The Last Philosopher

Lingur's stories

Herschel spent six leisurely weeks with these plain Áettar and their interesting system of tents. The days flew by playing games with the kids around the community tent. The Nontie took life in stride, working and relaxing as the mood took them. Their one set point was moving camp. As nature's larder ran low in one area of the grasslands, they moved on to the next.

Living to live, not chasing a reason to live, his primitive thought, and a shelter for every occasion.

He found out about the other tents once he was strong enough to stand on his own. One of the women had invited him to the intimately small cuddle tent. He felt bad about telling her he preferred the larger community tent, where he could listen to people talk. That was his kind of party. The woman hadn't taken it too well. Lingur laughed at him when he asked why she was mad, until his friend realised he really had no idea and was forced explain.

But more than anything, Lingur's stories had helped him recover. Listening to his friend talk was like a balm for his weary mind, knitting the threads of his thoughts back together. Mainly, they were tales about Agalaland, Frel, and the Nontie. But also about the green plains, and how they were abandoned long ago.

After leaving Dim the first Nontie had roamed the empty grasslands. Deserted by everyone due to superstitions about the desert. They'd tamed wild horses, and eventually became experts in everything horse related. They used those skills to hunt the skittish boolenyn for their meat and soft-furs.

Since Herschel was mainly a meat and bone question machine, he asked why the Nontie left Dim. But Lingur refused to go into detail, saying only that they had no other choice.

What the tall lanky man wanted to talk about was horses and their breeding. Still, Herschel was fascinated by his resemblance to the Nontie. So, his curiosity took every opportunity to steer the conversation back to them and their history.

He learnt that for a long time, the only other people the Nontie met were the swamp-folk. Many rumours flourished about them and the river-delta they came from, Lingur used those to spice up his stories. But Herschel appreciated that he was careful not to turn rumours into truth. Thetan was obviously dangerous, but the swamp-folk avoided outsiders almost as much as the Dim Áettar.

This evening, Herschel was helping Lingur. Who was pretending to keep the fire alive outside the single women's tent. The one where he'd spent his first days in camp, since it was also considered the caretaker's tent. As someone who cared for the sick, Lingur spent a lot of time here. There was always a cut or scrape that needed tending, and there were other benefits.

Things got a bit awkward when his friend's story turned serious. Talking about his grandfather. Who'd been a young man when the first humans came from the east. The Nontie helped the humans at first, showing them good ways to hunt the boolenyn. As word spread, more people came.

"And with every pub built, the plains became more conquered for civilisation." Lingur crammed a lot of bitterness into that c-word.

Still, the first settlers sounded like regular people. Coming from Rotemeda and Bergre, looking for ways to improve their lives. But with them came towns, and then sport-hunters. Killing herds of boolenyn for fun. As the size of the flocks dwindled, the settlers stopped hunting and started farming. Once they were calling themselves Agalians, the Nontie were no longer welcome in the settled areas.

Something bad must have happened between them, his curiosity wondered. There had been an anger in Lingur's voice he'd not heard before, but that wasn't the only reason things were awkward.

"You know I have to go," Herschel said, poking the fire, sending sparks flying into the night air.

"Why?"

"I don't know."

"That's your answer for everything." Lingur smirked, lying on his side facing the fire.

"It's a good answer, we can't learn anything new if we already know everything." He smirked back. "But I still have to go, as far east as I can get."

"You're serious?"

Looking down at the soft leather shoes he'd been given. Herschel had that look, of someone who did a lot of thinking without much result. "Yes, I'm afraid so."

"Fine, you need a smart-horse?"

"No, it'd be nice to have someone to talk to, but even a smart-horse is too easy to track."

Herschel had learnt that these people were all like him, soft-footed and difficult to follow. As childhood memories came back to him, the evidence that he was part Áettar was mounting. Still, he had no way of knowing for sure. He'd been left at an orphanage drop-box in Bilib. No one there had ever mentioned anything about heritage. It was one of those things they just never talked about. Even so, this tribe thought it obvious and had accepted him as a long-lost brother.

He knew Lingur was curious about his recent past, but those memories were still unclear. And his friend had almost stopped asking. Herschel wanted to tell him everything, but he wasn't sure he wanted to remember everything. Because even thinking about it made his heart race and his tummy threatened to evacuate.

"What are you running from?" Lingur gave words to his frustration.

"I," he paused, "I don't know."

This time Lingur wasn't amused. "Okay, but you don't even know which way to go!"

"But you do..."

"Pfft," the sound of resignation. "Well, the safest passage to the east is through the valley of skulls."

"Of skulls?"

"It's only a name, legend has it that Giants once filled the valley with heads mounted on pikes, but the Bergs don't take heads, just taxes."

"What kind of taxes?"

"It's per weight, so the less you take with you the less it costs, but even if you go through naked you'll have to pay for your body weight."

"How do I get there?"

"First the wet-way, then the dry-way," Lingur joked, relieving some of the tension.

"The what way?"

"It's an expression. First you follow the river, then you follow the road."

"Oh, I see, so follow Ganja?"

"Yeah, go up the river until you come to the source, north of there is a human town that you should avoid." Lingur gave him a meaningful look. "At the river fork, there's another offshoot from Zanja called Manja that heads east. Follow that one until you find a road, it'll take you right to the valley."

They sat quietly for a quarter of an hour, before Lingur went to bed. When Herschel woke the next morning, he'd left with a party of hunters. The women helped him pack some provisions, and told him Lingur wasn't one for long goodbyes.

Later, as the sun was setting, he followed the river north. The flat prairie made walking by moonlight easy. It was the second time he'd walked away from a place he could've called home. This time he was spotted not by a living rock, but by a Goblyn of the swamp-folk.

Updated: 20.10.2023