A minute passed, then two. And then a warrior emerged: muscular, deeply tanned, with a luxuriant beard and tightly curled hair that reached almost to his shoulders. He was wearing an ankle-length robe the color of saffron, and he carried a tall staff—the symbol of leadership, to be wielded only by the Father of the tribe. In his leather belt was tucked, not a dagger, but the glittering steel sword that was the pride of the settlement. On one wrist the man wore a bracelet of human molars; on the other, a wristwatch made of eighteen-karat gold.
The chief stepped up to the young woman, then the two of them made their way to the edge of the narrow promontory—the place chieftains had used for centuries to address the people—and stood shoulder-to-shoulder. He looked down at the assembled multitude for a moment, and then—with a sudden movement—balled his hands into fists and held them out at shoulder level, raising his staff.
“Ti saji manyechem!” he said, his clarion voice ringing across the valley like a bell. “Yor hagashna gron’alla samu heamsi epouroun!”
At this, a cheer erupted from the crowd. “Epouroun!” they cried. “Epouroun!”
Now from one of a cluster of tents behind the chief’s residence an ancient, hag-like woman emerged, her body bent from long years, dressed in goatskins and wearing a veil. Slowly, painfully, she approached the chief, supporting herself with canes fashioned from human bones. As she came up on his other side, the warrior was flanked simultaneously by extreme age and extreme beauty.
Slowly, the chief lowered his arms and let the point of his staff rest on the rocky ground. Chest swelling, he began again. “Ti saji walikana korog wan…wan…”
Over his shoulder, without turning his head, he murmured to the old crone: “What’s the word for ‘crops’ again?”
“Susuman,” she murmured back.
“Right, right. And ‘good health’?”
This time, it was the young woman who replied. “Kango douru.”
The man raised his staff again, shaking it to emphasize his point. “Ti saji walikana korog wan susuman!” he proclaimed. “Wig walikana ne kango douru, epouroun!”
Epouroun was the plural form of the tribe’s word for “chief.”
Another thunderous cheer erupted from the crowd at this promise of an end to seasonal hunger and malnutrition—thanks to the newly planted crops that would ensure a bountiful supply of grain, year-round, irrigated by a clever system devised by the new chief.
Now Garza paused to survey the clamoring people—his people—spread out below. He didn’t like to admit it—after all, he’d always worked in the background, shunning the spotlight—but this daily address had become one of the highlights of his day. Whereas the previous chief, his father-in-law, had used this bully pulpit only for occasional proclamations or warnings, Garza and his wife Jelena, who ruled together, used it every morning. Not only did the daily speeches force him to learn the language, but he’d found that the people were more content if they were kept abreast of what was going on. And every morning Jelena or Lillaya related a story of the tribe’s history and mythology that never failed to interest Garza. There was so much going on—the pulley system he’d improvised, while still equal parts prisoner and slave, had been only the tip of the iceberg. In addition to designing a new irrigation system, he’d also moved to design and build stronger fortifications and fashion better weapons. He had taken steps to block and camouflage the approaches more thoroughly. He sensed that someday, somehow, the outside world would inevitably intrude, but not—he was determined—for a very long time. Certainly there would be no more luckless adventurers stumbling into this little paradise; no more heads mounted on stakes around the decapitation pit.
With another deep breath, he launched into the next part of his speech—a part he’d memorized the night before with coaching from Lillaya. He told the gathering that, starting today, he was abolishing the tomb labor detail. There would be no hours wasted building a grand memorial in which to house his own remains—something he’d been unaware was in the offing until recently. Instead, the Home of the Dead would become a public graveyard for the entire tribe—a home of eternal rest for everyone, not just the chiefs. The goal he shared with Jelena was to preserve, as much as possible, the tribe’s ancient way of life and heritage against the encroachments of the modern world. He had been able to bring about some welcome changes by applying his knowledge of engineering and medicine, but the last thing he wanted to do was “save” them in some way. The ancient and disciplined way of life enjoyed by these so-called primitive people was just as fulfilling and rich as anything offered by the modern world. For the first time in Garza’s ambitious and striving life, he felt he had found his place.
As he finished his new pronouncement about the valley of the tombs, another cheer went up—and nobody cheered louder, he noticed, than those he recognized as his former fellow toilers in the tomb field.
After a hurried trip to Cairo to fulfill a promise to his partner, Garza had made sure that every last bit of treasure was returned to the chamber. When he assumed the chieftainship, Lillaya, the head priestess, and the four subpriests had divulged their knowledge of the sealed chamber and how they had protected its wonders over the centuries. But through cautious questioning he realized, with huge surprise, that they had lost all specific knowledge of its significance ages ago. Beyond the gold and gems he had returned, they had no knowledge of what lay within the chamber, nor had they any notion of how to read hieroglyphic writing. All that survived was a worship of the sun and a profound determination among the priesthood to protect the contents of the sealed vault…forever.
As the roars continued to echo across the valley, Garza, planting his staff firmly again in the dusty ground, took another look around. How strange life was, he reflected. For years he’d felt restless, unrewarded, and unfulfilled. To think he’d believed that looting the treasure chamber and becoming immensely rich would be the answer. What a fool he had been; these people, this life, and above all this woman next to him were the answer he’d been searching for.
It was, in a way, miraculous. His mind wandered back to that transformative moment when he wheeled to face Blackbeard and his onrushing horde of killers. He had pivoted his camel—carrying the bags of treasure—and charged headlong into the attackers, with Blackbeard at the fore. He was sure he would die, and hoped only to save his friends. As he’d fired his last bolt, the dust had come down like a curtain, and the clash of camels and slashing daggers had ruptured the bags, spilling gold and gems everywhere just as he was thrown from the saddle. And the world had gone black.
When he woke, only minutes later, all had changed. He lay on the ground amid a heap of gemstones and gold, covered with the same, and all around him the warriors had dismounted and stood in a circle, staring with fear and astonishment. As he struggled into consciousness, they began prostrating themselves, one by one. Blackbeard lay nearby, dead—Garza’s final crossbow bolt buried in his heart. The abrupt death of Mugdol, combined with his own unexpected baptism in a treasure they had no idea he was carrying, had—he was to learn—given the warriors the notion he was a being endowed with supernatural power. This in turn had given Garza the opportunity, using a combination of gestures and broken phrases, to explain that the treasure belonged to the tribe; that he was returning it to its rightful place; and that henceforth he would be its protector. They had bundled him on a camel and gathered up the treasure, then carried him back into the village, proclaiming him chieftain in accordance with his father-in-law’s wishes.