by SC Huggins
“R-Rami killed off all the other powerful witches in the twelve clans,” she explained, “every witch powerful enough to oppose him in anyway,” she said.
The Ancestral Mother sat back and turned to the Matriarch.
“We already know this,” the Matriarch said gently to Wereu. “I’m only surprised Yas would work with Rami after his role in the holocaust that wiped off his descent.”
With a slightly confused air, Wereu nodded. “That is not all,” she began haltingly.
The Ancestral Mother met her awed gaze.
“I heard rumors,” she whispered, “a group called the Yasre might be behind Rami.”
Wereu raised her eyes quickly, only to drop her eyes again when they clashed with those of The Ancestral Mother.
“They are Deji,” she concluded over the gasp of the Matriarch.
Divina could not hide her shock. So, Yas didn’t drop his foolish plan. Now, she felt even more foolish to have begged Mother’s mercy on their behalf. She met her creator’s eyes and tried to communicate her apology with her eyes.
The Ancestral Mother let out a sigh, pain and disappointment a crushing weight in her heart. She believed Wereu. As a Sypa, her link to Uwan was strong, strong enough that she could still communicate with the mortals even while in transition.
“Thank you.” She paused and rested a hard gaze on Wereu. “You will return to Uwan."
“Return?” Divina, the Matriarch and Wereu repeated.
“Yes, return. You will go down to Uwan. For me,” she whispered, then waited tensely. “Please,” she added in the ensuing silence.
Wereu gave her a halting nod in response. Do you say no to the person to whom you owed your very existence?
“Then, you will return to me when you have completed the assignment,” said The Ancestral Mother and inclined her head in dismissal.
“I will return to Uwan as a...” Wereu prodded, shock completely eroding her awe.
“A mortal.”
“And return as a...” this time, it was the Matriarch.
“A Deji.”
“How is that possible?” the Matriarch asked faintly.
The golden eyes of The Ancestral Mother blazed in hot fury, completely directed at the Matriarch. Wereu staggered back in fear. Divina barely controlled her flinch.
“Has Yas’ rebellion wiped off your memory, your reasoning?” Mother’s voice dropped, yet to Divina’s ears, it seemed to resound like thunder before a heavy storm. “I can make anything I wish possible, never forget that, it might save you,” The Ancestral Mother said with satisfaction.
And Divina found that satisfaction disturbing because it was interlaced with coldness, enough to make her shiver in the warmth of the ancestral holies. Why Yas? They had everything, why ruin it for something that was none of his concern? If Mother had created a hundred world before them, who was he to complain? What if he wasn’t created, could he rail from non-existence to demand of the creator why he wasn’t created?
Rami’s quest was as plain to The Ancestral Mother as Yas’. She should and could kill Rami, the Qiga of Virai, from here. But that would mean taking back her word of no interference and besides, the chosen was still too young.
The Ancestral Mother dismissed the Matriarch. After her departure, she sat back, needing to process all the happenings. It wasn’t just Yas’ betrayal, but that seven others must have considered usurping her ruler-ship and have now joined him. When she was ready, she thank them for the opportunity to annihilate the disloyal ones- for she would show them no mercy.
And for the first time since she shared her sovereignty, The Ancestral Mother felt deep pain and regret that she allowed mortals into her domain as Dejis.
Jamak
9950, YAKRA.
Jamak eyed his adversary with green-eyed determination. He had been practicing with the sword for five years now and it still felt foreign and unwieldy in his hands. Gripping the sword tighter, he took two cautious steps forward and gasped when the sword master easily jumped out of reach and smacked his shoulders with the flat end of the sword.
Jamak groaned and let the sword slip from his fingers to the ground. “I can’t,” he gasped.
“You can’t depend on your magic all the time.” the older swordsman who’d been been with his family for as long as he could remember grasped him by the shoulders and looked into his eyes. “Believe me, you’ll be the greatest mortal ever if you can be as great a warrior as you are a magician.”
