The Rising

by SC Huggins

Dago opened his eyes and moved towards his friend, gratitude and shame two wrestlers in his heart. But worry too. Why had Rork not used magic? And yet, he knew or sensed something was amiss long before it happened.

  As far as he knew, Rork had never used magic, not at the dance of the ganga, never in their hunts and not even now, when faced with an ancestral creature so dangerous the great Mother banished it for their protection.

  And he was the heir.

  He dropped down beside him.

  Tentatively, Rork opened his eyes one after the other. There was no ewr. He looked around quickly, and just in time to see the ewr blundering off with the pointed end of Dago’s hunting stick protruding from its back.

  Rork dropped his head back to the ground and laughed his head off in sheer relief.

  Dago watched his friend laugh like a madman, only Rork would find something funny at such a time as this. He rubbed the pain in his head away with one hand and kept a wary eye on Rork.

  Rork smiled and grew quiet.

  Thank the Great Mother he was alive.

  “I’m sorry” Dago started. He shuffled on his knees, toes sinking into the soft earth. “I was just-” He looked up to meet Rork’s gaze.

  Lazy amusement gave his steel gray eyes a shine.

  “You are still laughing?” He asked on a note of disbelief.

  Rork threw up his hands. “I am enjoying this,” he said.

  Dago shrugged and met his gaze. He shook his head slightly. “I was very scared.”

  “Me too,” Rork admitted. He nodded at the hand Dago was still using to rub at his aching head. “Your magic,” he observed with no inflection in his voice. He wasn’t jealous of Dago. But seeing his best friend use magic was an unwelcome reminder he didn’t need of his own predicament.

  Dago laughed shakily and drew in a deep breath. He stared at his hand, for a moment- to avoid Rork’s too perceptive gaze and bring himself together.

  “Yes,” he said in a voice tinged with relief. Then his eyes narrowed. “What about you? What happened? I certainly wasn’t expecting you to fight it, and without mag—”

  “Do you think your family’s gift will ever make an appearance again?” Rork asked suddenly.

  Dago drew back and studied Rork, who met his gaze guilelessly. He was changing the subject, but Dago would allow it because he understood. Rork didn’t want to talk about the magic or lack of it. If their position were reversed, he probably wouldn’t wish to talk about it. Mother, he hoped it wasn’t true. Rork was too good to deserve such punishment.

  Now, Dago looked at him in amazement and laughed shortly. “I’m not even sure I want it. A five edged sharp blade in my face? Do you think Mer would still want me?”

  Rork shook his head. “I doubt if seven year old Mer thinks about boys.”

  “Everyone knows the gift is gone. Father says it is so buried it will take an ancestral power to resurrect it.”

  He couldn’t let it go. Perhaps, there might be something to jolt Rork’s powers if it was only asleep.

  “You didn’t use magic—”

  Dago broke off when Rork rose suddenly and walked past him. “I didn’t think. I just did the first thing that came to mind.”

  “OK,” Dago said, running to catch up, “that was an ewr—”

  Rork laughed out loud. “Remember before our fight at the dance of the ganga, you said, ‘this is our last fight”, he shook his head, “you are doing it again. Why do you push this magic issue?”

  “Because I’ve heard the rumors,” Dago returned quietly. “Even then you didn’t use magic,” he said and moved to stand in Rork’ face. “Do you want to discuss it?”

  “Like girls?” Rork smiled. But the steel gray eyes shone like the sun striking a blade in that way it had. Dago recognized the warning. “No,” Rork finished.

  Dago stepped back.

  “I don’t think we should tell anyone about the ewr just yet,” Rork said, walking back to the village at a fast pace.

  “Wait,” Dago called out.

  Rork waited for the shorter Dago to catch up, his eyes dropped to the cut lining his friend’s chest. “We need to clean that wound if we aren’t telling anybody what we saw.”

  Dago stopped. “I can understand if you don’t wish to discuss,” he waved his hand in the air. “But the ewr? No no way we aren’t telling anyone.” He took a deep breath. “What does its appearance mean?”

