The Royal Messenger

Being the Third Part of the Tale of Kutava

(Continued from Part II)

As I walked home alone that night, I repeated the phrase in my mind that Zêstika had said, forming the words with my lips but not speaking them aloud. ‘”Ĝevishlêjak vonê eterĝu, Return ye unto your home.” Thus said the hunters of the zintushe, and they heeded the command,’ I thought.

That night I could hardly sleep, as I turned over in my mind what the old man Zêstika had said. ‘They came from across the sea, from the Land of the Zintushe.’ I was young then, much younger than thou, and as young boys are wont to do, I dreamt of all manner of voyages I would take when I grew older. I would someday sail the Svôsivik [the Specific Ocean–bb], and voyage on to the land of the zintushe, where I would see the dragons with mine own eyes! I knew that it was unlikely that my dreams would become manifest, for Stalshi was many leagues from the seashore, but I believed them with all my heart.

Thus for the next several years of my life there in Stalshi I dreamt, since I could not do then what I longed to do. Those four years I continued to grow, though not greatly in stature, for my people are a short folk.

One morning, as I was in the fields tending the crops with my father and the other men and boys of the village, we heard a shout from the hill, calling us to come quickly. We left our hoes and ploughs, and hastened to the village on the hilltop. In the common area, we found the women and young children already gathered, and before them stood a well-dressed young man with his llama. His clothing was of fine cloth, red and black, and the hat which he wore clearly identified him as having come from the Royal City. His bright eyes scanned the crowd, and when he had ascertained that all were present, he began to speak, clearly proud of the fact that he had memorised his lines and needed not the scroll which hung from his llama’s saddle. I do not remember his exact words, but it was something like this:

‘Hearken, ye people of the kingdom, to the words of our highly esteemed and honourable king, Vetakishli Lata, Man of Ĝimlu, the Meztuvalt [for he was of that family].

‘Having observed the lack of learning among his people throughout the kingdom, our illustrious king hath issued a mandate to the Kroats (who, dwelling in the land of Ĝimlu, are subject to him), that they should allow any Ĝimluvian to enter their houses of learning and be instructed therein, whosoever willeth of the native people of Ĝimlu. Let it be known then, ye children of Vetakishli Lata, that if any of you wish to be educated, ye may go to any of the Kroats’ houses of learning, by order of the Man of Ĝimlu, free of charge.’

The royal messenger finished his speech with little enthusiasm, and received little from the crowd. When he had tipped his head back to indicate that his announcement was finished, the boys and girls ran off to play before they were summoned back to their duties, and the adults began to talk amongst themselves as the messenger mounted his llama and rode down the hill to his next destination.

I heard one man say, ‘Old king Vetakishli had better be careful ordering those Kroats around like that. They may get back at him when he least expects it.’ A woman nearby said, ‘Vetakishli Meztuvalt is not even worthy to be king, with all the preposterous laws he maketh. Next he will order us to get an education!’

I wanted to go with the other children my age, but first I wished to find what my father thought about the king’s new law. I found him speaking to my mother a short distance away from the crowd, and as I approached I overheard their conversation.

‘Thou knowest how bright our son is, surely an education would be very good for him,’ said my father. My mother replied, ‘But he is so young! How could he go to Kroatelmia alone?’ ‘He will be fourteen years of age in seven months. Moreover, some of his friends may be going as well who could accompany him.’ ‘If he wisheth, I suppose he may go. Let us let him decide.’ At this point they noticed my presence, and my father simply told me that it was time to return to the fields, and we went down in silence.

