In a way, they were only ever defeated once.
But…
Colibrí pressed her head against her son’s brow, closing her eyes and ignoring his confusion. I know how hard it is to fight alone.
The words continued to echo through her mind, almost as if mocking her, but she was careful to never let them reach him.
Chapter 2
Narune stood naked in the warm sun. His mother crouched beside him, huffing in annoyance as she moved her ritual paintbrush. They had been here since dawn, long enough now that the morning was just coming to an end.
He grinned for what might have been the hundredth time.
“Naru,” his mother said through gritted teeth. She jabbed him with the other end of the brush. “You’re like the wings of my namesake! Stop moving, or I’ll draw the marks wrong and everyone will laugh at us.”
“Who, eh?” he asked. “The fish? The tree-lords?”
His mother narrowed her eyes up at him. “I can stop if it matters so little to you.”
“I'm only nipping.”
“Keep doing so and I'll bite.”
He wielded his most charming smile in defense and held it until she huffed again and then returned to her work. The paintbrush tickled as it flowed across his skin and the blood-red pigment left him itching, but with each stroke he came closer to wearing the first feat of his story. Even better, the symbols also revealed that he was on his way toward adulthood; sproutlings could neither hold oaths or declare feats as their own.
That left Narune very proud of the truth-marks his mother was painting on him. Eventually, they would be swept away by the motions of life, by sweat, movement, and absent scratching. The truths they had carried would then be absorbed them into him, making them a part of who he was. Narune would then wash away the meaningless residue with seawater.
He couldn’t wait to show Kisari and Ixchel, if only his mother would hurry.
“I’m touching you,” his mother said, the hand clamped around his calf squeezing for emphasis. “Don't be so loud with your thoughts.”
Hurry, he said to her, louder.
She gave him a heavy-lidded look.
Oi, I’m sorry! But see? Can’t you sense how much I appreciate all your work? Narune practically radiated appreciation across their bond, but somehow that only intensified her glare.
He was saved by the arrival of Kisari and Ixchel, who he spotted walking down along the beach from the direction of the village, feet bare and hands making lazy gestures as they spoke with each other.
Their conversation paused when they came close enough to spot the markings on his body, then their lips pursed as they read the largest.
“Sea and soil,” Ixchel said in greeting. Then she tilted her head. “Oi, so you finally earned your first markings! I was afraid we’d need to carry you against our hips before long.”
Narune ignored her nipping and stretched out in the sun, proud even though his markings were incomplete. Kisari laughed and moved closer to better examine them.
“Good for you, Naru,” Kisari said, grinning. She was Halfborn like Narune, the only other one in the archipelago besides his mother and him, but she borrowed from the appearance of the forest’s plants instead. Wide swathes of green that were textured like leaves or flower stems swirled around her body in almost decorative patterns. Her hair was long and unbraided, and within it, there were also thick green tendrils that maybe made up a quarter or more of her head. Flowers and leaves crowded them, usually of too many shapes, sizes, and colors to ever mistake as coming from a single plant, but she liked to pluck them and leave behind those that fit together in color or shape, even though it hurt.
They grew back quickly, so Narune supposed she might as well. Today her hair had curled leaves crested by bright blue and yellow flowers, and the flowers themselves had large, separated petals.
“A halja!” Ixchel claimed in disbelief from Narune’s other side even though she was reading truth-marks. “Did you really slay one?”
Narune grinned. “Are you accusing me of false marks?”
Lies were distasteful but they were also a natural part of being alive, just as deception was natural for many beasts and plants. At least lies left the body when they were spoken; turning a lie into a truth-mark, however, meant letting it become a part of you. Allow it often enough, and lies would be all you were and all you could make.
That wasn't an accusation you made with soft words.
Ixchel puffed her cheeks, nose already moving up into the air. “No, I'm not, but if you killed a halja then I could have killed it, too. I always beat you when we spar.” She gestured respectfully at his mother. “Or Mother Colibrí did most of the slaying.”
