Oondalagnadak: The Fodder of the Gods

A Word a Month Fic

By BadgerGater

[email protected]

Pairing: None

Season: Four/Early Five

Spoilers: None

Warnings: Drool towel may be needed. (Those of you young ladies under age 18, hide your eyes and close your imaginations, the rest of you, heck, I don’t have to give *you* any advice.)

Summary: To save SG-1, Jack must lead a new team on a quest

Ratings: PG (but it depends on how active your imagination is, mine keeps straying off to X-rated territory, but then, that’s me… )

Disclaimer: Stargate et al is the property of MGM, Gekko, Etc. etc. No copyright infringement intended.

Author’s Note: This is my 97th posted fic… I’m a little backlogged on those word a month fics, but here’s another installment in Tanya, Chris & Doc’s little word game.... Especially for Kelly...

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The natives babbled excitedly at Daniel as O'Neill stood back and watched carefully. Daniel was still smiling happily, so Jack's danger warning hadn't gone to red alert. Not then, anyway. SG-1's archaeologist was working on the language, frowning as he listened intently. "An offshoot of Egyptian. Here and there I hear a word that matches Abydonian, but only occasionally. I should have this figured out in a bit," he said, smiling at the rest of the team.

They marched through a city that looked a lot like the one on Abydos, Jack thought. The people seemed to be of some North African descent, similar to the Egyptians, Daniel explained as they followed the natives from the park, through an area of lush, irrigated gardens, and into narrow streets of hard packed smooth stones.

“If they’re Egyptian, how come they look…like that?” O’Neill pointed at one of the natives. Although from a distance looking entirely human, they were all far shorter than any of the members of SG-1, and most had patches of odd, parti-colored skin. “That’s not human.”

Carter had been studying them as well. “I’d say it’s the environment here, Sir. The unusual radiation pattern of this sun…”

“Radiation, Major?” O’Neill asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, Sir, nothing dangerous in the short term, but I imagine over generations of exposure, it could cause skin mutations like that.”

“And their size? The sun shrinks them?”

Carter shook her head. “I’m not sure about that, Sir, but it could be something as simple as poor nutrition.”

SG-1 and their new friends walked on through the city.

Space was evidently at a premium in this town, or maybe these people had a gardening fetish, O'Neill mused as he walked along, always alert to their surroundings. Not an inch of ground was wasted. What wasn't building or street was covered with a carpet of lush greenery. Houses were of a sort of primitive baked tan brick, packed closely together, rising two or three stories, tall and narrow. They were decorated with carvings or drawings that even to O'Neill's untrained eye were obviously Egyptian. As if he could fail to notice, what with Daniel maintaining a running commentary that Jack had tuned out after the first half dozen mentions of Ramses, Tutankhamen and Imhotep.

Finally, SG-1 and their hosts reached another small open area at the far end of the town. A man in gaudy yellow robes stood on a small raised platform, and began speaking loudly.

"Gods? Oh great, what, we've come just in time for the goulds' annual snakeheads rule convention?" O'Neill's suspicions were growing.

Daniel was listening intently to the native's rapid fire talk, occasionally nodding, then asking more questions. After a moment or two, he turned back to the team. "None of the gods come here. That's not what the gathering is about."

"You're sure?" The Colonel had a sudden bad feeling about this.

"Well, I can't make out every word, but that part's plain. They've never met the Glowing Eyed People, although he says there are very old paintings in the temple that show the glowing eyed ones coming through the gate, and taking away the most exalted of the Orphradine..."

"The Orphradines?" Carter asked.

"The people here, they're the Orphradines. They're waiting for the gods to come and take them back," Daniel paused to listen again, "back to their home beside the blue waters." Jackson's eyes were alight with excitement. "I'm guessing that may be the Nile River they're talking about. I think these people were probably sent through the Stargate thousands of years ago, perhaps even before the pyramids were built. This is incredible, a true ancient Nile River society..."

"Just slow down a bit, here, Danny." Jack laid a calming hand on the enthusiastic scholar's shoulder.

"But Jack, I've got to see their paintings."

"Okay, eager beaver. You'll get to go look at your paintings." When Daniel appeared ready to immediately disappear down a narrow street toward the temple, Jack waved a warning finger in the younger man's face. "Later, Daniel. First we feast with Ollie here, and learn what he knows about our friends, those nifty glowing eyed folks. Then you can go play art critic. You and Carter both."

