Field Report (EXCERPT): Lhoda Activity - 6 Ninyena, i1046.T estimony of Bibi Avasa Jhonda, First Constable of Amphran Jag[1] (the Samaghara-Rishean Border Patrol)
Collection Date and Location: 23 Roo-Asha, i1048. Office of Internal Affairs and Control, Huume, Samghara. 4:681:PGA-8
LIBRARY CLASSIFICATION CODE: Restricted - Level 2 of 3.
On day three of my captivity, the blindfold is finally removed. We walk for so long, it’s difficult for me to know where we are, but it’s clear that we are heading somewhere important.
We are still in the forest—the Kalbana[2] trees are tall and wide, the way they grow only in the oldest part of the Kadrhuka . My hands aren’t bound. The Lhoda who captured me seem to think there is no reason to do so. They are right. There is nowhere for me to go other than to follow them down the narrow trail guiding us to ker bhag’Avosi hal. If I wasn’t walking down it, I would never have been able to see this path. I doubt I can find it again, and I have seven stars on my chest for tracking. No wonder we can never find the Lhoda camps.
The thorns on the trunks cover my arms and legs in thin red scratches, though my captors have none. It’s their clothes. Even in this heat—and the forest is hot—they wear these long-sleeved leather coats and pants, though some go sleeveless and have those intricate tattoos we have seen on the ones we have killed. The ink stretches down from their left shoulder to the tips of their fingers, curving into their chests and down their backs. I’ve been watching the Lhoda for years and still have no idea what they mean, but they seem important.
We make it to an unusually large tree and climb a staircase made of thick branches. It is a long ascent—we must have moved upwards for half an hour or so—then Lhoda in front moves a thick set of branches aside and everyone walks through.
I’ve never seen anything like it. I climb up to the top, and in the trees is a bustling village. If I had to guess, I saw maybe two hundred people or so. The Lhoda have built wide walkways and small huts in the branches and carved out of the thick trunks of the Kalbana trees, complete with small chimneys and every sort of industry one would expect. There is a smith, a communal kitchen, and even a small farm where they are growing a number of different fruits and vegetables.
Signs of the Lhoda’s mixed heritage are everywhere. Many homes have davaaz nests carved into the trees. We pass a child practicing akhuraka,[3] while next to them a woman repairs a traditional Rishean hunting bow. The akhuraka sling looks different in a way I can’t explain, and the Rishean bow has a bend at its edges. It seems like these cultural landmarks of our ancient ways have evolved here untouched by the Empire.
As we walk down the central path of the village, I know I am not welcome. It’s obvious and not at all surprising. It is only the fifth day after Project Torchlight. The southern edge of the forest is still burning, and I can only assume that the Risheans have done their part in torching the eastern front. Not that I question the decision. My dafa tells me stories of fights against the Risheans along the Kad. Working together is a good thing. But now I am the Lhoda’s prisoner after the largest battle against them in three generations.
I’ve never seen the Lhoda unhindered by warfare. It is a striking cornucopia of faces, skin tones, and castes all seemingly comfortable with the arrangement. What surprises me is that not everyone here is ethnically Lhoda—more than one Salasan is mixed in with the crowds, and I even saw a woman from Milanka. It’s not surprising. The Lhoda camps have always been known to harbor criminals. I am sure that this village is an example of this.
We stop outside a large, circular building covered in brambles. It looks like a large nest, and out of it step three individuals. One woman is ancient, covered from head to toe in deep red tattoos with a shaved head. Another man is tall, dressed similarly to those who captured me. And the third is most curious. A young man in his mid-twenties, clearly from Zhidao, dressed in the traveling robes of the Dasholin Scholars.
The woman speaks to the tall man in a language I cannot understand, but I detect Samgharan words in her speech. The tall man nods his head and reenters the building.
She soon approaches me, touches her cheeks and then mine—a strange but clearly formal greeting.
“As is the custom of our Star Children ancestors,” she says, “you are welcome in our home. Please eat your fill and have your thirst quenched.” She gestures to a nearby long table, which I swear to you wasn’t there before she came over to me. It is covered in a spread of nuts, berries, fruits, and jugs of fresh water.
We sit down, me on one side of the table and the woman and young man from Zhidao on the other. The elderly woman serves, explaining the significance of each item on the table as I eat. Nuts from specific trees that cure infections. A root that allowed a man named Baka to survive one hundred days alone in the desert. The Lhoda’s food seems symbolic. It is an edible history unfolding into a story of multigenerational struggle that celebrates the strength of a people who manifest their community here in these thorny branches.
A large Khadrukan davaaz lands near her. I have never seen the forest hawks up close. They are truly magnificent beasts, three times larger than hawks of the plains. It sits patiently next to her and looks at me. I think it’s studying me. She strokes its head as she talks.