  Rork shot him an annoyed glance. “Are you waiting for an answer, really? We saw it together.” Rork didn’t wait this time.

  Undeterred, Dago kept pace, running to match Rork’s longer strides. “Remember the story my father told us?”

  “Which?”

  Dago eyed Rork, annoyed at his deliberate obtuseness.

  “Your father has told us many stories,” Rork clarified with false patience.

  “The great black stone,” Dago said in a whisper.

  “No need to whisper,” Rork mocked, “they can’t hear us.”

  “Who? Do you know something?”

  “The people making you whisper,” Rork returned in a mock whisper.

  Dago pushed him annoyed. “I’m really wondering if you know something since you are not talking. We just saw an—”

  “Yes, I know,” Rork admitted. “I remember the story,” he pushed his fingers through his hair wearily, “According to legend, The Ancestral Mother banished the ancestral animals into the black stone, the key must have been used from Uwan to make the ewr come out.” He let out a troubled sigh.

  “So,” Dago drew out, coming to peer into his friend’s face. “Only The Ancestral Mother should have the key?”

  Rork pushed Dago with a vicious shove. “Be careful of that thought.”

  Dago frowned. “Why should I be? The key is up in the ancestral realm with the great Mother,” he paused. “Isn't it?”

  “How should I know?” Rork asked, annoyed.

  “I don’t know,” Dago swallowed. “We are still children, even with our powers and responsibilities. But you will be Qiga one day and I will be in your council—”

  “And?” Rork prodded impatiently.

  “I think we should listen more,” a pause. “Most of all you.”

  “To who?” he asked, “or I’m afraid to say, to what?”

  Dago stepped forward to stand in his face. “Pay attention to the meetings,” he suggested quietly and fiercely. “Something—”

  “Let’s clean up,” Rork cut in, jaw clenched tight.

  Dago knew Rork wouldn’t listen. Fear for his friend gripped him anew.

  Rork wasn’t close to his parents, and so spent most of his time with him. As for the uncle, Tafik, Father never had anything good to say about him.

  And the Qiga, Dago realized.

  He studied Rork who approached him with a bunch of leaves for their clean up. Tall, lithe and strong. He was the best hunter and wrestler in the whole clan, but he was no magician. If you had the powers, you used it. It was that simple. The lure was irresistible.

  Fear for his friend gripped him anew and he grabbed Rork by his elbows before the leaves made contact with his chest.

  Rork raised those strange eyes in question. Dago stared into the eyes. The color of freshly forged blade, there were times, such as now when it glittered inhumanly, as if a creature lurked within. The Qiga had brown eyes, the queen dull gray eyes, but nothing like Rork’s. These were not the eye of an ordinary man.

  Dago shivered, a cold premonition hitting his spine with the same force the stick had pushed into the ewr’s back. “Promise me you will listen, and be careful?”

  “I will,” the words were solemn.

  The two boys cleaned up hurriedly before setting out again. But just when they cleared the forest to enter Virai from the east, Dago spotted his mother in the distance and stopped. “Remind me again why we shouldn’t tell,” he hissed. “This is too dangerous. What if it’s a signal of another attack?”

  “The ewr has not made an appearance in forever. Do you think
we will be allowed to hunt again when we report seeing it in this forest, so close to Virai?” Rork smirked.

  And no one needed the hunt more than Rork, who had three mouths to feed.

  “You’re worried about our hunt?” Dago spat. “What about the safety of the villagers?”

  “And what about my family?” Rork shot back.

  “Rork—”

  “We feed on my hunts!” Rork shouted with a slash of his hand. “You know father is too busy securing his rulership to fend for his family. You know no villager will gift my family food for the protection their Qiga provides because he has never protected them!” he inhaled sharply. “And since I turned provider father hasn’t seen the need to force the villagers into submitting their gifts,” he shook his head, “and you and I don’t want to know what he will do the day he comes home and finds no food on his table!”

