Posts Tagged Folk fiction

FOLK FICTION-The Eligibility of Language

13th November 2006

“ worthless man.of what use is that silence that does not utter a meaning? You might fool the even more spirits with the crackle of your finger-bones as though you chopped the entire eastern mountains for firewood, but not me…” cursed the fair-woman as usual at her silent, level-headed man.”

“…. let me make worth of you by chopping that odd hair off and trade for the skin of the mighty mountain boar. Ah! Mute sorrow is I. Mute…is I!”

The talkative women of Nokho pitied with the fair-woman and cursed her man as they field in a faraway, while the other brave-men of Nokho were busy being brave. But at sunset, as they entered back into the brave men-land, nobody dared to question the silence, except for the fair-woman.

For the Wise-man had said, “ In the brave men-land of Nokho, where the tiger would rather go hungry, and talkative talk fill women’s intestines, a silent level-headed man will grow like a still, strong tree on its soil. Not one of you shall dare the silence, for like a tame calf he kicks, AT THE TIME. Then, a sheaf of his hair you shall burn at the feet of the mighty mountain rock.”

Father was the Wise-man. the only man who could talk to the outside. The language of his mouth were the scented smoke of the myrrhdust. He knew slices of the white ghost’s language, taught by the white ghosts with a book, whom the brave-men of Nokho captured.

And so the the Wiseman named him Lulungson-the son of the mighty mountain rock or the ‘Lung’.He lovingly prefixed the affectionate Lu, for he was wise.

Lulungson sat still and crackled his fingerbones while the fairwoman cursed.

Exactly like the strong, still tree whose leaves giggled at the tickle of the weak wind.

The fairwoman shouted and rushed about the big kitchen house unloading the workbaskets, thudding the big rice pot over the three well-sliced firestones, until she murmured. Silent Lulung would then drop his son down from the back and kiss him. They wisely smile at each other, excluding the fairwoman.

The Wiseman’s language seemed upon his own son, Lulung. Everyone in the brave menland of Nokho feared the silent one, for they revered the kick of the tame calf, AT THE TIME. Lulung did not brave the mighty mountain boar like the other bravemen. But he worked the company of his son from sunrise to curse, as he silently watched the three corners of the brave menland.

The fairwoman would come back weary, but saved to curse her silent, levelheaded man as though she could water a mute stone to a tree.

The Wiseman had left Lulung enough, AT THE TIME. Bigger rice pots, three other firestones well sliced from the mighty mountain rock, and a gourd of copper and the white ghosts’ coins. And from the big kitchen house on the mountaintop, the three corners of the brave menland were as clear as the fairwoman’s face.

The Wiseman had planted a tall-tree sapling, so that he could hang Lulung on his back and climb the treehouse to watch over the fourth corner of Nokho. But his body was myrrhed before the tall-tree could grow tall and pass on the language of his dream.

From the fourth corner of the brave menland of Nokho, a long haired ghost on a horse  turns into a man-eating tiger and silently watches, like a tiger, to prey upon the back of a silent, still man crackling his fingerbones while chopping firewood.

As the tiger pounces, the Wiseman sees the silent man turn his face when young Lulung would cry from the pain in his kidneys. The Wiseman always helped, but on that unclear morning, Lulung went alone and peed on the tall-tree sapling.

It troubled the Wiseman because of the language of the wisemen that the tiger was their protector and would not harm even a piglet in the brave menland of Nokho, watched by the shadow of the mighty mountain Lung.

“ Go chop that odd hair off and trade for the skin of the…………………boar. Do you hear me or am I pouring water on arum leaves? Ah! Mute sorrow …mute……. Is I!” cursed the fairwoman as she left to field.

She was blessed to the silent one by the language between the wiseman and her father.

“ your daughter is fairer than all the talk of the talkative women of this brave menland. When she is nubile, and my son is strong , let our women smear the doorposts with the mud of myrrh and let them flourish. We shall not tarry, for virile is a glance and virgin is a night.”

Thus the fair-woman father smelt the scented smoke of the myrrhdust.

That day as the fair-woman left, the dream woke. The long-haired tribesmen rode in from the unwatched corner of the brave men-land. A riding tribe that took away anything their hearts desired in the land of others, and they long envied the fair women of the brave menland of Nokho.

Lulungson rushed at the commotion of curses by the talkative women. The wiseman’s sword gathered very less blood as he punctured the guts of the longhaired men with the hoof of his well-slept legs. But the longhaired men kept coming while the brave-men of Nokho were busy being brave with the mighty mountain boar.

Alone as the tame calf kicked, and the agile sword sliced, the protector roared AT THE TIME in the brave menland of Nokho. It pounced and ate the jealous hearts of all the longhaired men alike. The smell of human blood had renewed his appetite long lost by the kerfuffle of the talkative talk of the women of Nokho that made him ignore even a piglet.

“….awiee!!awiee!awieee!!! Mute sorrow is me..Mute… Oh tame calf  who kicked AT THE TIME  and saved the talk of the women of Nokho, let me love your hair this once and anoint you with the precious mud of myrrh..” wept the fairwoman at the silent corpse of  her man who crackled his fingerbones no more.

Only that day, the shorthaired bravemen did not go about their bravery, and the talkative women were unusual as they gathered at the feet of the Mighty Mountain Lung.

As they buried the silent-man, red charcoals crackled as crystals of myrrh-dust were poured in.

The fair-woman kept the Wise-man language and chopped a sheaf of his hair to burn it at the feet of the mighty mountain rock.

AT THE TIME, it smelt like the roast skin of the mighty mountain boar.


, , , ,


%d bloggers like this: