Zompist Bboard Again

This is…something of an odd world.
Over a period of nine thousand years, the people of the Central Valley on the southwest coast of Tortolia slowly but surely started on the road to domestication. Unlike the rest of the continent, however, across which the trinity of beans, squash, and maize spread like wildfire, a trinity of one animal and two plants made themselves known in the valley. The earliest of these were the kechen or grapes (珂萄, vitis californica); natural California grapes are quite small and tart, but around nine thousand years ago varieties started to be grown that were larger and sweeter. The invention of wine came not long after, which seems to have spurred the creation of advanced pottery techniques. Shortly afterwards--perhaps as little as seven thousand years ago--efforts were made to take a strain of the lokosh or tule reed (schoenoplectus acutus). This allowed for the conversion of the riverbanks of the Sacramento and San Joaquin into paddies, and is perhaps the most fundamental element of Native Kingawan society. The plant provides a reliable food source, as well as a source of fibre for construction--and for papyrus-like scrolls, upon which the famous Codices were written. Finally, the haloo (号鹿, ovis canadensis) or bighorn sheep was first herded around three thousand years ago, and takes up a lot of the grazing land in the valley. A reliable source of meat and a pack animal in a pinch, the haloo is smaller and fatter than its wild cousin.
These three together--combined with the early discovery of gold along the Sacramento, the open quarrying methods used to extract granite and marble from the hills, and the presence of a large field of meteoritic iron in Oregon--led to the development of a unique collection of cultures along the two rivers, Tortolia's only pre-Kurodan writing systems, gold-dusted mummies, and eventually the Bay Empire, which held for three hundred years and prospered...until the arrival of Kuroda Kiyoshi, of course. The story of the expansion of the New Qin Empire and the slow decay of the native Frenchmen (Kuroda's belief that he'd landed in France never quite went away) is a story for another time.
Oh, and in addition, the Third Roman Empire has the most extensive canals in the world, *Mali has set up colonies in *Brazil, and Zoroastrianism has one heck of a big empire. Now it's an odd world.
So sit back, relax, and travel to Kingawa, the Land of the River of Gold…

(Side note: anyone have access to Californian Aboriginal lexicons? I've tried to do the best with what I had available, but it's not very much and it doesn't go very far…)

TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Seven Nations

Bunmei Era Year 18, Yayoi 4/April 9th, 1486
Petlenuc (37º47'55" N 22º25'48"W)

"Tell me again," said Kalmanu.
It was a warm enough night, but the interior of the granite pyramid was always too cool. A fire burned in the centre of the room, smoke curling up through the central skylight while burning reeds lit the rest of the large hall. Enough light for Kalmanu, at least, to see Tupi, of the local Salmon clan and thus part of his own Water Moiety. Tupi was from one of the wealthier fishermen's clans, and boasted often of his redwood canoe, bought for many shells from the Great Island People to the north.
Now, though, he looked worried.
"It is like a canoe, or a barge," he said again, slowly. "It is only a little to the west of the village. But it is big, much bigger than any barge ever built. It is like a hill, floating on the water."
Kalmanu tilted his head to the side. "A hill?"
"Yes, Water Chief," said Tupi, using the title given to officials approved by the capital in Hulpu-mni. "With three great trees, branching forward with long white leaves. But the hill is made of wood, Water Chief."
"I see." Kalmanu looked down at his documents again.
"And there were people aboard, Water Chief," added Tupi.
Kalmanu started. "What?"
Tupi looked nervous.
"Speak up!" snapped Kalmanu. "What did these people look like?"
"P-pale, Water Chief," stammered the boastful fisherman. "Faces like the moon."
Kalmanu sighed.
"You may go now."
Tupi bowed, nervously, then left as quickly as he could while walking backwards.
Kalmanu sighed, and tried to concentrate on the scrolls. It was getting late, and the pictograms were becoming annoying. More traffic on the river meant more trouble for the tule paddies, and who was the one who had to deal with that? Why, the chief of the Water Moiety, of course. Tribute for Hulpu-mni and the Duarchy was due, and so was the annual fee required for the gift-giving ceremony with the Yokuts to the south, in exchange for this tidy piece of land and control of the bay. (To be fair, they apparently paid rent for some village to the east, so that was all okay in the Duarchs' scrolls.) The corvée had to be set up, taxes paid in labour or bought off with shells. (Too many people had access to the damn shells down here, so the toll was a bit higher. And a good thing too, or things would never get built.) And that was his responsibility.
And now a giant hill had appeared on the water, topped by trees with white leaves. With people on it.
Clearly, this needed investigation. But not by him, not if he could help it. People could mean enemies, and enemies were the Land Moiety's job. Sapata could handle this one.