His mother snorted. “I wish I had done it all—the halja almost killed him.”
Narune waggled his eyebrows. “I'll have a scar from it.” He gestured to his shoulder where the halja’s first strike had landed. It was still wrapped in poultices, siphoning leaves, and cloth. “A very nice scar. Everyone will pause when they catch sight of it.”
“Best stop preening until you actually get it,” Ixchel muttered, but the envy in her voice seeped through.
Kisari laughed. “I'm sure it’ll leave everyone begging for you to tell its story.”
“Nip all you want,” he said to his friends. “I know you're jealous.” He glanced at his mother, who had been very patient while he spoke to his friends, and grimaced. “I'll, uh, come join you on the beach once she’s finished.”
Ixchel nodded and glanced at Kisari. “Shall we look for seashells to trade?”
“Or keep!” Kisari said, and giggled when Ixchel rolled her eyes. “Even you warriors need to look your best, eh? We’ll save some for you, Naru.”
He waved them off with a laugh as they left back the way they came and suddenly found himself filled with patience. His mother clucked her tongue and shook her head, but kept her thoughts to herself and focused on finishing his truth-markings.
A little later she leaned back and rubbed her lower back. “Seas aflame, I'm getting old.”
He beamed down at himself. The symbols crowding his flesh were angular and geometric to show they weren’t meant to be decorations. They ran across his face, down his neck and torso and flowing across his buttocks and thighs until they reached his feet. The truth-marks were exactly the right size, the patterns and shapes balanced along the curves of living flesh.
“They’re perfect!” he exclaimed in awe.
“Mm-hmm,” she said as she covered the little pot of ritual paint and stood. “Stand in the sun a little while longer so the last of it can dry.”
He nodded. “Can I spend the day with Ixchel and Kisari?”
“Yes, but don’t go off charging into the forest screaming warcries.”
“That can wait, then.”
His mother laughed. “Now, how about doing me a favor to show your gratitude? Could you fetch the jars of chicha that Lishan set aside for me?”
He nodded and then watched as she went back into their bohío. Narune waited a little longer until the paint no longer looked wet and had set into his skin. He then donned a breechcloth threaded with a harness for his knife and, having no need of his spear or warrior sandals, jogged north toward the village.
Ixchel and Kisari had migrated further west, off the beach and onto the grassy stretch of land that was the border between the sea and the forest. He greeted them, and then, after telling them of his task, the three of them made their way toward the knoll at the outer limits of the village where the old wisewoman lived in seclusion.
Narune’s friends prodded him for the story of his truth-marks along the way, but he refused their curiosity with a little difficulty, promising to tell them later, over a meal. He wanted to do his first retelling properly and a good story was told in the presence of equally good food and drink.
So, of course, Kisari instead asked him what he planned to do now that he on the path to adulthood.
“I bet you haven’t ev
en thought that far ahead,” Ixchel nipped.
Ixchel toyed with her warrior braid as she spoke, walking between him and Kisari. Sweat ran down their bare backs as they made their way closer to the tree line.
“I’ve thought about it a lot, actually,” Narune shot back. And he had. In fact, it was all he could think about these days. “I want to become a spiritseer.”
His friends exchanged looks, worry storming across their faces.
“Hasn’t Mother Colibrí bound you away from the village?” Kisari asked in a soft voice.
“My mother doesn't compel me very often, and she never does it just to get me to do what she wants,” Narune snapped, something sharp and hot jolting through him. Guilt followed as Kisari’s face colored and she averted her gaze, so he softened his voice. “Besides, I'm on my way to earning my adulthood. My mother will need to respect my choices the way I respect hers.”
“Well, they might let a Halfborn warrior go unchallenged with the hope you’ll just die in forest, but a spiritseer?” Ixchel shook her head. “There’s no way you’ll become one.”
“Ixchel!” Kisari exclaimed as she whirled, bringing them to a stop. “There are less cruel ways to say that.”