Once they'd dined, Daniel sat between his teammates and Ooolagak and some of his top advisors, translating for his team between rounds of rapid conversation. The archaeologist/linguist was in his element. As the evening progressed, the translating got shorter while Daniel and the natives’ conversations got longer and longer.

Finally, losing his patience, O'Neill tapped Jackson on the shoulder. "Excuse me, Daniel, a word, please? Over here." Jack stood and Daniel followed, until they were standing several yards away from the others. "And just what are you boys talking about? Huh? Care to clue me in?" the Colonel whispered.

"Jack, our timing is perfect. We’re here for the most important occasion of this society’s whole year, the key event of their culture. Their whole year revolves around this special event, this annual ceremony. They have this ritual, Jack, connected with the harvest. From what I can tell, the nearest thing would be something like our Olympics, I'd guess. It's a contest as well as a religious event, and it's extremely important to everyone here. And because we arrived at the time of this Gathering for the Gods, they want us to participate. It's a significant honor to be a participant."

"And do what?"

"Well, help them with the ritual."

"I got that part. This ritual is what, exactly?"

"I don't know. Yet. I'm still working on it. The word doesn't translate exactly."

"But inexactly it translates to what?" Jack demanded.

"Well I'm not sure I've got it right."

"Tell me anyway."

"And maybe I've got the whole idea wrong..."

O'Neill's patience was wearing thin. "Tell me, Daniel. An approximation will do, just so I have an idea whether I should be a bit paranoid, or really paranoid."

"I'm a bit uncertain yet..."

"I know. I can see that. Tell me."

"Jack, this would be a very inexact answer."

"Tell me anyway."

"I don't know if I should..."

The Colonel's patience ended. "Tell me!"

"Well, it seems that we need to appoint one of our team to be part of this, ah, event they're having."

"Appoint, as in chose?"

"Yes."

"Chose to do what?"

"That's what I'm a little unsure of."

Jack looked over at the natives. Even though he didn't recognize the language, he could tell, by the loud voices and vehement gestures, that they were definitely debating something. "What are they saying?"

“Well, that guy,” Daniel pointed at a man wearing the ornate robes of a priest and standing next to Ooolagak, “ the priest, doesn’t really want us taking part in anything because we’re outsiders and strangers. Ooolagak and that guy,” Daniel waved a hand at another man, ”think we should be in the ceremony. And since Ooolagak is the mayor, his word is law.”

“So we’re in?” Jack asked.

"Well, not exactly 'we.' They're saying that Teal'c can't participate because of the Jaffa thing..." Daniel pointed to his own forehead, making a circular motion.

Jack nodded. "Okay. Got that."

"And Carter can't participate because she's a woman."

"Well, that's a dumb reason."

"It's their reason, not mine, Jack. Many cultures have rules strictly limiting the role of women within the society, certain tasks, especially ceremonial or religious tasks, they may be prohibited from participating in..."

"Ack!" Jack waved a finger at his team's archaeologist/linguist/cultural expert. "No lectures. Okay, I get it, Carter can't either."

"And I can't because I'm a scholar, a man of words. So I'm not allowed to."

"Because?" O'Neill tilted his head in that 'give me an answer I can believe this time' look.

Daniel adjusted his glasses, not meeting Jack's gaze. "Ah, because scholars are of great value on this world and aren't sent out to do other, um, worldly tasks, that might take them away from, ah, their main task of being ah, scholarly."

Jack had a dark look on his face. "So I'm 'chosen' because I'm the only one left, is that it? So they pick me because I'm not a woman, not a Jaffa and not important."

"Well, ah, yeah." Daniel didn’t meet Jack’s glare.

"And this is a contest of some kind?"

"Physical skill and endurance."

"Just my kind of thing then," O'Neill smirked.

"Well, ah..."

"Now what's the problem? Those guys are at least a head shorter than I am, and I'm sure I outweigh them by at least 30 lbs a piece, and since I've had a *bit* of hand to hand training and a *smidgen* of combat experience, I don't think they could outfight me, at least not dressed like that," Jack pointed at the nearly naked natives. "So what's the problem?"

"Ah, well, they ah..."

"Spit it out."

"Just remember, they said it, not me."

"Tell me."

"I didn't say I agreed with them."

"Tell me, Daniel."

"I'm just the messenger, Jack."

"Tell me!" O'Neill's voice was getting louder with each exchange.

"They, ah, think you're too old."

"What?" O'Neill looked across at the natives. "Okay, just because there's a little gray in my hair, they think I'm old? Doesn't mean I'm too old for anything these guys can dish out." His voice dropped. "Carter, don't smirk at your CO."

