The Masked Regent

Introduction

Though a household name nowadays, for a long time Masked Regent Gatohan’s existence was lost to us.

That so potent an instrument of history could go missing from its pages is not surprising for, of course, after the Fracture and the ensuing dark ages, many things were forgotten. We should therefore thank Gatohan’s home continent of Irsa for merely grazing itself on the great upheaval, and thereafter passing its material remains down to us.

My name is Iskamat, Curator of the Dalan Museum of Antiquities’ Irsan Collection, and it is my great pleasure today to introduce you to this intriguing historical figure in a rather unorthodox way — through a series of objects recovered from his tomb. Thereby, I hope to provide an intimate portrait of one man and his remarkable and strange mother culture.

The name gat•o•han is actually a compound noun in Ghirs, one of many ancient tongues of Irsa, which literally means ‘created of need’ but which is often interpreted as ‘required one’. This name tells us much about how these people viewed Gatohan and will provide fuel for a question we will explore later. For now, it is enough to realise that right from the beginning, we are looking at a figure who was subjected to a great deal of character-embroidery, bordering on deification. A figure who was raised under the burden of extraordinary expectation which would prove both a catalyst for his ascendance, and also for his fall.

Gatohan’s dominion was located on a windswept steppe above the great fork-valleys of what is now the western region of Kahal, a grassland whose vast expanse has inspired poetry for its almost deafening silence and lack of vigour.

Until recently it was believed that the only historical inhabitants of this region were nomads who made their homes in the caves and caverns, and who hunted in the nearby valleys and mountains. This view prevailed for over a century until Dr. B. Katterly’s archaeological expedition dug at the area sixty-three years ago, and thanks to their efforts, we now know that in ancient times this area looked very different.

Indeed, were we to wander back down the road of time three millenia, we would see a mighty city flourishing here and stretching from one end of the steppe to the other — a distance of some twenty by twenty stades - and though toppled by earthquakes and buried under metres of ash and silt during the Fracture, a peek under the rippled tundra allows a glimpse of this glorious former metropolis.

What did it look like? Who were its people? And what did they leave behind?

The Sealing Stone

Dr. Katterly has stated she was drawn to the steppe seeking flint deposits left by the aforementioned nomads, yet the subsequent flow of time has raised questions about these motives and indeed, made them increasingly untenable — particularly considering her discoveries.

It may well be, as the imminent scholar of ancient records Professor Pipkil Tevek has recently speculated, that Dr. Katterly was tipped off about the lost city-state after coming across an obscure and mysterious source document. We will also return to this point, but whatever her motives or sources were, the upshot was that the first discovery her team made at a depth of three meters under the earth was not a series of lithic instruments, but a great monolithic slab.

Shaped in the squared-hourglass form now so iconic of this culture’s objects and architecture, with circular notches framing a central image of an infant lying under the watchful eyes of Akazair, the mother deity of ancient Ghirsan mythology, this slab turned out to be a sealing-block covering the entrance to a most remarkable tomb.

It took one hundred and four days to document and carefully lift the slab clear — an effort made almost impossible by the narrow shaft which precedes it, out of which the team of fourteen had somehow to manoeuvre and haul its forty-five tonne weight — until, leaning over the brink with a lantern in hand and eyes straining, Katterly uttered that unforgettable quote which echoes in schoolhouses to this day, “It seems, Mr. Jeno, that we’ve found our big sister at last.”

That seemingly light remark was, of course, the understatement of the century. What the pair had chanced upon was a definitive and paradigm-shifting find. A treasure trove hiding just metres under the earth. A forgotten chapter re-added to our collective history. In short, any archaeologist’s dream.

Moreover, we now know that Katterly was correct. The Ghirsan civilisation predates our own yet descends from the same source culture, making it closely related — and making her utterance oddly shrewd.

As for the slab itself? It now stands in the Dalan Museum’s Irsan collection, forming the centrepiece of this incredible exhibition.

