The Great Gauza

My legs were falling asleep; the Council had been in session for almost an entire day, with arguments tossed to and fro around the clearing. The issue was whether Buruzagia, the Chief of our tribe, should leave the village and trek north to the Mountains of the Mun, there to seek, and return with, the Great Gauza, which had been lost years before to the mountain folk.

I fidgeted, and not for the first time, trying to bring life back to my poor numb limbs. Buruzagia noticed and copied me. Ostentatiously winking in my direction, he clapped his hands for silence.

“This is all very interesting,” he said, “but the truth is that I must go because, well, for all the other ideas I have heard, none is better.”

This was one of the reasons Buruzagia was the Chief: he could cut through verbiage to arrive at the chase, although it had taken him a whole day this time. I secretly believed he would have liked someone to come up with a satisfactory reason for his not going – it would after all, be a perilous mission – but the Council was full of old men who could not even find their way to the river, when the village was situated on its banks. I think it was probably numbness that won the day in the end.

“I shall need a companion,” he said, scanning the faces of the Council members. They all found their laps to be suddenly of the utmost interest. I alone kept my gaze fully on his. He smiled.

“Bidelaguna shall go with me.”

There was a huge collective wheeze, which came from the elders’ sighs of relief, and cries of praise and encouragement. I was in no doubt that this would be the most dangerous thing I had ever done – more dangerous even than the time I caught and killed the mehatxua that had been threatening our village. But my love for our Chief and the village itself won over my fears.

We set out the following morning, laden with victuals. The village could not spare the only donkey it had to carry them, so I stood in as the ‘pack-horse’. The Chief did bear some of the burden, but he needed to have his hands free to ward off attacks if they came. It made more sense, then, that I should tote the bulk of the dried fish and fruit, hard cheese, biscuits, and trustworthy water. It also behoved me to lug the extra crossbows and bolts, and the bedding.

Progress was slow that first day, not least because I was constantly asking Buruzagia to wait for me; I was not used to trekking with so much on my shoulders. It was all uphill too, of course (and would only get increasingly more difficult in that respect). I was relieved when the Chief said we should camp for the night. He sat with his back to a handia tree with his eyes closed – contemplating the quest, no doubt – while I busied myself gathering firewood, building the fire, and preparing dinner.

After eating, we sat, warmed by the crackling twigs, sticks and logs. I wanted to ask so many questions but knew my place. In all his wisdom, Buruzagia could sense my curiosity.

“What do you want to know, young one?”

I was grateful and flooded him with questions, eventually homing in on this one:

“What exactly is the Great Gauza?”

He chuckled, perhaps having his prediction confirmed of what my most burning question would be.

“Well, you do not remember what the village was like three, four, five decades ago. It was an idyll, compared to what we have today: a river muddied with filth, crops dying from infestations, infertility and an ageing people; you are one of the few that has survived the early years, as you know. We had a different river, green fields on either side, crops that grew almost without tending, a young, vibrant settlement. Life was very, very, very good. And all of that was down to the Great Gauza.”

“But what is it?”

“It is…”

He gazed up at the sky, seemingly transfixed by the stars that flickered there, then shook his head gently.

“It is hard to describe.”

This served only to pique my interest even more, but seeing that Buruzagia would not be more forthcoming, I opted for a different tack.

“Tell me again, then, how it came to be lost.”

“Another time, young one. Now you must rest. I shall keep watch.”

Indeed, the calls and whines of wild izakiak nearby had been growing while we spoke; someone had to be on guard against them, and I needed all my strength for the next day’s hike. I built up the fire, laid my bedding next to it and settled for the night, while Buruzagia leaned back against the handia tree, his long knife in one hand and a crossbow in the other. I felt well-protected.

As my eyes grew heavy, the oft-told story of the theft of the Great Gauza ran through my mind: how it had been kept in a pouch, in a guarded tent, in the centre of the village; how the mountain folk had poured sleeping potion into the river upstream; how, with the villagers thus slumbering, the treacherous thieves had crept into the village and made off with the artefact; how, when finally awake, the strongest of the village’s men had followed their tracks but were ambushed in the foothills, with only one returning alive: Buruzagia.

I finally slipped into a fitful sleep, dreaming of battles where Buruzagia and I fought side by side. The dreams were steeped in the love I felt for this man – a type of love usually reserved for the gods. As we trudged on in the coming days, Buruzagia always in front, I brought that love to the front of my mind and used it to keep my tired feet moving forward.

On the evening of the seventh day, Buruzagia stopped suddenly, turned, and pressed a finger against his lips. He made a triangle with his hands and pointed ahead: mountain folk. We would need to plan and reconnoitre, so we retraced our steps a good hundred paces and found a concealed spot between some bushes and a rock.

“We shall rest here the night and advance on their camp at dawn,” Buruzagia whispered. “No fire, of course. You sleep first, then you can keep lookout while I take my turn.”

I settled and fell asleep almost at once, despite the proximity of danger; I was exhausted, and if I was to help Buruzagia in any fight, then I would need to be fresh.

I was woken by a txoria, trilling its heart out in a nearby tree; txorias only sing at dawn. I sat up to speak to Buruzagia, but he was gone.

My first instinct was to follow the Chief; I imagined he was reconnoitring the mountain folk’s camp. I was a little offended that he had not woken me to go with him. Grabbing my knife and a crossbow, I set off up the path.

I had gone no more than thirty paces when I heard the first screams up ahead, piercing the air. Without thinking twice, I quickened my steps. The screams grew in volume as I climbed, then suddenly ceased. I halted, eyes wide, ears pricked, crossbow at the ready.

Over a rise in the path came a familiar form: Buruzagia, staggering. In one hand, his long knife dangled, glistening red in the new sunlight. In the other, he gripped a large leather pouch.

I rushed to him, gave him my shoulder. Together we made our way to where I had spent the night.

He slumped to the ground with his back against the rock. I tried to tend to his wounds, but he pushed me away.

“It is no use, Bidelaguna. I am not long of this world.”

I could feel the tears prickling my eyes.

“But we must move, my Chief. The mountain folk–”

He raised a hand to stop me.

“There is no need to worry about them,” he grunted with a pained smile. “And I do not believe the womenfolk and children will pursue us.”

I gave him some water, which he gulped down. As he was drinking, I inspected his wounds. The flesh of his legs, arms and torso was in tatters. At his throat, a deep gash was weeping blood. There was indeed nothing to be done.

“Listen well, Bidelaguna,” he said, grabbing me by my sleeve; his breaths were coming weak and fast now. “This is the Great Gauza.”

He lifted the pouch and let it drop almost immediately; the merest effort was beyond him.

“You must promise me something.”

“Anything!” I said, almost sobbing.

“Do not look into the pouch. It can only displease the gods. You see what happened to the mountain folk…”

He managed a gurgled laugh.

“Take the Great Gauza back to the village. Set it in the centre. Have it guarded from dawn, to dusk, to dawn. And all will be well again with our people.”

He pulled me by my sleeve so that I was face to face with him. His eyes were dimming.

“Do you promise all of that, on my heart?”

He brought my hand to his chest; I could hardly feel the beat.

“I do, my Chief!”

Then he folded me in his arms and embraced me. When I felt the embrace loosen, I drew away. His face was at peace.

I buried Buruzagia’s mortal remains where he died. As I made my way back to the village, I remembered my Chief’s kindness, wisdom, bravery, and vowed my eternal love for him.

I wanted to imagine that he had loved me too, that the last thought going through his mind had been this: the Great Gauza would be in good hands.

As it most certainly was.