“Richard…”
“No, Mercy, we gave that boy everything that we could possibly give. We loved him while he was ours, and we have to remember him for the blessing that he was to us. We can’t do anything else.”
“Oh my love, let’s stop hiding from this. Bring me a few bottles of whiskey and let’s drown ourselves in it. Just for tonight. I can’t keep feeling this terrible emptiness. I simply can’t,” she sobbed.
“We can’t let this break us. Not now. I know our son is gone, but we aren’t. We have to keep going Mercy,” he insisted, resisting the urge to weep at seeing the love of his life so hopeless.
“Bring the damn whiskey or I’ll do it myself.”
“No, Mercy. Alcohol won’t fix this. We can’t go down that road. I won’t let us.”
“Then leave. Get out.”
“I’m not going to do that either,” Richard said. An iron will kept his voice steady, but the pain in his eyes betrayed him.
“I’m sorry, Richard. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean it,” she sobbed.
“Don’t worry about it. I know. I know, princess.”
A sudden urge struck her, and she smiled weakly at her husband. “How long has it been since we danced?”
“Too long. Far too long.”
“Come on, get up.” She took his arm and led her bewildered husband to an empty space in their living room. She turned the lights off, burning a few scented candles in their stead. Then, as the warm smell of cinnamon began to fill the air, she picked up her iPhone and browsed for an appropriate song. After some time, she found what she was looking for- “Greensleeves”. A tune that contrasted so perfectly with the turmoil in her soul, that she could not help but to laugh at the absurdity of it all. She went back to her husband, taking one of his hands in her own as he placed the other on her back. She pressed her head against his chest, so that he would not see the tears in her eyes. Outside, it had begun to snow. As the snowflakes fell from a sky full of stars and the wax from the candles slowly dripped, they swayed to that happy tune, pushing the night away.
According to me, love is the most powerful force in the universe. And the only way to succeed and to live in peace and harmony is to expand our vision of love to a genuine level of soul virtue which in its turn will bloom the loyal and benevolent concern for the good of our fellow man.
-:), Pakistan
23
Days before, Asriel had arrived in Leticia, the southernmost outpost of humanity in the Colombian Amazon. It was a small settlement compared to Bogotá, containing large swathes of land that were still mostly claimed by the jungle. Concrete buildings, staples of the modern era, mixed with traditional wooden huts along the banks of the Putumayo river. The centre of town, El Parque Santander, was an idyllic place, with government buildings and a colonial church surrounded by marvellously designed gardens. In the evenings, as the light of the sun died in the sky, thousands of parakeets sought safety in the trees, creating a beautiful spectacle of coloured feathers for a few moments as they flew into their green refuge.
The name of the settlement was a story on its own, one that Asriel’s broken heart could not help but to appreciate. According to the locals, a Colombian soldier had named the town Leticia after falling in love with a native woman of the same name. What, Asriel reflected bitterly, was a more beautiful name than that of a lover? He too would create a memorial to his tender affection, and the Amazon would give him what he needed to do so. The land surrounding Leticia was untamed by civilized man. His chosen people roamed somewhere in that great jungle, primitives, of the kind she had loved, and he would soon find them.
The Yacumo tribe had managed to avoid all contact with the civilised world throughout the centuries. Soon, however, the inevitable would happen and civilisation would come for them. Asriel planned to save them from that fate, and make them masters of those who would otherwise oppress them. They would be his nation. They would rule the world in his name. From Leticia, he had travelled north, deep into the jungle, where that people were known to dwell. Trekking through the vast wilderness, he was reminded of the place where he had come into the world, in the continent that the mortals had named “Africa”. The beasts were somewhat different from those that he remembered, definitely more colourful. He did not sense the darkness lurking in the shadows. He did not recall having felt it anywhere since he awoke as Ambrose. However, he had been careful to carry an ample supply of lanterns and batteries as a precaution. If it still existed, even in a weakened state, it would be a deadly antagonist in the jungle.