The Inheritance Spear

The Katterly Expedition’s log-book sits at a hefty three hundred and seventy pages, documenting in carefully written script the members of the team, the duration and methods of excavation, a map of the tomb and the objects discovered inside it, right down to the angle that each object was lying in. But we needn’t read far to find our second item of interest.

Labelled, ‘The Inheritance Spear’, the log’s third page records that it measures seven feet long and is fashioned of beautifully polished kerriwood, and that it was found inside the tomb’s main atrium.

Quite alone in the otherwise empty space and mounted on a small plinth, the spear stood like a quiet sentinel exuding a quiet, dangerous presence. Indeed, its knapped obsidian tip — tapered like a teardrop — was so sharp that it sliced through three layers of linen and the fingertip of one of Katterly’s team members who was wrapping it for transport.

Apart from that unfortunate instance, however, the weapon lacks any traces of scratches, scuffs, or impacts, indicating that it was never used in battle or even sparring. There is no blood, fur, or any organic matter which ordinarily would point to such use. Indeed, once again, Katterly seemed correct to recognise the spear as a status-object rather than one of utility.

How was this determined?

The clue was left to us by the spear’s craftsman, who delicately and painstakingly carved a story into the haft. Beginning at the tightly wound and resin-glued fabric wrapping where the spear was to be held and running upwards, this story is organised in a series of small blocks of text and illustration which archaeologists call ‘registers’.

The first register reveals that Gatohan received this spear when he was born, or rather when he was wished into being — and by a goddess, no less. This goddess was Akazair, The Great Lady, whom we met earlier and who is shown presenting the weapon to the infant, who wears a mask of cloth. Akazair warns however, that only when he was as tall as the spear itself should Gatohan take it in hand, thus becoming Regent of the rulerless kingdom of Zisht (the ancients’ own name for their culture and capital).

The story then illustrates Gatohan’s youth as he follows on hunts, whirling a tatak overhead (a kind of stone-and-rope throwing weapon), taking part in lessons cross-legged and listening attentively, writing, reading, even singing, but always wearing a mask that covers eyes, nose, and mouth, with its iconic spiked feather crest (some have suggested these ‘spikes’ are leaves or stylised foliage).

We do not call him the Masked Regent for nothing, after all, and frustrating and tantalising though it is, nowhere do we ever see Gatohan’s true face.

Further up the haft, we reach his adolescence, in which his activities change to wrestling, swimming, archery, prayer, and the arcane arts. And by the time he is an adult we are given to believe that the future Regent is strong in body, mind, and spirit.

And yet, despite all of this preparation, something was wrong.

The Sarcophagus

In the second chamber of the tomb, Katterly discovered a large, hexagonal box, sheathed entirely in reed-pulp cartonnage and painted in the typical circular motifs and patterns we see on the Sealing Stone. The cartonnage is two finger-widths thick, implying that a great deal of time was spent applying multiple layers and waiting for the resin-soaked material to dry and harden, and it had to be removed with extreme care. While rigid, this medium had become very brittle over the centuries and the expertly-painted surface was particularly prone to flaking.

Nonetheless, when the team eventually removed this outer ‘shell’ a magnificent stone sarcophagus was revealed beneath, depicting a male figure clothed in fantastic ceremonial dress, with arms and legs splayed like a star and inlaid with gold, bronze, and seashells. These materials were greatly prized in ancient times — as they are today — for their scarcity and the distance from which they had to be sought. For example, the closest source of the pearlescent mingu-shells — from which the necklace and wrist-gards on the figure are fashioned — is the Anabar Coast, a destination requiring a round trip of around two months on foot, while the bronze is likely made of copper from the Tanpan mountains, and tin from today’s Gaz Gim lowlands, all at least twenty days’ journey from the steppe. Together, they create a glittering, lustrous spectacle which has not been diminished by time.

