From: caz@owlnet.rice.edu (HWRNMNBSOL)
Subject: Kukul [Inn] Kukul's Tale I: Thick Skinned
Organization: Rice University
Date: Mon, 14 Dec 1992 06:11:27 GMT

As the last note fades into the high, sooty beams of the Dragon's Inn, Kukul
puts down the rhapsodine and gazes speculatively into the fire.  Listener
claps, twice.

"Very good!  A nice rendition.  From Azardine's _Lays_Of_Bygone_Sorrow_, yes?"

Kukul cracks a thin smile, the whites of his teeth and eyes breaking the smooth
ebony field of his face.  "You are correct, wispy little man.  And surprised
am I, too, that you had heard such a tune before.  Many weeks did I spend
hunting through the Rameshander libraries before I found a copy of this work."

Listener shrugs.  "I'm a bard and minstrel.  It's my job -- and pleasure!
(here he gives a saucy flourish with his cap) -- to know the tunes and ballads
that stroke the strings of man's passions.  And woman's as well!"  With a 
nod and a wink, Listener reverses his chair and pulls it close to the fire.

"You're an interesting type, black man.  This place...."  <he gestures
expansively> "...this place has hosted some odd types in its time.  We've
seen all kinds here, including barbarians from the south and west.  Some of
them have skin colored such as yours.  But I confess, I've never seen one of
them who dresses as you do, nor makes studies of arcane works of music.  And,
of course, it's a rare barbarian who knows his way about a rhapsodine."

A glint of sorts enters Kukul's eyes.  "So easily does the term 'barbarian'
cross the lips of the civilized."  He half-turns to Listener, that he might
peer at him with hooded eyelids.  "Have you ever seen the Maze in Quarnach,
where the city guards harvest valuables from the helpless in broad daylight?
That, O pale-skinned popinjay, is true barbarism."

Listener holds up both hands.  "No offense intended, sir.  I meant only to
point out that in a focal point of strangeness, you have caught my eye."
Listener leans back, a smug look in his eye.  "And that, I'm certain, means
that there's a story here somewhere."

Kukul smirks again, and resumes his study of the fire.  "I suppose there is."

"Well then, out with it, my good man!  Stories are like a poison: they must
be leached out of the body, or they fester inside you and give you no peace.
Tell your tale to the tale-teller! and if it's good enough, Ha!  I might
throw a few coins in your hat."

Kukul considers his words.  "Very well, silver-tongued minstrel.  You shall
have your story.  But I warn you...."

"....I always start from the very beginning...."

*****************************************************************************

On the beaches of eternal sun he was born.  The midwives withdrew him from his
mother's womb with ungentle wrenches; she made no sound, as is the custom.  He
was carried to the verge of the tide and was laid on the cool, wet sand.  His
tiny lungs did not rise and fall, but they would learn.  They would have to.
The midwives moved to the shade of the palm fringe and watched the baby. 

He lay on the sand, still partially encased in a thin membrane and smeared with
the waters of birth, and wriggled a little.  A thin stream of liquid poured
from his tiny nose.  He did not breathe.

In the fringe, the midwives heard the crackling of the underbrush and scuttled
up the palm trees, spry as monkeys.  Looking down, they saw not the brushcat
as they had feared, but Great Chief Ukambe Son Of Ukambe.  He grinned up at
the women with his three-inch teeth, stolen from the very mouth of the Great
God's servant.  "Idle chitterers!  Guileless tunny!  Had I been the Old Orange
Devil, you would never had heard my approach!  Even now you would have been
keeping your eyeless watch from the inside of a full stomach!  Ha-Ha!"  Thus
rebuked, the midwives clambered down the trees.  Ukambe let them off with a
hearty cuff to the heads, then peered off down the shore.  "So -- is he my
son yet?"  The women spread their palms.

On the tidal margin, the water lapped at the feet of the baby.  A tiny hermit
crab crawled across his leg, which kicked.  Irritated, but not defeated, the
crab crawled around the sprawl of wiggling brown limbs and took a tentative
nip at the placenta.  Still the baby did not breathe.

In the tiny, slow-moving mind of the newborn infant, thoughts were milling 
about like a school of blinded fish.  They did not yet have a purpose, or
even a definite focus, but they were thoughts nonetheless, and they set him
apart from the crab, which knew little but light, pain and food.  The thoughts
gyred, and eddied, and ocassionally collided with each other.

Two thoughts rubbed shoulders and became dimly aware of each other.  They
circled each other warily, then closed in together and merged, becoming one.

A single synapse fired.

In the pit of his little body, the baby knew discomfort -- pain, even -- and
suffocation.  Nature interceded on his behalf.  With three sharp spasms, the
baby spat out the fluid in his lungs and began to cough.  Shortly, he was
crying.

