Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Copyright
Hunters
Keepers
Interlopers
Scrolls
Before the Written Word
Lothal
The Library of Alexandria
Timeline
Author's Note
About The Author
Dedication
For Carrie:
For being my friend,
For being my wife,
For being my inspiration,
And for giving me the confidence to write.
Acknowledgements
There are few things in life more difficult than attempting to give credit to all the people who help in writing a book. When I first explored the idea of making Garaaga's Children into a series, its scope, its subject matter, and its complexity were not just daunting--they were paralyzing.
If not for the following people, the stories in this book would never have been written.
Mom and Dad-- for frank discussions and support.
Carrie--for never letting me give up and constantly pushing me to become a better writer.
Jennifer Brownson--for research and a deep love of forgotten history.
SB-- for beta-reading and being honest.
Scott Pond--for showing great enthusiasm for the stories and his tireless help in making this book a reality.
The Fiendlings-- for letting me tell my stories and always begging for more.
There are simply too many authors and friends that have pushed me to complete this arc. You know who you are, and I owe you a beer.
Legends of Garaaga
By
Paul E Cooley
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2014 by Paul E Cooley
www.shadowpublications.com
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States of America by
Shadowpublications.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Cooley, Paul E
Legends of Garaaga/ / Paul E Cooley.-- 1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Fantasy―Fiction
ISBN: 978-1-942137-01-6
Cover art, interior illustrations, and book design by Scott Pond of Scott E. Pond Designs, LLC
Edited by Jennifer Melzer
Hunters
~ 5000 BCE
The deep green fronds parted easily in front of his hands. "You have to be careful," his father had told him when he was a child, "if you make too much noise, you might attract a tiger. Or something worse." Those were lessons he'd memorized, but it wasn't until he was actually mauled by a juvenile cat that he took them to heart. The long, raised, puffy white scars across his brown chest were never to be forgotten.
His wife, Mejim, had begged him not to go. She had cried on her knees, hands around his ankles, her tears dripping to his feet. He had left her there without saying a word, but the moment he left the hut, his heart broke. Sniffing away his own tears, he had set out into the jungle.
Matri had been the same way with his father. He remembered watching them from his kusha aasan in the corner. His dark-skinned father almost obsidian in the early morning's near dark. His mother crying at his feet, begging him. To think of his child. To think of her. His father too had turned without a word and headed into the jungle, never to be seen again.
Rashim's hard, bare feet moved slowly through the tangle of leaves and vines. Light had come over the hills, but it was wan and distant through the deep-set clouds. The jungle was filled with shadows that it just couldn't quite dispel.
"When you are of age, my son, you will fight It. You will defeat It," his father's voice bounced in his mind.
He slipped through the brush into a clearing and leaned against a tree. The bark bit into his back, but he didn't mind. The day was hot. Rashim looked upward through the jungle canopy, barely able to see the large thunderheads gathering above. It would rain soon. Rashim smiled. Rain would help the approach. It might even save his life.
Mejim's beautiful, brown face filled his imagination. Her smile, the curve of her hips. She hadn't been able to give him a son. He knew she would never forgive herself that. He brushed away tears that leaked from his eyes. What would she do with him gone? If he didn't come back? "No one ever comes back!" Mejim had wailed. "Not your father, your grandfather, not his father. Why must you go?"
Rashim opened his eyes and stepped forward across the jungle floor. The spear was heavy in his sweaty hands, almost too slick to hold. Thunder rumbled in the distance. "Yes," he thought, "bring me cover." Something shuffled across the jungle floor. Rashim knelt, the spear hanging loosely at his side. The shuffling came again. He turned his head to the right and slowly turned his body, pivoting toward the sound. Another shuffle. A group of fronds some twenty feet away, gently shook. His breath hitched in his throat. "I am silence," he thought. "Silence." He closed his eyes and imagined himself pushing air toward the unseen thing.
There was a rustle, a snort, and then the shaking of leaves. Rashim opened his eyes. The jungle to his right shook, but nothing came at him. Instead, whatever it had been was running away. He smiled. "It is not enough to be a hunter," his father had said. "You must befriend the jungle. Learn to make what should kill you be your ally, your eyes, your ears. You must become one with it."