The remaining part of the day, we worked the ground in the low plain below the village, preparing for the planting. That evening when we had returned, my father spoke to me after we had dined.
‘My son, as thou hast heard the king’s messenger today, there is a possibility that thou mayest perhaps have the opportunity to go to Kroatelmia to receive an education. Wouldst thou pursue this?’
I responded with much enthusiasm and excitement. I do not now remember my words, but my thoughts were such like, ‘Who knoweth but that I might learn something of the zintushe from the Kroats? And it is one step closer to the sea.’ However, my joy was soon dampened by my father’s response. ‘My son, though we know that thou wouldst certainly excel if thou wert to journey to Kroatelmia now, thou art yet young, and thy mother and I will not suffer thee to go alone. However, once thou hast attained the age of fourteen, thou mayest go, provided that someone else of our village accompany thee.’
The next seven months seemed to pass very slowly. The moon waxed and waned, the crops grew and were harvested, and a new year began. During that time, I worked in the fields, dreamt of all that I might learn in Kroatelmia, and continued to listen to the tales of Zêstika. He had waxed quite old by then, and death seemed near at hand. However, he insisted on continuing his storytelling for the children.

Most of the townspeople in Stalshi did not wish to send their children to Kroatelmia, but fortunately my friend Taeĝan was given permission to go. He was a bit older than I, and shared my interest in the great dragons of old.

None of us in Stalshi were educated, as was the case with most of the Ĝimluvians in those days. The mindset of many was this: ‘We know how to grow our crops, we know how to ride our llamas, and we know how to build our houses. In short, we know how to live. What more need we?’ On the other hand, the Kroats were quite learned in all fields of knowledge, and to impart it unto their children they built institutions called ‘houses of learning.’ These were unknown to us Ĝimluvians, for we learned at home all that we needed to know.

In the 32nd year of the reign of Vetakishli Lata (for this is how we counted the years that passed), I and my friend, Taeĝan son of Reva, set out on our llamas along the old road that led south, bound for Kroatelmia. The road itself began in Aneĝim, the chief city of that region, and passed Stalshi as it wound through the gently rolling countryside. It eventually led to the town of Nuĝim, which was hailed of old as the home of that great fisherman and dragon slayer, Terimla Kon.

Along this road we travelled for four days. We met few other travellers, though several leagues from Nuĝim we met a man coming from the south. In those days, the road was a lonely place, so we stopped and made conversation with him for a while. He said he had just come from Kroatelmia, and upon hearing our destination, he informed us that there was indeed a house of learning in the town of Krotil, just over the river. ‘But I warn you, lads,’ quoth he, ‘be wary of the Kroats. Though they may treat you kindly, in their hearts they dislike us Ĝimluvians, and especially our good king Vetakishli.’
‘Speakest thou in troth?’ said I. ‘For I wot that our own king’s sister, even Ovêjat, is the wife of a former leader of the Kroats, and dwelleth among them to this day.’ ‘Aye, it is so,’ said he, ‘and peace shall remain while she yet liveth. But it is no secret that the Kroats resent the new laws our king hath laid upon their shoulders, and hate the king himself as much.’

‘’Tis a pity,’ quoth Taeĝan, ‘that these Kroats came to our shores in the first place, and that when they did come, His Strength did not drive them away.’

‘A pity, yes,’ said the traveller, ‘but naught may be done to repeal past actions or inactions. I only warn you to be on your guard whilst ye are in Kroatelmia. No doubt they will teach you many good things, but do not give them all your trust. However, I advise you to look well upon them, and whatever ye do, mention not the king nor his laws, if at all possible. Fare ye well; I wish you luck.’

We thanked the man for his advice, and then travelled on. As we rode in silence, I considered in my heart what the man had just told us about the Kroats. I myself knew little of them, though I had gone to Kroatelmia once with my father when I was younger. I had always envisioned the Kroats as a peaceful, simple folk, minding their own business and content to be under the rule of Ĝimlu, for when they arrived in the land, some 75 years earlier, all that land which they now occupy was Ĝimlu.

Now, the kingdom of Ĝimlu originally stretched a great many leagues along the coast of the Svôsivik, and a good ways inland as well. When the Kroats arrived in their great ships from across the sea, they took the central portion of the country for themselves, effectively dividing the northern part from the southern part, wherein was located the Royal City. Although I knew it not when I was young, this division was to cause great grief to all the people of Ĝimlu, including the Kroats.

