Cries of a Pale Audience

Many have heard the owl’s cries in the middle of the night. Few have heard them as I do. They don’t realize that the screams of the owls are indistinguishable from that of a little girl. Few know that sound like I do.

I’m sorry, Anath. I’m sorry that I couldn’t do anything to save you…

I suppose you’d like to know how it came to pass, every gruesome detail? So be it.

You will have to imagine that we are far away from here, far from the busy port of Alalia, farther than the eye can see off the shore even when there are no obscurities in the sky. All people know of the edge of the world, the pillars which belong to your Hercules, my Melqart. It doesn't matter who, since it is hard to believe even the greatest of men could erect such fixtures of raw stone which ships fear, or marble pillars so high as I have heard they once had in my ancestral Tyre.

In any case, my home is not there. No, you will have to imagine yourself taking a turn off the beaten path the fish have led us down. You must instead climb up a small river with no name which carves its way through the mountains on which Atlas stood while he held the stars aloft. There, between those forested peaks, you will find Tamuda. The Mauri call it a pond—it was once my ocean.

I wish we’d never lived there.

The Mauri tell stories, you know, when they come downstream to trade for the goods we bring in from the great sea. I was always fascinated by their strange tales: of great wrestlers such as the giant Anti who threw all passing men into the desert ground far inland, and of other strange beings and creatures which lived up the river. To the children they would always say this same thing, perhaps because it was their custom, perhaps because it was one of the few things they could utter in our tongue: “Go, children, go up into the mountains Tinjis made with her furious feet when her husband had died. There are many wonders for children to find.”

I cannot say whether there are truly any wonders up there, for I have only experienced terror and tragedy. Perhaps it is my mistake, and all those men and women had meant some certain mountain I could not discern. I cannot know. If you do; kindly, do not tell me.

You remain? Still listening to me carry on about my sorrows? Very well. They say it is best to open up about one's hardships in front of another, though I hope you have no means of understanding my story in the manner in which I will speak it. It is not a fate I would wish on those I despise, no, it is too cruel a thing to inscribe on some gray tablet which I’m to cast in a jar or some nearby lake. Instead, please find some enjoyment in it. Do you Romans not watch tragedies in your cities—I know you do? You must get some joy in it. So, listen.

I will say that for every time there was a tale told, I was a listener, always at the forefront of the children sitting before the man or woman in strange clothing bearing a cart of fruits, trinkets, and cloth. And it was no different the day Juba wandered downstream, bearing no cart or wagon or horse behind him, only the trail of his rags—far too loose and flowing for his frail figure.

The men approached Juba and asked: “What goods do you bring to Tamuda?”

“I bring no goods.”

The women approached Juba and asked: “What news do you bring to Tamuda?”

“I bring no news.”

At this, the children approached the old man, clasping his rags and tugging harmlessly, asking in a ritual-like unison: “What stories do you bring?”

“Juba brings many stories.” The children, myself included, cried out in the pleasure of this gift—a man having come dedicated to spinning tails for the young and old alike.

That evening, the children became workers and built in an open space a large seating gallery from hardened mud, a great fire pit lined with stones, and a poor stage crafted from unused wooden logs for the orator to stand on. It was made to be a grand occasion for all of Tamuda. The river itself bent to the will of the partygoers, as ships came in bearing Massalian wine in Attic amphorae, red-tinted dishes and pans from Iberian Gadir beyond the great pillars, and hundreds of colorful birds captured on the isle of ‘Yboshim in the northern span of the great sea.

With the fire lit and the smallest scent of eastern spices and powders emanating from the early embers, Juba stood on the shifty wooden platform. He had bathed, received new clothes, and had been anointed with rejuvenating oils. He was no longer the shape of poverty and disease, but the image of the gods themselves, standing a head taller than any man with his sandals hanging over the edge of his stage. Only a moment of silence lasted, a sacred moment for all to sit as still as the disks in the sky and to give a silent prayer and offering to their chosen god. I for my part was too excited to think of the gods. Oh, I could have asked for the favor of Baal Hamon, the protector of Tanit, whom the Mauri also worship, the health of Eshmun, even the power to explore with the safety of Melqart’s strength guiding me. But no, I, in my childish giddiness, neglected the needs of the gods and instead treated Juba as if he were my god—my deity of storytelling.