The figure depicted on the sarcophagus is clearly Gatohan. The thick braids of hair and the clothing remain consistent in all imagery while that distinctive mask once again conceals his face. And yet the sarcophagus reveals a problem, made plain when we consider the story told on the Inheritance Spear. For though Gatohan clearly stood tall by today’s standards, the sarcophagus measures no more than six feet long, meaning that if it was made to fit Gatohan’s body, then he clearly failed to reach the height specified to claim the rulership.

Perhaps Gatohan himself was not too disappointed by this, for he must have known he could not attain seven feet. The spear itself predicts as much, the last few panels showing the young man straining, precious inches eluding him but never standing its equal. It is in the second-last panel that the goddess herself reappears to explain this conundrum, saying that in life we can work for many things and achieve them, but we must also be aware of those things we cannot have. Furthermore, Gatohan is told that the obsidian tip will loom above him always as a reminder of the dangers of war and conquest, which he is forbidden from employing.

By all this, the young man is of course made aware of limitation and responsibility — an important lesson for any ruler to learn — after which in the final panel the goddess hands him the spear and bestows the regency upon him anyway, presumably trusting that this and all other lessons have been internalised.

Here, Tevek supplies another interpretation, proposing that rather than mythology, this story is actually a metaphor for the kingdom of Zisht itself. In this case, we are to imagine that the figure of the ‘goddess’ actually represents the populace at large, who collectively found (or ‘created of need’) a leader to shepherd them out of darkness, grooming and schooling him in the finest qualities for rulership.

However, Tevek then points out — somewhat controversially — that if this is the case, the designation ‘Gatohan’ might not identify a person at all, but a group — perhaps a religious cult — which grew to govern the kingdom in absence of the true ruler. In other words, that Gatohan as an individual never actually existed!

Is this possible?

Strangely, as is widely known, Gatohan’s body was not found in the great obsidian sarcophagus, nor in the tomb itself, and the lack of physical remains does support Tevek’s hypothesis. Yet if he never existed, then whose clothing and jewellery were found inside the tomb? Whose codices of laws, drinking vessels, amber figurines, and guardian totems stand at the ready, watching over their master’s resting place? Indeed, with his name on almost every object discovered there whose tomb have we found, if not Gatohan’s?

Perhaps we will never be able to answer that question to Tevek’s satisfaction. And let us note in passing that his explanations reveal how sensitive and deeply reliant archaeology is on interpretation.

Indeed, so much of our understanding of the past relies on stories, which are particularly problematic because a common trait of leaders both ancient and modern is to justify their rule with a narrative, often invoking deities or ethereal beings who hand the rulership down from above in order to legitimise events, just as we see here. This does leave us in a quandary, however, for if the story is neither entirely factual nor entirely fantastical, what is it? Where exactly does it lie on this continuum?

In the author’s opinion, the most parsimonious explanation is the obvious one; that the corpus of documents we have are mythologised and exaggerated accounts of actual events, and that Gatohan was, in fact, a tangible historical figure — real flesh and blood. If we assume that, then it is not a large step to imagine that for one reason or another his remains were simply never interred in his tomb, and we needn’t stretch to explain a simple oddity by ‘building a staircase when a ladder will do’, as the old maxim has it.

The Locked Chest

Let us backtrack from the sarcophagus, stepping into the connecting passage from the tomb proper and main atrium while trying not to disturb the quiet within this strange undercroft.

It is here, between rock-cut niches and heavily carved geometric details that we find our next object of interest.

Kahal is not an arid region. It receives frequent rains, while the cold-tacks see snow and frost blanket the plains. The air is often dry but the soil retains a seeping damp year-round — a fatal foe to materials like paper and wood. It is therefore miraculous that even after the passage of over two millenia and a worldwide upheaval, Katterly was able to find a delicate table standing defiantly by one wall of Gatohan’s tomb, atop which stood a small chest.

Measuring about three hands long by two deep, the chest is once more of kerriwood, decorated with carved scenes of birds fluttering and beasts prowling amongst dense vegetation, and sealed with an intricately fashioned lock.