Thus I thought on these things as we travelled upon our llamas, my friend and I, and I prayed that we might find a favourable welcome when we crossed the river into Kroatelmia.

As we approached the river valley, the land fell slowly before us, allowing a far view of the river and also the great range of mountains beyond it, the Kutvête. At one point our llamas refused to go any further, so we stopped and rested for a moment before going on.

‘Kutava, my good comrade,’ said Taeĝan, ‘what thinkest thou that they shall teach us in yon house of learning?’

I replied, ‘I must say I haven’t the least idea. Perhaps they shall teach us to write letters, as do the Knowing Ones.’

‘’Twould be quite interesting,’ said he, ‘though I know not what it would profit us.’

‘Just think of the possibilities, Taeĝan!’ said I. ‘We could write something now, and then read it many years later, after we have even forgotten that we wrote it!’

‘And what good would that work?’ he asked.

I responded, ‘I know not. However, I am sure that knowing to write would be of great benefit to the both of us.’

‘Whatever thou sayest,’ quoth he.

That evening we arrived in Nuĝim. Now Nuĝim, unlike the town from which we came, was built with a wall surrounding it on all sides, save one; for it was built on the banks of the Great River (which the Kroats call ‘the Krotelmian River’). Instead of a wall covering the side of the town which faced the river, a bridge was built, which was only accessible through the town. Thus the people of Nuĝim were able to control the traffic as people travelled across the bridge.

As we drew nigh to the gates of the city, I noticed figures carved upon the gates which recalled to my mind childhood dreams. There, carved masterfully into the wooden pillars were several images of a man fighting a great dragon single-handedly. In one picture he was shooting arrows at it, and in another the warrior wielded a spear. In yet another image, the dragon lay dead, and the warrior held in his hand its dreadful head. The terimla was the symbol of Nuĝim, and I saw many renditions of it upon doors throughout the town.

As I gazed at the decorations on the gates, Taeĝan pulled a rope which hung from above, and the clear sound of metal striking metal came to my ears. A gruff voice from within said, ‘Ĝimluvians, or Kroats?’ Taeĝan replied, ‘We are Ĝimluvians, of the town of Stalshi.’

We were soon admitted, and were easily able to find the inn, where we stayed that night. We found the townspeople there quite jovial, and eager to hear news of other parts. They deemed our endeavour worthy, although they were quick to add that they themselves would not undertake such an adventure. All seemed to think well of the Krotelmians, and I even noticed a small group of Kroats off in a corner in the inn, but they kept to themselves and did not join our group of jolly Ĝimluvians.

That night before going to bed, I looked out from the window and realised that our room in the inn directly faced the river. I gazed out upon the tranquil waters, and watched the reflection of a lamp hanging from the outside wall as the water gently rippled from a fish catching a careless insect. I thought of how, in these very waters, the great hero Terimla Kon once fished, years ago before there were any Kroats. I only wished I had been born at an earlier time, when the terimlae and zintushe yet dwelt there. The opposite shore was far away, and nought could I see of it but darkness. The next morning we were to cross that wide river into the land of the Kroats. We were going to another place that we had never seen before.

Continue reading: The House of Learning

The Tale of Kutava (Part II)

(Continued from Part I)