Tell me, young girl, do Romans pray to their gods in moments of silence, even when no one is watching to make you and you can only assume the gods know? They tell me my people once fought for this city, though it was not meant to be our own—it was a gift for our Etruscan friends you’ve long ago extinguished. I wonder if we prayed to the gods then—and is that why we won? It doesn't matter. Whatever my failings, I did neglect my duties that night while staring at the divine figure of Juba, and it has cost me along with all my other countless mistakes. But I will continue.

“I am Juba.” It was not a clarification. It was a calling. “I have seen the many seas of sand which have been called Libu by foreigners. There lies the great river far away from this place where the sun rises. There lies the endless desert beyond the mountains, which in some places can never be traveled by mortals. There lies the vast forests beyond the deserts, yes, life beyond the death, from which come man strange beasts and things. And there lies where the sun sets the edge of the world, the sea beyond. I have been to your farthest town, the island straddling the edge which in my tongue we consider the small fortress. In my wide travels I have seen all the actions of men and women, their hopes and their follies. But because we are here, in this humble place, in the footsteps of the goddess, I will tell you of a story which is local, but you will not know it for it is unknown to most. This will be the love of Bogud and Tanit.”

There is silence, for none in Tamuda knew this story, though they knew Tanit well—all Tyrians know of Tanit’s seat next to Baal Hamon in Qart Hadasht, where the waves break against the greatest harbor in Libya and a thousand ships leave and enter port each day bearing the riches of the world in their underbellies.

“As many here know, Tanit, who is a great mother among the gods, shared no lover but was solely a protector to the other gods. Many think this is because there has not yet existed a god good enough to marry her, one who is worthy of the warrior queen among immortals. This is untrue.”

The children gasp, for they believe they have been lied to by their mothers and fathers, failing to be told of the secret love of the goddess. All the men and women are astounded, having never heard of such a thing themselves. Juba holds their eyes with his unbreakable gaze, a fierce look which sweeps about the brown benches and pulls on the very inside of his listeners. He continues:

“Bogud’s father was a simple wanderer on the mountaintops, a shepherd to his stock, but Bogud’s grandfather was Gruzil, the bull. This is why Bogud’s father had a bull at the head of his herd, everyday corralling the animals and pushing them forward to the next hillside as if it were a dog—it was his own father and he never knew it. This was a trick on Gurzil’s part, for he cast an illusion around himself which made him appear in the form of the simple goat. One might wonder how a goat, even a god in a goat’s form, could lead the other animals. This was simple. Gurzil would climb the tallest tree and be able to see and be seen by all the other animals before speaking to them and telling them which hillsides were meant to be fed on, and which were meant to be left alone. This is why goats fear to climb nothing, because they have heard of Gurzil climbing trees.”

The children, having become fascinated with the feats of Gurzil, begin to raise their hands and applaud the story, but Juba looks down and silences them without a sound. His pale eyes command them to drop their heads and keep only their ears open. The men and women are astounded at the power Juba wields over their children. I am still unsure of how the man changed my feelings so quickly with a single look. Perhaps it is the emptiness of his eyes and not the fullness of them which is so powerful, for they are the color of oxe’s milk with the tiniest black ring floating on top as if there were a hard sea raging beneath the surface of his eyes. Perhaps a long life and far travels and hard experiences can do that to someone, can give them control over the inexperience of others, safe in their well-known towns. But what of it? I am boring you. Juba did not even allow us a moment of silence before continuing.

“But when the shepherd left his life on the hills with his herd and settled in Walilt, which is surrounded in the good season by hills of sweet pink poison, he had no place for the animals and sold them all. He sold his own father to a trader in the city, and Gurzil was saddened by his son’s actions. In front of the trader, when there were no others around, Gurzil revealed himself to the man who had bought him and set before him triple of what had been given for Gurzil’s purchase. Free of his obligations, Gurzil ran off, away from the endless desert and towards the sea until the silver disk in the sky had shown in the sky and he chose to rest on a lowly hill.

“In the form of a bull he slept deeply under the comfort of the stars which the giant holds high above, and he was at peace. This was, until the sounds of the war horns woke him violently and hundreds of warriors clashed in a chaotic battle all around him. He awoke, a frantic bull among armed men—too dark to discern which warriors were which and who they fought for. But above them, emboldened in a bright light was the goddess, equipped in all manners of warfare from her silver armor to her stone spear and the blinding glare it gave. Tanit was both a fearsome sight and an attractive gift for Gurzil, and so he reined in his frantic kicking and jerking and fought on whichever side of the battlefield he saw her heavenly glow shine over. It was at the climax of the battle when Tanit took notice of Gurzil, a lone bull raging through the lines of men, but with the sense of purpose and grace only the immortals possess. Having recognized him, she flew down to his side, rallying the warriors around her, and mounted the bull in order to lead one final charge and to disperse the enemy, who fled like insects, fading into the shadows of the night.