Rashim waited a beat, cocking his head to listen. It was gone and it wasn't coming back. He stood, ignoring the burning in his knees. A single raindrop hit a leaf in front of him. "Storm," he prayed, "please come to me." He left the clearing and made his way through another thick stretch of jungle. He slowed his pace and then stopped altogether. Broken vines and ferns. Something had slashed its way through the brush. "You will find its path. The ancient scouts told us that much."
The scouts were long gone. Their last male had no heir, no son to carry on the trade. His father had said the last scout had died over three generations ago. That was too many seasons to count. For all Rashim knew, the Thing might have died years ago as well.
Perhaps his father had defeated It and died of a mortal wound in his victory. Or maybe he had become lost after the battle, winding his way through the jungle, and was still here somewhere. Rashim shook the thoughts away. His father was dead. He knew it. His mother had known it. As soon as he'd been old enough, she'd immolated herself on a pyre, just as all the wives of the hunters were taught.
For weeks, his mother had cut vines and leaves, leaving them to dry beside the cooking fires, bundling them, and then storing them beside their hut. When she had gathered enough, he'd watched her build the pyre. Mejim, his wife of only a season, had offered to help, but his mother had refused. Whenever he returned from a hunt, practicing his craft and bringing home meat, the two women had been together. Cooking together. Talking together. But their voices always ceased the moment he appeared. Whatever secrets they kept between them, Rashim had never asked, never pried.
Once the pyre was finished, his mother had lain upon it, pouring hot animal fat over herself. Rashim had tried not to cry when she touched the torch to the wood. His mother hadn't screamed, had uttered nothing, as the flames licked up against her, crackling the grease and then blackening her flesh. Mejim had buried her head in his shoulder, her long black hair tickling his neck, as he shook with grief. When steam and smoke poured from his mother's opened mouth, he finally looked away. He kissed Mejim. The fire was still burning when they returned to the hut, their hut now, and made love the rest of the night.
When morning's light broke through the jungle and Rashim awoke, smoke still rose from the pyre. His mother's body was nothing more than char and ash in the faint outline of a curled up child. The terrible stench of her burning flesh had departed. "I am man now," he had thought. "Motherless. Fatherless. Orphan to the world. I am hunter."
The villagers had brought herbs and delicacies, as was the custom for a new hunter. Since his father had disappeared, they had stopped coming. But the smell of his mother burning, the black smoke rising high into the jungle air, had called them back to grace him.
Two seasons later, and the villagers once more waited for news. If he failed, Mejim would immolate herself, only much more quickly than his mother had--there was no heir for her to raise. Nothing to live with or for but shame and loss.
He gritted his teeth. If for no other reason, he had to defeat the beast to save her.
Had his father said something similar as he struck out toward his fate?
"You will defeat It," his father had said, a look of fear mixed with pride on his face.
When Rashim was old enough to walk, his father had taught him to hunt. When he was old enough to talk, his father had taught him to see.
After evening meal, with the sun dying on the horizon, his father would take him deep into the woods. When the sky above the canopy was covered in twilight and the night creatures began to wake, they would sit near a thick crop of trees.
"Close your eyes," his father would say. "Close your eyes and rest. Listen to the forest. Become one with the land."
Every night for weeks, they went through the same ritual. With each successive visit, Rashim found it easier to push away thoughts about the day. "Listen to the forest. Become one with the land."
With a new moon hovering in the east, Rashim had felt a tug in his mind. Gentle hands pulling at him. He'd heard the sound of his father taking in a deep breath. "Keep your eyes closed, son, and do not speak." His father exhaled. "Do you feel it?"
Rashim opened his mouth to reply and then shut it. "Yes," he thought, "I feel it."
"Do you know what it is?" His father's voice had become like a distant echo.
"No," he thought to himself. "What is it?"
"It is me."
Rashim opened his eyes.
His father leaned back against the tree trunk, eyes closed. "Close your eyes, boy." His father's mouth hadn't moved.
Rashim had shivered, finally realizing that his father wasn't speaking aloud; his father had been speaking in his mind.
"How are you--"
"Do not speak aloud," the voice said. "Speak in your mind. Speak to me."
The boy closed his eyes. And they spoke.
For months, he had entire conversations with his father while they hunted, conversations that were silent and did not disturb their prey. They had stopped going to the dark place in the woods long ago, but the lessons continued and his skills grew.
One evening, his father had taken him back into the woods, back to the speaking place.
"You must learn to see, little one," his father had said. "The eye sees. The eye has power. The eye is what makes us special."
"The eye?"