“But you hate magic,” Jamak said sitting on the low stool placed by the side of the courtyard. He grabbed the new bowl of water. For a moment, he stared at the new bowl made of some cool, light, brown material, brought all the way from the neighbouring town in Taqwa. Only the rich could afford it yet as the material for producing it was scarce, but it was far better than clay. When water was left in it for a long time, it grew cooler.
Moshood, the swordsmaster crouched on the balls of his feet to watch his charge. From his birth day, it was obvious Jamak was no ordinary child. Unlike the blue or brown eyes common among newborns, his glowed a very wicked green. His parents first named the young boy William for its prince-like sound, but the child rejected the name. Every time he was called William, he cried until the First Priest of Yakra was called. He encouraged the new parents to change the name to Jamak and the cries stopped. Almost everyone in the small village south of Yakra knew his story. As a twelve year old, he was already the most accomplished magician the city had ever seen. With interest, he saw the green eyes grow darker and the skin of his cheeks bones pull taut. As much as he hated magic, watching the young magician never seized to fascinate him.
“Yes,” he licked dry lips, “I do. I hate magic.” A door banged downstairs in the great hall pulling a frown on Moshood’s face. Except for the servants, the house was silent, should be silent since the servants would go to the cirloin to watch the midday fights before Jamak’s parents returned from the Bywr’s court.
Jamak handed the bowl to him and with a puzzled frown Moshood accepted the drink. He paused, waiting for further instructions from his young charge. He might hate magic, but he wasn’t so stupid that he didn’t respect, not fear what magic could accomplish.
“One can never compare the man with the sword with the man with hidden powers,” the boy remarked with a gentle smile.
Moshood gritted his teeth and waited.
Jamak grinned in triumph. “You aren’t going to ask me why?”
“You are going to tell me.”
“Drink.”
He took a sip of the drink and gasped. “The liquid was cold, dark, heady and sweet.” Moshood took another sip, and another, and another until the bowl was empty.
Jamak took the cup from the shocked swordsmaster, closed his eyes and the empty bowl was soon filled with the dark, sweet liquid. Moshood rubbed his stomach and grimaced. “Is it even real?”
“I learn to use the sword because for some reason, it’s important to my parents that I learn.”
“That’s easy,” Moshood laughed, “one, it doesn’t arouse suspicion. Everyone can see you engaging in a physical activity especially in these dark times. Two, again we live in dark times. The cuopo practice dark magic, killing young children and pregnant women to get results. Even as we speak your parents and the other councilors seat before the Bywr to decide your fate.”
“So, he still wants to banish magic from Yakra?” Jamak asked.
“Yes—”
The boy laughed. “That’s impossible.”
A muscle jerked in Moshood’s jaw and his hard face tightened in anger. “Is there something you know and aren’t telling? The cuopo should be banished to the deepest dungeons because they use young boys like you and pregnant women for their sacrifices!”
Jamak smiled. “Is there a reason why you said ‘young boys like me?’ to frighten me perhaps? Banishing all magicians from the land or killing the cuopo is not the answer. Every clan is known for something. Wakay is known for their very powerful magi
cians—”
“Not as powerful as you,” the swordsman said staunchly.
Jamak laughed again, green eyes twinkling merrily, and Moshood marveled at how conversations with the twelve year old boy always left him feeling like a child. It had to be the magic again.
“That’s like a father saying his child is the most intelligent of the Priest’s students. Wakay is where magic lives, Yakra is the city where money can be made and anybody can get lost. It is the breath of the city and the power of the cuopo that makes them difficult to be caught by the city’s guards. Taqwa is where peace lives and Jandi is where the gold, special stones and metals are. The Ancestral Mother gave to each one something to survive with—”
“You’re telling me there are magicians more powerful than you?” Moshood asked dubiously.
“How would you know the truth? A big river separates us from Yakra, Rand, Lima, Wakay—”
“And Jwad. You are paying attention to your lessons.”
“Magic created this Uwan we call home, didn’t it?”
