The stone hit its target, and the bird dropped the fish. But the fish fell not on the ashy land, but into the spring. Etoje could not see it to pull it out, and he was wary of wading into a spring he knew nothing of, so he settled himself once again.
When he had sat this way for some time, he heard a voice. “Etoje,” it whispered. Etoje looked around, but saw nothing. “Etoje!” This time Etoje looked at the spring, and saw the fish lying half in and half out of the water.
“Did you speak to me, fish?” Etoje asked. It looked like any other fish, silver-scaled and finned and glassy-eyed.
“I spoke,” said the fish, “but I am not a fish.”
“You look like a fish to me,” remarked Etoje.
“I am the god of this island,” said the fish in its weird whisper. “I must have a mouth to speak, and perforce I have used this fish, there being nothing else available.”
“Then I thank you, god of this island, whatever your proper name, whether you be male or female, or both, or neither, for your hospitality. Though I have little besides thanks to offer in exchange.”
“It was of exchange I wished to speak. Shall we trade favors and become allies?”
“On what terms?” asked Etoje, for though he was in desperate straits, he knew that one should be cautious when dealing with gods.
“I was born with the island,” said the fish. “And I am lonely. The cliff-girt isles around me subsist on the occasional prayers of hunters. They are silent and all but godless. No one hunts my birdless cliffs, and my island, like those others, will likely never be settled. Take me to Au, and I will reward you.”
“That, I’m afraid, is impossible.” And Etoje told the fish of his father’s death, and his brother’s deception, and his own anger and flight.
“Take me to Au,” the fish insisted. And it told Etoje that if he would do so, and make the sacrifices and perform the rites the god required, Etoje would be pre-eminent in Au. “I will make you and yours rulers over the whole land of Au. I will promise that you and yours will be mine, and your fates my special concern, so long as Au stands above the waves.”
“And when the tide comes in?”
“Shrewd Etoje! But I meant no trick. Let us say instead, so long as the smallest part of the island of Au stands above the waves. If you feed me well I will certainly have the strength to do all I say and more.”
“Ah,” said Etoje. “You want blood.”
“I want all the rites of the people of Au, all the sacrifices. Declare me, alone, your god. Declare me, alone, the god of your people. Declare me, alone, the god of Au. Any who will not accept this bargain will be outlaws, and I will have their blood.”
“What of the gods already resident on Au? Would they not starve?”
“Do they care now if you starve?” asked the fish.
“You have a point.” And Etoje was silent for a few moments.
“With your help,” said the fish, “I will enter any good-sized stone you bring me — there are several nearby — and you will bring it to Au. Then you will offer sacrifice and free me from the stone.”
“And this sacrifice?”
“I hear the seabirds crying above the waves. They have flown over Ilu and they tell me your brother is not dead, merely injured. Have you considered how much simpler the question of your inheritance would be if he were dead?”
“I must ponder,” said Etoje.
“Certainly. But don’t ponder excessively. This fish won’t last forever.”
“Speaking of which,” said Etoje, “do you need all of the fish for talking? I’m quite hungry, and I’m sure I would think better on a full stomach.”
“Take it all,” said the fish. “In the morning bring another to the spring. Or a seal or bird — fish aren’t made for talking and this is quite taxing.”
“Thank you,” said Etoje. “I’m reassured to find you so reasonable. I will now dedicate this fish to you and indulge in a sacrificial feast, after which I will consider all you have said.”
And Etoje did those things.
In the thousand years after Etoje made his bargain, the village of Ilu became the city of Ilu. It stood at the mouth of a wide, icy stream that tumbled down from the heights of the glacier-covered mountain Mueu. On Mueu’s lower slopes the spring in the cave still steamed, but the god was long silent, either absent or dead. Behind Mueu was the high, cold interior of Au, a wasteland of ice and lava where no one went.
Ilu’s green and brown houses, of turf and stone and skins, spread down to the sea where racks of fish lay drying, where the hunting boats lay each night and left each morning, and where frames of seaweed rose and fell with the tide. In the center of the city was the Place of the God of Au, a sprawling complex of blocks of black lava, rising higher than any other building there.
In days long past, anyone might raid a foreign village and bring his captives to Ilu, feeding the god handsomely and increasing his own standing and wealth. Whole villages perished, or else threw themselves at the feet of Ilu’s rulers and declared themselves faithful servants of the god. Many humble but clever and brave young men made their fortunes in those days. But now the only outlaws in Au were condemned criminals, and only the same several officials, who had inherited the right to dispense justice, could present human victims to the god. No other outlaws were to be found in the land. Every village — for Ilu was Au’s only city — offered its rites and sacrifices to the god of Au alone.
In return, the people of Au prospered. They were healthy and well-fed. Seals, fish, and whales were abundant. It was true that over the years the number of offenses punishable by death had increased, but if one was a solid, law-abiding citizen and meticulous about honoring the god, this was of no concern.
There was a man named Ihak, and he lived in the Place of the God. It was his job, as it had been his father’s, and his father’s before him, to receive the outlaw victims intended for the god, and issue receipts to the providers in the form of tokens of volcanic glass carved into the shape of small fish. In former days this had been a position of great influence, but now was merely a ceremonial duty. Ihak was a tall man, almost spindly. He walked with a slight stoop, and his features were pinched and narrow. Though he and his wife had been together for many years, they had produced no children. He had often presented the god with fish, and with his own blood, and once he had even bought a human victim from one of the officials he dealt with, though it had meant a great deal of his savings. Making each sacrifice he had reminded the god of his faithful service, and that of his own ancestors, and he humbly and sincerely begged the god to provide him with that one thing that would complete his happiness. This was the only defect in his otherwise comfortable life.
One day two hunters came to the Place of the God with a dozen injured captives in tow. The gatekeeper gaped in astonishment and tried to turn them away, but they would not move. The captives were dressed oddly, and didn’t seem to understand normal speech, so questions about how they had come to be here, bound and bleeding in front of the Place of the God of Au, went unanswered.
Finally the Speaker for the God came to the gate. He was a dignified man, very conscious of his responsibilities as a descendant of Etoje. Every inch of him, from his thick, curled, pale hair to his immaculate sealskin boots, declared him a man of importance. Too important to be bothered with a couple of hunters, but he had realized as soon as he had heard the message that the situation was a serious one. So he questioned the hunters. Where had these people come from?
“The other day some boats sailed into the islands,” said one hunter. “Large ones, joined in pairs by wide platforms.” He attempted to describe the mast and sail of each boat, but left his listeners perplexed. “Each one had many people aboard. They anchored and began hunting birds. My cousin and I watched them, and saw they weren’t from Au.”