Unwilling to clip this beautiful and very ancient object from the latch, the story goes that Katterly had a messenger dispatched to the nearby city of Uzjak to locate the best lock-pick around, and that a boy of twelve returned. Two hours it took — using all his skill and a devious set of tools — to open the lock, a testament to the fine craftsmanship and engineering skills of the ancient Ghirsan, after which as payment, the boy asked for a keepsake from the tomb.

In response, Katterly gave him one of the fine kinetic torches the team themselves used. A valuable if prankish gift, which the boy apparently never sold.

Whether this anecdote is true or not, the lock was indeed removed without damage, at which point the box was opened to reveal not gold or jewels, but something even more valuable…

The Record Cache

Nearly three hundred thin wooden cards were waiting patiently to breathe fresh air again once the chest was opened. And while they don’t look like much at first glance, each has proved invaluable for providing rare glimpses into the inner workings of a kingdom whose records, letters, receipts, and stories are largely lost.

It is certainly the case that in ancient Zisht, bureaucracy was a robust component of the state apparatus. We know from other, more recent finds that records were kept of every kind of event and transaction, no matter how small, and that almost every citizen partook in their own bookkeeping. But the cards found in the Locked Chest are unique, for they come right from the top of the social strata and therefore reveal how the wax in that highest echelon dripped.

The writing medium used was not ink, but a kind of dark, sap-like resin which dried and set with a slightly raised profile, and was likely squeezed from a small, sharp-ended reed stalk held in the fingers like a pen. This gives the creme-coloured cards a beautiful appearance — especially when placed in sunlight whereupon the script gives off a glinting shimmer.

Among the collection are banquet receipts, which provide a list of foods procured for a grand event, from smoked fish and meats to loaves of bread, wild berries, whipped and sweetened milk (i.e. cream), and even the herbs to be placed on the banquet table, which include hirabon, mekk, and gitta root.

On other cards we find the various artisans and the paraphernalia required to decorate the Hearing Hall in preparation for an international delegation — bunting of woven grass-rope with dyed waxen fabric streamers, candles scented with precious oils, pottery and ceramicware of the finest quality, even a flock of ‘the most radiant shim-birds’ (which are probably kipkips) with clipped wings to be housed in a large aviary.

There are records of interactions between important members of state, orders given to city planners, sanitation crews, travelling minstrels, even rules which are to be etched into stone and erected around the city.

Perhaps most valuable of all, however, are the letters and speeches. Many of these offer fascinating and enticing morsels like the names of various high officials and their duties, references to arcane rituals and practises, and on one occasion a reference to the kingdom before Gatohan’s reign.

In this latter account, short though it is, we are given to understand that the city lay in the hands of a tyrannical leadership who are said to have taken control of the kingdom rapidly and by force — perhaps explaining why so much emphasis was placed on peaceful rule on the Inheritance Spear — and that this council was comprised of thirteen ‘faces’.

Each of these faces was supposedly responsible for a different facet of the society, though it seems there was much corruption, infighting, and ineptitude on their part, the consequences being that, unelected and largely immune to criticism or accountability, these officials did as they saw fit and benefited themselves extravagantly, while passing their hereditary offices down for a long time. Exactly how long is unclear, though we hear of ‘the decades of hush’ and ‘the century of hunger’, which sound ominous indeed. And whatever the duration, it is clear that life in Zisht under their control seems to have been difficult.

Then, quite abruptly this governance seems to have collapsed, at once alleviating some great vexations but also leaving the situation precarious. Here, a power-vaccuum inevitably opens up and the kingdom narrowly avoids full collapse while various despotic parties assert violent claims to rule. It is the public at large who are to be thanked for stopping any of them from taking control, apparently, with Gatohan rising from the tumult to become the eventual panpharmacon.