“Tonight, you will stay here,” she tells me, “but we cannot protect you for longer.” I ask them both for their names, and I get no response. She looks to the young man next to her. He nods to her and then looks at me. I ask him if he is a member of the Eternal Library. He tells me that is a complicated question to answer.
“I am here to help the Lhoda survive,” he says, “and to keep the forest from being destroyed. It is more important than either the royal families of Samghara or the Chieftains of Rishea realize.”
When pressed as to why he believes this, he is unwilling to say more. I can’t hold my tongue.
“It is not the people of Samghara who set these actions in motion. The Lhoda attack peaceful boats on the river, refuse passage through the roads, and prevent our farmers and lumberers from harvesting the trees.”
“The trees are not yours to harvest,” a voice interrupts, and the tall man from before sits next to me, placing a small, intricately carved wooden box on the table. “They are no one’s harvest. The harvest of the forest is no simple potato or lentil, grown for the benefit of your greedy stomach. The trees feel the pain you cause. If you were able to listen, you could hear them burning alive.”
The woman makes a clicking sound with her teeth, and the tall man leans back and goes silent.
“I have a task for you, Bibi Jhonda, dijana Rapli dibandhra,”[4] she tells me. “I charge you and you alone to complete it.” She takes the box, turns it around, opens it, and looks at its contents. She smiles lovingly at whatever is inside it. She then closes it and places her hands on the wooden lid. She mutters to herself, and small vines begin to appear around the box, covering it and sealing it shut.
She then places the box in front of me.
“Only the great thinkers in Ezam Saam can open this box. You must give it to a philosopher named Bazakra. Tell him to stand on the shores of Lake Sitna in Nimula Forest and pour the water there over it. When he does, the contents will show themselves, and he will understand what must be done next.”
The young Bookmaster pours a glass of water for me, and I take a sip. It is cool and refreshing and has hints of sweet pine sap. Bhag’Avosti. I’ll never forget how thirsty I was.
“You cannot tell your superiors. If you do not do this, you may doom the Lhoda to extinction, and many people will die. Lhoda. Rishean. Samgharan. All of us.”
“This is not an empty threat,” the tall man says to me, “we have ways of seeing.”
He looks at the elderly woman, whose eyes are now misty with tears.
“Trees covered in blood. Spears broken on the forest floor. Burning flames engulfing the branches. The Kad River poisoned so that nothing lives. All these things we have seen. All these things will come to pass if you fail.”
I look at the young Bookmaster and ask him why he might not go himself to the philosophers. He tells me he cannot be seen, and that it is imperative a native Samgharan do this. He tells me that of all my fellow agents, only I have the ability to stop this death. I ask why. He says I already know. I have no idea what he means.
After this, the three of them rise and thank me for what I will now do. They take their leave. I eat the rest of the meal in silence and alone. I am given a comfortable bed for the night.
When I wake in the morning, I find myself asleep on the ground at the edge of the forest, near the Samgharan encampment, with a pack full of supplies and—of course—the vine-covered box.
Obviously, the Lhoda cannot be trusted. I sent the box to headquarters before I came in here. I’m sure they are trying to seed mistrust between our government and the philosophers of Ezam Saam, which would clearly create chaos between us and the lower castes, particularly the Kerava—you know how they hang on every word of those thinkers at the lake. I imagine the Travelers would have success in discovering what is inside if there is interest. I know we pretend to keep them at a distance, but this may be one of those times we break that pretense.
I will provide a more detailed account when I get to Huume, and I expect there will be much interest in my experiences. As far as I know, I am the first and only person to see a half-breed city in a generation. I’m sure it’s obvious, but for the record, I’ve kept this knowledge to myself. This report is the first account of my experience.
There should be no question about my loyalty. I found their camp intriguing, in the way one finds charm in the simple pleasures of a Kerava hut, but I was never once swayed by the charms of the Lhoda. They must have thought themselves clever to cover their deceit in mystery and ritual. But they do not know as much about me as they thought. If they did, they would have easily known that my loyalty is unwavering, and my vow is solidly in place:
I am a true son of the Davaaz in flight.
My vision is clear. I can see for miles.
I cannot be bought.
My mind cannot be changed.
My shield remains unbroken.
[1] The Amphran Jag (“Forest Guardians”) are the Samgharan-Rishean Border Patrol officially charged with monitoring trade and criminal activity along the Kad River. Since Samghara’s inclusion into the empire, they have transformed into a force focused on policing and monitoring the Lhoda people.
[2] Samgharan word. Means “thorny,” as the trees are covered in small spines.
[3] Akhuraka is the practice of feeding davaaz (hawks) by using a special sling that tosses live rodents into the air, which the hawks catch mid-flight.
[4] “Born of Rapli’s womb.” This is a very ancient, very formal way to address someone, not used in Samgharan culture for ages. It is intended to carry the weight of family, as if the person asking is calling upon the other’s sense of family loyalty.