Ukambe looked up and grinned fiercely.  "Ah.  My son."

                                 - * -

He had seen seven summers, and already he had grown reed-tall and palm-supple.
He had eleven brothers, but six of them were with the spirits.  His mother
had borne eight daughters, but they were all allowed to be reclaimed by the
Shark -- it would be unseemly for the Chief's house to have more than one
woman.  Four others of his would-be-brothers did not draw their first breath
on the shore.  When he was seven, and had slain his first hog with a sharpened
piece of driftwood, he went to ask Grandfather why this was allowed to be.

Naturally, the man was nobody's Grandfather.  Kukul's real grandsire had been
devoured by his father in the ritual passage of chiefdom from one generation
to the next.  The boy had been too young to partake of that feast, but there 
had been others of the same sort since then.

The Grandfather lived in a shabby hut on the windward side of the island.  He
had no sons of his own, so nobody killed him when he had grown old and weak.
Now he was permitted to live like the hermit crab -- taking only that which
was left behind.  And that was precious little.  The boy had no respect for
the Grandfather, as was proper, and spat on his doorway as he entered.

For all his misery, though, none could deny that the Shark had blessed the
old man with a singular wisdom.  His arms were too weak to throw a spear,
or even paddle the outrigger, but his wits were sharp, and he saw much.  He
knew the ways of the stars, and could feel the weather in his bones.  The
ripples in the waves brought him news from other places, and a gull spoke
in his ear.  The boy found him curled up under a heap of palm fronds, napping
in the heat of the day.  The boy prodded him with his foot: "Aya!  Thin-
legged stilter!  Lazy octopus!  Arise, for I am a son of Great Chief Ukambe,
and I have much I would ask you!"  The old man blinked, but got up.

"I am old, and tired, pestersome gull!  Let me sleep, for I am wearied by
the sun' cruel rays!  Go; play with the jellyfish on the sand, and let 
Grandfather take his small pleasures..."  The boy stamped his feet.  "Idle
piglet!  You may not sleep now, for you must tell me why it is that we give
the babies to the Shark!"

The old man started as if the ray had barbed his foot.  "Little barracuda,
you ask of dangerous matters!  The ways of the Shark are not for the knowing,
even for the son of a Great Chief!  Why do you ask these things?"

"Because I do not understand.  Why is it that so many must be taken?  I have
watched many times, and never have I seen one of the Shark's servants take
a baby!  Always it is the horseshoe crab, or the barracuda, or even the
cowardly hammerhead!  Why should the Shark care that these creatures feed?
And why must it be those who cannot breathe for themselves?"

Grandfather stood up and walked out of the hut.  The boy followed.  The old
man began to climb the hill that was the highest point of the island.  The
boy, puzzled, followed suit.  Soon they stood at the very peak, where in all
directions the line of the blue sea could be seen.  Grandfather waved out
over the ocean.  "Little one, what do you think lies out there?"

"That is simple.  The ocean."

"And what lies beyond that?"

"Other islands, like ours, but not so large or green.  Other tribes live there,
but they are smaller and weaker."

"And what lies beyond them?"

"More ocean.  Why do you ask me these questions?  It is I who want answers!"

The old man sat heavily down on a rock.  "That way," he said, pointing north,
"lies a broad stretch of ocean.  It is sailed by strange men, who you have
never seen before.  They live in boats as large as the behemoth, and they
fight with terrible claws as long as my stick.  They are wicked folk, who
capture our people when they can and bear them away to Hell."  The boy gaped.

The old man pointed to the south.  "That way, past the ocean, is a land as 
large as a hundred islands -- even bigger, perhaps.  It is too hot for men
to live there, but devils like it just fine.  They bask in the heat, and 
fry men's brains on the naked rocks.  They, too, like to bear away the men
of the islands, to dine upon or shred into pieces."

"We, the men of the islands, are trapped between the two."

"Look around you!  We have nothing.  As the son of a Great Chief, you have
always eaten, but it is not so for all.  In these seas the fish are not plenty.
There are palm hearts, but not many.  We have little wood to build boats,
and good bone is hard to find.  We are a poor people, and we have little to
use to defend ourselves from our foes, who are many."

"All we have is ourselves."

"So it is that the Shark is our god.  Like him, we are fierce and cruel, for
to not be fierce and cruel is to die.  Like him, we are strong and tough and
can rely on ourselves only for support and caring, for there is nobody else
to rely upon.  Like him, our greatest weapon is fear, for though a man might
kill one of the Shark's servants, he will not swim in waters where he fears
the teeth might close at any moment."

"And so, like the shark, we must do all we must to remain strong and tough.
We give the Shark those young who are weak, so that those who remain will
be more like the Shark.  And we do other things, as well -- things that you
will learn about in time, I'll warrant."  A speculative gleam had entered 
Grandfather's eyes.