Ixchel shrugged. “It's the honest way to say it.” She made a face. “I want to become a spiritseer too, and would’ve loved to have Narune’s rivalry, but he forgets how everyone treats Halfborn like you two.”
Narune crossed his arms and glanced between them. “Oh? You're friends with us, Ixchel.”
“Ixchel adores the very thought of disobedience. She does it for fun!” Kisari snapped. “But neither of her fathers are pleased about her friendship with us. I would know, because they come complain about it to my mother often enough.”
“Well, you—”
“Only live in the village because my mother isn’t Halfborn, too,” Kisari interrupted. “And even so, my father is the warmaster. No one would ever tell him to throw us away. But being tolerated isn’t the same as being liked.”
Narune felt his fingers clenching and the hair on his ears and tail rising. He had hoped his friends would support his dream, but it didn't matter; he had thought about this for a very long time and he wouldn't be swayed so easily.
“I'm decided,” he announced, tail snapping to the side.
“Oh? And what if it's not your decision to make?” Kisari asked. “Narune, I’m telling you this because I care. The Spiritseer Circle will only laugh at you, if not do worse.”
“Does Mother Colibrí know?” Ixchel asked.
“No,” he admitted. “She thinks I plan on following her path as a warrior.”
“And why not? There’s nothing wrong with being a warrior. A spiritseer must be that and much more—it's a great burden. Besides, not all who challenge the Ritual of Fang and Feather make it to the end.”
“And yet,” Narune said hotly, “you want to be a spiritseer.”
“Yes, I'll try,” Ixchel said. Her smugness was both familiar and familiarly annoying. “Kisari might be right about me having a fondness for disobedience.”
Kisari snorted. “Well, it is convenient that being a spiritseer is so far from the crafts of your fathers, eh?”
From what Ixchel had told them, her fathers were well-known. One was a mender skilled in medicinal forest-lore, while the other was one of the village’s best spear and knife makers, and he also made other odds and ends like harnesses and canoes. Either would have been a worthy craft to inherit, but Narune knew that Ixchel only followed her own path.
“A coincidence, I'm sure,” Ixchel said with a grin. They resumed their journey, but the debate didn't end, and Narune found his very spirit itching all over by the time they reached the old wisewoman’s bohío. She burst out of it as they neared, long smooth stick in hand, and thudded it against Narune’s head.
“Oi!” Narune winced and leaped back. Kisari and Ixchel had already sprang out of reach.
“Too loud!” Lishan said.
Narune frowned. “It’s just us, wisewoman.”
She whirled and gestured at him. “I know who it fucking is, sproutling. Come and get your mother’s indulgence.”
“I'm not a sproutling anymore.” Narune tail’s twitched as he followed her.
“Anyone younger than I am is still a sproutling.”
“So all the world?”
Kisari and Ixchel giggled from behind him, but fell silent when the woman waggled her stick and turned.
“By the way, Lishan,” Narune began, deciding it was best to redirect things. “You don't hate me or my mother, do you?”
The wisewoman paused in thought for a moment, then pointed her stick at the tall earthenware jars already waiting. He sighed, and the three of them fetched two each.
“Because you're Halfborn, you mean?” Lishan said from the shade of her bohío. “No. I’m blind enough to have an excuse not to notice, and too old to care either way. Besides, your mother brings me whatever herbs, fungi, and insects I ask for. The others barter without ever considering my own needs. Mm-hmm, yes they do. Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Narune lied, and gave his friends a meaningful look.
Kisari shot a glare back. “Narune wants to become a spiritseer.”
“Eh? A Halfborn spiritseer? Can’t see it ever happening, but why not? You're fool enough to fit right in.”
Narune bristled, his tail rising and ears perking. “Only the Guardian herself is a greater champion than the spiritseers.”
“I bet she wants to be one too, eh?” Lishan said, pointing her stick at Ixchel with uncanny accuracy for someone who was nearly blind.
“Of course I do,” Ixchel said, beaming and puffing out her chest.