Again, we must be cautious when interpreting the distant past, especially when our source of information is written by our subject himself — or those very close to him — but our current state of research seems to confirm that in this period, society was unpleasant and dysfunctional and never breached an acceptable level of prosperity, and that it was Gatohan who reversed this trend dramatically. At least for a time.

The ‘Record Chest’ contained precisely two-hundred and eighty-six cards covering a period of forty-three years, the very first of which is dated to the day of Gatohan’s inauguration.

Here, we read a record of court proceedings and visitors received, and see the effect this momentous occasion seems to have had on the populace.

“Praises! Praises! You have come to deliver us from chaos,” states one Pizarahak, one of the city’s prominent merchants, “and we gratefully grasp your guiding hands.”

“May your rule be temperate and prudent. May it be a balm to our wounds. May it still arrows in flight, and open clenched fists,” says Dadacadil, which is somewhat ironic for his role is recorded as ‘Cityblade’ — a low-ranking member of the army.

Perhaps the most intriguing of these early statements comes from a citizen named Limihawa, a noble with some clout as her title, ‘Mistress of the Eastern Quarter’ suggests. “Great Gatohan. In this time of need, I turn my hands to you. I turn my thoughts to you. I turn my ears to you. Yet I dare not turn my gaze upon you for risk of being dazzled by radiance. I trust only that you stand behind us as sunrise stands behind the horizon, ready to break upon the world, and know that your stewardship will transform shadow into light, and cruelty to valour.”

Eloquent and evocative, this statement captures the strange glamour which had settled over the populace in their almost wholesale acceptance of their new ruler upon his ascendance. The prevailing air is one of optimism and respect, while a golden age now opens up to the citizens of Zisht. Over the next couple of decades we read in various cards of crops becoming mroe fruitful than ever before, of the city’s growing wealth and splendour. We read of near-miracles like the penniless finding baskets of food, garments, twine and leather in their homes, or water in wells long since dried up. It seems the people’s era of suffering is at an end.

Sadly, this period was not to endure. In a letter from the thirty-fifth year, we read that changes are once again occurring in Zisht.

“My fellow Lord Zemag tells me you have furnished him with 1,000 Tchim (the currency of Zisht). I therefore ask my ruler the great Gatohan for 2,000 Tchim, so that I may impress upon Zemag that I am the more favoured of your Grace. Do this, and I shall hold a great feast every day for three weeks in your honour, and he shall be humbled by it. You provided rain and sunshine enough to secure abundant crops these last thirty-two years. Continue to support me, your talented subject Maniko, by giving me much Tchim, and I will see these plans through to our mutual benefit.”

“I now have a large and lovely estate,” reads another. “I have gardens, seats, cushions, birds and fountains, everything my heart could desire and all because your Grace has made it so. Why, then, am I not happy? Why do you torment me with sadness? Why not give me the happiness I desire as well? Do so, and I shall remain your loyal subject. Do not, and I shall place that loyalty at another’s feet.”

This marked shift in attitude — from adoring and optimistic to peurile and demanding — is disturbing, and it was not to wane. Indeed, as we draw towards the final seasons of Gatohan’s reign we find the public statements and corespondence losing all undertones of courtesy and reverence. Soon enough, things grow dire indeed.

“I am sick of my brother’s arrogance and pride. I no longer care to deal with him,” grumbles a certain Akanakan in a letter from year forty one. “He thinks only of himself and never of me. Never do I hear words of praise on his lips, never compliments. So I have come before you and wish you to strike him down. I care not how. Be it a malady or an accident. And I would gratefully take his estate, when this is done. I ask you to be quick about it, for I am weary and have no more patience.”

This avaricious quote comes from one of the last cards in the Chest, and the subsequent two maintain the general tone of dissatisfaction, with citizens making absurd demands of their once-beloved leader — though neither entreat for murder — before the final card, written by Overseer of the Four Quarters, Hankishak, ends our glimpse into the daily doings of the court.

