The Ni'Cushla
Once, in the dreaming time, when the Earth which bore us was young, and man not yet an infant race upon it, there dwelled in the forests and fastnesses of the world a golden people, strong of mind and tender of heart.
Into their hands was given the care and nurture of all the living things upon the Earth, and in the skies, and in the waters, that none should take hurt, but be comforted, and none should perish unmourned and unseen. Guardians and stewards they were of the small things, finding joy in the wonders of this world that had never borne them ... for no stone of the land was older than they, and no star shone in the night skies whose first light they had not seen.
They were not gods, though some might have called them so; they neither aged nor grew ill, nor did they know death, save that, when one grew heartsore and weary of his work, he might call another to him, to finish what he had begun. Then, of his own accord, he might release his spirit to the skies, from whence they had come. And this is the name they gave themselves: Ni'Cushla, which, being translated, means Children Who Ride the Winds Between Worlds.
Such a one was Arcoliye'a, she whom we revere. She it was who took into her hands the Firstmother, and, finding none near her to be her mate, searched the world over until she found the Firstfather, and thus preserved the newborn race of man. Such a one, too, was Timbrenath, of whom the races of the north remember that he found the new pair within his desmenes, shivering and near to death, and taught them the ways and uses of fire. Such a people were they, taking nothing, giving all, and the Earth itself mourns their absence now, and still.
It is of that absence that I tell you today: hear and grieve, O you children of men, for this is the tale of the passing of the golden age, and with it, the hope of the world.
For such as we, endings come quickly. They are but one stop on the wheel that turns us all, we are taught, and we lose ourselves in them, only to be caught up again in new beginnings. For the Ni'Cushla, they who always had been here, they who had no reason to think they would not always be here, it was not so. Their end came to them slowly, masking itself in the cries of the helpless, wrapping them up in love and duty, and waiting to grow strong. It began, of course, with men.
Of how they sheltered us, I have told you, and not I alone, but others before me. Of how they gave to us fire, and showed us how to cook, to plant, to clothe ourselves. The formings of their tongue they taught to us, and encouraged us as we found our own, laughing like children as we named each new thing. These things we know, for the stories of our people are stored in our hearts. We, unlike any of the creatures of the earth, save perhaps the great fatty whales, or perhaps the playful dolphins of the waters, became their companions. They poured out unto us their love, the mercies of which they were capable, and they helped us to prosper. In the end, it was for our sakes that they chose to go.
Of the days of Nictuma I am singing;
Of the time of the great-souled, shining warrior.
Of the people, proud and upright!
Firstmother of my fathers, hear my words.
Long were the days of that summer, that green and glowing time of laughter. For the people, the work lay easy, between the springtime sowing and the harvest's rush. The Ni'Cushla, too, were oft among them, ready always to help as they could. Talnori and Sulnaya, beautiful Pilshwe and tender Legrine, the healer, spent their time often within the pikwi, the light and airy summer sheds. And the people thrived, happy with their friendship, accustomed to their care.
Yet always laughter bears the seed of sorrow within it, and so it was even then. Among the people, to Milore, daughter of Sesuma, grandchild of Velusia, Velusia who could track like no man before or since, a child was born. Nerlissi, Little Chieftain, she called him, the babe so solemn, wrinkled, and small. Nerlissi Old Before His Time, she called him as she rocked him, as he lay with eyes wide and wondering, within her gentle arms.
But with the lengthening of the evenings, there came a sorrow -- Nerlissi, the beloved child, his mother's joy, lay ill with a fever that burned and did not subside. Long into the evenings, he tossed in his bed, refusing to nurse, too sick to sleep or even to cry. They sent for Legrine, but she was travelling the far lands; she came, but arrived too late. Nerlissi, once so hale and sturdy, survived, but for months was too weak to crawl. He lived, but with his legs weak and wasted, limped and hobbled like an old man crippled in the hunts that Nerlissi would never see. Milore's heart ached to see him; her belly twisted inside her at the thought of her child's fate. Pain turned to anger, and then to hatred; she brooded upon her hurts, and they clawed at her very soul.
How shall I tell you of Nerlissi's growing? Of the things he missed, the sorrows he bore? For him no hunting, no climbing, no wrestling, nor any of the things by which a young boy may measure his worth. Milore kept him always near her, forever worried if he strayed. With each summer, then, Nerlissi grew more silent, less given to laughing. Within his heart, his own unhappiness grew.
My tongue fails with sorrow for telling of Milore the Wretched, and yet, how wretched beyond measure is the mother who burdens her child! Day by day blame assigning, and each night in gloom dwelling, she poisoned his ears with talk of his past. Of the sickness, she told him, each pain magnifying with the embittered imaginings he should have been spared. Of his future, she spoke not, save in venomous whispers of failures awaiting, and at the end of such torments, an untended grave. For who, she asked him, would take him to husband? Whence would come children to bring to mind his name? Thus she spoke, hoping to bind him, to keep him close to home.
Yet in the year of his manhood, as is only proper, Nerlissi withdrew from his mother's lodge. Beside the stream, they built him a pikwa, and they filled it with the milambwe, the birthright-share of every child, which is given with the people's blessings when the child becomes an adult. For a time, then, Nerlissi's bitterness and fear were quieted, and those were to be his happiest of days. But after the month of rejoicing, Milore went to him, with newly-conceived mischief in her heart. And when she had found him, she told him again of the Ni'Cushla's powers, and of the part Legrine had played, arriving too late. She asked of him this; that he seek out Legrine, and demand of her to be healed. "For surely it lies within her power," Milore insisted, "and if she deny the debt, then she deserves no more than death."