Barbarous dreams

I stood in trepidation before the sand coloured tent. The last few months had consisted of many tests- tests that I was able to undertake and withstand only owing to the years of training under Tarnum. However, this was to be the most fearsome test of them all, not one of physical strength nor of endurance or skill, but a test of a man's inner heart. I brushed aside the flap of the tent and nervously stepped in. Xirjaa was sitting cross-legged in the middle of the tent. In front of him, was a small fire merrily burning in the gloom of the tent. Xirjaa was the oldest living male in the Rakashi tribe, to become their lord and master, I would have to prove myself to him.

Though most of the Barbarians had left their old and weak behind while passing through the portals to this new world, some Barbarian tribes still have raconteurs in their midst; these old frail men have a greater purpose than civilised man mey understand. These old wizened horde the tribe's stories in the massive caverns of their mind. They know the history of the tribe and carry with them the current happenings of the members as well. However, they also recount tales that the more cynical call fables- these are tales of Tiger, Hyena and the other animals; how the world came to be when it was still whole, how the dragon broke its shell and escaped from its prison of calcium; these and much more.

I still remember the tales Tarnum used to tell me of the days of yore; I once stopped him mid-way asking him what use these tales were to me. He replied with that characteristic twinkle in his eye and the gravity of eons in his voice, "Stories have a life of their own, Waerjak. They start off as little babies in the mind of the teller, who nourishes them while they grow inside the womb of their creator. Finally, when the time is ripe he tells them to his friends and their friends. The story leaves its parent and travels the world from teller's mouth to listener's ear who then becomes the teller himself. As it does, the story morphs and takes on new and fascinating forms in the each person's head. He adds to it his own personality and touch. The story is his now, his adopted child- fed with food that his culture eats, taught new table manners, dressed in silk instead of hide. Sit down and listen to a friend speak the next time we head back to the village, Waerjak. Sooner or later, he is going to tell you a story; it is going to be his own little story about himself or it might be an old chestnut you've heard before. Don't disturb him, Waerjak. Let him tell it in his own time, in his own way and you will learn the heart of the man. We are all telling stories all the time Waerjak; they belong to us, in many ways they are us. And somewhere, we are just a story in an old man's head..."

As I stood looking at Xirjaa he tore some leaves from some stems he was carrying, and threw the dried leaves into the fire. Smoke billowed immediately from the flickering flames and spread through the whole room. I gagged at the horrible smell and coughed once, twice. Xirjaa just looked at me the whole time and gestured to me to sit by his side. As I did, I saw that the old man's eyes had glazed over. He asked me to close my eyes and put his hand on my head. That was when the dreams, or what I thought were the dreams, took over.

I was a little boy standing by a babbling brook. A scorpion stood by the bank scratching its chetinous scalp with its massive tail. A frog lay sunbathing on a lily pad stuck in the middle of the brook as the water bubbled passed it. The scorpion called out, its voice sounding like wound being ripped open with a blunt sword. "Allow me passage over the water!" the scorpion cried, "And I will show you a place where you can eat all the flies in the world"

The frog croaked "How do I know that you won't sting me as I carry you across the water, or place you on the other side?"

"You have my word," pleaded the scorpion, "besides, if I sting you, how will I get back to my family the on my return trip?"

And so, the frog leapt onto the bank and allowed the scorpion onto its back. As it swam across, the scorpion turned around once and plunged its tail into the back of the frog. "Why?" the frog screamed as it went under the water. The scorpion looked startled as it began to drown. "Why?" I heard a voice behind me. I turned around to face Xarjii. I thought for a while. "It was its nature."

I saw the Snow Queen sitting opposite a knight. They were playing chess. The knight mounted an attack on the king's flank, pounding away at it with all the pieces he had, sacrifing minor piece, for pawn, major piece for minor, all to break open the defenses to the castled king. While he was at it, the Snow Queen calmly lifted a pawn from the other side of the board and placed it before her king. The knight stared into her eyes and said nothing. "Why do they play?" asked Xarjii. "It is their nature."

I saw a man sitting on a grand throne. Thousand men stood before him. Thousand warriors from a thousand different tribes called out his name. They banged the side of their shields with their swords, they clanged their axes together, the name became a chant. As the chant reached a crescendo, the man bowed down before the men and shouted out words of thanks. This time, I didn't wait for the question. "It is my nature."