  “We both know that’s not true.”Dago replied quietly. “Your father stopped the submission of gifts the day he murdered every powerful witch in the clan. Perhaps is his guilty conscience that made him decide not to levy the villagers when we both know it can’t be out of the goodness of his black heart.”

  Rork placed both thumbs on his temple and pressed hard. He dropped his hands with a sigh. “we were discussing the safety of the villagers not my father.”

  Dago stepped up on tiptoes to ruffle his friend’s blond hair. “Maybe the ewr won’t return,” he said without conviction. “But next time please use magic and I promise not to run away,” he stopped and stared at his friend. “Should we at least tell the First priest?” he asked again.

  “About what?” Rork looked back innocently.

  Dago growled.

  Rork’s narrowed steel-gray eyes on his friend. “No,” his words brooked no argument.

  Dago nodded, then frowned, how did Rork without power lead their age group? “You called me in my head,” he said suddenly.

  Rork looked back quizzically. “I called out,” he said dismissively.

  Dago shook his head. “You called out in my head,” he insisted.

  “I didn’t,” Rork’s reply was curt. The expectations of people irritated him sometimes.

  Dago shrugged and decided to drop it. He ran off to help his mother with her load from the farm. Magic was good, he thought, quickly checking his healed injury for blood. There was none.

  Rork lagged a little, walking more slowly home. If he really didn’t have magic, what would happen? Power meant everything in the clan. It determined rulership, controlled perception and ruled the hearts and reactions of people around you. Rork shivered, imagining father’s reaction to their fight with the ewr. He would have been furious. O! please great Mother, let me have power. No matter how small. Whenever he went into the village, people looked at him in expectation, expecting the unexpected just because he was the Qiga’s son.

  He threw his head back and closed his eyes. The last conversation with Dago came to mind, how he wished his friend would be wrong. But his father and uncle had been busy lately. More than usual.

  The ewr, where had it come from? Where else could it have come from?

  With a muffled curse, Rork changed direction. He ran all the way to the hut of the First Priest. The old man was seated on a bench outside and he glanced up at the sound of running feet.

  “Is everything alright?” he asked Rork.

  “Why won’t everything be alright?” the young heir replied, panting slightly.

  The First priest pursed his lips. Perhaps because an attempt has been made on your life under your father’s roof? “Don’t tell me you ran all the way from the forest?”

  Rork shrugged. “Have you eaten?”

  The older man smiled. “Not yet.”

  “I will get the scent leaf, nchawu for you tomorrow. It’s medicinal and good for old people.”

  The First Priest eyed the young heir with a faintly irritated glance. The boy was so good it sometimes grated on the nerves. “Thanks, but you didn’t come all the way here because you were worried about my diet.”

  “The ancestral creatures live in the black stone right?”

  The older man frowned. “Yes.”

  “What else is in the black stone?”

  “The powers of dead witches also live inside the stone.”

  “Can anything escape from the stone?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is it possible that any of the creatures can leave the stone?”

  The First Priest shook his head. “The black stone has a very powerful key that has locked those creatures in for only The Ancestral Mother knows how long.”

  Rork nodded. “Thank you. I will get the nchawu leaves tomorrow.”

  “That’s all?” he asked in surprise.

  “Yes.”

  “Is everything alright at home?”

  “Why shouldn’t it be?”

  Indeed, why shouldn’t it be? The First Priest to the Matriarch wondered, but since his dream the night before he hadn’t been himself. Every incident, a misspoken word and it seems even the anxiety of a playful youth was enough to send his mind wandering down the path of fear of the previous night.

  You might be saved by something that is promised if it remains untouched by the one more powerful. The promise will rise out of darkest deep to the light.

  Who was the one promised? Was it a coincidence Rork was suddenly asking questions about the Blackstone? The First Priest shook his head to rid it of troubling thoughts. If the Matriarch wanted him to know more, she’d reveal it in time.

  “You best return home,” he told the boy.