"Tell me!  What else do we do?  It's the ritual of Manhood, isn't it?  Tell
me!!"  But Grandfather would tell no more.  The boy was so flustered, he
forgot to spit on the old man's hut on his way back to the village.

                             - * -

Now fifteen summers had passed, and Ukambe's son would grow no taller, though
he had much room to fill out.  It was a busy time, and an exciting one, for
boys his age.  For soon would come the ritual of Manhood. 

The boys knew very little about the ritual.  They knew that all males entered
the ritual, and fewer came out.  But those who came out were greatly 
transformed!  For one thing, the Shark gave them the most amazing skins --
their hides were no longer smooth and soft like a baby's; they were hard
like bone, and only the teeth of the largest predators could pierce them.
Also, those who survived were warriors, and would be given a name!  Then
they might setting out to become mighty heroes whose stories would be told
around the fires for generations to come.

Late one night, the boys all awoke to find strong hands clapped over their
mouths, and hard arms holding them still.  Ukambe's son found himself gripped
in the horny hands of his two eldest brothers, each grinning like a mako.
He struggled a token amount -- enough to keep them from jeering at him --
but did not truly resist.  To be a warrior: ah, that was everything.

The boys were taken to a camp on the furthest side of the island.  There they
saw huge pots boiling.  They were thrust down on the sand, and things were
placed in their hands.  The things turned out to be palm hearts and figs.
The boys munched on the food warily.  Surely this could not be the true
ritual of Manhood!

But for the next two weeks, that was all they did: eat.  They ate, and ate,
and ate, until they thought they would burst!  Even Ukambe's son had never
seen so much food in his whole life, and gulped it down along with the others.
The boys were kept confined to one small area and were not allowed to hunt
or play, so they soon grew quite sleek around their ribs.  Eventually they
became boastful, for none of them seemed to be worse for the wear from their
'trials'.  The warriors in attendance took all this in stride, but they did
exchange grim looks.

Then came the Night of Boiling Oil.

It would not be possible to describe the excruciating pain that was visited
upon the young men of the tribe.  All that can be done is tell what was done
to them.

They boys were awakened late at night.  They were wrapped in strange, resinous
leaves in certain places -- the groin, joints, hands, feet, and head.  They
were rubbed with a smelly tallow.  A hollow reed was placed in their mouths.

And they were dipped in boiling fish oil. 

Such pain!  For ten heartbeats, each which seemed an eternity, the boys were
poled about in the oil.  Those who could keep their reeds above the surface
were able to breathe; those who could not died cruelly, their lungs filling
with scalding oil.  Many went into shock from the pain, and sank into the
depths of the boiling caudrons, never to come to the surface again.

The boys were fished out.  And the process was repeated.  Again and again.

The skin shrank from this tanning, but the fattening of the boys had given
the skin enough play to continue to fit their bodies.  Over the hours,
the soft hides of the callow youths slowly became scaly and hard.  The 
warriors were careful never to char the skins -- only scald -- so that in
the end, as the sun arose over a beach of weary screams, the only men here
were clad in a suit of leather armor -- forever theirs.  

Days later, when the boys had recovered from their broiling and marched
achingly back along the beach, they counted their numbers.  This year had
been good, and over half of the boys returned to become warriors.

Ukambe clapped his boy on the shoulder, which he knew was still raw.  "Boko!
You fool!" he called out to his eldest son.  "The shoulders are still too
thin!  You'll have to do it again!"  Then he laughed at the look of panic
in his son's eyes.  "A joke, my son.  You are well and truly a warrior now.
Soon you will be performing your own deeds, and you may tool your accounts
of your adventures upon your own hide."

"But first -- I will name you Kukul, which is the name of the yellow shark.
He is not large, but he is swift and cunning, and he cannot be found if he
does not want it to be so.  He is a worthy guide and companion for you.  You
will make the Shark proud."

Kukul's chest swelled up with pride, despite the pain, and he thought of
the great kills he would make; the heroic adventures he would have; the 
strange places he would go......

****************************************************************************

Listener leans forward.  "And is that boy you?  Are you that Kukul, whose skin
fends blows and tells tales?"

By way of answer, Kukul rolls up the sleeves of his silken garments which
cover all but his hands and head from sight.  Just above the wrist, his hide
thickens into a shiny, blackened covering about a half-inch thick.  It has
clearly been lovingly polished and oiled.  Listener can make out detailwork
in the skin, too -- a bas-relief of some kind of battle between a man and
a giant aquatic serpent.  The pictures seem to creep up the arm into the
mystery of the black man's shirt.  Kukul rolls the sleeve back down.

"I am that Kukul, and more.  Since then, I have seen many things and lived
many lives.  For my story is not over......


-- 
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