, her husband snores beside her, but their thin hempen blankets barely cushion the wood slats beneath—and the heat! Oh Nasäbacotsun, save us from the heat!

She tosses and turns over.

Is she punishing us? We’ve been obedient, hard working, we’ve followed our kacä—why punish us for doing what we were told?

Her few, thankful hours of sleep are disabused of her by the first rays of dawn.

She wanders out into her garden and heads to the lake shore to wash. Even the canals are muddy now… and the water level. Nasäbacotsun, your people need you.

She’s turned to a single spirit more and more over the past month. Turned to the only spirit who seems to have the interests of the kabāhä at heart.

The unsatisfying wash leaves her feeling more dirty than when she woke, but she doesn’t have the time to find cleaner water.

Tossing on a light-hempen shawl and grabbing her hat, her husband and her head out to the fields—at least we're not on paddy-building.

It’s cool and shady in the grove. The island is covered with oaks and moss, a veritable green delight. Sure, the humidity is still high but in a comfortable, encompassing way—not the punishing miasma of sun and moisture you get in the paddies.

The body beside him stirs. He hadn’t wanted to spend the night, fearing punishment, but Tōjukonu makes decisions, he follows.

The light, filtered through the ample foliage dances gold and green across their bodies. Across his back, the curve of his spine and shoulder, across… And another role.

“Good morning, my prince,” Kepilemimeki ventures to wake him, he likes it when I call him ‘prince’, vanity rearing its head even when it's just the two of them.

Tōjukonu blinks his eyes open, “Is it morning already,” he gazes out upon the mossy-bowl in which they made their nest, “we don’t have to get up just yet—come in closer, conu [diminutive of flower].”

Something in the air smells rotten, and she’s nauseous nearly every day. When will it rain?

The stink of sewage suffuses the city, along with that of sweat, and men.

The paddies around the city don’t look right either… the Mothers don’t seem worried yet, so she knows she shouldn’t fret, but still. The stalks seem wimpy. They’re bent and stumpy.

Even the sun looks red with dust…

What did mother say, ‘gambling and rice: sometimes chance fails.’ Her brow furrows, she can’t be right. And the Great Mothers would know if something is wrong! That’s the whole point. Yes, I’m overacting. Mother’s hysteria is simply infecting me. Rotusejerhi shan’t allow anything bad to happen to us. We all follow the kacä: we are good, godly people.

The pawpaws are going to fail. She’s sure of that by now. Best case scenario we get a sixth of the rotu offering yields. It won’t be enough… and if we give it to the Themilanan, who’s going to starve and who’s going to waste it on feasts?

Her husband agrees, and if even that oaf has noticed it… Nasäbacotsun, what do you need of me? What will make you bring rain?

They can’t even take a canoe through the paddies anymore. It’s a hand’s depth of water left, it’s not enough.

Last year’s harvest was strong though, and she knows that. She’s the one who collected much of it, after all.

Jalädjararhä, her daughter, in her good sense, knows something’s wrong as well. I know she wasn’t ready to believe me, that the day of reckoning is coming, but it’s true all the same.

She misses her. The house is empty without her, but oh how lovely it was to see her. To hug her and feel her belly. Grandchildren! How can I be angry or so consumed by fear? I’m going to be a grandparent, what more could I want?

She only knows the fare on this side and in the city. The lands of Konuthomu are vast, I’m overreacting. This is just part of the seasons and time: every thirty-three years there is a conjunction of moon and solstice, cycles of dryness. ‘Rain and time: both return incessantly.’

I’ll have some wine, I’ll smoke a bowl or two or three or four. Everything will be fine. It is hubris, foolishness to think I know better than the Great Mothers.

Afterall, Kepilemimeki seems fond of the nobles’ wisdom: looking at them all with a puppy’s-visage. And the nobles are kind! Conu, he called him! You don’t say that to a stranger, and they never called me that. My son is advancing: a position in the family. This is what I wanted. Stop worrying Sanärholu, you’re just afraid that everything is going to go well.

It’s too early! The Clan Mothers had said as much as they took her into the inner corridors. I knew it was all wrong! It’s an evil wrong, we’ve strayed from the path. But who! I’ve done my duty, Tsukōdju—keeper of watery halls—here my pleas I’ve done my duty, I’ve followed my path. My kacätsan is strong, even if my birth was disadvantageous. The pain splits through her, like a tearing from her insides.

On a bed of hay, she pants and screams.

Sweat runs down her face, her back. Her body is wet in the oppressive heat. She pushes, and pain rocks through her and her muscles contract seemingly at random.

Too early, words no mother wants to hear.

And why’s it so hot? Why can’t I lay in water to give birth, or at least get a cool cloth.

She screams yet again, the Mothers look at eachother, realization dawning upon them.

They wouldn’t treat one of their own like this—the bitches. How dare they, demanding respect yet failing when they’re needed.

Another scream. Another round of nods, of bodies rushing about.

Everything has been wrong, this is a cursed year. The problem isn’t me, I haven’t strayed from the kacätsan, I haven’t sinned. The problem is this city, the problem is this cabal of parasites!

“Hush, hush child,” interrupts her screams.

The face is deeply lined and nutty. Smile-lines crinkle her eyes and mouth, a tight bun of grey hair surmounts her head. “You are brave, child.” The smile relaxes Jalädjararhä, “drink this tea, it shall ease your pain.” The kindly matriarch kisses her forehead.

The liquid tastes sweet and bitter, of maple and yarrow and more. Perhaps I judged too harshly. She thinks, as the pain abides. I didn’t realize the hour was so late…

It’s cooler now.

Has the sun finally set?