‘I have told ye already of my great interest in the zintushe as a youth, have I not? Then I shall continue.
‘As I have mentioned, when I asked my father about the beasts and dragons of which the old tales told, he had doubt as to whether these ever existed. Although sorrowed at hearing this, I was all the more motivated to learn of these creatures, and my belief only grew. My young friends were also interested in them, though perhaps not so much as I, and we passed many joyful hours in the forest pretending that we were the great dragon slayers of old, making battle with imaginary beasts. However, with this I was not content, for I wished to know more about the zintushe, and most of all, I sought some piece of evidence, however small it might be, that the zintushe were still alive somewhere, perhaps in the great mountains beyond the river, or perhaps in those mysterious lands to the east, Tokmea and the rest.
‘At length I decided what I must do: go to the old man Zêstika and beg that he might impart upon me some of his vast knowledge of things long ago. No one knew his age, but it was agreed by all that he was the oldest person who yet lived in Stalshi. Of all the people I knew then, only he might know that which I longed to be sure of, that the zintushe were real.
‘Thus, the next month, I and all the other children gathered at the house of Zêstika upon the hill, for to hear another of his innumerable tales. This night he spake of the origin of the Kutvête, the high, snow-capped mountains of the south. He told how in those days, before men arrived on the shores of Ĝimlu, the entire land was flat, and all that grew was grass and small plants. Among the animals that lived there, there was peace. However, the chief of the llamas waxed angry, because the terimlae habitually dined upon one llama daily, and the llamas had nowhere to flee. Thus their chief appealed to the vesniqui, which in the tongue of my people is translated uslaelmike.¹ The chief of the llamas spake thus to the vesniqui: “I know that ye are skilled in building the mounds on which ye sit, lying in wait for your dinner. However, now it is we the llamas who are being dined upon. I beseech you, therefore, that ye come to our aid, and build for us hills, that we might hide among them and thus evade the jaws of the terimlae. Heretofore ye have built only small hills for your own purposes, but now I ask that ye build for us bigger, and we shall be indebted to you forever.”
‘Fortunately the vesniqui agreed to help the llamas, and through their cooperative labour they constructed the great range of mountains which my people call Re Kutvête. Zêstika explained to us that the vesniqui of that age were much larger than they are now, and this seemed to us a very reasonable explanation. To many this would seem like an unlikely story, but to us children it was accepted as absolute truth.
‘As the story drew to a close, we listened as Zêstika told of the final fates of the llamas and the terimlae. The llamas took refuge in the mountains built for them by the vesniqui, and of course, when men arrived in Ĝimlu, it was the terimlae that declined in number, as brave men such as Terimla Kon hunted them.
‘When Zêstika finished his story, a cry rose up from the children, as we begged that another tale be told us. This we did, though we knew our behest would not be granted. Zêstika arose, and bade us return to our respective homes. “I trust the tale beliked you, but ye must wait a month if ye desire to hear another tale.”
‘As the other children left to go home, I was last, and even when all had gone out, I lingered.
Zêstika looked askance at me. “Why tarriest thou, lad? I have said already that I shall not now tell another tale.”
“I am sorry sir,” I said, “I wished only with all despatch to ask some questions, if haply thou wilt.”
“What sayest thou, lad? Thou speakest as Tiáshivesen.”²
“I wish to know more about the zintushe, and the terimlae in particular. I have heard that these never lived, yet I believe they did—or wish to believe.”
“I see that thou seekest avouchment that the zintushe were real, dost thou not? Then hearken unto me, and I shall tell thee some of what I know.”
‘He motioned to me that I might be seated once again, and spake thus:
“I myself have not seen the terimlae, nor any of the zintushe for that matter. However, I shall tell thee that which I believe: the story which has been passed down to me from my fathers.
“Although I myself have never beheld the greatness of the êsna, nor seen the great claws of the terimla, my grandfather, Marnta-inta, whose father is not remembered, told me of the zintushe when I was your age, or perhaps younger.”
‘As I gazed upon the old man Zêstika, I could hardly imagine him ever being my age, much less having a grandfather! I knew then that he was about to tell me something from ages past, so long ago that I could not even fathom the years. He continued.
“When I was young, I asked the same question which thou now askest me: Do the zintushe still live today? What has now become of them? My grandfather told me that many long years had passed since the beasts were last seen in the land, and many years have passed since he told me this. However, he told me of a land across the sea, far away, from whence the zintushe came. He called it simply Re lu ĝiv re zintushe (the land of the zintushe). He also told me how that men such as Terimla Kon long ago would shout as their battle cry, ‘Ĝevishlêjak vonê eterĝu!, Return ye unto your home!’”’

Continue reading: Part III

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¹ These creatures (éanent in the tongue of Zéfelen) are ant-eating insects that build small hills in the dirt. They are common on both sides of the Specific Ocean.

