by SC Huggins
Rork raised his eyes and their eyes met. He held her gaze defiantly but offered no explanation.
After a telling moment, he dropped his eyes to the bag. And remembered the ewr. “Mother, creatures like the ewr, were they created like we were?” he asked without thinking. It was the ensuing silence that alerted Rork something was wrong.
Jani placed her hand on her son’s jaw and raised his face up so she could search his features.
“Why?”
“Why what?”
Jani just raised a blond brow in reply.
“Because I was wondering about the Dejis,” Rork rushed out a tad desperately.
“What about them?”
“If they are mortals like us first, how are they selected to become Dejis?” Rork thought fast, but he had always wondered about that. “Are they created that way or did they have to do something to be considered worthy?”
Jani sighed and turned her attention to her task, the urge to strike out at him burning beneath the surface. She had never wanted to be a mother, never had the patience children seemed to need. As it was, she felt nothing for her son, and he was good. He was so good; he was the man her husband could only wish to be. Caring and sensitive, whatever and wherever she sent him, he went. And still she felt nothing.
“In my family, more than thousands and thousands of years ago, it was said the greatest witch that ever lived was born, she was called—”
“The Matriarch,” Rork could have slapped his own face if he could, but he was so excited. Mother spent more time at her farm than at home and he was about to ruin this rare moment. He waited, breath held, eyes lowered.
“Yes, the Matriarch,” she said after a pause.
Rork released a sigh of relief and looked up. Into his mother’s eyes and saw the unspoken warning- no interruption or else. “It’s also said the Ancestral Mother found the ancestral realm so big and lonely that she selected the most powerful witches to cross into the ancestral realm. The Ancestral Mother also felt they would rule Uwan better only if they ruled together.”
“But why would she think that when she’s so powerful?”
“Maybe she felt since the Dejis were once mortals, they would understand mortals better, I don’t know. But with the unlimited power at her disposal, she could have continued ruling the universe alone if she wanted to, but she loved her creatures so much she decided to share her sovereignty with carefully selected and the most remarkable of mortals.”
“How will they know if they are selected? If-if maybe- I-I...” Rork stammered and trailed off under Jani’s withering glare.
“You are the heir, do not stammer. Say it.”
“I-If I am to be a Deji, how will I know?”
His mother smiled evilly. “You can’t know because you are too powerless to be chosen.”
Rork held himself still to control his flinch, but he couldn’t control the tide of red that flowed under his skin as mother continued, “They are the most powerful of witches. Their future, true natures, capabilities, their ability to handle the responsibility of being a Deji are all examined and tested from birth. Then The Ancestral Mother will allow their powers to develop to the full and they will later be granted access to life in the ancestral realm should they go on to lead faithful lives as mortals.”
“Could father be a Deji?”
Jani stared. Then she burst into huge peals of laughter. It was so surprising that Rork also stopped and stared, mother was not known for her laughter. Least of all, one so pure and spontaneous.
The last time he saw her laugh had been with uncle, in Chaldi, he recalled.
Rami and Tafik walked out of their hut, and Jani stared at the brothers. It was difficult not to compare the two, especially when they stood side by side.
“Wait,” she muttered hastily, and wiping her hands on her tunic, she ran after them.
“What is it?” Rami asked.
“I ermm,” Jani swallowed. She braced herself. “We don’t have food, harvest was poor—”
“Why are you telling me?” Rami leaned forward, his bushy eyebrows drawn together in impatience. “I run a clan, twelve big villages, you have only one home, only one child, just two mouths to feed, and you can’t do it?”
Tafik coughed. “Four mouths actually,” he corrected smoothly. “You forgot me and you—”
“Oh, shut up,” Rami said scathingly, “don’t disturb me with your problem again. You have no idea what it takes to control twelve villages.”
“The harvest was poor!” Jani shouted. She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, I just—”
“The boy brings food into the house more than you,” Rami’s lips twisted, “that farm of yours is even a waste of time—”
“Yes,” Jani forced a smile, “Rork tries. But I want to suggest that you levy the villagers—”
Tafik and Rami burst into laughter. “Levy. The. Villagers,” Rami gasped in between laughs.
“Well,” Jani drew her tunic down with nervous fingers, “to help Rork—”
“What can you ask of a man greater than his blood?” Rami asked.
Jani frowned. “I don’t understand—”
“When a man has given you his blood,” Rami said with a wolfish smile, “to ask anything more from him makes you the worst person on Uwan.”
“I don’t—”
“Understand,” Rami finished, and patted her shoulder. “You will one day. Rork can feed us, it’s the least he can do.”
Jani nodded tightly and turned away.
“Hold out the bag,” she snapped.
“I will hunt more, Mother,” Rork whispered. “I will take care of you.”
Jani stopped, and studied her son. “You’re a good boy, Rork. I’m so sorry.”
“Why—”
“You wanted to know if your father could be a Deji?” she began grimly. “Even your father is not powerful enough,” she finally replied, “so you can see why you should forget it.”
“When they die, how do they transfer to the ancestral realm?”
“Am I a Deji?” Jani snapped.