“Yes,” Moshood said with a sigh.
“So why would you hate magic?”
“The cuopo—”
“Ah, yes the cuopo.” Jamak glanced over the empty courtyard. “The reason why they are good people and bad people? The bad people have to do bad things so the good people can be called ‘good.”
Moshood laughed. “The fact remains the future of every magician in this city is in doubt.”
“Yes, we will all flee this city,” Jamak replied.
“Maybe not flee, but you’ll have to hide your powers and depend on something else for your protection,” Moshood suggested gently. “It’s true the ground we stand on, the vast expanse of the ancestral realm and every living thing is created through magic, but the cuopo has turned our hearts and minds against magic through their dark practices.
Jamak ran to the door leaving behind a shocked Moshood. He immediately followed suit, drawing his sword as he waited beside Jamak. Soon, two horse riders appeared. Faces pulled taut by fear and urgency, they began screaming orders even while still a distance from the compound.
“Jamak,” his mother called, “go gather your things. We are leaving.”
The boy shrugged. “There’s nothing to gather. I’m ready.”
Moshood stepped towards the father as mother and son conferred. “What happened?”
“The Bywr couldn’t control the cuopo,” his voice lowered, “they threatened to kill him and burn the city.”
Moshood’s mouth dropped open. “I will join the king’s guard and we will match against them—”
Jamak’s father burst into laughter. “Your sword is nothing compared to the power of their magic so you better think before making rash decisions.” He ran a hand over his sparse hair. “The Bywr reminded them the people will leave the city for them—”
“And they won’t have children and humans for their sacrifices any longer,” Moshood said, nodding in comprehension.
“Yes, so they formed an agreement. Every young magician will be killed and the cuopo will be banished to lower ends of the city to do their activities never to be seen.”
Moshood let out a breath. “And their sacrifices?”
“Every homeless child roaming the street is theirs.”
“But they are many children in the streets without a home!”
“The Bywr said he’d take care of them. But that is not my concern. We need to run to Taqwa now!”
THE HIGH MOUNTAINS of Virai
Immortality is not as real as death.
Rami knew this. He believed this and had lived by these words all his life. And still, he knew that mortals will live with the choices they make, and some will live the life they were dealt.
A sharp cry broke the silence of the night.
“Shut up,” Rami snapped and gave the rope wrapped around his wrists a sharp tug. At the end of the rope, the tightly bound man cried out as he fell. The sound of muffled sobs and shuffling feet reached him as the man struggled to right himself. His dirty feet kicked up a cloud of dust, causing Tafik to jump back lest his tunic be ruined.
Rami curbed his irritation and stared dispassionately at the man as he coughed up more dust into his lungs. One of the many cuts on his legs gaped open and a trickle of blood trailed down his legs to disappear into the ground. Staring hard at the blood, Rami wondered why weaker mortals would dare put up a fight against a stronger opposition when they knew they’d lose. This man fought all the way from bushed surrounding Virai, where they’d caught and bound him- all for nothing.
“Here,” he threw the rope to his younger brother, Tafik. “Bind him to a tree while we wait,” Rami said.
He watched Tafik drag the man to a nearby tree and tie him to it. The night was too quiet. At first, the man’s struggles and cries had been irritating; now Rami saw how much his cries had helped pacify Tafik, who continued peering nervously into every bush, expecting whatever had taken over his imagination to creep out. What a weakling he was, Rami thought, lips curling in disgust.
With a hiss, he dragged his eyes from a brother who acted more a woman than man and turned his attention to the challenge before him. Tafik wasn’t a problem, he valued his position as the brother to the Qiga too much to disobey. His nagging worry were the Yasre. They gave him as much confidence about his future as they caused him sleepless nights. What if they changed their minds and never appeared or kept to their many promises, how would he know? If only they were mortals, he would confront them. But they weren’t.
This wasn’t their first meeting. The first time, more than twenty years ago had been a tentative alliance. This second should be a sealing.
