Ngangata had ridden ahead, apparently to converse with the Alwat. Now he rode back. He said a few words to the Kapaka— ahead, seemingly lost in his own thoughts—and then continued on to join Atti and Perkar.
"The Alwat say there is shelter up this way, not too far. One of the stream gods told them it would be best to seek it."
Atti agreed. "Feels odd, doesn't it?"
Ngangata nodded.
"What feels odd?" Perkar asked, and then wished he hadn't, for they both looked at him blankly.
But after a moment Ngangata told him, "The wind. The wind feels odd. The gods are up to something strange, I think."
"Oh."
Above, a pair of squirrels chased one another, shaking leaves down upon the travelers. The branches crowded lower once more, forcing them to dismount yet again. Perkar considered waiting for Eruka and Apad, rejoining them despite their ill humor. He had thought to strike up some friendship with Atti, perhaps get some advice on hunting—but Ngangata made him very uncomfortable, though he grudgingly admitted that the little man was winning a sort of admiration from him. It was the admiration one had for a fine, sharp sword or a well-made fence. He glanced over at the half man, coughed to clear his throat.
"Without your bow, I think, the Wild God would have killed us," he said.
Ngangata frowned a bit. "I have had a lot of time to get used to my bow," he said. "It provides well for me. I thank the god from which it was made daily."
Perkar had seen that, the little man crouched over his stave, croaking the words of a song. Never loud enough for him to hear. He felt a twinge of guilt. How often did he offer to Ko, who had made his sword—or even to Ani Perkar, the oak spirit for whom he was named?
The wind gusted, and now Perkar thought that he, too, sensed something strange in it. A smell perhaps. A smell like flowers, or… something like that.
"Have you met these Alwat before?" Perkar asked. It seemed an inane question even as he said it; but he somehow wanted to talk to this Ngangata, this not-quite-man, wanted to understand his own fear and dislike of him.
"No," Ngangata replied.
"Do they all speak one language? It seems a strange tongue."
"All languages seem strange to me," Ngangata answered, and Perkar thought he saw the merest hint of a smile lift those wide lips. "Theirs no more than any other. It is a language more… fit for speaking to the forest gods than yours."
"But the forest gods speak my language," Perkar said. "Even the Wild God spoke it."
"He spoke what you speak because it is what you speak. He used your own voices, even," Ngangata reminded him. "But Human speech is ill-suited for speaking to the gods, in many ways. The Alwat have lived with the gods for much longer than your kind, have refined their communication with them."
"I suppose that's true," Perkar said, remembering the "Ekar Irusungan," the song telling of the world's beginning. When Human Beings came into the world, they found the forests and Alwat already there. "They are friendly with the gods, then?"
"As friendly as you are with those in your father's lands, I suppose. But the Alwat have reached a different accommodation. Their understanding of gods is different, I think."
"Do they ever…" Perkar felt himself flush hotly. "Do the Alwat and the gods ever have… ah, union… ?"
Ngangata was looking at him very strangely. "You mean sex?"
"I mean anything like that, touching, talking face-to-face, and sex, yes…"
"They live with them. They do not shut themselves up in dead walls…"
"My father's damakuta is not dead wood," Perkar said, a bit annoyed. "Father pleaded with the trees from which it was built; their spirits inhabit it still. As does the hearth god, and a little sprite or two—my house is not dead."
"No, no. But compare that to living in the wildwoods. There are two kinds of gods…"
"Every child knows that," Perkar said.
"Yes, but which is more common?"
"The Aniru, I suppose, the gods of places."
"And the Anishu, the gods who live in things—they are fewer?"
Perkar thought about that. In his father's lands, there was one pasture god, who had been the old forest god—he was Aniru because his life was not tied to a single tree, but to an area of land. The Anishu lived in things, were things—like Ani Perkar, who lived in the oak, like… she, for she was the Stream.
"Yes, I think so. In the whole of the pasture there is really only the one god, the old forest god."
"And the gods of the trees that once lived there, before your ancestor made his bargain with the old god of that land?"
"Gone, I suppose, or living as houses and fence rails."
"But here, look around you. A god in each tree, not just in a few. And rather than one huge place with one god—like your pasture—there are many little ones; the god of that hollow, of this ridge, of that rock outcropping. There are the gods of territory here, too—we fought one—but they are outnumbered. Some of these Aniru resent all of the smaller gods within their territory, I think. I think that is why some bargain with your kind, because you simplify things. Kill all the lesser gods and the gods in things. Then the Aniru, those who live on territories, large spaces of the earth—then they are alone, unchallenged."
"I never really thought about that," Perkar muttered. "I never really thought about the gods plotting against one another."
"Of course you have. Every child learns 'The Song of the Hawk God and the Raven.' "
"Yes, but that song is about war. There are many like that. What you speak of is much more subtle, much more devious."
"Yes."
"But the Alwat do not 'simplify' things for the Aniru?"
"The Alwat prefer the gods in things," Ngangata replied. "The trees, the little places. And yes, they are intimate with them. They consider themselves kin."
"As do we. I am kin to the pasture god."
"Yes. But did you ever stop to wonder how the kinship custom came about? When Human Beings began moving into the forest, seeking pasture, whence came the idea of becoming kin?"
Perkar stared at the little man. "The Alwat…"
"The Alwat did not give this idea to Human Beings. But the gods knew how to create bonds with the Alwat, and they did the same with your kind when you came along." Ngangata's wide lips were certainly curved up at the corners now.
"How do you know this, Ngangata? Where does this knowledge of yours come from?"
"The Alwat sing songs about it."
"The Alwat could lie."
"The Alwat know about deception, and practice it often enough. But lying in speech is an idea foreign to them. If they do not want something known, they do not speak of it. Speech is only for truth, to them. I don't think they can conceive of anything different."
Perkar laughed. "That is very odd." He looked speculatively at the half Alwa. "And what of you, Ngangata? Do you share this inability to lie?"
Atti—possibly bored by their philosophical discussion—had been silent. Now he chuckled. "He lies half of the time, of course."
"Just so," Ngangata agreed.
"You, Atti, do you know much of the gods?"
"More than I want to, I suppose," the red-haired man drawled in his peculiar mountain accent.
"Has either of you ever been to the 'Great River'? The one the Mang call Toh?"
The mountain man and the half Alwa exchanged a peculiar glance.
"His headwaters are very near where we go," Atti told him at last.