  Rork ran off in the direction of home. He thought of the Priest’s reply. If the black stone was under lock, how did the ewr escape? Perhaps, he needed to tell father. With a sudden urge to get his mind off the depressing thoughts, he played a silly game of getting home with his eyes closed. He laughed whenever he stumbled. Then he felt someone’s eyes on him and opened his eyes.

  And met those of his uncle Tafik. Maybe he was returning from Chaldi, the next village to the east, just beyond the forest. With a well-threaded path running through and connecting the two villages, the forest was a poor excuse for a border. For some reason, mother made a journey into Chaldi every market day. He went with her to sell his produce, but she had no real purpose there since he did the selling, but she made the journey to Chaldi without fail. And every time he happened to follow mother there, they would surely see his uncle Tafik.

  “Hello Uncle,” Rork greeted, unsmiling. He picked up his pace slightly and focused on getting home to his mother.

  “Where are you coming from?” Tafik asked with a smile, reaching out to ruffle his hair.

  “I and Dago went hunting.” Rork said peering up at his uncle. He smiled when he carefully tucked in a slip of golden hair. Father would say uncle Tafik liked his face so much he should be a woman.

  Tafik looked the boy over. There was no obvious sign he was coming from a hunt. “You caught nothing?” He sounded surprised.

  Rork nodded, skipping along beside his uncle.

  He continued to study the boy as they walked down the path. As usual, magic came to mind as it always did when he thought of Rork. It was virtually impossible for a Qiga to rule successfully without a powerful heir. Why, it had been the only reason their family had successfully staged the Chaldi holocaust and snatched power from that ruling family more than a hundred years ago. Tafik could still remember his parents’ discussion. There were rumors the heir of Chaldi and a descendant of the Matriarch, a girl born a decade to the Holocaust was so powerful her magic caused her to lose her mind. Just why The Ancestral Mother would bestow so much gift in one so young was injustice it self, both to the girl and the lesser witches of her time. Their father used to say she had so much power rumors abounded she might be a Deji. Too much power did two things- rendered the bearer unstable like the Chaldi heir or rendered the bearer powerless as Rami theorized happened in Rork’s case. Tafik scoffed. The second explanation was cooked up e
ntirely by Rami as an excuse for Rork since it had never before occurred.

  Yet, the boy was still young. There was still time for his nephew to develop his natural ability. If he didn’t, his family would end up losing the kingship for sure. And Rami would never allow that.

  Tafik knew his brother well, knew Rami wanted to believe the only reason Rork was still powerless could mean The Ancestral Mother had blessed him with a unique once-in-a-generation gift, but then the Holocaust must never be repeated. Chaldi still burned with resentment at the memory of the holocaust, even after Father and Rami took the precaution of murdering every child in a potential line of witches. His brother had never been a dreamer. He believed in creating his choices, not leaving life to make his decisions.

  He loved Rork, they all did. Who wouldn't? Rami would not lose the position the Mapu family had fought for, shed their blood for and lost the favor of The Ancestral Mother for just because he loved his son.

  The hut came into view. With its front facing throne room where the council meetings were held, it was a crude structure made of rough sticks and rougher palm fronds, it was almost as ugly as the Qiga.

  But the Qiga would win that contest.

  Jani was outside, draining water from a bowl into a bag. She raised her eyes and across the distance, their gazes met briefly. She returned to her task.

  Rork ran over to hold the bag open for his mother and Tafik struggled to hide his discomfiture. The boy was the only good thing in the family, truly and he felt sorry for him but the throne was more important than anyone. Tafik called out a greeting and went inside to see his brother. Jani nodded distractedly at him and turned back to her son. She studied his handsome face closely.

  Slowly, she ran her fingers down his cheeks. It was moist with dirt. “What is this?”

  “I was playing with Dago,” he said at once. Then pursed his lips in that peculiar way he had when he lied.

  Jan sighed. She didn’t have the time or inclination for this. When it was time, she would find out. “Pull the bag to the left,” she instructed sharply. Grey eyes narrowing on his face when he expelled a breath in relief, betraying his lie.

  Was it possible for two great liars to birth a child who couldn’t tell a lie to save his life?