After days of searching for the Yacumo without success, Asriel found himself in a clearing. He had not eaten since leaving Leticia, and while he did not need food to sustain him, he found himself missing the pleasant flavours of the Alexandria and the delicious meals prepared by Mercy d’Artois. He stopped briefly, enjoying the warm feeling of sunlight unhindered by the trees. As he lay there, facing the sky with his hands behind his head, he heard a rustling, causing him to jump to his feet in alarm. He took a moment to survey the clearing in a circle around him before letting his guard down. It had probably been some sort of animal, he reasoned.
Suddenly, the rainforest exploded around him. Booming war cries and a volley of rocks and crude spears flew towards him from the trees. One of the rocks struck him in the stomach, eliciting a cry of fury and pain. Then, a swarm of wild-eyed, mostly naked men materialized from the jungle, holding crude weapons and screaming their fury. Asriel sprang into action. Swiftly, he lunged at the nearest assailant, shoving him to the ground and taking his spear. Quickly, he ripped off the sharpened piece of flint from the tip of the wooden stick. There would be no killing. Warrior after warrior was knocked down by powerful blows from his new weapon, unable to match the speed or the sheer endurance of the immortal. Soon, they stopped launching themselves at him, knowing that to do so would earn them a painful rebuke. Strangely though, Asriel noticed, they did not run. Instead, they gathered around their injured comrades and stood ready to defend against his onslaught. Interesting, he thought. He charged into them, easily breaking apart their rudimentary phalanx and sending many of them sprawling before stepping back and waiting for them to run. Astounded, he watched as again, they formed into a protective barrier around a growing pile of their wounded.
“You have great courage. Most would have fled by now,” Asriel commented, speaking in the Nheengatu tongue. He had learned the language long ago, a vernacular of the Amazon understood by colonist and native alike. He suspected that the Yacumo people, detached as they were from colonial civilisation, would have had at least some contact with the other tribes and learned the language. He was proved right as one of them, a tall, muscular fellow, detached himself from the group and approached him.
“What is your name, devil?” the mortal inquired in an indignant tone.
“I am Asriel. Who are you to speak so boldly?”
“As-ri-el,” the tribesman slowly vocalized the unusual name, “I am Iauareté, son of the chief of the Yacumo tribe. You are from the world beyond. Why have you come to our lands?”
“See, if you had just introduced yourself like this in the first place we would not have had to go through all this… unpleasantness,” Asriel pointed out, gesturing towards the wounded tribesmen. “I came to grant your people a gift.”
“We do not want your gifts. Long ago, the wails of our brethren echoed in the trees, speaking of men such as you. They too came under the auspices of friendship. Do you know what they did, Asriel?”
“Yes, and that story is not unique. What they did unto your people they have been doing to others and to each other for millennia. Now, I come to offer you a way not only to resist them, but conquer them.”
“I do not want it! Leave this place, deceiver. I do not know what you seek to gain, but it is not the good of my people,” Iauareté seethed, trying to think of a way to get rid of Asriel. He did not dare attack, for he had seen the stranger’s might and did not wish to be on the receiving end of th
at stick.
“You may not want it, but you are not the chief. Take me to your father,” Asriel commanded with an imperious wave of an olive hand.
“No.”
Asriel was running out of patience with the impudent mortal. “Come here, I wish to tell you something.” Seeing the chief’s son hesitate, he raised his voice, “You fear me? Is this the son of a chief? Is this the best of the Yacumo?”
Iauareté did not have a choice but to move closer to the devil. To ignore the challenge would shame his father, and the tribe would never forget his cowardice. He walked towards Asriel, keeping his back straight and looking forward, careful not to show fear in front of his warriors. Abruptly, he felt a hand clamp around his wrist like a vice, and had to resist the urge to cry out. Iauareté had barely seen him move.