² I did not understand this expression at first, but later Thareli, Kutava’s granddaughter, explained its meaning to me. The expression is one purely of Zéfelen, not Ĝimlu, and shows Kutava’s assimilation into that culture. It comes from an old tale of Zéfelen, concerning a messenger sent to warn a king of imminent danger. The messenger was unspecific in his speech and because of his lack of communication, he was not understood until the last minute, and the king barely escaped. The messenger Tiáshivesen was then punished by death. This tale is now told to children in Zéfelen, to encourage them to speak clearly and specifically.

The Tale of Kutava (Part I)

(Continued from the Introduction)

‘I am not a native of this country, but I was born in the land of Ĝimlu, far across the sea, in the eighteenth year of the reign of Vetakishli Lata (lata signifying “king”). I lived in Stalshi, a small town among the northern hills, where each man knew his neighbour.

‘I have many fond memories of my childhood there, tending the llamas, hiking into the hills alone, and travelling to other parts of the country with my father. Yet what I enjoyed most was hearing stories told, just as I now tell stories to thee. There was an old man in our village, hight Zêstika, which translated is “Many Waters”. Our village was located on a large hill, and the house of Zêstika was perched at the very top. Every month, on the first day of the month, all the children of the village would go up to the house of Zêstika, to hear him tell one of his many stories. Though we were children, he never failed to keep our attention, and he surprised us each time with a new story which we had never heard. He told all manner of tales, of the coming of men to Ĝimlu, of the manner in which the lizards lost their fur, of the beginning, when the stars were set in the sky, and many other tales besides. Yet those that fascinated me the most were those tales of the zintushe, great beasts which roamed the earth long ago. Among these were the terimlae, with their fearsome claws, the tolshae, which had three heads, and the êsnae, great serpents of the sea. I have not time now to tell one of these tales, but perhaps I shall have a chance later.

‘One evening, I and my friends went up with the other children of the village to the house of Zêstika, for it was the first day of the month. That night, we gathered around him by the fire, much as we are now, and the old man told to us the tale of that hero of old, Terimla Kon the Dragon Slayer, who slew single-handedly the great terimla that was terrorizing the villages of northern Ĝimlu. What a tale! I savoured every word of it, and one part I still remember, to wit, “Since the day that Terimla Kon wrought that great deed, no terimla has since been seen in Ĝimlu.”

‘As I walked home that evening, I thought on this. “So that is why there are no more terimlae,” I thought, “Terimla Kon scared them all away. What a shame that none remained for others to fight!” More than anything else in the world, I wished to see one of these great beasts. That night I dreamt of terimlae, and I dwelt on them still as I went out to feed our llamas the next morning. As I was preparing to give the llamas their feed, my father sat nigh making a special saddle for one of the llamas.

“My father,” I said, “may I ask of thee a question?” “Please do, my son, for thereby mayest thou learn.”

“Are the words which Zêstika speaketh true?” “Zêstika? Speakest thou of the old storyteller?” “Yes, my father, I wish to know if the grand tales which he telleth are true.” “A good question, my son, and one for which there may not be a satisfactory answer. You see, the tales are old, old as the hills, older than the storyteller himself. What he telleth he heard from his father, and he from his father, and so on. You ask whether the tales are true. No one knows. I myself find it hard to believe many of his fantastic stories.” I considered this for a moment, then replied, “The reason for which I ask is on account of the zintushe. Zêstika saith that they fled before the hand of Terimla Kon and have never been seen since.”

‘My father set down his work and looked at me. “My son, this is what I advise thee to do: Enjoy these tales of beasts and dragons whilst the storyteller yet lives. For these I believe to be mythical creatures, which existed only in the minds of those who contrived them.” I was greatly saddened at this. “But what of the shamnuje that nearly overran Ĝimlu? And what of Terimla Kon who saved Nuĝim from the terror of the terimla? From whence came his name if there were no terimlae?” I was almost in tears. “I know not, my son, for those years are long past. But be not downcast, my dear son, behold, it is now time to mount the llamas and go tend the crops below.”’