* * *

Would it be entirely fair on Kuroda Kiyoshi to call him a fool?
Certainly the man had done what no other Japanese sea captain had managed before, and discovered a new coastline. His island home's Treasure Fleet, seeking to carve out a tributary empire in the west in the manner of the Tiefeng Emperor in China, had been blown as far off course as it was possible to go. Discipline would be maintained, of course, no matter how long the voyage. But the Treasure Fleet could only go so far.
Was it unreasonable, then, that when the lookout cried out that land was ahead of them at last, he cheered and whooped with the rest of his men? For here, gleaming in the sunset, was a paradise compared to the hard months at sea, green hills and sparkling waters. When they landed, there were no people around–but in the near distance they could see a town, a great stone pyramid topped with gold rising above the strange conical houses. And as the sun set, the fog on the water itself gleamed yellow, golden mist floating above the surface and running between the hills like a river of light. Primitive temples, topped with gold, on a golden river! How could this not be the fabled Buddha-Flower of the West, where the Qing Empire had fled–and whom they might yet conquer, a testament to the Sun Isles' power that even China would have to respect?
But Kuroda–to use his family name, as is only polite–was a man not much accustomed to long-winded sentiment, at least in words. In his ship's log, the notes from which his famous Journey to the East would be compiled, he wrote only:

Year 18, Yayoi 4. Have reached the other end of the world, but the men are tired. Tonight we rest, and those who are able will restock what they can from the waters, which are full of fish. Tomorrow morning we visit the town built around a golden pyramid, and seek the leader of the local Frenchmen to ask for tribute.

