Bergenheim
Establishing Nation
December 5th, 1956, Deep Hinterland
It was a beautiful, if cold, starry night in the Deep Hinterland. In the far south of Tizona, where the ground was hard and arid, stony soil that was desert for all practical purposes, but wasn't quite sand, like the True Kalahari to the west and south. It was Scrubland at best. It was wild ground, where goat herds eked out a miserable living. For thousands of years its predominantly Uroduah inhabitants had lived much the same live as they always had, close cousins to the Desert Nomads, but not truly part of that kinship. They called themselves the Alnnas min Alhafa, or the People of the Edge. Sometimes shortened to the Alhafim. They were all devout Muslims, now, though some occasionally drifted away from their clan and kin, and sought the charity of the Catholic life in the townships.
Sometimes they even came back. And sometimes they would share a hookah in their meagre tents, and laugh about pretending to be converts for a few weeks, to get some soup when the goats were colicking or the grass was weak. They were simple but hardy people. They did not care who claimed their land, they were who they were and the rest of the world could come and go as it pleased.
But things were changing. Changing, even, for these simple people.
Abed awoke that night, early in the morning, though he wasn't sure why. He felt something in himself stirring. His goats? Yes. His goats were uneasy. He hushed his wife, who slept close to him, and moved carefully, wearing little but a simple white shift, to go check on his herd. Perhaps the cold made them uneasy, or maybe they sensed a jackal. Such things were still common, despite the frequent Hunts mounted by the spoilt aristocratic Tizonans of the coastal Cities to the North. There had been Lion in these parts too, once, but they were all extinct now. His grandfather had told him about Leopard as well, and his grandfather had spoken sometimes even of the occasional Elephant herd. All gone. The Tizonans were always hungry, too hungry, to spill blood to prove their honour, their manhood, and their faith.
Abed took a heavy, sharp stick from the side of the tent, taking care not to awaken his children, as he went out to the herd. The stars shone brightly, a beautiful curtain, though it sapped the warmth from his bones. It was winter in the desert, and although Abed had never heard of snow, there was frost, which was hard around the creaking wood that made up his crude paddock. He considered himself a blessed man, to have use of paddocks to keep his herd together in winter. Some did not, and had to bed down, or lose herd each night to the cold or to the predators.
"Ey, ey, Maeiz, Maeiz, La Yazal.." He murmured in soft tones, trying to calm his startled flock. What had spooked them, and at such a late hour? he peered out into the wide wastes around him, his eyes searching for the devil's eyes, the eyes of the Jackal, or the eyes of hungry wolves.
There was a whinny from the darkness. A horse?
"Ey?" He called out into the darkness, his stick held firm. "Faras?"
There were more whinnies, from the darkness. And the sound of hooves, hitting the hard soil. His mouth was dry. What...?
Emerging from the black night, were a group of mounted men, dressed from head to toe in Khaki. They rode hardy Hidalgos, desertbred horses. On their heads were plumed hats, and around their backs were light cavalry carbines, and at their hips, fast firing semi-automatic pistols from another age. They wore no army patches or insignia, but that wasn't unusual. Tizonans and their Police and their Army were hard to tell apart, for all wore the khaki or the brown, and all had roughly the same guns. Pistols, rifles, carbines, shotguns. It was like the whole nation had bought whatever had been in fashion in the 1900s and hadn't changed since.
The whole nation except, of course, for its many Uroduah natives.
"Looks like we got a fucking marrón and his cubs." said one of the men, as their horses began to canter towards Abed. The goats bleated and rustled. The horses circled the paddock, the men grinning at him. As they approached, he noticed there was something wrong with their faces. They had metal around their eyes, something bulky and strange. Goggles? No, too big...
"These Nighties are a real treat. I saw him from a mile away." Another boasted.
"Who...are you? What want?" he said, in broken Andaluzian, confused, frightened.
"It Talks! It talks!" there was much laughter. As they got closer, Abed could smell a familiar but alien scent. Alcohol. These men had been drinking.
"Please. I am trying to sleep. I have papers." He explained carefully, uncertain.
"We don't want nah fuckin' papers." One of them said, kicking his horse to a trot, riding at Abed, making him jump out of the way, to much laughter.
"I think we're gonna have a bit of sport..." One of the man unsheathed a large, curved knife from his pouch.
There was a cry from the tent. Abed spun, alarmed.
"Aisha! Stay in the Tent! I'll handle this!" he yelled. His young daughter must have awoken, and seen the strange men.
"Oh! This marron has girls!"
"Shut it, Diego. That's bestiality. You know the law."
"Well, out here, whose gonna know?"
Abed didn't understand what the men were saying. He only knew a few words, a few phrases. But they weren't acting like the Armed Police.
"Are you lost?" He tried desperately. "Please go, or I call Police!"
This caused them all to burst into laughter. "Alright, go ahead. Call the Police."
Abed stared, uncomprehending.
"Don't worry, we'll wait."
"I-"
"Did somebody want the Police?" one of the men then spoke up, to more laughter. "What seems to be the trouble?" He cantered closer to the tent, his hand resting on his pistol.
"Sir- I...I am scared...I have done nothing!"
The "police"man chuckled. "Mmm, we can't have that. Tell you what. We'll let your family go, if you do something for us..."
Abed gaped, suddenly aware he was surrounded by mounted men with guns and knives. This couldn't be happening. He was just a Goatherder. This was a Nightmare...
"What...do you want me to do?"
"Run."
He stared. What?
"I said Run, you fucking Marron. You got a minute's head start. Stay ahead of us and we won't rough up your family...too much."
"But-"
"RUN."
