Language is a curious thing.
Ōmizu-koku. Literally, Great Water Nation. Great water here referring, of course, to the Sea within the island nation. Also referring, perhaps, to the expansive seas that cloaked the island nation. But most probably, the name of this newly born nation referred to the sea. And what a unique sea it was. A long, curved sea that stretched farther than the eye could see. A sea that housed such a variety of fauna that the fish in it alone could sustain the few and far between peoples of Ōmizu-koku. A sea that was abode to such clean, such pure water, such that it might not be properly called a sea, but rather a lake.
But what kind of lake was so expansive? What kind of lake held such secretive depths to itself? What kind of lake threatened and made good on its threats to swallow the bodies and souls of unfortunate peoples with its tides as the seas did? Surely, to the people of Ōmizu-koku, whom only knew of lakes not even a thousandth, one ten-thousandth the breadth of this monstrous body, such a pool of water could not be labeled by the same name of lake as those precious smaller sloughs of sweet, sweet water. Surely it had to be a sea? At least, this was the thought process that more or less vexed the inhabitants of Ōmizu-koku. Was it a lake, or was it a sea?
It was a lake. This much was known.
It was a sea. This much was also known.
It was a lake expanded to fit the physical notions of a sea. This much was argued.
Yet, at the same time, it was a sea masquerading in its subtleties as a lake. This much was also argued.
At any rate, it was the case, that at some indeterminate point in time, assuredly by the doing of some brilliant mind whom resided in Ōmizu-koku, that this lake-sea must be assigned a name, denoted some amalgamation of sounds to differentiate it from all the other lakes, all the other seas, all the other bodies of water that also claimed home to Ōmizu-koku. In hindsight, as many contemporarily brilliant decisions are, the new nomenclature bestowed upon the sea-lake seemed almost asinine in nature.
Awaumi.
Literally, Light Sea or Fresh Sea. Perhaps the best way to combine the attributes of seas and lakes, but certainly the dullest. Regardless, it was this new name that was stuck to the curious anomaly that was both a sea and a lake. Awaumi. And as it turns out, this name, ancient beyond comparison, would last until the present day. Whenever that is.
And as it would also turn out, this new name would also lend its method of origin to the as of yet unnamed peoples who inhabited Ōmizu-koku and who fished in Awaumi and who tended the fertile plains that shrouded their great beloved lake-sea. These very same people were to be known, by some equally indistinguishable point in time, by some equally arbitrary reasoning, the Awajū. The light people, this naming was actually very clever in comparison to the utterly drab logic and reason, or lack thereof, for that matter, of their time. Light referring perhaps to their porcelain complexion, light referring perhaps to the freshness of the water that filled their precious sea-lake, light referring perhaps to their preoccupation with the sun, the sun that warmed them, the sun that afforded light to them, the sun that blossomed their crops and brought fish to surface, the sun that embodied, curiously, to the Awajū, life.
Naturally, the subtleties, the complexities of the processes from which plants derive energy from sunlight, which we now christen photosynthesis, and the reasoning behind which fish were drawn to the sun-bathed surface of the Awaumi, which we may now attribute to their cold-bloodedness and for the necessity of the species residing in the Awaumi (for as has been mentioned this lake-sea has uniquely kept its name through the ages) to maintain a higher than average body temperature, must have escaped the in comparison to now simplistic minds of the Awajū. As far as they were concerned, the rise of the sun brought about the jumping of fish, and the blossoming of flowers and the growth of crops. The scientific details, the methodologies behind these unique coincidences and quirks, those details and methodologies which would continue to elude the human mind for millennia, operated in seclusion from the blissful ignorance of the Awajū. And these people, the Awajū, incapable of comprehending the sheer stature and sheer magnitude of the mechanics and dynamics that dictate the workings of their crops, their flowers, their fish, their lake-sea, attributed everything to the sun.
This was another conjecture at another indeterminate point in time that was equally as fallacious and equally as simplistic, and perhaps even more overarching and generic than the former two assignments (those of Awaumi and Awajū
. It was an abstraction that would, unbeknownst to its originators, have immense ramifications on the religious structure and ideological developments of Ōmizu-koku and those states that succeeded it. It was the aforementioned assignment of all the workings of the world to the sun. As it turns out, the sun makes a fantastic proto-deity. With no eye protection (as the Awajū quite obviously lacked), to look directly at the sun, this ball of hot fire, of bright light that flew incomprehensibly high in the sky, was to risk losing or damaging sight. To the simple, superstitious minds of the Awajū, this threat to their vision was easily attributed to deifying their local star and assuming that their artificial divinity shunned any attempt to look upon its undefined form by striking at the eyes of the Awajū. The oft-misunderstood eclipses were periods of rest for the sun, though they still served to frighten the unaware and uncomprehending Awajū. Excepting these anomalous periods, however, the Awajū had developed a mutual understanding with the sun, mostly through trial and error and through the development of superior farming and fishing techniques. So long as the Awajū continued to till their soil and fish their sea-lake, so long as they respected the domain of their sun-deity by not defiling his or her or its presence with their gaze, their sun-deity would accord them a fine harvest, a good catch, and lasting harmony. As far as the Awajū were concerned, this was a mutually binding contract, one that would dictate, as we can now see, agricultural development and social stratification in Ōmizu-koku.
But, as with any abstract social construction that in the interest of developing a culture must be solidified and consolidated, this sun-deity had to be accorded a name. Ōka was the assigned name, the name that would allow their deity to develop a cult, an image, a personality, and most important of all, stories. Indeed, the contract with Ōka would lead to the development of a veritable demiurge from the sun, one created entirely by the Awajū peoples and being an entirely culturally Awajū phenomenon. It would be the rise of Ōka as a god that would force Awajū society to develop an intricate temple hierarchy, and eventually lead to the consolidation of Ōmizu-koku as a cohesive, united state.
Of course, however, all this would take time, time that the various members of early Awajū society would not have, nor their children, nor even their grandchildren. This development of Ōmizu-koku into a veritable, culturally unique society would take centuries, far extending past the contemporary forme of Ōmizu-koku. But at the same time, it is entirely apparent that the earliest baptism of the sea-lake, of the people, of the sun-deity were indeed the first steps on this journey of a thousand miles, on this journey to develop a unique islander culture.
Obviously, only time will tell the extended ramifications and results of these rudimentary proceedings.
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In a short fit of inspiration, wrote this up really quickly today as an interlude to ChII. Experimenting with crossing textbook objectivity with implied omniscience or something along those lines.
