Karl-Jagutu Happy Smoke and Sing Time

[JDodger]

The fire is dug about a foot and a half into the earth, and they would have dug deeper, you think, if they could have in this place.

The whole thing is an ingeniously crafted carburetor-like setup with a little chimney up and out through the clay off to one side, and the light is low and close and pleasant, even given the circumstances.

The little brown man you've been captured by - the leader of the little brown men you've been captured by - leans in close to the patient flames with something in his mouth, some kind of wet rolled-up leaf, the suffocatingly-intense scent of it making your head spin even from where you are, tied to this tree somewhere deep in the unmapped delta-swamps of Abaka.

When he draws upon it, causing the end to spark and glow with a fire of a thousand colors, you nearly pass out.

Congratulations, lucky peasant, or whoever you think you are, you just caught contact. This little guy smokes something serious, and if you can stay awake and lucid, he might tell you what it is so you can get more - if you survive this !@#$.

Man, you suddenly really hope to survive this !@#$ again. You've found a whole new reason for living. This is awesome, who cares who's got you tied up to what where or how it happened or the hellish trip it took to get here through swamps and swamp things. More, please.

The little brown man regards you with a lean and quizzical eye, non-smoking hand rolled up over his smoking arm as he takes a long, long draw and blows some of the smoke around to all the captives, some of whom you know, and others you don't.

Not everybody reacts to it the same way. Some cough thickened coughs and cry thickened tears, others pass out right away. Some of these will not survive the night. You're lucky. You've made it this far without any major symptoms of an overdose.

"Wow! You liking this !@#$!" the little brown man says to you, pursing his lips and nodding.

"Okay, new white friend, you want Karl-Jagutu tell you story, maybe singing song? Smoking more? A-ha-ha! Yes! You wanting that! Okay! Okay! Smoking and then singing! We friends now!"

"Oh! No, sorry, you staying tied up!"

[JDodger]

It took until nightfall for Karl-Jagutu to catch up to his Khansguard, who he greeted from at least a mile out across the plains of Daisha with a piercing, high-pitched whoop.

They whooped and chattered and birdcalled back, some turning to smile and gesture for him to hurry and join them. There were twenty-six Abakan swamp hunters, tiny little men with sharp eyes and strong bows riding on fat little ponies, and one extremely nervous Captain, a man who had long been in the pocket of a certain Jonn Dodger. This latter's employment had been extended to new duties, and long years of dealing with too many Dodgers had him less than excited for the change.

This latter's name was Erwin of Gethsemene, once Guard-Captain of a militia unit in a place called Gotland, which was now a mere part of a place called Irondale. He had been deemed Highly Useful by Big Daddy Jonn even before the monster known as Kilhorn had moved into Gotland full-time. Kilhorn had done this to better prosecute his killing in another place once called Caelint, which was where Erwin was now, except Caelint was now a mere part of a place called Irondale too. Erwin had seen a bit too much of Dodgers for one lifetime.

Still, he tried not to look unprofessional as he half-turned in his saddle to observe his new assignment, Karl-Jagutu, former Khan of Aren, who was at present cantering his horse - full sized, though he looked tiny riding it - in circles, kicking up clouds of dust and blowing up clouds of smoke from one of his ever-present cigars. Two mounds wrapped in cloth were thrown over his horse's back, one before and one behind his saddle, no doubt some pilfered supplies from Firbalt.

He was shrilly shouting out something in Abakan, which Erwin only knew was Abakan because that was where all these damned insane savages were from, some swamp, apparently, in the Colonies, where they didn't wear decent clothing and enjoyed great excess of smoking that raaha stuff Heimar always used to smoke dipped into a noxious elixir they called Babar, and that was how they all talked. In Abakan. Loudly. All of them together, over each other and even their supposed liege, all the time. But then at some incomprehensible signal, all the soldier-savages stopped making noise in unison, and, still about a half-mile off, Karl-Jagutu leapt up in his saddle and began, of all things, to sing.

This time Erwin could understand the words, because it was sung in a version of the sailor's tongue, which every person of worldly experience knows to some extent. That Karl-Jagutu chose to sing in that tongue at that moment may have been for Erwin's benefit, or any Daishan peasants in the area's benefit, or perhaps even for your benefit, or maybe Karl-Jagutu just liked to sing in other languages.

Karl-Jagutu sang:

Ba-ba, ba-ba ba-ba, ba-ba ba-ba-ba
Ba-ba, ba-ba-bad boy gonna come
Bad boy gonna come, bad boy gonna come-a
Run off to the town and a-tell ev-ery-one-a

Ba-ba, ba-ba ba-ba, ba-ba ba-ba-ba
Ba-ba, ba-ba-bad boy gonna come
Bad boy gonna come, bad boy gonna come-a
When I sing me song go and tell what me a sung-a

Now

(Pause)

I was born a disciplined child
The Tiger Blood make me got so wild
I was born a disciplined child
The Tiger Blood make me got so wild

Ey - Down in the swamp, Abaka, home
A little brownskin roughneck child was born
Inna the swampland, hey-o-o
Inna the swampland, hey-o

Him learned how to raid and him learned how to fight
Him learned how to run them swamps at night
Inna the swampland, hey-o-o
​​​​​​​Inna the swampland, hey-o​​​​​​​

Ba-ba, ba-ba ba-ba, ba-ba ba-ba-ba
Ba-ba, ba-ba-bad boy gonna come
Bad boy gonna come, bad boy gonna come-a
Karl-Jagutu wild old, imagine now that him a-young-a!