"Daniel, I thought you told me it was games, like the Olympics."

"Well, sort of."

"Sort of?" O'Neill's voice was rising once again.

"Jack, shh. Keep your voice down. They get upset when you yell."

"I don't yell. I command. Loudly."

"Well, um, Jack, don't command quite so loudly. They don't like it. And this ritual, it's not just games but some sort of rite of passage, too, a test of courage for the young men."

"I'll be perfect for the job then," the Colonel reiterated. “Young. Athletic. Courageous.”

The natives walked toward SG-1, the leader speaking rapidly.

Daniel listened intently, his face going whiter.

"Daniel?" Jack asked, worry suddenly tingling along his backbone.

"Ah, well, ah, we're definitely in their little Olympics event, Jack. You are, actually, representing us. It's some sort of endurance test, having to do with the harvest. Starts tomorrow and goes on for six days and nights."

"Six days and nights?" O'Neill was incredulous.

"Well, that's what they're going to do. And Jack," Daniel's face was tight with concern. "Those who complete the challenge are beloved of the gods and earn their families bread and foodstuffs for the next year."

"We're not going to be here for a year," O'Neill insisted. “Maybe we shouldn’t even be here for their six day Olympics.”

O’Neill glared at SG-1’s linguist. “You’re not sure?”

Daniel shook his head. “It’s another one of those words that has no direct translation, Jack. Those who fail the test….

“What, flunk? Get held back a year? Have to repeat kindergarten?”

“No, it’s something much more significant. They lose their place among the people, and must perform oondalagnadak.”

“Oohlahlah-what? Ah, sort of like getting demoted back to airman and scrubbing latrines?”

Daniel frowned, a look of uncertainty on his face. “Something like that, I guess. But whatever it is they lose, it’s significant. And their whole families, their clans, all share the same loss.”

“And the winners? No gold medals I take it.”

“So what happens if *I’m* a winner? I don't intend to make this place my new vacation home.”

“Apparently, we get invited to the big feast and are treated like royalty.”

“And if I lose?”

“Ah, apparently we get kicked out of the city.”

“Through the Stargate, I presume?”

Daniel shrugged. “They didn’t say exactly.”

O’Neill glared at the archeologist. “Well, I think you’d better find out. And soon.”

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SG-1 was given a small house to use as their own for the night. O'Neill slept well, all things considered, but then, he'd been military for a long time, and one of the survival skills you learned was to sleep when you could sleep. So, he slept, snoring softly.

At dawn, there were voices outside the building, calling to the strangers.

"Jack, you're wanted," Daniel translated.

O'Neill was first out of the house, pushing aside the leather flap that served as a door. The rest of SG-1 followed quickly on his heels and accompanied the leaders to the center of the village. Hundreds of natives were gathered, tightly packed in the small square, eerily silent in the pale light of dawn. The chief once again climbed up onto the small platform and began to speak.

Daniel listened intently, translating key points briefly in a low voice. "The chief is exhorting the contestants to do their best for their families and their clans. The ritual is about to start, and he's reminding them that they must be back in six days in order to be a, ah, winner. Now he's going to gather the finalists from each ah, clan, I guess it would be."

The chief descended, and slowly walked from group to group, each family sending out one representative to join the growing cluster of young men now huddling at the center of the village. Finally, the chief stood before SG-1.

"Who represents your clan?"

Jack repeated the words Daniel had taught him. "Ashta delaga oonce beten O'Neill damn it."

"Dabbit, Jack, dabbit." Daniel whispered.

"Dabbit," Jack repeated.

The chief turned to his advisors, their quiet rapid fire exchange flying too swiftly for Jackson to follow.

"What are they saying?" Jack tilted his head and asked anxiously.

"Something about verifying that you don't have one of those Jaffa tattoos, like Teal'c," Daniel answered. "It would be an affront to the god."

"Well, for crying out loud, they can see, can't they?" said Jack removing his hat to make sure they could determine his forehead was definitely not decorated with a tattoo, Jaffa or otherwise.

The chief and his advisors crowded around, still talking, finally saying something to Jackson, who flushed.

"Ah, Jack..."

O'Neill just knew he wasn't going to like what was coming next. "Now what?"

"They still aren't sure."

"Huh?"

"They need to know there's not a Goa'uld tattoo on you anywhere else," Daniel's eyes flickered from the chief to O'Neill, "because if you have one, you're disqualified. You don't have any tattoos, do you?"

"Actually, ah, yeah, I do."

