Then he saw a tiny, stooped over black figure approach him. It was Mss Bet. Suddenly, he realized the horrible possibilities. He quickly began to regret his schemes with Cardinal Ziminiz.
“Rananaunampanaur,” mumbled the ancient, stooped over black woman known as Mss Bet. She only glanced at Alvesta as she shuffled to a chair, sat, and began digging through her handbag. She lifted out her sewing and laid it on the floor, followed by a tin of snuff, a couple of small wooden boxes, a pipe with a long curved stem, a package of fine tobacco, and finally another package filled with herbs and other substances unknown.
“Rananaunampanaur,” she mumbled again as she carefully withdrew a small golden cage, sat it on her lap, and placed her handbag down beside her other belongings. By then, another group of women, this group wearing no gloves or thorns, had stripped Alvesta naked and were tying him to a chair. Alvesta watched with increasing anxiety as a wooden brace with cushions and leather straps on each end, especially designed for this purpose, was wedged between his knees.
They strapped his legs wide open. Another strap, tied around his lower waist was attached to a different type of wooden brace, one that pushed him forward such that his buttocks hung halfway over the edge of the chair. His ankles were tied to the legs of the chair and his hands were tied behind his back.
The group of women stepped back a few paces while forming a semicircle around him. Their anger felt like millions of tiny pinpricks on his skin. No one stood or sat directly in front of Alvesta. That way, passersby could look at the cataclysm quickly unfolding.
Nervously, Alvesta looked to his right and met Ma Meshabber’s scowl. He glanced over to Mss Bet on his left, wondering if he could find any compassion there. But Mss Bet seemed unaware of his existence, and appeared, as usual, absorbed in a different world. It seemed to Alvesta she was looking more through him than at him, or perhaps just asleep with her eyes open.
She lifted the small cage to her eyes. Because the cage was made of fine golden wires, it was easy to see through. Mss Bet’s wrinkled face broke into a smirk as she wagged her small finger through the bars. Alvesta felt a lump arise in his throat.
“Ra na na ra... Ha ha. Mramul,” Mss Bet said as she carefully opened the small door on the cage. “Ma Na Ra.” She looked over to Ma Meshabber. “Ma Na Ra,” she said again, returning her attention to the cage.
“Ys, Mss Bet. Ys. Na Ra wa ake em pa da trth.” [Yes, Mss Bet. Yes. Na Ra will make him tell the truth.]
Ma Meshabber had wanted her friend Mss Bet to accompany her on this arduous journey to Elysium. Of course, as Mss Bet always did when someone attempted to drag her from her preferred daily routine, she grumbled endlessly. Only after suggesting she bring her friend Na Ra did she agree to come.
Ma Meshabber had the ability to speak as clearly as Kuko Kiena; she just chose not to. However, when Mss Bet spoke, it was incomprehensible. Of course, like all the good Elder Women, Mss Bet loved young children and was delighted with their squeals of joy at hearing her strange speech. But none older than the youngest child ever made any joke or disparaging remark.
As some children moved into adolescence, certain Essences arrive within the Daligastians that could best be described as belligerent. Even after warnings from the Elders, some of these belligerent adolescents could not help but make fun of Mss Bet. They could respect the powerful Daligastian Zul warriors, but why bother with this frail, tiny, hunched-over black woman?
The ancient Mss Bet was a very patient Elder. However, when Mss Bet had had enough, the belligerent adolescent would receive a painful visit in the night.
Over the eons, memory of the old woman’s powers would fade, and inevitably, a gang of belligerent adolescents who had been stung by insects too many times would organize a plot against her. As their time of retribution grew near, Mss Bet would vanish into the jungle. The belligerent adolescents would rush into the Frakfraka jungle in search of her. After some indeterminate amount of time, the old, hunched-over small black woman with incomprehensible speech would shuffle back to her equally old home. Regardless of how extensive a search party parents sent into the jungle to find their children, no fragment, neither bone, nor clothes, nor single strand of hair, could ever be found.
“Ra ma na. Ra ma na,” Mss Bet said softly. She slid a thin finger into the cage.
