The Reluctant God of the Lion Tribe
The old man had been searching alone for a water vein in the barren lands of Erindale, using nothing but a wooden rod. For eighty-four days he had found nothing.
With that stupid wooden rod, you’ll never find a water vein. His companion had sneered, but the old man refused to lose faith. His ancestors and their ancestors before them had all discovered water this way.
It had been many years since Erindale earned its name as the land of death. The old man’s family had long since abandoned the place, yet he remained, still dowsing with a willow branch cut from the dry earth.
A pale-faced stranger approached, offering to help. The old man distrusted anyone who smelled of ink and paper. He answered by swinging his rod in wide, dismissive arcs, as if even speaking would be a waste of time.
The stranger broke off his own willow branch and bent it into a Y-shape, then followed the old man’s ritual. After exhausting what little strength he had left, the old man sat down to watch. The stranger’s movements looked less like dowsing and more like an absurd, flailing dance.
“That’s enough, son.”
The old man’s voice was cracked and dry. He had expected the stranger to collapse from exhaustion any moment, but the young man showed no sign of quitting. Foolish. Stubborn. Just like the old man himself.
One final sweep of the branch, and the stranger froze. It was a spot the old man had checked dozens of times. Undeterred, the stranger lifted a pickaxe and began to dig.
Clang! Clang!
“Stop that. There’s no water vein th—”
Whoosh!
Cool underground water exploded upward in a sparkling fountain.
“Huk!!!!!!!”
The old man wet himself on the spot.
“A benefactor has come to the village! Prepare a feast! We must slaughter a cow!”
“Chief. The cow starved to death a week ago. There’s nothing left but bones.”
“Then prepare a pig.”
“The wolves took the last pig days ago.”
“A chicken, then. Anything.”
“The children already ate the chickens when they were sick.”
The village chief turned to look at Askal. A fierce determination burned in his eyes once more.
“O hero! Though it may be unworthy, please accept this humble one’s body as your feast!”
The chief raised his long knife high again.
“Heavenly ancestors, watch over me! This Garson, your descendant, now comes to join you!!!!!!”
Is this man’s hometown in the Aztec empire? Askal thought, hurriedly intervening.
“Stop, please stop. I still have plenty of food in my pack. We can use that for the feast.”
“You truly mean it? You found water for us and now you’ll even share your own supplies? Are you a saint?”
Before the chief could spout any more nonsense, Askal pulled out jerky, preserved rations, and hardtack from his bag. He tossed them into a pot with the freshly drawn water. Soon a rich, mouth-watering aroma rose into the air.
“Ooooh… To think we would eat real stew again instead of tree-bark slop…”
The elders wept openly as they licked their bowls clean to the very bottom. The old man patted his bony stomach with deep satisfaction.
“Benefactor, I truly do not know how to repay this kindness. Thank you. Thank you.”
“Then I’ll be on my way.”
Askal rose with a dry tone.
Just like all the other times.
He had swung the pickaxe with absolute determination to succeed, yet he had found the water vein anyway.
It was obvious from the start. His mental state had nothing to do with the outcome. Or rather, when he thought about it, as long as some part of him deep down still wished to fail, true failure had become impossible…
While Askal chased his own spiraling thoughts, he felt a tap on his shoulder.
It was a young girl holding a flower that resembled a dandelion.
“Oh, Ashuna. Do you wish to give the benefactor a gift?”
She was the chief’s daughter.
Blushing, the girl lowered her head and offered the flower.
Having been born in the East—a land of courtesy—in his previous life, Askal knew it would be rude to refuse such a token of gratitude.
He reached out, then froze.
“There isn’t some hidden tradition where accepting this flower means I have to marry someone, is there?”
“You noticed. Sharp as ever.”
The chief clicked his tongue in disappointment.
“Still, if anything troubles you, benefactor, why not try following our tribe’s custom once? Of course, nothing like marriage will be involved.”
“What custom?”
“Seed sowing.”
“?”
Fortunately, the “seed sowing” the chief described was perfectly ordinary. From the top of a hill, one blew on a flower called kamshvire, scattering its seeds as far as the wind would carry them.
“Our tribe has an old legend. Long ago, when our people were once again on the brink of starvation, a black-haired man appeared. He blew on the kamshvire, and wherever the seeds landed on the barren ground, fruit grew.”
The chief gazed at the distant horizon as he spoke. It was the kind of clichéd tale one could hear anywhere, yet he clearly believed every word.
“Those who ate the fruit were cured of illness. Old men became young again in the blink of an eye. Once the entire village had regained its health, the man departed. From then on, our people called him Mazar, the guardian deity of the tribe. In the ancient tongue, it means ‘luck.’”