“Do I need even defend my words, then?”
Ixchel frowned. “Oi!”
But the wisewoman had enough of them, so she waved her stick threateningly and herded them out the door.
“Do whatever you want,” Lishan told him as they backed away from her. She set the stick back against the ground and leaned on it like a spear. “Just don’t forget that the consequences are yours to own, too.”
She turned, grumbling, and left them out in the sun.
They carried the jars back to his bohío in silence—or rather, Narune was silent. Kisari and Ixchel talked about many things, but they seemed aware of his stormy mood and left him be. Narune spent the time thinking and thinking until his head hurt.
They made it back and started to bury the jars within the ditch his mother had dug to hold them.
“I will become a spiritseer,” Narune announced.
It wasn't the only path to his dream. He was honest with himself about that. Yet it was the best and most likely way forward, and he wouldn't let himself be shoved off it without a fight. He wasn't yet all that wise, but Narune was confident that the reasons guiding his heart were worthy of any trial or struggle.
How could they not be? But his dream was his secret and he would tell no one, not even his mother.
It was the one thing he guarded jealously, in fact, which of course made it obvious to Colibrí’s touch. But—may his days remain stormless—she hadn’t yet forced him to speak it, and neither had she pried into his thoughts. His mother had simply rolled her eyes and let it be with a shake of her head, and only nipped him about it a little from time to time.
“Narune!” Ixchel scowled and reached up to tug at his ears. “Are those huge things of yours full of sand?”
“I will,” he insisted, slapping away her hand. “And I'll slay more halja than any warrior has before. Look at my truth-marks!” He waved his arms at himself. “A halja appeared during my Reclaiming and failed to kill me! How is that not a hint of the glory that will be weaved into my story?”
Ixchel rolled her eyes and laughed with amusement. “Oh? You help your mother kill one stray halja, and suddenly you’re ready to wage war at the Primordial Wound itself?” When Narune shrugged, she laughed again and said, “You know, I think we’re shaped from the same soil.”
Kisari, on the other hand, looked completely unimpressed. She eyed him from the shade of his bohío and said, “You shouldn’t proclaim things with the wind that should have come out of your other end.”
Ixchel giggled in delight and didn’t stop when Narune gave her a look.
Kisari shrugged and let out a long sigh. “Well, do whatever you want, Narune. My shoulder will always be there for you to cry on.”
“Oi, let’s stop nipping poor Narune,” Ixchel said as the last trembling laughs left her. “Come judge our sparring and then we’ll go fetch those seashells and nutshells you wanted, eh? We can make you a new necklace or bracelet.”
Kisari sniffed, but was obviously interested. She nodded.
Narune sullenly followed his friends back out into the stretch of grass, knolls, and beach between his bohío and the village. Their reaction was disappointing, but it didn’t matter. Narune already knew his journey would be difficult, his story hard-written in sweat, blood, and maybe even a few tears.
But he wouldn't stop walking that path, no matter how much he wanted to, or how much it hurt. Not unless it destroyed him and he was no more, but that would be fine, too.
Some dreams were simply worth everything.
Chapter 3
Colibrí sipped a little chicha, just enough to take the edge from life, and then reached for her spear. She was in full war garb now, wearing her best sandals, a longer breizo, and a waterskin. Her satchel was stuffed with war rations, each one a lump of boiled maize, seeds, and honey wrapped in leaves. Her long bone knife was at the small of her back and her chosen weapon wasn't her best spear, but the oldest and most dependable. Its haft was made of elderwood that had endured the islands far longer than she had, the spearhead made of sturdy bone, black like obsidian.
Strips made from pineapple fiber and deep-sea flax were wrapped around her arms and legs. They were decorated with the gray and black feathers of a ghauctl, the shadow bird; they adapted to her surroundings and would help break up her silhouette. More of the feathers fanned out from the bands in her braided hair and just below her spear tip, and she had worked even more through the greatleaf poncho she wore over it all.
Cradle of Sea and Soil Page 2