The ancient creature, napping comfortably, was initially perturbed to be awakened from his sweet dreams of nectar. But just as soon as he smelled her finger, his antennae popped up. There was no one whom he loved more than his friend, Mss Bet.
The large hornet, a Deity so long ago named Na Ra, slowly crawled off his perch and onto her finger. He yawned and stretched his bright yellow wings as she pulled him out of his golden cage and set the cage on the floor beside her.
Then he heard shocking words.
“Tsnabhr,” the old woman said to him.
Treason? There is treason within our tribe? How is this possible? Na Ra thought.
“Ynr.”
And the culprit is here? Na Ra slowly turned his head in the direction his friend Mss Bet was looking. He quickly looked back to Mss Bet. Why, isn’t that Alvesta?
“Hrgnakl Kst,” Mss Bet said angrily.
Na Ra flew into the air and zipped before Alvesta’s wide eyes. You were going to kill the royal son of Daligastia? His wings batted the air with a furious buzz — the bright yellow bands of his abdomen glowed. A devious, murderer claiming to be a friend. What could be worse?
Na Ra did not strike. Only his youngest children would do such an undisciplined thing. He knew he had been invoked for a higher purpose than just a simple bite or sting. He buzzed up and down and around Alvesta’s body, near one ear, and then the other, down to the torn black Nazz uniform still lying on the floor beside him, confirming the horrible truth. He smelled the pheromones of fear, sensing where his first strike should be, deciding upon which recipe of venom to deliver. He eventually hovered only centimeters in front of his enemy’s terrified face.
Once he finished his calculations, he buzzed back to Mss Bet. She looked at Ma Meshabber. Ma looked at Pearl. Pearl stood back while her two most powerful daughters grabbed hands full of Alvesta’s hair and twisted it up from his scalp, freezing his head in place. Ma Meshabber herself held open his eyelids.
“No. No. Nooooooo,” he screamed. With insect precision and speed, Na Ra flew with his tail aimed forward and drove a venom-filled needle deep into Alvesta’s right eye.
“AHHHHHH.
“AHHHHHH.
“AHHHHHH.”
Pearl’s daughters released his head.
“Oh, wah, wah, wah,” Ma Meshabber said sarcastically as she casually walked back to her chair and sat. “Ah mty sptr brnask gnt crynalk ltll grl.” [A mighty spectacular brown-skinned giant crying like a little girl.]
Na Ra softly alighted on Alvesta’s left knee — studying him with his rich, black calculating eyes — contemplating his next move. Na Ra was patient. It would take several minutes for his venom to take effect, and he wanted that effect to maximize before he struck again.
Mss Bet seemed to fall asleep. The Tribe of Elder Women stood in a wide circle, their angry, unhearing, unsympathetic eyes still fixed on their enemy. Ma Meshabber looked beyond the women and found her beloved son. He looked so sad. It hurt her heart to see his face. Prince Daligastia attempted to comfort him. He was a good father and was skilled in walking the line between, ‘I love you’, ‘I am here for you’, and ‘I told you so’.
Ma Meshabber examined the poison on Alvesta’s blade. It struck her just how close she had come to losing her beloved child. It was true his Essence would have been placed into a new Yukta Yogi body, and his true status as a Demigod would again rise. Eventually all memory would return as he reached maturity and molded his new body to its proper form. From there, their rich relationship could continue. But that would have taken so many thousands of years. How wonderful it was that someone had intervened and spared her that pain.
How did this
happen? she wondered. She stared at the torn Nazz uniform still lying at his feet. Oh my. You see what almost happened? My oh my. More than assassination. Alvesta wanted war. After being punished, that good brave girl…
Vilecia had saved her son’s life. A Nazz warrior had saved her son. Oh, doesn’t the pride still blind you, silly old woman. My thanks go to the Nazz. The Nazz have given Ma Meshabber a gift. Now it is time for the Tribe of Daligastian Elders to give a gift back.
She stood up straight and flexed her muscles.
If I can help it, not a single child of Indra shall die today.
With that, she gave but a single glance to her husband, Prince Daligastia and to Pearl. Together, 200,000 ancient witchdoctors walked into the field of battle to revive, cure, and breathe their healing breath into the fallen Nazz warriors.