“Our empire is the greatest in all of Tonapash [Kahal]. We have the most wealth, the most fertile fields, the mightiest buildings and the strongest population. But we have not the respect of our neighbours, who taunt and goad and see us not as their superiors. Give us now machines capable of raining destruction upon them. Give us an army, and we will subdue every goader and show them our greatness. Now is the time for Zisht to become mighty, and for all others to quake beneath her foot.”

By this point in time, therefore, it seems the population have forgotten the conditions of Gatohan’s ascendance, imposed either by the goddess or themselves depending on how we want to see it. Now, violence, force, and indeed war itself seem to have wormed their way into the public psyche as solutions to seemingly inane problems. Perhaps this is why, without ceremony, without even a whisper, Gatohan now vanishes from the record.

Indeed, not just the record, but from history itself. Soon, his own culture would forget about him, lapsing back into chaos and disorder, their city falling into squalour and eventually ruin only to be claimed by the grass and silt and ash of the steppe, itself forgotten by the world.

We do not know how Gatohan’s end came about or what it entailed. Perhaps it was murder? Perhaps revolt? Perhaps, disillusioned and unable to endure the onslaught of petty demands any more, he fled?

What we do know for certain is that at some point, someone decided to construct the tomb which Katterly was to find almost three thousand years later. This person or group was to carefully gather the various objects and belongings of the Regent, fold them, stack them, or lay them with almost tender diligence in that underground cache.

Clearly, though Gatohan and the golden age were over, some support lingered.

Humble Clues

A hint as to who this party might have been comes from two tiny objects located in the tomb, both of which could easily have been overlooked.

One is a feather, dyed in a fashion that identifes its owners as the Vukk tribe, based in a nearby valley. These star-worshipping agriculturists lived close enough to travel to Zisht on foot in less than a day, and were likely frequent visitors.

The other clue is even more unlikely. A bootprint left in spilled powder, whose jar probably broke during interrment. Powder made of magnesium carbonate such as this was routinely used to enhance grip in ancient Zisht during activities like rope-pulling and other athletic exploits, and hints that the adult Gatohan still partook in the activities of his youth.

As for the bootprint, we are once again thankful to Dr. Katterly for taking such extraordinary care with her documentation. Her detailed pencilled renderings allowed later researchers to determine that the print belonged to yet another tribe, this time from further along the valley-chain to the east, whose name is sadly forgotten but whose footwear is distinct and identifiable.

We know that Gatohan worked hard during his rule to foster peace with neighbouring tribes, extending invitations to trade in Zisht’s marketplace or to attend grand cultural celebrations, and confering gifts upon them as tokens of goodwill. In special cases, he even layed honorary citizenship upon them, allowing some tribes to take part in decisionmaking and even policy.

Perhaps it was these foreigners, then, who took on the duty of honouring a figure who had been kind to them, but who had been shunned by his own people? It is unlikely that these small traces could have been left behind by anyone else.

Peering into the stone sarcophagus, its dark and almost waxen inner surface glittering under our torchlight, we find a peculiar scene confronting us. Here, Katterly discovered a vest, shirt, belt, trousers, boots, a cloak, and at the far end resting upon a cushion, a bronze mask. In short, a whole and splendid outfit, all laid out as if placed upon a body. Except of course, that there was none.

Whenever Gatohan appeared, whether to make a speech, or to greet peasant or leader alike, he wore this mask. In the records and artifacts which remain, we can be reasonably certain that he was never seen without it. Which also means, curiously, that perhaps he was never seen at all.

If we take Tevek’s supposition up, then the Masked Regent was merely a whiff of fantasy concocted by a desperate and somewhat mystically-inclined culture, perhaps as a mass-delusion intended to salve their problems and provide stability. And Tevek finds support for this rationale in statements like Limihawa’s above, in which citizens routinely avert their gaze from the ruler when in his presence — the reason for doing so apparently out of fear of his radiance burning their eyes.