August 1st, 1488 CE
Iyáanga, Tonga Territory/33º45'N 118º05'W

Ah, you wonder about my images, milord? But of course. Come in, stranger.
A fine city, is it not? Not like the cities around the Bay to the north, of course, but Iyáanga has its benefits. A beautiful beach, of course, and the hills behind are just as lovely, but the heart of Iyáanga is in its people. Not just us Tongva–we've lived here longer than the living memory of the twentieth ancestor–but all others from across the known world. And now–a surprising thing indeed!–a man from beyond that world.
But you see, in Iyáanga there is a special feeling that we alone may covet. We call it the Race, and it is in a way–how we show ourselves, how we behave. In the Race we start at the bottom, drifting in from outside the confines of our fair city, and we run through the days until we find a treasure for ourselves. Perhaps through speech, as my father did; he was an interpreter for the Yokuts, well back when, and it earned him iron blades enough to become chief of his village for a full twenty years. Or through trade, that's always popular. Consultations–the Chumash have the best calendars in the world, and the best horoscopes. You'll have passed psychics on the streets, of course. Music and performance? They're always essential, and the dancers often turn to the fifth method–selling their, ahem, bodily services–to supplement the income they get from work in the trade. I see your look of incredulity, milord, but it's a profession like any others, and what happens in Iyáanga stays there.
Myself? I paint.
There are many people, milord, who would not understand my work, quite literally. Oh, pictures they recognize, and they may even speak aloud the names of pictures. But these are new–comparatively. The kehatak, the Miwok merchants, did the most blasphemous thing possible and let their script become available to all. But I must admit, the tellahapok, the logograms, may just be the best thing to ever happen to me. After all, it keeps me in quite high standing, here in Iyáanga.
Because people like the idea that they can put their words, any words, into a new form. They like that the sounds of their voices can be recorded down the ages, using the great gift the kehatak gave to the word. So I take my reed pen and my soot and my freshly-traded ochre and crushed shells, and I carefully paint on tule papyrus the words that people so often want to keep for themselves.
See this one! Kehaatkuhe', "May you become rich" in Miwok. But I see the word makes little sense to you, milord, and I understand why. Most do not speak Miwok, even now, even here. So I make it clear by other means.
The genius of the kehatak--one way among many--is the patterning of their system, complexity from an inherent simplicity. See, the symbols for KE-HA-AT-KU-HE: a hash, an eye, a stool, three reeds, a hand, an upturned arch. Simple enough, you might think–why not leave it at that? Because it would be impossible to understand to any who didn't speak the language! The best of us tellahpek, us scribes, we get creative. What is the surest sign of wealth? Shells! So I make a design of a man (but often a woman, these days) holding for themselves a shell. Behind him stands a doorway, the hash grown large over top; his eye is bright and brilliant; he sits upon a stool, a symbol of great worth; three beautiful maidens bow before him; a man bears a basket of shells. All this I paint on paper, outlines in black, skin in red, touches of white here and there for the shells and the door and the shapes of the letters. A dream as much as a message, no?
Or the word Miwok itself, if you will. Ah, they came down like a bolt from heaven, the kehatak, and shook up our system forever. So I take their symbols, MI-WO-YK--a zigzag facing left, an arch, two wavy lines--and draw them as they would want them to be drawn. White, crackling lightning, upon a red hill, black water underneath. The power and dominion of the Miwok: from heaven, from the land, and from the water.
From, not on, milord? Of course. Nobody would be stupid enough to think they could overpower the earth itself, surely?
In some way I have offended you. I do apologize. I know not know of this tennoh of whom you speak, but of course the gods themselves--
You wish me to continue talking about my writing?
It's quite a popular thing, even for those who do not speak the language. And, of course, I can apply the writing system to almost all of the languages in our lands. Tongva, of course, but if you use another tongue I can apply that too if you tell me the sounds. I have worked for days to write long letters, words of blessing or tales of trade, in a way that immortalizes the act. It's all so simple, really, like a game, but it takes dedication as you wouldn't believe. And people pay well for my crafts--even the Land and Water Grandfathers of Hulpu-Mni and Sokel, patriarchs of the greatest cities in the world beyond our own Iyáanga. Surely this tells you something about the quality of my work?
I wonder if you would like one yourself, milord. A foreigner, of course, one from the Far West of the world. Perhaps a simpler phrase for you. 'Etaalinam, perhaps–"I will return." Or something in your own language? And a portrait of the White Islands you bear yourselves across the sea in, between two great lands on a dark sea? I can provide the purple especially–
But no. You demur. Ah, you remind me, milord. Not everyone has an interest in the art of writing.
Ah, you laugh, milord? I wonder what it is I have said that amuses you so, that I might say it again.
Oh, yes, this is fine work, milord. The quality of the paper is astounding–so soft, so clear in colour–
Oh, the smudges?
This is your writing?
I see.
Hmm.
Yes, I suppose that makes some sense. You have turned pictures into words, as I turn words into pictures. But milord, a symbol for each word, unchangeable and over-complicated? Is that not terribly cumbersome?
No, I mean no offence. How could I possibly mean offence? It's not real writing, of course, but it's a remarkable idea nonetheless.
Ah, I see you leave, milord. I know not what this word "yaban baka" means–perhaps a farewell? In which case, milord, goodbye and yaban baka!
…pale-faced git. Didn't even offer a tip.

This is the deep-dive alt-history I didn’t know I needed, but now can’t live without. Kudos!

I want to be sure to understand: is this technology similar to Ksatlai?

Vilike wrote: ↑Mon Dec 07, 2020 7:31 am I want to be sure to understand: is this technology similar to Ksatlai?

Similar, although I didn’t have this script in mind when I wrote it. (This is an amazing website, by the way. Is it your own?) Very simple shapes, which are used as the basis for more complex drawings and paintings, making the message clearer even if the words are not. (Of course, how complex the message can be is something I’m still working out.)

kodé wrote: ↑Sat Dec 05, 2020 8:29 pm This is the deep-dive alt-history I didn’t know I needed, but now can’t live without. Kudos!

Many thanks indeed!

