Áŋver plants her feet like the slopes of a mountain, as is her custom. She plants her shield in the black sand beside her. And she calls to the sea.
“19 ‘RRóvántú Shúchetáŋ! I would negotiate! I am Áŋver Glass-Chest, She-Who-Makes-Her-Intent-Visible!”
The water rises in front of her, a growing hurricane. Froth hangs in the air around it, and she tightens her grip on her shield. Finally the mask appears at the top of the water-pillar, and she hears the god’s voice.
“Human,” says the god, as if this is the greatest insult she can think of. Her voice is crashing waves foaming into spray over the black jagged rocks of the Ex‘rráshy-l coast. “Leave. I have no need to speak with you.”
“Shall I name you coward?” asks Áŋver.
“You could try,” says the god without care.
“Shall I name you false god,” Áŋver continues. She is finding her rhythm.
“Shall I name you one who cares not
for the domain under her protection?
Shall I name you oathbreaker or
shall I name you worm?
Speak with me!
Prove me wrong.”
“Then we will do this.” the water roars. “Make peace with your defeat before it happens.”
“Shall I name you trespasser?
A fragile bird, a slow mole.
Your words have no power over me and
to see you try is nothing but amusement.
I will play your game.
I name you One-Who-Is-About-To-Die!”
Áŋver shakes her head, tossing her low buns over her shoulders. Doing this, she shakes off the name. She refuses to allow it purchase.
“I name you Liar!
I name you Speaker-Of-Falsehoods-That-Will-Not-Become-Truths!
I name you One-Who-Has-Not-The-Strength-To-Enforce-Her-Will!”
The pillar begins to fall forward, curling as a cresting wave. Áŋver takes up her shield again and digs it deep into the sand, kneeling behind it to brace it. The water roars:
“I name you Air-Breather!
I name you One-Who-Drowns!”
“You can try!” Áŋver screams.
“I name you Gentle-Tide!
I name your waves Canyon!
I name them Split-Before-My-Shield!”
And they do. The god’s conviction is not strong. She has anger, yes, but it is only because she did not expect to be challenged. She is barely a full-moon god at all, still young.
“You do not have power to hurt me.
You are near to a small god.
If you cannot protect this land
as befits a great god, then hear:
I will protect it in your stead.”
“I am not a god of protection,” growls the god. “I am a god of war.”
“Then you are no god.
I name you Wild Spirit.
I name you One-Who-Protects-Only-Herself.
I claim your authority over this land.
A ruler is one who protects
her people from harm.”
“Try if you will,” says the god, but she is not speaking in cadence. Her words have no more power to contest Áŋver’s claim. Áŋver will win here, even if she cannot protect Ex‘rrásh either. “You have no power to return the water to the land. I alone can do that here. Small gods of water will not help you if I forbid it, o Queen of Ex‘rrásh.”
“I am willing to negotiate,” says Áŋver, “as I am now your neighboring ruler, one who cares for the land as you care for the sea. Let me serve you, once. You are a god of war. You will someday need a mediator.”
“I will let you serve me once.” The pillar of the god sinks low until she is barely a swell of the waves, and only her mask is still surrounded by foam. “I will let your children serve me once, and their children, and then your line will be free.”
“My children may not be mediators,” Áŋver warns.
“I will make what I need of them. Do you agree?”
“By my oath I will serve you
once during my life, as will
my children, and their children.
If during our lives you bring drought
to this land again,
the oath is broken.”
“By my oath I will stave off drought
from this land, and require only
one service of you, and
your children, and your children’s children.
You will thirst
just once, but all your life.
Should you try to break this oath
mine will be broken as well.”
And the god laughs; the swell disappears; she is gone. Áŋver stands alone.
1.“She-Who-Makes-Her-Intent-Visible.” The original is closer to “She-Who-Makes-Her-Lungs-Visible.” This makes use of the metaphoric connection in Eŋenty culture between the breath and the living spirit of a person. A similarly fanciful phrase in English might be “She-Who-Bares-Her-Heart,” although this doesn’t quite capture the implication of transparency in speech. Her epithet Glass-Chest is closer to “Glass-Diaphragm;” the word óhí’rrú indicates the part of the body where the power of the voice and breath comes from.
2. “Speaking in cadence.” This is a translation for a single verb, γíettúə. It refers to the mode of speech used in formal flyting, epic poetry, and magical contracts. I didn’t try to preserve the rhythm here, opting for a more direct translation by meaning. The rhythm is generally alternating long syllables (high tone) and short syllables (a tone a perfect fourth lower).
3. “Barely a full-moon god at all.” Eŋentí has three grammatical genders: new moon (which I translate as “it”), half moon (“e”), and full moon (“she”). Among humans, half-moon refers exclusively to children and new moon conjugations refer to inanimate objects. The great gods, however, may claim any of the grammatical genders. Here Áŋver compared 19 Coastal Typhoon to a human child.
4. The Eŋentí language very rarely uses adjectives. They aren’t really a separate part of speech, and are more considered exceptions in the rare cases that they exist. I tried to translate the text exactly where possible, and omitting adjectives in favor of constructions that sound a little unnatural in English helps give the feel of Eŋentí.
5. The original exaggerated Áŋver’s lisp (for mediators and other magic-workers, this is due to a tongue piercing) for dramatic purposes, but because English speakers don’t associate the lisp with power I chose to use somewhat formal and impressive language instead. In Eŋentí the lisp is rendered by replacing the letters sh, t, and tt with h, which is pronounced similarly to the pinyin x.