But can we really take these statements as literal? Should we? While it is curious to note that in many accounts, Gatohan is said to appear as no more than a ‘bright light’ or even a ‘white-flame’, as if these people were in the presence of some kind of phenomenon, rather than an actual person, it is of course absurd to go so far as to suggest the populace of Zisht were in the presence of an actual deity!

Might these statements and descriptions not just as reasonably be construed as signs of adoration, designed to emphasise Gatohan’s status or flatter his ego? Once again, Tevek’s speculates that perhaps this ‘glow’ was a myth concocted by the pretender himself, in order that people never look upon him or glean details of his true appearance under the mask.

On this point, the present author tends to agree, for it would provide answers to some difficult questions, not the least of which is how a figure of Gatohan’s prominence could vanish without a trace, and why no physical remains were interred. Perhaps ‘he’ was simply a member of the public, or even many members, all of whom took up the role in turn, and who simply took the mask off and went back to their lives when disillusionment set in.

Either way, the mysterious period of Gatohan’s rule constituted the highest-point in the history of Zisht, which was never again to attain such status or cultivation.

The Final Mystery

Let us return at last to the question we began with. An issue of much speculation and contention. For how exactly did Katterly know where to find Gatohan's tomb?

There is no question of blind chance, for she sunk her spade in precisely the right spot down to the metre, a feat which given the vast tract of land in question definitively rules chance out. Yet Katterly’s own words on the subject have been frustratingly scant, as all material pertaining to her personal life seems to be.

The only means of illumination we have, come from her assistant, Mr. F. Jeno, who recorded in his journal a night spent in quiet celebration together after the expedition was complete.

‘There we sat,’ he wrote, ‘under the stars of the steppe and under generous influence from a well-aged red wine, when Dr. Katterly uttered something which even in my inebriated state it felt prudent to persue. A phrase in Ghirs, which caused great confusion as despite all the work our team had done on decipherment, I did not think she knew how to speak that tongue. The utterance had furthermore come between a giddy chuckle and a solemn stare at a small pendant from the tomb, one of the last objects we had found which glinted in the crackling, dying flames of our campfire.’

Upon asking Dr. Katterly to repeat this phrase, she apparently feigned ignorance and said that Mr. Jeno had misheard, and there the matter rested until two years later, when Mr. Jeno again picked up the thread.

It had taken as long to track down the closest surviving spoken relative of Ghirs, which Mr. Jeno did, and which turned out to be spoken by none other than the Vukk tribe, who still survive. This curious people retain two strands of language, Vukkam, their everyday tongue, and Ghirs, the tongue for storytelling. Asking one of their lorekeepers to translate the phrase Mr. Jeno had heard, the old man apparently smiled and replied quite simply, ‘Request his presence and if the need is strong enough, he shall appear.’

This line is from a story all Vukk know and which, according to the lorekeeper, predates Gatohan’s time in Zisht. Indeed, it mentions many previous times of darkness, when a leader is said to have emerged to lead the people to light again.

It is curious to note that after Dr. Katterly’s discovery and subsequent media coverage, the trend of wearing a mask seems to again have gained traction within our political elite. Indeed, though it need not perhaps be pointed out, our Great Hand now wears a fabric Gifnah, a piece of obscuring cloth on a band which does bear a good deal of resemblance to Gatohan’s wooden mask. More curious still, is that the discovery was made in a time of great strife, when we were enduring the pestilence and a period of great social and political unrest.

Perhaps Mr. Jeno was right, then, to suggest that Dr. Katterly’s discovery was the catalyst for our cultural recovery. And that, in finding his tomb, Dr. Katterly reawakened a faceless, spiritual guide that had been dormant for so long — at least in the public psyche — which led us, like the ancient Ghirsan, into a new age of prosperity.

I hope this little guide has been enlightening, and that it enhances your appreciation as you wander through our exhibit and view the beautiful objects on display.

• Iskamat, Curator, Dalan Museum of Antiquities’ Irsan Collection