Chapter 77
The Wrong Goddess
Call me a whore, would you? Guess what, Mister ‘all powerful’ Satanist? In case you slept through my inauguration as Eden’s first Planetary Princess, times have changed. Finally, it happened. The illustrious Ziminiz fucked with the wrong Goddess.
—Lilith
Elysium
Cardinal Ziminiz was beginning to worry. Defeat was taking far too long. Even though he had been receiving optimistic periodic updates, he had assumed the battle would have been completed days ago. Still, he trusted his couriers. The handwriting was clearly from his most trusted personal messengers. Moreover, the reports had become increasingly positive.
Suddenly, he saw the sight he had for so many years been yearning to see. Colonel Richard Reinhardt marched toward him waving a white flag. Joy of joys, just behind him were victorious Cardinals holding up pikes with the head of Castor Mayhew on one and the Whore Kuko Kiena on the other.
Cardinal Ziminiz kept his hands hidden within the long sleeves of his robe. An illustrious one such as he did not show his hands. Only servants showed their hands.
He waited until one of his guards opened the door. He stepped out of his luxurious transport craft, smiling, his nose stuck in the air. Reinhardt stopped several paces away. He did not meet Ziminiz’s eyes; rather he continued to stare straight ahead.
“Congratulations, Cardinal Ziminiz,” Reinhardt shouted. He bowed. “May I please be allowed to approach one as great as you to present a message from Lord Indra?”
“You may,” Ziminiz replied. At that, the thick cordon of his personal guards parted and Reinhardt stepped forward. He handed Ziminiz’s assistant a piece of rolled parchment, stepped back, and bowed again.
The assistant kneeled and opened the parchment. He held it up high so Ziminiz could comfortably read it. His eyes scanned across the words written in a refined script. Thrills of excitement ran through him as he verified Indra’s own hand:
Cardinal Ziminiz,
Congratulations on a remarkable accomplishment. If it pleases you, kindly return to The Grand Reception Hall of Elysium so that we may welcome you and acknowledge you for what you truly are.
Ziminiz practically skipped toward The Grand Reception Hall, his personal guards at his side and a long row of secondary guards following behind. All along the wide hallway, rows of Cardinals kneeled before him. All were wearing red masks. It seemed a little strange that only the inferior races of Cardinals would be the ones welcoming him, but he was so delighted with his victory, he told himself that these were the Cardinals whose brute physicality had been so important in winning the war. It was probably appropriate these brave and powerful, albeit genetically inferior ones, were given the honor of first receiving him.
As he walked down the long hallway, it also seemed unusual that the closer he got, the more silence seemed to permeate the air. Why were his Cardinals not shouting in triumph? He glanced behind him. His personal protectors were still there, but something was just a touch off.
When he finally reached The Grand Reception Hall and walked through the door, just like a surprise birthday party, the entire hall began to cheer.
“All hail the great Ziminiz. He whose accomplishments here shall never be forgotten.”
He held his robe-covered arms forward in a magnanimous gesture, looking at shapes rather than faces, relishing in their praise. This is odd. Why are so many wearing black Nazz uniforms? They should all be…
Ah, of course. The Nuns of Durga.
Then why didn’t they change into the Crimson Robes? His eyes shot up, still expecting to see victorious Cardinals. However, as he looked at them, they were not wearing bliss and reverence on their faces. He caught sight of General Borgia. He looked terrified. Ziminiz quickly turned behind him.
Fine, my guards are still here. He turned back to the Hall. What? Why are my guards all wearing… He turned behind him again to verify. All his personal guards had beautiful white skin. The only reason they would ever wear masks was to conceal their identity.
But none of them were wearing masks when they escorted me from my transport…
“AH,” he shouted when Kuko Kiena suddenly appeared in front of him.
“Hi,” she said lightheartedly. As an act of severe disrespect, she slid her hands into his robes and grabbed his hands. He felt a sting in his wrists. His head snapped down. His hands were missing.
Dozens of hands grabbed him — on his legs — his ankles and feet — around his torso. They ripped his clothes off and pulled his arms out to his side. Then they grabbed his head and forced his mouth open.