[Editor’s note: At this time Yeklashi, the wife of Melpalêpsen, informed us that the evening meal was prepared, and thus the tale was paused for a time.]

Continue reading: Part II

The Tale of Kutava (Introduction)

(Continued from the Prologue)

It was a warm summer evening, and having arrived to a town, I sought a place where I could spend the night. I inquired of a merchant in the centre of town who was packing up his wares. ‘Well, lad, inns we have not in this small town, but there is an old man down that road who is quite hospitable. He’s a great teller of stories.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Methinks they’re all tall tales, though he insists they’re true—but regardless, he tells them well!’ I was quite interested to hear a tale of that land, so I thanked the man and followed the road which he had indicated. I knew not which house was that of the storyteller, so I knocked at a house built of logs to inquire.

A maiden opened the door.

‘Elkon! No silpite? – Greetings! What do you seek?’

I told her all I knew from the merchant’s description. ‘Ah! You seek Melpalêpsen, the old storyteller! And this is his house. Alorite!’

I followed her into the house, and she led me along a passage lined with torches of fire. We entered a dimly lit room. To the right was a roaring fireplace, and to the left was a curiously fashioned wooden chair. It was carved with all manner of designs, and it was cushioned with the furs of beasts. And in this chair sate an old man, whose hair was white as snow. As we entered the room, he spoke.

‘Tharelis! Nen lori? – Thareli! Who cometh with thee?’

The girl replied, ‘Odales, to kê shorgês, ten azelki. – I know not, grandfather, but let him speak for himself.’

He looked at me. ‘No manite? Melpalêpso Anicho ven manê. – Who art thou? I am Melpalêpsen Anichen.’

I replied, ‘I am but a traveller from another land; I seek only a place to rest this night.’ He replied, ‘I will gladly give thee a place to stay, for I too was once a traveller and a wanderer. Please receive our warm welcome, and I bid thee eat with us as well.’ I gladly accepted his offer, and he went on to explain that dinner would be ready presently.

‘Dost thou wish to hear a tale of mine?’ he asked. ‘I would fain hear your tale,’ said I, ‘for I am fond of hearing stories of the places I visit.’

‘Well, perhaps thou shalt not be disappointed, for my tale begins not in this land, but far across the sea. But please have a seat by the fire, and I shall tell thee the beginning of my tale while my wife prepares the meal.’

I was carrying a pack, from which I drew paper and pen, for I wished to record the story of this old man. He spake using the tongue of Zéfelen, the land in which I was sojourning at that time.

I have still that manuscript that I wrote as I sat beside the fire. I learned later, after his death, that he himself had written the story in a book. Thanks to his gracious family, I was able to obtain a copy of this book, in which I found several events and details which he did not mention to me when I heard his story. The tale which follows is the story of the life of Kutava, or Melpalêpsen, as he was called in his later years. I have combined his written version with that which I wrote down, although his original wording has been preserved in all places. It is also well to note that he both told and wrote the tale in the tongue of Zéfelen (although it was not his native tongue) and what follows is my best attempt in translating it into English. I have added notes in places where it was impossible to convey the original meaning in the text.

And now, without further ado, let us begin the tale. Seat yourself by the hearth of Melpalêpsen with me, and let us listen to the tale of Kutava son of Anitijova.

Continue reading: Part I

The Tale of Kutava (Prologue)