“When peace had resumed and all the fighting men had returned home to their villages and towns, Gurzil once again took up his spot for the night at the top of the quite ordinary hill, only he was surprised to be greeted by the glow of the goddess, descending to join him. Little was said, but a deep affection for one another was known. None can say what happened between the two beyond that, but in the morning Gurzil woke to the absence of Tanit and, disheartened but undisturbed, continued on his journey toward the great sea.

A child from the crowd ventured to interrupt Juba and ask: “You said this story was about Bogud and Tanit’s love, not Ghurzil. What happened to the shepherd?” Juba, less fierce in his gaze, answered in a calm and reassuring manner, continuing his story.

“I have neglected to speak about the shepherd and Bogud because for you to be able to understand Bogud’s love for Tanit, you must understand Gurzil’s love for the goddess first. Listen, now. I have told you that his father, the shepherd, came to live in Walilt, but did I not also mention the poison which surrounds that place? Gurzil’s son, being a simple shepherd, and not of the area, was unaware of the nature of the pink flowers which adorn the hillsides in that valley. He was consumed with love for a potter’s daughter and wished to present her with a gift. He took from the bushes many of the flowers and mashed them into powder. This powder he added to a brew he had designed while roaming the hills for years. When he presented this drink in a fine cup to the potter, its fine taste earned the girl’s hand in marriage. However, the men, who drank this mixture in great amounts while pleasantly enjoying each other’s company, grew ill days after the ceremony. They both fell to the illness, and the potter’s daughter was left to the mercy of the gods, bearing the shepherd’s child alone, whom she named Bogud.

“On the night Bogud was born, Gurzil, who was happily roaming the mountains, heard his early screams, the screams of his own son, and rushed back down to Walilt where he revealed himself before the girl as a true god. The poor girl had already drunk a bowl of the poisonous concoction which she had herself prepared out of sadness, and Ghurzil, seeing her suffering, aided in her passing and sent her spirit up into the heavens to take a place among the many other stars in the shape of himself. With her spirit gone and the babe left alone, Gurzil put little Bogud on his back and wrapped his tail around the body of the shepherd and brought them far away from the endless desert, to where the Bull had enjoyed roaming pleasantly. Thus, he brought them to the mountains before the great sea, just up the river from this very town, and buried the shepherd there with a small monument.

“Gurzil took it upon himself to raise Bogud, and the boy grew to be a sturdy and broad-shouldered man, revering his grandfather and all the gods. But the boy enjoyed too much the story of how Gurzil met Tanit, and an affection for the goddess grew inside him, unhealthy in its nature. The Bull was disturbed by the boy’s obsession, but he was his own flesh and blood, and so Gurzil designed a test to measure whether the boy could live safely in a world of gods and goddesses. He faked his own death, stealing himself away into the service of a local farmer and playing at weakness until the farmer, with a heavy heart, chose to kill him. While in reality Gurzil lived, as no mortal could harm him, Bogud found his body and believed him to have passed, weeping for a day and a night at the loss of his grandfather, his only family. Let it be known that the farmer who believed he killed the Bull found a bull’s weight in precious metals and fine clothes in his home come morning.

“Alone in the world, Bogud managed for a few years before succumbing to the lust of his grandfather’s stories. He disturbed the tomb he had built for his grandfather and, after swearing by Gurzil’s name, slept in it so as to take on the form of Gurzil in his dream and relive his grandfather’s old memories. He awoke in a strange state of mind, having been given a new vision of the world, and could see far in the darkness which persisted through all the land. A lone bear came out of the bushes to greet him, resting its head on his shoulder and offering Bogud the gift of a strong mount. Riding the bear, Bogud found himself taken before the goddess Tanit, where he, having transformed into the Bull image of Gruzil, attempted to express his affection and spend the night in her company.

“Blinded by the brightness of her glow, it took him but a moment to see that both Tanit and the living Gurzil stood before him. Disappointed, Gurzil denounced his grandson and banished him from the land of the living, to spend his days wandering the endless desert until he wastes away and fades into the grains of sand which pebble the world. So it was that Tanit carried Bogud off, far away from the great sea, far past the place of his birth, and left him in the midst of the dry ocean, the last thing he would see being her glowing form as she flew away. And so it was, how Bogud’s love for Tanit ended and she remained the virgin goddess, mother of the immortals.”

