“Yes, baby, those are the domains of Lord Fithowéo.”
“It would have been better if he had never been found. Without him, there would be no wars and all the suffering that comes from them.”
“Ah my Mimi-tika, things are rarely that simple when it comes to the gods.”
As you have probably already figured out, this contest came after the Diaspora Wars, when the divine siblings had fought along with vast armies, and brother had turned on brother, sister on sister.
In one of those battles, in order to protect the hero Iluthan, Fithowéo had fought Kiji for ten days and ten nights. In the end, Kiji’s lightning bolts had taken away Fithowéo’s eyes, blinding him. And so it was that the blind god had not participated in the discussion concerning the calendar but hid himself in an obscure cave deep under the Wisoti Mountains, nursing his wounds and avoiding all living creatures.
Water dripped from the stalactites high overhead, and other than clumps of mushroom glowing here and there like faint stars in the night sky, there was no illumination in the cave. The blind god sat by himself, unmoving and mute.
A scent tickled his nose, so faint that he wasn’t sure whether he was just imagining it. But it was a sweet smell, simple and humble, like a trace of mint in a glass of water after a thundershower, like the lingering fragrance of soap bean on freshly laundered robes left in the sun, like the flavor of cooking fire that caresses a weary traveler’s nose after a long night of hard hiking.
And so, without even realizing that he was doing it, Fithowéo got up and walked toward the scent, following his nostrils.
The smell grew stronger—a night-blooming orchid, he decided, and in his mind arose the image of a white flower with a large labellum like a rolled-up tongue that hid the stiff column in the middle, and four translucent petals that stood above the labellum like the translucent wings of a moth. He moved yet closer to the source of the smell, and as the diaphanous wings brushed his nose, he stuck out his tongue and traced the shapes of the petals. Yes, it was indeed the night-blooming orchid, whose shape was a faint echo of the moth that was said to be its sole pollinator, which emerged only in darkness and under starlight. It was a simple flower that was little valued by the ladies and gardeners, who preferred something more showy and ornate.
The tip of his tongue tasted the sweetness of nectar.
“I can taste sorrow on your tongue,” came a whispered voice.
The god drew back, surprised.
“What could make a god sad?” asked the voice. Fithowéo realized that it was coming from the center of the flower he had kissed.
“What is the good of a god of war who cannot see?” a morose Fithowéo said.
“Can you not see?” asked the orchid.
The god pointed to his empty eye sockets, and when no reply came from the orchid, he realized that of course, in this dark cave, the orchid couldn’t see either.
“I cannot,” he said. “My brother blinded me with lightning bolts.”
“But who told you that you were blind?”
“Of course I’m blind!”
“Have you tried to see?”
Fithowéo shook his head. The orchid was not a creature that could be reasoned with.
“I can see,” said the orchid, “even though I don’t have eyes.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Fithowéo.
“I saw you,” said the orchid, utterly confident.
“What do you mean?”
“I reached out with my fragrance until the tendrils drew you to me,” said the orchid. “It took a while, but I saw.”
“That is not seeing,” declared Fithowéo.
“I can tell you that there are a dozen bats hanging on the ceiling above us,” said the orchid. “I can tell you that there is a swarm of moths who visits me every evening, though none of them is my match. I can tell you that there are furry moles who sniff around this cave when winters are rough. I know these things that you do not, and yet you tell me that I cannot see.”
“That…” Fithowéo was without words for a moment. “All right, I suppose that is a kind of seeing.”
“There are many kinds of seeing,” said the orchid. “Didn’t the Ano sages tell us that sight is simply light emanating from the eyes being reflected back by the world?”
“Actually—” Fithowéo started to say.
But the orchid didn’t let him finish. “I see by shooting out lines of fragrance into the world and drawing back what they touch. If you don’t have eyes, you must find other ways of seeing.”
Fithowéo sniffed the air around him. He could detect the musk of the mushrooms to the left and a stronger, second floral scent—sharper, brighter than the fragrance of the orchid. “Is that a cave rose to the right?”
“Yes,” said the orchid.
“And there’s something else,” said Fithowéo, sniffing the air again. “It smells like mud and the bog.”
“Very good, there’s a pool on the other side of me, filled with wormweed and tiny white fish who have lost their eyes because it’s so dark here.”
Fithowéo took a deep breath and separated the faint smell of the fish from the rest.
“You see,” said the orchid, “you’re already constructing a map of smells.”
Fithowéo realized that it was true. As he turned his face from side to side, he could almost see the glowing mushrooms and the cave roses blooming next to the wall of the cave, as well as the pool of ice-cold water beyond the orchid. Their shapes were indistinct, like a blurry vision after he had had too many flagons of mead.
But after a moment of joy, he was plunged into depression again.
“I can’t just stand around like you,” said Fithowéo. “Smells may be sufficient for a flower rooted to the earth. But they’re not enough for a god of rage and motion.”
The orchid said nothing.
“When fate has taken away your weapons,” said Fithowéo, “sometimes you must yield.”
The orchid said nothing.
“When you have no more hope after a battle fairly fought,” said Fithowéo, “the more honorable course is to give in to despair.”
The orchid said nothing.
Fithowéo strained his ears in the darkness, and he heard something that sounded like the rustling of silk.
“Are you laughing?” Fithowéo roared. “You dare to laugh at my misfortune?”
He stood up and lifted his foot. The smell of the orchid was enough for him to fix her position. A step forward and he would be able to grind the orchid under his foot, flattening her against the jagged floor of the cave.
“I am laughing at a coward who claims to be a god,” said the orchid. “I am laughing at an immortal who does not even understand his own duty.”
“What are you talking about? I am the god of wars and battles! I must see the light glancing off a swinging blade and meet it with my battered shield. I must see the speeding arrow to bat it aside with my gauntleted arm. I must see the foe escaping on foot to pierce him with my enduring spear. What good is a map of smells?”