So this great god of sky, who cry with the rain, ride on lightning, and shout with thunder, had two sons. One son he have with the sun, and when she lay with him, orange light burst from their fuck and make what is gray sky purple, then blue. The second he have with the moon, for night come after day, and the god in his naked darkness fuck the white moon and turn the sky silver. The god of sky lay with one without telling the other, for their hatred is long and deep, and if you see the sun, all alone by day, and the moon with her hundreds of twinkling children by night, you soon know why. Sun and moon bear their swelling bellies for four years, and both almost fall out of the sky, for the weight of carrying a godchild is too much. But since they don’t visit this god the same time, neither did know the other is with child. The world is so new that plenty things don’t yet have name, and because they don’t have none, nobody can claim them. Things like fire, nakedness, emeralds, and beasts of the sea. The gods, still making the beautiful and terrible world, did not have time, which they also didn’t name.
The sun and the moon give birth on the same day. Both hand their sons to the god, for neither mother would make space for mothering, not when the sun constantly standing watch over the earth, and moon have more than enough. A baby demands from you the world, they both say to the god, though at different times, in different rooms. Neither wants to feed the child and starve the universe, for a universe and a baby want the same thing. The god of sky name his sons Dumata, meaning he of the orange and purple light, and Durara, meaning skin of he who comes with night rain. But even a god is still like the man he did not yet create, meaning he raising his sons wild and careless, meaning he not raising them at all. Soon it come to pass that these boys run rough through the kingdom, thundering with so much weight that clouds split open, and sparking so much lightning that it kill anything that would have been lying under a tree, if trees and such things existed. They make mischief with the sun, who set the sky on fire, and then torment the moon, who hide behind darkness more and more, so that by the twenty and eighth day, she gone completely for four nights. These boys are a problem, oh.
So the great god of sky, who shout with thunder, ride on lightning, and cry with the rain, send his two sons down to the world. Call it not banishment, he say. But no, you can never come back up to sky, he also say and throw heavy weight in their feet to make sure. He send them with three things, but since none of those things have names, none belong in this story. Dumata of the sun land in the north, while Durara of the moon land in the south. Nowhere is there to stand, for such a place no god create yet, so both boys pull something from their bag and sprinkle it before they land. Where Dumata land is yellow, and hard, and glitters in the daylight. Dumata is an impatient one, he has no time to wait on the pleasure of the gods, so he name it gold. Durara land on a hard land of white that he mistake for hardened clouds. The land is pale and empty and have no glitter. But when Durara lie down on his belly, he stick out his tongue to lick it, and the taste is pleasing. Durara, of the other mother, is still too much like his brother, and he also name the land himself, calling it salt.
And so it go that the two boys become men, then kings. King of Gold, and King of Salt. Both grow fat and greedy, keeping near everything for themselves, and leaving none for the people, who by now are all over the earth. But gold and salt is more than gold and salt. For gold is all that is beautiful, and salt is all that is useful. And though the north is beautiful lands, with beautiful wealth, and a beautiful king, more pretty than his Queen, not much is there that serve use. Not even food, for whatever there was always looked magnificent, but everything taste the same. But nothing is great in the south either, for they never have a single thing that is not put to good use. Nothing in the kingdom that they would look upon and admire, or even love, not even the king. Not that the king is ugly, but nobody in the lands see anything beyond the use of his eyes to see, ears to hear, nose to smell, and mouth to speak. Even intimate congress is always for breeding and never for pleasure, which is why they call it intimate congress. As for the food, it satisfy the taste and make boys strong, but people shut their eye before they put food in the mouth.
Reason tell us this. The north could use much from the south and the south have much to gain from the north. Trade is what many think would happen, but the kings fulfill the destiny of their mothers and declare war on each other. The north invade some of the south and that is why they have salt and spice. The south plunder the north, and that is why they have castles rising from the ground, and necklaces in shiny gold. And so go the times of war, until the old names for the north and south kingdoms, the names of the two boys get lost to all but the southern griots and the forgotten gods. Everything woman and man learn they learn from the gods, including this. That whether spirit or flesh, people is the only creature who, even if they know better, never do better. And for what they do, they outrage every other beast but the horse, camel, donkey, pig, pigeon, goat, and dog, and from that day all other beasts is enemy to most man. Meanwhile the sun and the moon shine down on both kingdoms with equal light, lamenting that people of the earth too stubborn and stupid to get along, how they must have learn all this warring from each other.
“Reason tell you that too, pretty man?” say this mercenary from the Seven Wings, as they all sit by the fire. They, the escort, the twin, the wingsmen, and Sogolon. The mistress rest in her caravan and soon fall in sleep so deep that her snoring scare every little creature sleeping under it.
“I just repeating what the gods tell me,” the escort, whose name is Keme, say.
“War don’t need no reason, war is just war,” say the wingsman.
“War is just war? Or war is just money, mercenary?”
“Listen to this, soldier. King after king declare war and never lead their own man in battle. Why, when he have fools like you think he be the strong arm of the King? Then you fight and get kill, and your wives all get one coin. Money at least is something, guard. What you fighting for?”
“I fighting for what worth fighting for. For her,” he say and nod to Sogolon.
“She don’t name mistress. Who be this one to fight for? What you fight for is like air. You can’t grab it, or hold it, or even smell it.”
“And yet if you don’t breathe it, you die.”