At about this point in the song Karl-Jagutu had caught up with his men, or at least he'd gotten within a hundred yards or so, and with their sharp eyes they spotted what he was carrying before and behind his saddle. With renewed vigor, the whooping and chattering began at double the volume, and twenty-six fat ponies were soon being kicked into action on every side of Erwin and his horse as the Khansguard raced to meet their once-Khan.

Erwin, not nearly as sharp of eye and confused by the sudden ruckus, took a few moments to realize what he was seeing. When a pair of tousled heads sprung up from the mounds of cloth, there could be no doubt - a couple of young ladies! And apparently of relatively decent breeding and etiquette! And with smiles on their lovely faces!

Erwin had seen quite enough of Dodgers for more than one lifetime!

[JDodger]

The silence is long as they ride, but there is a song coming eventually, there always is with him.

He begins:

When me was old man me used to burn kalli-weed in a rizzlah
Yes a rizzlah

Now me young again me a fi burn kalli-weed in a chal-wah
Me just a-burn it in a chal-wah...

And it continues, but there is too much of it that Erwin of Gethsemene does not understand, so he tries to tune it out as they ride across the quiet plains of Baqua.

He has had enough of Dodgers, and already, this little brown singing one especially...


Now when me was a yout we used to live a ninth mile
All up inna swamp with gilly fish and crocodile
What you thought hillock wa really rock up inna pile
We stand behin-dat and we been watching for a while

We gonna gittem in a hard time style
We gonna gittem in a hard time style-e...

Karl-Jagutu and his wild brown riders crest the last hill, and the song trails off into silence.

Erwin of Gethsemene thanks his goat god for it as the Abakans look out at the Irondale forces, arraying for battle in Ffangor, with sharp and studious little eyes...

And Erwin thanks it again when, at some undetectable signal, they turn and ride away as one.

As Kilhorn, that black shadow whose steps they sought to trace, that black shadow upon his life and the lives of so many, would have said, Erwin is not prepared for killing.

[JDodger]

...in a rizzlah, me jus a-burn it in a rizz-a-lah.
Now me young again me jus a-burn kalli-weed
in a chal-wah, yes me burn it inna-chally-wah.

Now me am a yout me gonna travel many mile
Karl-Jagutu ride upon him horse and smoke and smile
And go to plenty place and hunt and hunt for crocodile
Him de one dem name Kilhorn a-an him wicked and him guile

But Karl-Jagutu style is a-sneaky and-a wild
Karl-Jagutu style is a-sneaky and-a wild
Karl-Jagutu fiiirst kill a man when him a child
Karl-Jagutu first to fill him sling from rock pile

When me was old Khan me used to burn kalli-weed
in a rizzlah, me jus a-burn it in a rizz-a-lah.
Now me young again me jus a-burn kalli-weed
in a chal-wah, yes me burn it inna chally-wah...

With the thick-burning end of his cigar, Karl-Jagutu draws a black mustache under the nose of one of the satyrish statues that guard the entrance of the Temple of the Great Horned One.

With the next graceful pass of his little hand he draws it, sparking and smoldering, in a thick black slash across the statue's throat.

They dismount and descend into the temple. Erwin of Gethsemene has been here before, prayed to his goat god here, but they descend into parts of it dark and deep, and these he has not seen...


Down, down, down into the dark they tread, with only the glowing ember that hovers before Karl-Jagutu's face to light their way.

The passage is tight, and the smoke is thick, and soon Erwin of Gethsemene forgets his fear of this place, the fear that was beaten into him since he was small.

"What're we doing in here, Lord?" he asks.

Karl-Jagutu's voice is loud and bright against the dark stone walls. "Ves'agations!" he declares. "Re-Khan-a-sauce! Hoo-hah! More Tiger Blood!"

And the twenty-six other little brown men light up their cigars too, and soon Erwin is quite glad to be on this adventure after all.

[JDodger]

As are you, you poor kidnapped peasant or whoever you think you are. The little brown man has been smoking this whole time as he tells snippets of a story from another land and another time, and he spends more time singing the songs the stories inspire than telling the stories themselves, and he trails off before he even tells you what he and his little brown Abakan friends and the white Captain did in Irondale, wherever that is, whatever that was, but you don't care at all.

Man, you're baked, and so is he, but suddenly his eyes narrow and he looks very serious indeed, his little brown face growing dark and shadowed in the low light of the pit fire, and his little brown eyes burn intensely into your own.

"Ever slinged rock, new white friend?" he asks, putting his cigar back to his mouth and rolling it around as he slowly sips and savors his smoke like you've heard some experts on wine are said to do. "Ever putted rock inna sling, throwed it, swinged it? Hmm."

"This poor peoples' weapon, rock. Not many rock inna swamp... having go river an' coastline for finding rock. Sometimes good rock, heavy rock, right size rock, good shape rock, this worth more than diamond an' ruby an' em'rald."

"Jewels looking nice, but not much good in fight. With good rock, taking jewels easy. But sometimes first, having take rock."

The little brown man who you are pretty certain is called Karl-Jagutu nods sagely and swirls some smoke around in his mouth and slowly exhales, and as he begins his next story, you can almost see the images in the wafting haze...