Asriel leaned into him and whispered in his ear, “You have impressed me thus far, young one, do not ruin it now out of foolish pride. Remember that your men are watching. You will take me to your father. If you continue to refuse, I will drag you by the hair as I kill them, one by one, until you change your mind. Now go.” He released the terrified man. Iauareté did not doubt that the terrible stranger was capable of carrying out his threat. Quickly, he gave orders for the wounded to be carried to the village and returned to Asriel.
“Follow me, devil.”
Asriel rolled his eyes, “There’s no reason we can’t be civil.”
***
The devil had been with his father in the old, wooden longhouse for an hour. Iauareté feared that the old man would come to harm, and despaired at the hopelessness of his situation. Asriel could kill the chief if he wanted to, and no one could stop him. If the tribe then tried to avenge their leader, they would be wiped out. He searched fervently for some way to escape his predicament. Instead, he spotted something that irked him further.
“Buira, what is that?” he asked one of his younger warriors, referring to an outlandish curved, black object that Buira was examining.
“A gift from Asriel. He says that it will make me a great warrior.”
“May I see it?”
“Of course,” the youth offered him the device. “Be careful, Asriel said not to point it at anyone.”
“Oh?” Before Buira could react, Iauareté threw it far away, into the trees. Its descent startled a couple of magnificently plumed parrots, causing them to fly above the canopy, squawking furiously at the sudden intrusion. The young warrior looked at Iauareté in shock, and then anger.
“Why did you do that?”
“Do not accept gifts from the devil. Did you not listen to your mother as a boy?”
“This one is different. He is kind, and promises to make us mighty.”
“You are young and so naïve Buira. They are all the same. Just wait. He will reveal his true nature soon.”
“Who has made you so bitter? Why do you hate him so? We attacked him. Remember that he could have killed us all, but he did not take a single life, when we would have taken his.”
“What reason did he have for coming into our lands? He was searching for us. He needs us for some reason, and I do not trust his goodwill. Neither should you.”
“Well, neither of us have a say in whatever happens now. Look! They emerge.”
The chief, an imposing figure despite his advanced age, walked out of the longhouse with Asriel. He had the same, muscular build as his son, one which had not yet been ruined by age. His shiny, black hair had not begun to grey and only a few wrinkles appeared on his bronzed face. Usually, he maintained a cold and imperious expression, even towards his son. Now, however, he was beaming. The monarch began to speak as the crowd gathered in front of them. Buira ran to join them, followed reluctantly by Iauareté.
“People of Yacumo. Our strongest warriors tried to kill this man, thinking him an enemy. Yet he defeated them all with only a stick. There is every reason to fear him. However, he has spared us all, when there is no reason for him to do so. He comes to us in friendship. He comes to offer our people greatness. Will we be foolish enough to reject him?” the chief asked, looking directly at his son, daring him to object. Iauareté was no fool, and chose to bow his head instead.
Asriel began to speak, “Thank you, friend. Listen now, Yacumo. Your chief tells me that this tribe is home to two hundred souls. I will make each one a monarch. Gone will be the days when you labour for food and fresh water. These things will come to you. No longer will you sleep in straw mats, nor bathe in filthy lakes. No people will ever threaten you, for you shall reign as masters over all.” As people began to cheer, Buira looked at Iauareté triumphantly. He shook his head in disappointment, seeing that the stubborn man still looked upon Asriel with open hostility. “Now,” the stranger continued, “I wish to ask the chief for a boon.”
“Ask, and it is yours, friend of the Yacumo.”
“I wish for young Buira to be placed in command of the warriors. Your son, Iauareté, is more suited to becoming my personal guardian.”
The chief whispered, an alarmed expression on his face, “Is this wise? My son is impudent and headstrong, like me at his age. I fear that he will do something rash, and I would not have him harmed.”
Asriel replied calmly, “I wish to develop a friendship with your son, he has great potential despite his youth. What better way to do so than if he is constantly at my side?”