"Well, good," Daniel started, then spun around to look at the Colonel, surprised. "You do?"

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "Back in my wild and carefree youth.. On a bet...Special Forces thing. So, guess that settles that," the Colonel stepped back.

"Not quite," Daniel sounded apologetic.

"Now what?" annoyance flooded O'Neill's question.

"Ah, well, ah, Jack, they want to see it. Ah, you have to strip."

"Here? In front of everyone?"

"Ah, yeah," Daniel agreed softly.

Well, he'd been in the military since he was 18 and he'd never been prudish about the naked human body, so what the hell? Off came the briefs. O'Neill stood, suppressing the shiver at the feel of the cold dawn air, staring straight ahead as the chief, his 42 assistants and at least three fourths of the tribe, including all of the women, proceeded to stare at every inch of him, including the American Eagle tattoo on his left cheek.

Enduring their inspection, Jack thanked God for being tall, because he could keep his eyes front and center and never have to meet the gaze of a single one of the short, squat natives.

O’Neill heard a giggle. “Carter, that better not be you or your next evaluation will get you demoted to lieutenant. Second lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said, crisply.

Jack shivered. "They done yet?" he finally asked through teeth gritted to keep from chattering in the cold air.

"Ah, well..."

"What are they saying?"

"Ahh... "

"Daniel..." there was warning in O'Neill's voice.

"Jack, you don't..."

"Daniel!"

"Ah, well, they're saying they've never seen anyone quite so pale..."

"Hey, I left the sunlamp at home..."

"And a chest quite so hairless..."

"Now wait a minute. I've got a lot of chest hair. It's just gray. Doesn't show up much..."

"And, ahh, *other* parts, that are ahh, ahh..."

"Quite so manly?" Jack suggested.

"Ahh, quite so small..."

"Well, Holy Buckets, what do they expect, it's cold out here." O'Neill shivered. "And they're supposed to be looking at the tattoo, not... Are they done yet? Because I'm gonna be catching pneumonia any second now."

The chief nodded imperceptibly.

Daniel sighed in relief. "Done. They've never seen a Goa'uld symbol like your tattoo, and I explained that the eagle is sort of the symbol of our tribe. So they decided it's okay, you're in. You can get dressed. But you've got to wear what they wear."

O'Neill already had one leg into his briefs. "No law against wearing underwear under that stuff, is there?" he asked with disgust, looking at the coarse cloth.

Daniel and the high priest exchanged a few words. "Okay, Jack, because you're so much taller than the others, they said it's okay, you can wear your own trousers and boots. You have to wear one of their shirts and let them paint your face, though. And no weapons."

“Okay, now that’s going too far.”

“No weapons,” Daniel pointed at a ceremonial table covered with small knives. “Those are the only weapons you can take with you.”

Jack nodded, bending over to pull his own knife from his boot, handing it to Daniel. At the same time, he palmed the 9mm that had been tucked into his other boot. “Here, hide this in our room then. We might need it later,” the Colonel whispered.

“Jack, these people are friendly. I don’t think there’s any need…”

“Daniel, just do it. Write if off to my over-active paranoia, but better safe than sorry. I don’t like this one bit.”

O’Neill looked across the square at the young men, and felt a chill go down his spine. It was hard to read their alien faces, but he thought he saw, not religious fervor or excitement, but worry, even fear, or so it seemed. ‘There’s more here than meets the eye,’ the Colonel thought. “Daniel, I’m not sure exactly what’s at stake here. But I don't have to speak the language to know it’s important. I can see it on their faces. Those people are worried. Some are downright scared.”

Half an hour later, the ceremony finally concluded, O'Neill joined the other contestants, wearing an open necked native shirt above his desert camo trousers. His face was painted with colorful red and yellow designs reminiscent of a Native American warrior. There were about 50 young men, some little more than boys, it seemed. Well, he thought as he looked over the competition, old age and treachery beat youth and inexperience any day. Of course, he didn't have any experience at *this* little game they were about to play, but he was damn good at improvising. It was one of the talents Special Ops demanded.

The priest came through, alongside the chief, and divided the men into groups. "Teams," Daniel called out in explanation as the priest gestured for Jack to join one of the groups. When the teams were set, O'Neill looked around at his new teammates and grinned. "Okay, kids, it's us versus them." They didn't know what he said, but they grinned back.

The people began to chant. The great city gate swung open and the teams marched out, starting across the flat, arid plain toward the distant hills. Within moments, the figures disappeared from view in a roiling cloud of dust raised by dozens of hurrying feet.

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