He Ran.
The Men in Khaki Followed.
It was a beautiful, if cold, starry night in the Deep Hinterland. In the far south of Tizona, where the ground was hard and arid, stony soil that was desert for all practical purposes, but wasn't quite sand, like the True Kalahari to the west and south. It was Scrubland at best. It was wild ground, where goat herds eked out a miserable living. For thousands of years its predominantly Uroduah inhabitants had lived much the same live as they always had, close cousins to the Desert Nomads, but not truly part of that kinship. They called themselves the Alnnas min Alhafa, or the People of the Edge. Sometimes shortened to the Alhafim. They were all devout Muslims, now, though some occasionally drifted away from their clan and kin, and sought the charity of the Catholic life in the townships.
Sometimes they even came back. And sometimes they would share a hookah in their meagre tents, and laugh about pretending to be converts for a few weeks, to get some soup when the goats were colicking or the grass was weak. They were simple but hardy people. They did not care who claimed their land, they were who they were and the rest of the world could come and go as it pleased.
But things were changing. Changing, even, for these simple people.
Abed awoke that night, early in the morning, though he wasn't sure why. He felt something in himself stirring. His goats? Yes. His goats were uneasy. He hushed his wife, who slept close to him, and moved carefully, wearing little but a simple white shift, to go check on his herd. Perhaps the cold made them uneasy, or maybe they sensed a jackal. Such things were still common, despite the frequent Hunts mounted by the spoilt aristocratic Tizonans of the coastal Cities to the North. There had been Lion in these parts too, once, but they were all extinct now. His grandfather had told him about Leopard as well, and his grandfather had spoken sometimes even of the occasional Elephant herd. All gone. The Tizonans were always hungry, too hungry, to spill blood to prove their honour, their manhood, and their faith.
Abed took a heavy, sharp stick from the side of the tent, taking care not to awaken his children, as he went out to the herd. The stars shone brightly, a beautiful curtain, though it sapped the warmth from his bones. It was winter in the desert, and although Abed had never heard of snow, there was frost, which was hard around the creaking wood that made up his crude paddock. He considered himself a blessed man, to have use of paddocks to keep his herd together in winter. Some did not, and had to bed down, or lose herd each night to the cold or to the predators.
"Ey, ey, Maeiz, Maeiz, La Yazal.." He murmured in soft tones, trying to calm his startled flock. What had spooked them, and at such a late hour? he peered out into the wide wastes around him, his eyes searching for the devil's eyes, the eyes of the Jackal, or the eyes of hungry wolves.
There was a whinny from the darkness. A horse?
"Ey?" He called out into the darkness, his stick held firm. "Faras?"
There were more whinnies, from the darkness. And the sound of hooves, hitting the hard soil. His mouth was dry. What...?
Emerging from the black night, were a group of mounted men, dressed from head to toe in Khaki. They rode hardy Hidalgos, desertbred horses. On their heads were plumed hats, and around their backs were light cavalry carbines, and at their hips, fast firing semi-automatic pistols from another age. They wore no army patches or insignia, but that wasn't unusual. Tizonans and their Police and their Army were hard to tell apart, for all wore the khaki or the brown, and all had roughly the same guns. Pistols, rifles, carbines, shotguns. It was like the whole nation had bought whatever had been in fashion in the 1900s and hadn't changed since.
The whole nation except, of course, for its many Uroduah natives.
"Looks like we got a fucking marrón and his cubs." said one of the men, as their horses began to canter towards Abed. The goats bleated and rustled. The horses circled the paddock, the men grinning at him. As they approached, he noticed there was something wrong with their faces. They had metal around their eyes, something bulky and strange. Goggles? No, too big...
"These Nighties are a real treat. I saw him from a mile away." Another boasted.
"Who...are you? What want?" he said, in broken Andaluzian, confused, frightened.
"It Talks! It talks!" there was much laughter. As they got closer, Abed could smell a familiar but alien scent. Alcohol. These men had been drinking.
"Please. I am trying to sleep. I have papers." He explained carefully, uncertain.
"We don't want nah fuckin' papers." One of them said, kicking his horse to a trot, riding at Abed, making him jump out of the way, to much laughter.
"I think we're gonna have a bit of sport..." One of the man unsheathed a large, curved knife from his pouch.
There was a cry from the tent. Abed spun, alarmed.
"Aisha! Stay in the Tent! I'll handle this!" he yelled. His young daughter must have awoken, and seen the strange men.
"Oh! This marron has girls!"
"Shut it, Diego. That's bestiality. You know the law."
"Well, out here, whose gonna know?"
Abed didn't understand what the men were saying. He only knew a few words, a few phrases. But they weren't acting like the Armed Police.
"Are you lost?" He tried desperately. "Please go, or I call Police!"
This caused them all to burst into laughter. "Alright, go ahead. Call the Police."
Abed stared, uncomprehending.
"Don't worry, we'll wait."
"I-"
"Did somebody want the Police?" one of the men then spoke up, to more laughter. "What seems to be the trouble?" He cantered closer to the tent, his hand resting on his pistol.
"Sir- I...I am scared...I have done nothing!"
The "police"man chuckled. "Mmm, we can't have that. Tell you what. We'll let your family go, if you do something for us..."
Abed gaped, suddenly aware he was surrounded by mounted men with guns and knives. This couldn't be happening. He was just a Goatherder. This was a Nightmare...
"What...do you want me to do?"
"Run."
He stared. What?
"I said Run, you fucking Marron. You got a minute's head start. Stay ahead of us and we won't rough up your family...too much."
"But-"
"RUN."
He Ran.
The Men in Khaki Followed.