Her son lowered his eyes quickly, but not before she saw the flash of pain. “Again, they are rumors,” she started grudgingly, “your grandmother used to tell us, I am not sure how true it was,” she warned but Rork only nodded eagerly, “she said the transition from a mortal to a khorn creature never happens immediately they enter the ancestral realm. They enter the ancestral realm, not as a Deji, but a Sypa, a Deji not fully formed. After a time spent floating through the ancestral realm, a Sypa will transform into a Deji.”
Jani bent to squeeze water from the bag, she had to be fast or the meal would be really late.
“That’s really powerful,” he said in an awed tone. “If all Dejis come from the most powerful witches, does it mean they have equal powers?”
“I am not Deji. I do not know; you have no powers so these matters shouldn’t be of interest to you. You can be a great hunter,” she said dismissively.
“No.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“I need firewood,” she ordered tiredly. She would talk to Dago’s mother tomorrow. The impulsiveness of her son was rubbing off on Rork.
“And,” she called out, “when are you doing something about that roof?”
“Wait, listen, can I do it tomorrow?” He asked.
Jani glanced at her son. “Never forget tomorrow is never certain until it comes,” she told him curtly and turned away.
Rork walked off, pushing his blond hair angrily off his face. He knew it was punishment for whatever wrong his mother felt he deserved. But what had he done now? When he neared the same path where he and Dago had sat to clean their wounds, he struck at the nearest tree in anger, he couldn’t understand why his father wouldn’t help his mother with wood for cooking. Dago’s father did it.
Gritting his teeth in anger, he stalked off with stamping feet. It would be well past dark before he returned from the forest. With his anger to spur him,
he started picking, breaking and gathering the woods. After working for a long moment without pause, he heard a slight sound and stopped. Rork turned around, seeking the source of the sound. He stared intently at a spot to his left. Silently, he dropped the wood and reached quickly but quietly for the hunting knife always tied to his waist.
He waited. Bent at the waist, troublesome hair falling into his eyes, Rork waited until his legs started trembling. He didn’t move.
Then, the anu Dago must have seen earlier peeked through the brush.
Immediately, Rork let the knife fly from his hands with practiced and deadly ease. It struck the anu between the eyes and with so much power that its graceful body fell backwards with a thud to the leaf-packed earth. Rork rose but remained standing in the same spot looking around for anything unusual, constantly listening for a change in the sounds of the forest. He released a breath. Nothing.
He ran to where the anu was, bare feet sinking into the littered ground, he dropped beside the animal. Eyes still scanning the brush, he caressed the anu’s side almost in apology and squinted into the part of the forest where the anu had come from, trying to decide if something could have forced it out of hiding.
The leaves were losing their shine, Rork noted. He looked up at a break in the thick trees. It was getting dark. Quickly, he cut, stripped and dressed the animal, tied it to the firewood with a length of entwined twig and lifted the now heavier load onto his shoulders and set for home.
As he headed towards the village and home, the villagers called out greetings and encouraging words. Before he got home, he had given out the four feet of the anu to the villagers he knew needed it.
Tafik and Rami stood outside the throne room talking in hushed tones. With their heads so close together, the difference between the two brothers had never been more apparent. They broke off when they saw the boy staggering home.
“How does he hunt down these animals? The last time we went, even with all our powers, we came back empty handed, but look at him, powerless for sure and doing great things,” Tafik muttered.
They looked at each other. So different and yet very similar in their desire for more power and rulership. Where Tafik was classically handsome, his brother was ugly. Where Tafik was neat and graceful, Rami was gruff and bushy. Yet, the older Rami held all the power. A fact he never ceased to remind his brother of.
“Power doesn’t guarantee all,” they said at the same time.
Rami’s full beard twitched and he smiled.
A drastic change was imminent.
Virai was too far behind to deal with the change he could feel coming. Tugging at his bushy brown beard in irritation, Rami knew renewed frustration at his inability to control the rate of change. He did not have power that big. Even as the Qiga of Virai, he still was not so powerful, not as much as he wished to be.
To have Hikea, the gift of resurrection or prophecy. What a dream, the very thought of it brought a wistful smile to Rami’s face, stretching his bushy beards as it pulled his craggy face wide. Hikea appeared only once in a thousand years, rotating down the line, through the families in the village. But for the past thousand years, the gift had not made an appearance.
The Chaldi girl could have had it. But that point was moot now in the wake of the Holoacaust. Was it really over? At least Chaldi had a powerful heir, albeit one who had lost her mind but Virai had a heir, young and powerless. Wakay would not suffer another Holocaust for the whims of a mere boy. Ah! But Rork didn’t deserve this, to be born with no power at all? Not even those of the lowest witch? If The Ancestral Mother sought to punish the Mapu family for their role in the Chaldi Holocaust, she couldn’t have picked a more painful punishment.
With some magic, all the family would have had to do would have been to support Rork with their more considerable powers.
He stepped forward, eyes on the struggling Rork and stopped to place a hand on his brother’s shoulder, “Be careful how you go about mouthing off that our heir has no power. Yet,” he warned.
Rami swaggered off to help the boy with his burden.