I Have Seen Shliflet

There is a world, far away from here, of which few have heard. It was known by the ancients, who called it Degom, but in modern times even its name has been forgotten. Although this place has vanished from the memory of our people, I wish to restore it, for I have seen Degom! I myself have scaled its peaks, I have wandered through its forests, I have walked through its fields under the stars.
I have sailed its oceans, I have heard the voices of its people, and I have listened to their ancient tales of wisdom and bravery.
O! That I could return there, to those lands of such history, to the people who remember the days of yore!
I shall not explain how I journeyed there, but suffice it to say it was in a manner similar to that in which the Connecticut Yankee found himself in King Arthur’s Court. Also, I may well note that I shall never again be able to return there, however much I may wish to.
The days I spent in that land were precious, and I beheld many good and beautiful things whilst I dwelt there. This is not to say that it is a Utopia, for the very name “Utopia” indicates that it is nowhere. The land of which I write most certainly exists—though now it seems almost a dream—and perhaps it was a dream. But no! I have with me still the tales which I wrote down while listening to various storytellers of that land. It was certainly not a dream. And yet, if it was, what an awesome dream, such that the human mind could not contrive!
But let us put away this matter—whether it was a dream or not—for I wish now to put in words all I have seen and heard in that distant land, before I forget.

Of the Kingdom of Ĝimlu

Before I begin the tale of Kutava, I feel it is right to give you, the reader, a proper introduction to the country of Ĝimlu. Please know that Ĝimlu is not the whole of Degom (or Shliflet, as I prefer to call it), but only a part thereof. There are many other countries in Shliflet besides Ĝimlu, and although I have certainly not visited all of them, I am well acquainted with the people of Ĝimlu, having dwelt there a time.
At this time I feel it is good to mention the language of the Ĝimluvians as well. In Shliflet, it is true, there are many divers tongues spoken, and none are the same. When men first arrived on the shores of Ĝimlu, they spoke a tongue not unlike those of the region from which they came. None knows what they called the language at that time, but later they called it Ĝimlugant, ‘language of the new land.’ Accordingly, no one today knows what the people first called themselves, not even the Knowing Ones. In later times, or perhaps before, they began calling themselves Ĝimlusae, ‘people of the new land.’ Concerning the pronunciation of the language, the spelling system which I have used is fairly straightforward. In Ĝimlu itself a different set of letters is used, but to facilitate the reading of names for speakers of the English tongue, I have devised a spelling system using our letters. The pronunciation is not difficult, and you may pronounce the names quite accurately if you observe the following notes. The letter Ĝ is pronounced as the S in ‘pleasure’ and ‘measure’, and the T in ‘equation’. It is also well to note that the letter J in this language is not pronounced as one would suppose, but as in the word ‘hallelujah’.
Ĝimlu was originally a large kingdom, stretching from the Tokma Sôlen (the Tokmean River) in the north, to Maheya in the south. In later times this vast kingdom was divided, but you shall read of in the tale of Kutava.
Although I remember much of the land of Ĝimlu, the thought that arises when I think of the country is that of the hills and the mountains. Besides the Lutaem and the regions along the sea and the river, the whole country is mountainous. For this reason, travelling is done on a type of animal similar to the llama. They call them neshkuje, and I believe they are native, at least that’s what I’ve been told.
The people of Ĝimlu are generally friendly and hospitable. They live in simple houses, which are often built on slopes. As Ĝimlu was at first quite an extensive country, the people in one region differed slightly in customs and language from those of another. As a whole, the people of Ĝimlu are an interesting folk. Their manners and customs would to us seem quite odd, and indeed I thought so when I first arrived there. But they are kind, and welcome strangers heartily as they did me.
The people themselves are generally short, and have light brown skin and slanted eyes. Their dress is like unto that of the Romans, yet of many colours. They know not shoes, for they go barefoot wherever they go, and as a result, they have quite tough feet and do not mind stepping on objects which would make our feet hurt. They enjoy hats, and wear all manner of them upon their heads.
It was in this land, the country of Ĝimlu, that Kutava son of Anitijova was born and raised. However, seeking adventure, Kutava wandered far and wide, finally settling in a land across the sea, far away from Ĝimlu. It was in this land that I became acquainted with him, indeed, we became good friends, though he was old and full of years. When I knew him, he was beyond his days of adventure, but he enjoyed greatly telling stories of his adventures to whomever wished to hear it. Although they knew the stories by heart, his many grandchildren ever delighted in hearing those tales of adventure, and of Ĝimlu, the homeland of their agéd grandfather.

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