There was no applause, nor was there shouting. The crowd simply rose and slowly left, thanking Juba with faint nods of their heads. The children too, were quiet, but their minds were abuzz as were their fingers, itching to ask for more. I stayed up all night, my eyes refusing to give up to weariness, and I attempted to visit Juba the next morning, but he had already disappeared. No one had any idea where the old man had gone, especially after he had become so popular and well known. But there must have been more… I would find it.

How foolish I was, to not see the truth behind Juba’s words back then. And how selfish I was, to drag Anath into all of this. You have her eyes, Roman girl, you know that? It’s hard for me to look, but I can’t look away. Hiram, ‘good brother’, my own name is a sham. I can’t even ask her to forgive me for taking you up there, for forcing her to go when you never liked to leave town as a rule, for lying to our parents in order to leave—our parents—I don’t even know where they are anymore, not there, maybe Sur… I doubt I’ll ever see them again. Would you like to know what I did, Roman? What my great folly was, worse than Bogud. I thought that I could succeed where he failed, to go beyond my limits and be rewarded—to explore. Only a child could believe it, and I did.

It wasn’t that long after Juba’s disappearance that I decided to go up into the mountains up the stream and see for myself what lay up there. But I wasn’t Bogud, roaming around by myself for years. I wasn’t going to go alone, so I convinced her. I can’t even honestly remember how. Maybe I promised to do a year’s chores or give her the block of silver I’d stolen from a passing merchant and hidden away in the house. Whatever it was, it wasn’t enough to be worth it.

If there’s anything I remember best, it’s how dark it was the night we left home and began walking up the river, listening to the soft crashes of the water against the shore and the slap of fish tails against the water’s surface in the night. I remember walking aimlessly through the forest as we ascended the mountain. It should have felt wrong when the light mist became a fog and the fog grew thick the higher we went. We should have gone back down, but I was too set on seeing what was up on the mountain. Out of the darkness, the cry of a cub drew us farther along the nonexistent path. Oh cub, why did you have to cry when we climbed the mountain?

It was just sitting there in a small clearing by itself, curled up in a ball, the tiniest, most harmless-looking bear cub I could have imagined. Anath just had to walk into the clearing and touch it. I can’t blame her. I would have too if I hadn’t been stuck to the nearby tree, my fingers burning on account of the scraping feeling against the bare wood. I still can’t believe it. I dragged her all the way up there and I ended up being the one left incapable to do anything because of fear, fear of the dark, of the unknown which was lurking around it.

But it wasn’t until I looked up that I realized my fate. I had to cover my eyes, because the color was too bright against the silver light from the heavens compared to the darkness all around. There were so many of them, pale white owls, bright against the background of the forest, staring down at us with their pinched and contoured faces. They saw it before either of us, darting their eyes to a corner of clearing we had our backs to. The snapping of a few twigs was all I heard before the mother bear charged into the clearing, knocking me aside with a brush of her sharp claws. But I was lucky. Why was I lucky? The bear kept going… until she plowed through my sister and … and tore into her. And still I did nothing, terrified on the grounds, keeping close to a nearby bush so as to remain unseen.

I know Anath screamed, I know it. But I can’t remember what her own scream sounded like. Do you know why? It’s because those awful birds, those glaringly bright owls began shrieking at me, chastising me for my failure and it sounded just like Anath. I can’t separate them anymore in my head. I can only hear the screaming of the owls. And I watched as the bear mauled my sister, failing to do anything as she died right in front of me, failing even to say something. And when I could move, I ran. I just ran.

I ran back down the mountain, down the river, past my home, down to the harbor, and jumped onto the nearest boat meant to leave the shores. Ever since, I’ve just bounced around, with one thing on my mind: a hatred for the bears. You Romans are good at hunting and trapping them, letting them into your arenas. I like you for that. Whenever I made money I bet on the people fighting the bears, I guess as some kind of revenge. But you know what happened? The bears always won. I never got to feel like I did anything for her, that I’m just a failure. And that’s how it’s going to stay, until I finally see a person kill one of them. That’s why I’m here outside the arena, sitting here, waiting. You asked…

Money? Coins? Was my life’s tragedy worth a little of your charity? Really? I don’t want it. I just want … I just… I’m lost. Juba told the truth. I’m sorry Anath.