If they showed.
A flash of pure white caught his eyes. Hope and fear gripped his heart, he held his breath and turned. But it was only Tafik. With slow deliberate movements, he clenched his fist and watched the man-woman, Tafik.
Ever graceful, Tafik smoothed back a golden strand of hair that had come loose, making sure to carefully tuck it in before removing his hand. A few beats later, he raised his white tunic off the ground and held it up. Tafik hated dirt and cleaned himself- but never his surroundings with an obsession only a woman would show to such frivolity. There were times when he suspected his younger brother just might be a woman hiding in a man’s body.
Woman, woman, woman. Did it even matter. Did Tafik even matter? A smile ghosted Rami’s mouth, the answer was no.
Rami turned away from his brother and looked up at the sky. Something he refused to examine too closely nagged at him, creeping slowly but surely into his mind. All the way from Virai, he had tried pushing it away.
But now he deliberately let it in.
If this unheard-of descending of Dejis was just a ruse to test the loyalty of mortal rulers, where would he stand? If the Yasre didn’t come down as promised what would he do?
He recalled Tafik’s question when he had related the plan, their source for power- why would a Deji leave the ancestral realm for Uwan? It had never happened in their history, was it even possible?
Almost any charge could be brought against Tafik, but he would never be found guilty of stupidity.
But it had happened in their father’s time, only it was dismissed- perhaps too hastily, as the ramblings of an old man on the throes of death. The former Qiga told a far-fetched story of a group of Dejis who paid him visit just before he died.
No one had believed him.
The imagination of a dying man didn’t seem so far-fetched any longer as Rami led the way, moving farther into the forest, lips pressed so hard in a determined line that his beards totally overshadowed it. He ignored Tafik’s exaggerated panting and grumbling.
The path opened to a small clearing, with no where to go, Rami brought his tiring group to a halt.
To take his mind off the anxiety eating at his insides, for his very life and legacy were at stake, Rami studied Tafik. He shook his head at the obvious signs of his brother’s nervousness- the
licking of lips he’d perfected over the years to woo women and the rapid twitch of his fingers as he tucked absent hairs behind his ears. With an aggrieved sigh, he swung his attention to the worrisome matter at hand- the Yasre were not here yet. Yasre- friends of Yas. Suddenly, he wondered who Yas was. He’d be the mastermind behind whatever precipitated the descending of the Dejis. What a Deji he had to be! A quick burst of admiration hit Rami’s blood stream. If they didn’t come as promised—
The white light appeared first. High in the air, it was but a flicker. The two brothers vaulted erect at once. Then the flicker got bigger and brighter. Neck arched, they stared upwards, unable to pull their eyes away.
Rami flushed in relief. In private, he would weep tears of gratitude but now, he struggled to keep his head. Tafik surely couldn’t be trusted with a meeting this huge. He wouldn’t even put his brother in charge of a council meeting. His kingdom and rulership had been put at risk with this alliance. What would he have told his father in the grave if he lost their hard-won throne to another family? A throne mounted on the blood and bodies of thousands, only to be lost in the blink of an eye because he had a weak heir or wasn’t strong enough to keep the throne?
“Follow the light.”
A voice followed the light, pulling Rami back to more important matters concerning the present and his future. Its timbre sent shivers down Rami’s spine. The two brothers blindly walked towards each other and stood, shivering in fear. It sounded like five voices in one.
“Follow the light,” the voice said.
Rami jumped in fright to his annoyance. It was that death emptiness to the voice, like a dead man talking, not that he knew how a dead man spoke. Tafik dropped to the ground in a bow, further ruining the tunic he had spent all day protecting from the dirt.
The voice didn’t repeat itself; it waited the two men out. After a tense moment they spent staring at each other, Rami moved towards the light warily. The light moved a few paces forward in the gloom. Tafik remained on his knees trembling, then he licked his lips and scrambled on hands and knees to join Rami, who frowned in obvious irritation. He glared at Tafik to remain behind.