In many a timeline the people of California, if considered at all, are wonderfully diverse and yet tremendously underpopulated. Split not into tribes, as one researcher described it, but "tribelets," the pleasant climate and easy access to food usually means that most have no particular need to turn to agriculture, which at least in the early days leads to a shortage of vital nutrients. Let us say, then, that some unusual factors came into play--a decade-long blight on the land, perhaps, or overpopulation, or even the imposition of raiders from the east demanding sustenance. And from that we get a California too like most other "civilized" parts of the world, one with a higher population but perhaps an unhappier one, and certainly one with less diversity of people. But still, across the Great Valley and just to the south there are still six peoples of some importance, those who have held kingdoms in the Valley at one time or another, providing more variety in ethnicity than one might expect.

1. The Yokuts lay claim to being the oldest of the civilizations to take off the ground, certainly the first to commit to tule farming full-time as opposed to hunting and gathering. Even today their valley is famous for its variety and abundance of grapevines, and for the scores and scores of bighorn sheep grazing in pasture by the river. (Of course, it's also famous for coccidioidomycosis, which slowed their progress a bit as they periodically collapsed from getting too populous and moving too much dirt around.) Yokuts provided the basic format for clan professions as well, copied all across the Basin. Chieftains come from eagle clans, messengers from dove clans, town criers from the magpie clans, clowns and scholars from the coyote clan, and so on. Yokuts are slightly darker-skinned than others in the Basin, and are stereotyped as slow, stolid folk.
2. The Pomo are the great competitors of the Yokuts, living along the Sacramento instead of the San Joaquin. Their claim to fame lies not in their agriculture, but in their metalworking. Gold, of course, is something of an obvious commodity; even after all this time it's still possible to literally pan for gold in the northern streams, and it's a rare chieftain who doesn't lie in his tomb painted with gold dust. The Pomo had their origins just to the north of the Bay (it's big enough that it doesn't actually need a moniker), but spread to the Sacramento River Valley in the 9th Century CE, displacing the Wintun peoples. The Pomo have perhaps the longest faces of the Seven Nations, and are known for being zealously religious; the sweat lodges of their lands are famed across the basin, and they have a reputation as excellent shamans and magicians.
3. The Miwok are the latest up-and-comers in the river basin. Their initial residence was on the Sacramento-San Joaquin Delta, branching up both sides of the river and down to the Bay. For the most part, their emphasis lay in trade, and well were they served by their location, as a major source of the olive shells all tribes used as currency. Only three hundred years previously, however, they have done what neither side of the delta could have accomplished and unified the tribes under their own rule. Now the capital of the Basin lies in Hulpu-mni, slightly to the south of where Sacramento is sited OTL, and their variety of logograph is the standard for hundreds of kilometres around and even up and down the coast. Miwok moieties are split between Land and Water groups; each has their own Great Chief, the Land Chief taking care of terrestrial agriculture and military features, while the Water Chief deals with riparian trade and seafood harvests. (Tule reed harvests are considered the purview of both.) Miwok tend to have slightly rounder faces than their surrounding cousins, and have a reputation for being tough bargainers, jumped-up newcomers, and perhaps too clever for their own good.