“As you wish, but I beg of you, come to me before taking matters into your own hands if he should misbehave,” the chief pleaded. Asriel nodded, and the chief reverted to his previous, booming volume so that the people could hear. “Then let it be so. Iauareté, you shall be Asriel’s shadow. You shall follow wherever he goes and serve him faithfully until he has no further need of you. As for you, Buira, congratulations. You will lead our men to greatness, and bring honour to our tribe.”
Buira grinned, looking at Asriel in utter adoration, while Iauareté quietly seethed, resentment rushing through his entire being like a deadly venom. The devil had robbed him of his place in the tribe, reducing him to a mere bodyguard. Soon, he hoped, the stranger would prove his father a fool. Soon, the people would see that he, Iauareté, had warned them all and remember his wisdom. If any of them remained, he bitterly reflected. He looked at the hopeful, happy faces that surrounded him and tried to memorise each one. Whatever was to come, they would never be the same.
Minha mais profunda humanidade, é ter medo da minha própria capacidade, é ter desejos que eu sei que não podem ser realizados, Minha mais profunda humanidade, é a procura pela liberdade na jaula que é a vida.
-L, Brazil
24
Asriel had spent the previous year turning ninety relics from the dawn of mankind into an elite corps possessing the latest in modern weaponry. The great fortune that Belit had left behind had finally found a use smuggling arms deep into the Colombian jungle. At first, they had been afraid of the new technology. Under his tutelage, however, they soon came to appreciate the power that it gave them. Even Iauareté could not help but admire Asriel’s gifts. His people no longer had anything to fear from the painted jaguar or the scaled crocodile. Regardless, he did his best to hide his amazement. He still did not trust the devil, and remained stoically silent while carrying out his duty. All he could do was hope that Asriel would not lead them to their deaths.
Every man, woman and child in the tribe had undergone a rigorous immunization technique. Asriel knew the terrible toll that European diseases had taken on native peoples before, and he would not have the same fate befall his followers. Not after he had gone to such lengths to outfit and train them properly. They had been willing students, quickly learning the art of war and achieving incredible discipline. Physically, they were amazingly tough, used to living a hard life in the wilderness. They were far stronger than most men that Asriel had led. Buira had proved a strong leader, quickly earning the love and respect of his men despite his youth. He had developed an excellent command structure on his own, impressing the immortal. Buira had surrounded himself
with five lieutenants, each of whom commanded groups of seventeen tribesmen. That way, every man knew who they reported to. Orders could be quickly and efficiently passed down to each warrior.
Asriel was confident that they were ready. He had announced a feast that night, allowing the men to relax while the war council gathered in the longhouse. Asriel sat at the head of a long, plastic table, taken from Leticia. The chief, Iauareté, Buira and his lieutenants sat around Asriel, observing the maps laid out across the table.
“That place is far from here, Asriel. It is across the great sea,” observed the chief.
“Do not fret, I have already arranged for our transport there,” the immortal replied.
“Will we be fighting men such as you?” Iurupixuna, one of the lieutenants, asked. A note of apprehension had made its way into his voice. He still vividly remembered when they had been naked savages attacking a strange trespasser. He had carried the bruises from that skirmish for weeks.
“No, you would not stand a chance against one of me, much less an army of men like me. You will be fighting normal men, though they will look different from you and speak in another tongue. Remember your training and you will sweep them away.”
The men were visibly relieved. There was an even greater concern though, raised by Buira, “What of our women and children, will they come with us?”
“Of course, I shall arrange their passage as soon as we have secured our destination.”
“Ah, excellent. Now, if I may ask, why must we go so far? Why can we not begin our empire here?” Buira asked, receiving nods of agreement from the other leaders.
“My dear friend, I did not expend so much time and resources to reign over a bunch of trees. No, we go to the cradle of civilisation. We shall take it for ourselves and return it to its former glory. Only when we have our capital can we begin the rest of our conquest.” Seeing the scepticism on their faces, he added in a seemingly friendly, yet subtly menacing tone, “Please, do not fight me on this.”
An Immortal Dance Page 16