The last thing he saw before a blindfold was tied across his eyes were leering Nazz in black uniforms. A searing hot pain ran down his throat and a needle poked his arm.
Then the chant resumed.
“All hail the great Ziminiz. He whose accomplishments here shall never be forgotten. We thank you for reminding us. Pride subduing the intellect is the Satanist’s sin.”
His mind was fuzzy. He knew he had been given an anesthetic. The last thing he remembered hearing, as consciousness faded was Kiena’s cold voice. “If you can’t tell which tooth, just pull them all…”
“All hail the great Ziminiz. He whose accomplishments here shall never be forgotten. We thank you for reminding us. Pride subduing the intellect is the Satanist’s sin.
“Pride subduing the intellect is the Satanist’s sin. Pride subduing the intellect is the Satanist’s sin. Pride subduing the intellect is the Satanist’s sin.”
Major General Sade Heinrich of Nazz Intelligence Services handed Indra a fact sheet. It was the latest numbers on deaths and wounded. Another impressive Nazz victory.
For Indra, the personal losses were too great to calculate. The Cardinals had targeted their fifteen largest kindergartens. Their teachers had fought valiantly, but 10,958 children, age nine and under had been slaughtered. It truly pained Indra when his children died. He knew each one by name. He loved them all.
I’m to blame for this, Indra thought to himself. Too blind with pride to see the need for extra guards. Satanists speak with the bravado of men and then slaughter children. I’m afraid poor Rickey is gonna kill himself when he sees these numbers.
General Heinrich’s notes also listed 445,896 senior Cardinals were still alive. Interrogations had begun. Another 10,986 individuals from other Overlord families were isolated as conspirators, far more than Indra had suspected. Their interrogations would be more civil. At least to start with. Once the details of negotiations with their elders were completed, their lives would quickly acquire a deeply sour taste.
“What a nightmare,” Cardinal Ziminiz thought to himself when he awoke with a start. He anxiously scanned around his luxurious transport craft, half-expecting to be surrounded by terrified Cardinals and jeering Nazz warriors. But everything was in place. He looked through the large windows. Yes, he was still outside Elysium. It was still dark. The battle had not been lost. The Nazz had not captured him. He flexed his fingers under his robes. Yes. Everything still there.
“My Lord. My Lord,” one of his white, pearly-skinned guards called out as he pulled open the door. “Look. It is Co
lonel Reinhardt himself waving a white flag.” The guard gently helped Ziminiz stand and receive the surrender party.
Well, isn’t this strange? Ziminiz thought as he remembered his dream.
“My Lord. This is exactly as you described the event to us. Your vision is most prescient.”
Yes. That’s all it is. My vision. Just as my Prince Satan said it would be. I have become prescient. I have seen into the future. I have already seen all this.
“Just as you said. Look. The heads of Castor Mayhew and Whore Kiena on pikes.”
That brought a real smile to Ziminiz’s face.
Reinhardt stopped several paces away. He did not meet Ziminiz’s eyes, only continued to stare straight ahead. “Congratulations, Cardinal Ziminiz,” he shouted. He bowed. “May I please be allowed to approach one as great as you to present a message from Lord Indra?”
“You may,” Ziminiz replied. At that, the thick cordon of his personal guards parted and Reinhardt stepped forward, handed Ziminiz’s assistant a piece of rolled parchment, stepped back, and bowed again.
The assistant kneeled and opened the parchment. He held it up high so Ziminiz could comfortably read. His eyes scanned across the words written in a refined script. Thrills of excitement ran through him as he verified Indra’s own hand:
Cardinal Ziminiz,
Congratulations on a remarkable accomplishment. If it pleases you, kindly return to The Grand Reception Hall of Elysium so that we may welcome you and acknowledge you for what you truly are.
Ziminiz practically skipped toward The Grand Reception Hall, his personal guards to his side and a long row of secondary guards reverently following behind. All along the wide hallway, rows of Cardinals kneeled before him. All were wearing red masks. He remembered his dream and how it seemed a little strange that only the inferior races of Cardinals welcomed him.
Lilith: Eden's Planetary Princess (The Michael Archives Book 1) Page 64