4. The Ohlone live to the south of the Bay, and at one time occupied the spot where *San Francisco lies OTL. Living sandwiched between the Yokuts, Chumash, and Miwok peoples, they were slow to adapt and survived as a kingdom largely because of their technological advancements in terms of boating. For a long time nobody could beat the Ohlone for their swift canoes made of tule, and by the time the technology for new redwood canoes was imported from the Chumash, they'd gotten their hands on them and had started long-term trading missions with the civilizations of Mesoamerica. They are also a major source of abalone shells; although there have been attempts by one empire or another to conquer them entirely, their neighbours tend to be wary of going too far, lest their conquest spark a major war that the other powers would be sure to side against them in. The Ohlone are fervent tattooists and ear- and nose-piercers; non-Ohlone seem to view the elaborate designs as their most important distinguishing feature, as well as the beards and moustaches that the men tend to cultivate. The symbols the Ohlone paint on their bodies when they wish for some event to occur have found much use in protective charms across the Basin. Ohlone are seen as…well, a little strange, really, a little too worldly-wise.
5. The Chumash and the Tongva aren't even part of the valley at all; they live south of the mountains, in the area were OTL *Los Angeles and *San Diego are located. Living in perhaps the perfect place for hunting and gathering, with food supplies always in abundant reserve and little to fight over, these two ethnicities only started developing "civilization" (i.e. warfare, adobe houses, written language, etc.) after prolonged contact with the Ohlone during the 3rd Century BCE. Neither contributes very much to the empires to the north; neither really needs to. That said, the Chumash are still ruled by the astronomer-priests from their 'antap cult, and have literally the best calendar system in the whole *California area, to the point where the empires of the Basin to the north often send their shamans down to learn from them. The Tongva, meanwhile, act as something of a go-between station for the Ohlone and Miwok merchants from the north, and the Aztecs and Tarascans of the south. Their settlements on the *Palos Verdes Peninsula, in particular, have together become a single city-like area, known informally as Iyáanga or Poison-Oak Place, and is home to a great many camps of people. Many of the folk living inland or further along the coast view their relatives in Iyáanga as effectively uncouth sell-outs, but they do get a lot more beads, iron, and tule stalks that way. For the most part they are still bound by the precept that their chiefs must provide for their people through food and other means; a surefire way to become a chief, therefore, is to make a fortune in Iyáanga, be it through interpretation, bargaining, sexual favours, or music.
6. The Wintun are perhaps the most widespread of any of the peoples of the Central Basin, and yet have the smallest population, and are the ones most removed from their original culture. Their homeland along the Sacramento was long ago subsumed into the more powerful Pomo empire, which used its trade connections to make the first iron weapons. And yet the Wintun prevail, spreading themselves across the Miwok Empire, their position made essential to local rulers by their custom and practices. Which custom, you may ask? The spread of their religion, naturally. If the Pomo keep Kuksu and the other five spirits alive in the Sacramento Basin, the Wintun are responsible for spreading the six deities to the rest of California. They are sworn to an oath to record and repeat matters faithfully wherever they are; it's a surefire way to get news across the whole of the known world, and they are paid well by all six of the other major peoples for their trouble. Not in land, of course; the Wintun refuse to "own" land, believing this to be an affront to their exile. But in every other kind of material wealth conceivable, they do quite well. Thankfully they also invest this in the communities where they "pass through", so that many a new temple school or irrigation system has been paid for by their donations. Wintun are known across the Basin for their stocky faces and prominent foreheads, and are regarded by the Pomo as being too wrapped up in history--and by everyone else with more than a touch of sympathy.

