The Legend of Terimla Kon

Note: The letter Ĝ in the Ĝimlugand language is pronounced as the S in 'pleasure'.

There is a world, far away from here, of which few have heard. It was known by the ancients, who knew it by the name of Litosha, but in modern times even its name has been forgotten. This world is not unlike ours, but nevertheless is a different world, with different peoples, different languages, and of course, different creatures. It is in this world that our story shall begin.

In this world, many years ago, there was a vast kingdom which was known by its people as Ĝimlu. The Ĝimluvian people had lived in the land for many years, and although the legends told of their arrival on the shores of Ĝimlu, these legends were merely shadows of an ancient truth.

Although legends they were, traditional stories were very important to the Ĝimluvians. Although the Ĝimluvians did possess the power of writing, this was originally known only to the sektavae, the Knowing Ones. These people spent all their days in studying books, and musing in the fields of religion and philosophy. They lived in the Halls of Learning, which were opened only to the select few who were ambitious and rich enough to pursue higher learning.

The vast populace of Ĝimlu was unlearned in all but the rudimentary knowledge of everyday life. However, this began to change when the Kroats settled in central part of the country along the coast, a region that later would be called Kroatelmia.

Because most of the people of Ĝimlu did not know the art of putting spoken words into writing, their history was passed down in the form of oral stories. These stories were learned by heart by every generation, and thus the ancient history of the land and people was preserved, albeit in an abridged fashion.

In order for you to have a taste of one of these traditional legends of Ĝimlu (I refrain from calling them ‘myths’, for they do contain elements of truth), I shall record one of them, which was told by an old man known as Viza Uvaĝa in a small town in northern Ĝimlu called Saluno. Although I have translated most of it, I have left a few phrases in the original Ĝimlugand, so that you may have a feel of that language. The story is as follows.

‘Long ago, in the days when the world was young, and the land was still filled with beasts, there was a town called Nuĝim, along the Great River. In this town dwelt not a few people, who were workers of the soil, and tended their crops around the city. At times, ships would sail down the river from Entia, carrying their cargo to the Svôsivik [The Specific Ocean]. These ships would stop in Nuĝim to trade with the villagers, and often brought both oddities and commodities from the eastern lands. The first villager to spot a boat coming west would shout, “Rae inlushae vaegôtam! The boats are coming!” Then the people would gather at the dock by the river, and trade with the foreigners for their various and sundry items. The Entians would come through Nuĝim at least thrice every year, but never more than once a month. The traders were fairly regular in their comings and goings, and it should come as no surprise to you that the whole town was greatly alarmed when the eastern traders did not arrive at one appointed time. Several men kept watch at the riverbank night and day, but in vain. The people within the town, and the farmers outside all strained their ears to hear that familiar cry, rae inlushae vaegôtam, but never heard it. The boats never came, and though the town could certainly sustain itself with crops from the surrounding fields, the people would not have the fancy things from the east that they were wont to have, cloth, furs, chocolate, down feathers for stuffing pillows, and many other unnecessary yet pleasurable things.

‘After two months of agitation, the town of Nuĝim finally heard news of the traders’ boats from the east. One bright fall morning, a man came from the east, riding a llama along the side of the river. The whole town was soon gathered around to hear the traveller’s story.

‘The man was a Ĝimluvian, and spoke to the people in their own tongue. He began with the words, “Ra terimla migôtamula! The dragon is come!” At this there was a cry of fear from the crowd. Some fainted, some cried, others just bore a look of fear on their countenance. All looked around to see if the terimla was in their presence already.

‘In those days, the land was full of creatures which can no longer be found, and the chief of these was the terimla. He stood many cubits tall, and every man was afraid to face him. As the men of old have said, “Ra terimla kaklor su re jostee ĝiv mavataka mitavush, the terimla strikes fear into the heart of every man.” The terimla was a fearsome creature indeed, and the whole town of Nuĝim was terrified that it had come into the area.

‘The traveller proceeded to tell them of the awful fate of the crews of the eastern ships, how the terimla had destroyed their boats, and devoured every one of them. He was the only witness, and he alone had escaped to tell them.

‘Although the people of Nuĝim had been distraught at the absence of the eastern traders, they were now filled with indescribable terror at the thought of their town being annihilated from the face of the earth by the terimla. All were afraid, and many panicked. However, there was one among them who was braver than most, who was a fisherman along the Great River. He was well practised in the bow and arrow, and also the spear, with which he hunted fish in the dark depths of the river.

‘At this time he arose, and consoled the people. “I shall kill this terimla,” quoth he, “and bring him down as no man hath before.” Though warned repeatedly by the townspeople, he insisted on taking this quest.

‘At this time he mounted his llama, and rode north, towards today’s town of Luĝim, and at the bend of the Great River, he encountered the terrible terimla. The monster was of a dark green colour, and rose high above the tallest tree. Its skin was rough, yet without scales, and it raised its ferocious head, glaring at the young warrior.

‘The fisherman first brought out his bow, and unleashed a shower of arrows upon the beast, with such skill and dexterity that it would have slain a whole army. Yet, the terimla survived, and the arrows did not so much as pierce its thick hide. When the fisherman ceased shooting, for he had run out of arrows, the terimla took the opportunity to strike back. It reached out with its great claws first, and tried to snatch the man. When this failed, the beast opened its great jaws to devour in one bite the elusive human. However, the fisherman saw his chance at this moment, and he dismounted his llama, letting it run back to Nuĝim. As the terimla opened its mouth, preparing to swallow him whole, he quickly dashed under the creature and stabbed it with his bronze spear, which he had brought with him. At once the terimla let out a great cry, which was heard from the Entianon River all the way to the Royal City, a sound not heard before, nor since that time. Although the terimla writhed on the ground (the fisherman having earlier positioned himself in a manner to view the death of the beast from a safe distance), it finally died, with a groan that shook the earth.

‘The fisherman then severed its head, and carried it back to the town. He was hailed as a hero, and was given great honours by all the people of Nuĝim. Verily, the whole kingdom revered him with much honour, and from that day on, he was given the name Terimla Kon [Dragon Slayer].

‘Although there still remained terimlae in Ĝimlu, since the days of Terimla Kon, none of the beasts have ventured close to people, because of that heroic deed of long ago, when the fisherman slew the terimla.’

This story is being simultaneously published in the Samara literary journal. For information about Samara, visit www.samaramag.com.