The chief knelt.
“Benefactor. Thank you from the bottom of my heart. Because you found the water vein, we can survive. We may not regain the prosperity of the distant past, but we have been given hope again. Thank you.”
Askal gently helped the chief to his feet.
“It was nothing more than luck. Someone else would have found it eventually.”
“Hahaha. If that were true, Shiva wouldn’t have spent eighty-four days searching without success.”
The chief handed him the kamshvire.
“Now, blow toward the west. Once you finish, you may leave. I have no intention of detaining our benefactor any longer. In any case, you are the savior of the Lion Tribe.”
“He is.”
“Our benefactor indeed.”
The rest of the tribe had climbed the hill to watch Askal perform the ritual.
Though the hill was not particularly high, they groaned and rubbed their backs, clearly pushing themselves too hard.
“Now that I look, you also have black hair. Hahaha. Perhaps you really are our Mazar?”
“Me, a god? Your jokes go too far.”
Having so many eyes on him made Askal uncomfortable. He decided to finish the ritual quickly.
Facing west, he blew on the kamshvire.
The seeds scattered instantly, riding the wind far into the distance.
“They’re flying quite far…”
The seeds touched the ground. Nothing happened.
Whew. For a second I was worried.
Askal turned away.
And right as he was about to leave—
“Look! Look over there! Something’s growing!”
“Fruit! It’s fruit! Fruit!!!!!!!!”
Fuck.
Askal sprinted away without looking back. Did this make any sense? This wasn’t a joke—what kind of ancient legend played out in real time?
Whoosh.
A sharp sting pierced his leg.
“Mazar is running away!!!!!!!! Catch him!!!!!!!!!!”
One of the tribesmen had shot a paralyzing dart into Askal’s thigh.
What kind of tribe captures their own guardian deity with a tranquilizer dart…
Askal’s vision blurred.
As consciousness slipped away, a conversation he had overheard suddenly resurfaced.
A moment later, I realized...
Today’s lucky zodiac sign is Leo...
The lucky direction is west...
This is Erindale village in the west, home of the Lion Tribe...
When Askal regained consciousness, every elder of the Lion Tribe was prostrating before him.
Fortunately there were no lingering effects from the dart. If anything, his mind felt strangely clear, as refreshed as if he had received a propofol injection before a colonoscopy in his previous life.
“Please forgive our rudeness, Lord Mazar! If it pleases you, take our worthless lives!”
“Everyone, please stand up. I am not Mazar.”
“Lord Mazar is angry!!!!!!!! Prepare a sacrifice!!!!!!!”
“Ancestors!!!!!!! Watch over me!!!!!!!!”
Askal stopped the chief, who had once again begun his dramatic self-harm routine.
“Fine. Let’s say I am Mazar. What am I supposed to do?”
“Please grant us permission to eat the Eril fruit.”
Eril fruit. They clearly meant the fruit that had sprouted the moment the kamshvire seeds touched the ground.
“I permit it.”
“Ooooooooooh… Lord Mazar has granted a miracle to the Lion Tribe!”
The chief tilted his face to the sky, tears pouring down his dry cheeks like a waterfall.
“Everyone, take the Eril fruit!”
With wrinkled hands, the elders lifted the fruit and bit into it as one.
The chief chewed thoroughly, leaving not a drop of juice, then sat in a lotus position and closed his eyes.
Then something bizarre occurred.
The chief’s old fur fell away. His muscles writhed and twisted as white steam rose from his body. Black liquid seeped from every pore.
The smell…
Askal covered his face with both hands. When he finally lowered them, an unbelievable sight greeted him.
All the elders had transformed into strong, vigorous young men.
“Huhahahahahaha! So this is youth!”
“Wolves or lions, come at me! I’ll swallow you in one bite!”
The men who had been wheezing and groaning earlier now radiated raw vitality. The inside of the tent grew as hot as a steam bath.
“Guardian Deity Mazar! We depart for the west! By the ancient oath of our tribe, we shall conquer Elber, the land of monsters, and return. One year will be sufficient. Please accept this token of our vow. When the conquest is complete, we shall become your loyal guard unit and yours alone!”
“Come, children! Follow me! I will teach you how to hunt!”
With that, the no-longer-elderly warriors took the children and marched west.
Left behind, Askal stared at the lion-tooth necklace the chief had given him and let out a long sigh.
I swear I’ll never show off about succeeding again. To think I got mistaken for a god…
Then another thought struck him.
Wait… how the hell do I get back to the capital?