The Empire of Glass, Part I
a.d. XVI Kal. Sep. DCCLXXIII A.U.C./August 15th, 20 CE
Rome, Italia

"Exquisite work, truly," said the princeps, running his hands over the bowl.
Theocritus bowed as deep as he could. Cool air rose from the marble like smoke, pushing back against the heat outside.
"Oh, don't bother with that," snapped Tiberius. "I'm not going to hurt you for giving me something." A long finger made a circle along the rim. "Especially not something like this. A drinking bowl made of glass, yes?"
"Yes, Caesar," said the craftsman. "Crude as of yet, but I believe it can be made more detailed."
"More detailed, eh?" The princeps raised an eyebrow. "Is there anything else you've planned on?"
Honesty seemed best.
"I believe I've already accomplished something, Caesar," said the glassmaker. "If I may?"
Tiberius shrugged, and reached over to hand the bowl to a guard. The guard held it out.
Now. Smash it down. You know you'll be alright.
But maybe that wasn't the wisest idea, when the guards stood so close.
"Caesar," Theocritus said on a whim, "may I compliment you?"
Tiberius looked surprised–and a little annoyed. "You're asking to compliment me? Are all Ionians so ready to pander?"
Theocritus waited.
Finally the princeps sighed. "Yes, you may compliment me. What on?"
"As far away as Byzantium we have heard of your exploits in the field," Theocritus went on. "And of your care in governance and in keeping the people satisfied with their lot. But the biggest thing, to us, that you have managed to do is bring the Senate of Rome back to their old roles."
Tiberius scoffed. "That's the word, is it? I need new messengers. The Senate…" He paused. "The Senate, under My Father, grew somewhat complacent, ready to put aside the governance of empire as his role became stronger and stronger. I was chosen as his heir. And that meant governing people who had become used to someone else doing their work for them. There is no accomplishment, I promise you. Only endless frustration."
Theocritus was silent for a moment. Then he said, "Thank you, Caesar, for your honesty."
"No point in lying, is there?" said Caesar. "A little transparency can be useful." He chuckled. "At least in the right amounts. Put down too much at once, and like your marvellous glass, it will smash instantly, and we will be forced to gather the truth up in bits and pieces."
"If I may…"
"You're very free with your mays, son of Miltiades. No matter, it's a hot day and I grow insufferably bored."
"Honesty need not be fragile, Caesar. This bowl, now…I can see right through it. Holding it up to my face, you can see me. The truth is coloured, yes, by my own experiences, but you can see me as I stand. You can see my face, despite the story I present to you.
"Great Caesar, would it not be better to see the truth–and not need to risk it shattering? To state things clearly, and let the light in past one's shield?"
"If you're building up to a point here–"
CRASH.
The sound echoed across the hall, alongside Tiberius' shout of alarm.
The glass bowl was unbroken.
All was still–Caesar, the glassmaker, and the guards.
Finally, Tiberius said, in a hoarse voice, "Bring that to me."
One of the red-clothed guards reached down and picked up the bowl. Tiberius held it up.
"You'd better have a bloody good explanation," he said, "as to why you would mar something so precious as this--take the risk of destroying something as precious as this."
"Because, O Caesar," said Theocritus, "it is not marred permanently. If I may?"
Soundlessly the princeps gave him back the glass.
Theocritus pulled out the small hammer he had made for just such work. "The mixture is surprisingly easy, O Caesar," he said, as he gently tapped the bowl. "And yet nobody else in the world has thought of this. I came by it through the will of Hephaestus, and some stones from Phrygia Salutaris, but no other has made such glass as mine. I have sought–discreetly–across everywhere I could find. The secret is mine. This is my protection, O Caesar. I wish it to be yours also."
The glass was back in place. The bowl was perfect, shining a misty grey like smoke frozen in time.
"Not currency, then?" said Tiberius. "You do not see how this could replace gold and silver as a standard? A perfect glass that cannot be shattered?"
"Not currency, Caesar," said Theocritus. "Its value is great, yes–but its greatness is something you can use. Consider: the bowl is light, light as pottery. Stronger than iron it can be, against arrows. I have–prototypes, is the word in Greek, of the same glass, but better to see through. You could arm your guards with this and never worry about arrows to the face again. If you have a lattice, several pieces together like the scales on a tortoise, you could make a shield that would allow you clear sight without endangering your person. Rome's troops could be made stronger still against–"
"Enough!" The emperor raised a hand. His face was red. A small part of Theocritus thought: at least I go to the Asphodel Fields with my dignity.
"You say nobody else has discovered this," said Tiberius. "But that it is simple enough to make?"
Honesty again. Let it be your shield. "Yes, O Caesar," said the glassmaker. "If they have the resources of Rome."
Tiberius sighed, and rubbed a hand over his face. An old man, Theocritus realized. Sixty-two years old, made emperor at fifty-eight. By his age, my father and grandfather had passed away. Gods know if I'll make it that long.
Then the emperor said, "We'd have to start small, you understand. Sooner or later the secret will get out, but I'd like to try and study this first. You will work for me and for me alone, you understand? And for my son, Drusus. I trust him to be discreet on this. You will have all the materials you need, and all the workshops. And you and your apprentices, whoever you can trust with this secret, will see about making something…sturdier, for use in battle."
Theocritus' heart was pounding. He could barely keep his breath under control. "Yes, Caesar."
Tiberius leaned forward, and there it was–that spark in his eyes. It was a terrible thing, that Prometheus put fire in the hearts of men.
"This is an event I would not have considered possible in my lifetime," said the emperor. "And, with all honesty, I had not planned to let you leave here alive, with the way your magic glass could change everything we know. But I saw the strength with which you cast it down. It would be beyond foolish not to learn to use this for ourselves, and deny Rome a chance to become greater still."
The emperor smiled, a thin, wan smile that matched the filtered sunlight on the walls of the House of Augustus. "Welcome to government service, Theocritus the Byzantine. You'll be begging for Tartarus before the calends, I promise you."

I've long been intrigued by the idea of glass as weaponry... I'd very happy to read more!

Beautiful! I'm looking forward to see where that's going.

Very nice story! It took me a moment to figure out that "Tiberius" and "the princeps" referred to the same person, though.