Tafik watched father and son for a moment before walking off with his graceful long strides. He wished for the boy’s sake he would develop his powers. If he had any.
Worse than a second son with no inheritance was an heir with no power.
The rumble
JUST AS DAWN CREPT across the slowly awakening village, the sound of voices in father’s throne room nudged the reluctant Rork awake, disturbing the smooth ride of sleep. He opened his eyes and was almost immediately wide awake. Steel-gray eyes glittering eerily in the darkness of the hut, Rork glanced at his parent’s mat and realized he was alone.
They were days when father sent him outside to sleep with no explanation, but it had been years since he had done so. Rork knew why. He understood girls now and discussed them with Dago sometimes. But he didn’t understand why father stopped sending him outside.
Voices filtering in from the direction of the throne room reached his ears. Rork froze when he recognized Tafik’s, father’s and the other council heads who deliberated with the Qiga whenever major decisions had to be taken. Silently, he counted them. Seven members of the council were present.
He massaged his temples with his thumb and shook his head wildly. Perhaps, he was still asleep and only dreamt up the voices he could still hear!
The throne room was not ordinary, cloaked with ancient magic, it was impossible for outsiders to see or hear whatever was being discussed in the room unless the Qiga granted permission. It was designed with ancient witchcraft that were the eavesdropper to stand in the middle of the room, he still would not hear or see a thing.
Mother’s voice was unsurprisingly absent. He couldn’t hear her, not in the council room and not outside either, where could she be?
The raised voice of one council chief pulled his mind away from the whereabouts of mother and Rork sat up abruptly, narrow shoulders stiff under the linen he slept in. Somehow, he knew something terrible could be happening, if it hadn’t happened already. For the council chiefs were like the slippery and disgusting creepy animal, eigim as he had heard father describe them. The magicians used the eigim to perform the darkest magic.
The throne room was located just in front of the hut, there father settled issues, mostly those relating to the wrong use of magic and sorcery. For a village whose very foundations and beliefs were rooted in magic, most of the misunderstandings the people brought before their Qiga were of a magical nature.
Crawling slowly to the door of the hut that was usually shut at times like these, Rork decided to eavesdrop.
“-the resources and the unlimited power at our disposal will make a mockery of this battle. It will be an annihilation; I say we destroy the Chaldi,” Tafik declared.
“I still don’t understand where this talk of battle and war is coming from,” one of the chiefs said, “the Chaldi has never posed any serious threat since the Holocaust. Like us, they are still recovering from it.”
Rork stiffened and jerked his head back in surprise. Virai was going to war. Why? Dago would love to hear this, but he couldn’t tell him, not yet. He pressed his eyes to the door to see and listen in and learn more.
One eye roved over the group through the crack in the doorway, the throne room was perfectly circular in shape, with the chairs arranged to back the wall. The Qiga was positioned on a raised dais right in the middle of the room. So, the whole council could keep him in their sights and hear him when he spoke.
Rork tried to read the expression on the faces of the council chiefs. Of all the other villages in the surrounding lands, Chaldi gave father ‘sleepless nights’ as he called it. They had once been the greatest of all twelve villages in the Wakay clan, until the Mapu family rose so high they successfully challenged and took over the ruler-ship of the clan. Nobody mentioned the role of the family in the Chaldi holocaust, for they were either too scared to, or resigned to their fate. But Rork remembered and sometimes thought about it, f
or it was the holocaust that put him in this difficult position he found himself— heir to a rulership in a clan where magic was everything.
Rork wondered how the children of the Chaldi ruler would have felt- if there had been spared. The Chaldis were not used to being submissive, so Rami continued to have small skirmishes with them. These ‘skirmishes’ were dangerous, for if anything happened to Rami, Virai would lose her place in the clan. The Chaldis were known for producing very powerful witches. There were rumors one of their witches who had now joined the Deji s had been blessed with the gift of Hikea. The power of resurrection.
Rork closed his eyes briefly and opened them again. He couldn’t imagine being powerful enough to bring the dead back to life. With a grimace, he pressed his thumb to his forehead and rubbed, he had a bad feeling about this fight.
“I have always been opposed to completely wiping out Chaldi, but I’m seriously considering it now,” father said.
Rork froze, Mother would not like that. Though, she had no power to venture an opinion, he knew she wouldn’t like it. At all.
Old Pena rose, the chiefs fell silent and Rork held his breath. Renowned for his wisdom, he was feared mostly for the power of his tongue. The Head of the council of chiefs commanded respect from the people.
“Sema,” he greeted his Qiga very quietly, using the local form of expressing deep respect popular among the chiefs. “We will gain nothing from wiping off the village.” Old Pena offered as gently as his thready voice would allow.
Rork released his breath and waited tensely for father’s reaction.
Craggy face expressionless, Rami’s head swiveled slowly and he studied old Pena for a timeless moment.
“What do you suggest?” he finally asked.
Gnarled old hands gripping his cane more firmly, Pena took a deep breath and leaned forward slightly to emphasize his point. “Call on the Qiga of the Chaldi, negotiate for peace, not war. We don’t need to fight them for we have the upper hand here they have already sworn their fealty to you,” he finished with his head slightly bowed.