Her skin feels wet.

Is that water at last?

Complications, they said, a miscarriage which kills both mother and child.

But what caused the miscarriage? Sure, they said bad fortune, but I know the real culprit. The rot behind this whole string of disasters.

The funeral pyre is small, pathetic. Jalädjararhä’s husband was only just called back to be here in person. The single feather burning with her hair is the only precious object the Wise Mothers deemed her worthy of.

And there’s no role for her mother, no role for Sanärholu. Featherless, she’s deemed undeserving. A year of service with nobles who barely learnt her name is considered more important than the twenty Sanärholu dedicated to raising her, to caring for her.

They are the rot.

Konuthomu shall not be prosperous, shall not receive rain until the cancer is removed.

She has a duty now, a task, a purpose, a path. Nasäbacotsun has shown her the problem, and shown her the solution.

It feels better to cry with his arms around me.

Kepilemimeki pushes his body closer to that of Tōjukonu.

Mother was incoherent at the funeral… if only I could help you.

Supple hands play in his hair. Their soft skin brushes against his neck.

“All will turn out fine, my conu.” It is easier for him to say than for him to believe. Now differences in class position make that expected, but being held so tight, differences feel almost ready to dissolve.

“Your sister is in a better place: she sits before a feast as we speak. ‘Death and dawn: both come to all in time.’”

Permeable, is the space between them.

He holds him tighter.

Osmotic processes move air from one to the lungs of the other.

I shall miss you dear sister, but I do not miss you alone.

It had been an easier task than she expected, in truth.

Other däkabāhä had experienced the same: had seen the rot destroying the harvest.

But even as the rotu comes to seed, and far more of the fields lie barren and decomposing—a graveyard pre-dug for the coming winter.

But the whispers of a thousand silenced and pushed aside becomes a shout, just as many streams become a great river, or a dozen spears become an impenetrable wall.

The rot has taken a daughter and led a son astray. It shall not take her remaining child. No, she will give all that she can in service of Nasäbacotsun. She will sacrifice whatever the spirit demands, but she shall wash away this rot and save her child.

’Fields and feathers: that which one earns come due in autumn.’

She may not have the feathers, but she was always quick in maths. She knows what shall come due to those foolish Mothers.

Which bottle of rotusānä are they on now?

The sweat, nutty, rich taste fills his mouth, it coats his tongue.

His body is warm, his stomach is full.

Tōjukonu insisted that he would sit and eat at the same table as him, “if he is fit to hold my shield, he is fit to eat from the same place,” he said. There was some proverb too but Kepilemimeki was too distracted, to overcome by the initial gesture to keep paying attention.

He blushes at the memory, it’s just the wine, that’s all, and gazes at the noble visage beside him.

The food is stunning.

Have I ever had so much meat? And the fat, the drippings in the stew fill it with this sumptuous richness. A feast beside a man who cares for you: watery halls fit for heroes.

Okay, maybe the proverb needs some work. But that’s for tomorrow. For now everything is well. Mother’s ravings of a failed harvest have not been felt at this table, and I’ll check in on her later to assuage her fears.

But Tōjukonu stands, grabbing Kepilemimeki’s hand, “I tire of eating, let’s go for a walk.”

In a happy, drunken stupor he stumbles along behind him.

Lying in the grass, overlooking the lake, Kepilemimeki is of two minds. One mind is in the terrestrial, in the chest against which his head rests, in the comfort and rest and warmth of the now. The other mind is with his sister, deep out below the lake. He can only hope she experiences the same comfort as he. I shall see her soon enough, and then she’ll be back in a finer form. Her kacätsan was strong. Death is only a tragedy from a limited perspective.

He closes his eyes and leans back.

It’s not till the screaming starts that he stirs.

‘A bull and a Clan Mother: both buck when you butcher them.’

The blood is warm on her hands, and as the drops hit the dry earth, are sucked up by the parched ground, a semblance of rain has come at last. Of course this is what Nasäbacotsun wanted of me, forgive me for being so slow to listen.

The worst, the most pompous of the Mothers of NapäkoduThonu, who held her hands and looked into her eyes and said they’d done all they could do was her choice for the signal.

The obsidian blade, loaned to her for the harvest, was easily hidden beneath the meagre piles of rice. Along with spears and bows and shields, all the true people of Konuthomu need to excise the rot.

The bitch came up to me too. That’s the best part. I didn’t have to seek you out—you pompous fool. How does it feel to know you’re mortal? Her screams have turned into gasps, “I did all I could do.” answers Sanärholu with a smile.

It’s happening at last. Justice for the wrongs committed. Justice for their cruelty and greed. Truth is a vengeful mistress, and so too it seems is Nasäbacotsun. Her mission is clear: Once I purge the corruption, we shall be gifted with rain.

After the third dead Mother her focus begins to drift.

The kabāhä of her cause have lit the palaces. They have taken to arms.

In truth, the process is similar to weeding. ‘Farming and justice: remove that which weakens the field.’

It’s not till well past midnight that the killing stops.

The nobles of Konuthomu are dead or fled, Now all we have to do is wait for the rain.

She laughs with glee, I have completed my mission.

And oh, the cellars and warehouses of wine and pickles. The true people of Konuthomu shall eat well. This is just the first step of the kingdom of heaven.

Nasäbacotsun with her bounty shall arrive soon.

Every belly will be full then.

Every mother and child will grow old.

Every harvest shall be full.

Yes, paradise has been delivered.

By the morning the fires would have largely ceased. Some thousand drunken bodies sleep well into the morning, while thousands more quietly wait to see what this world turned upside down shal turn out to be.