"That place in your head, little one. I know you feel it. Pressure. A place that seems forbidden and yet beckons you."
Over the seasons of their silent speech, he'd come to travel his own mind. He knew what his father meant. There were times when his father's words became all the colors of the rainbow, mixing and matching, flowing together and always toward that place.
"I am afraid."
"You must go into that place if you are to see. You must learn to open that place." The boy felt pressure at the edge of his consciousness. A dull ache began in his skull. "Open the eye, boy," his father had said, his voice strained with effort.
The pressure tightened. The dull ache was growing into something that bit and tore at him. Rashim cried out.
"You must learn to open the eye!" his father's voice screamed in his mind.
His mind thundered with pain as though someone were crushing his skull. All the colors in his mind flowed to the dark place. To the dark place. To the--
"OPEN YOUR EYE!"
Rashim lunged for it within his mind. He imagined himself diving through the dark hole. The pain ceased as he pushed his way through. With his eyes still closed, the world was filled with a crimson haze. He saw a hand, fingers curled, grasping at something.
"Fight it," his father said.
"I don't--"
The fingers tightened their grip and the intense pain returned. Rashim screamed, imagined prying the fingers apart. The pain ceased. The attacking fingers started to break with his effort.
"ENOUGH!"
Rashim opened his eyes and stared at his father. The older man wiped blood from his nose and smiled. "You saw, son. You saw."
"Father, you're bleeding."
"So are you," his father said.
It was then he noticed the damp on his face, from beneath his eyes. "What--"
"The eye protected you from worse."
"You-- You did that?"
His father nodded. "You are strong. Stronger than I could ever be, Rashim. My father nearly killed me the first time he pried open my mind. I could barely hold him back. But you," he chuckled, "you could have destroyed me."
"How? I don't--"
"You will understand. One day."
The lessons had continued, gentler games of push and pull, tugs of war. Before his father left to challenge the beast, Rashim was able to open the eye at will, able to see the world around him in a manner his real eyes were incapable.
He continued to follow the path of broken ferns and disturbed brush. The villagers marked the seasons on their stone tablet, the altar where the names of those who'd departed were etched with chisel and hammer. Seasons were marked in indelible ink that withstood the rains and the summer heat, but wiped off when animal fat was rubbed against the stone. Every 44 seasons, the beast returned. This was season 44 in the count. Rashim knew the beast would move soon--it would claim its tribute.
The birds in the trees had stopped their symphony. Rashim froze. Something moved up ahead. He bent down and put one knee on the jungle floor, his spear held before him. Something grunted. Rashim narrowed his eyes, willed his heart to slow. He cocked his head, listening. Mindless shuffling. Rashim concentrated, took a deep, silent breath, and opened his third eye.
Waves of crimson stirred the air around him. A screech, like that of a wounded bird, lay beneath it all, a continuous tone of pain and longing. It was there, ahead and through the brush. But it was hurt. It was old. It wanted to die. Vertigo nearly took him as he closed the inner eye and then the world snapped back into focus. It wasn't moving toward him. Rashim grinned with malevolence.
He crouched and made his way forward as carefully as he could. The creature was too pained, too lost, to notice him. He stopped before a large fern and brushed its leaves aside. A hunched figure stumbled in a slow circle, murmuring to itself. It wasn't just old, he thought, it had gone insane. He felt a swell of hope. Mejim. He would live to see his bride again, to lay with her once more, to be hero, to finally cement the hunter legacy once and for all.
Rashim moved past the wide green ears of vegetation in silence. The creature ahead continued its shuffle, unaware it was being hunted. The smile on Rashim's face showed off his yellowed, sharp teeth. The black and red tattoo on his forehead seemed to burn. The thing in the clearing was still shrouded in shadow. He wouldn't be able to get a good look at it from this far away. But it was close enough. Rashim took another deep, silent breath, rose from his knees, cocked back his arm and flung the spear forward in one, smooth motion.
The ruby tipped spear spiraled as it flew. The leaves parted before it, as if they feared its power. His every nerve vibrated as his eyes followed its short arc, the ruby flashing as it closed upon its target. Then the hunter's ear heard the sound of triumph--the wet slap of the spear finding its mark. There was silence for a moment, a
nd then the hunter's second favorite sound--the lifeless thud of dead prey hitting the jungle floor.
Rashim's tattoo throbbed. He crept forward, every nerve alight with the adrenal sizzle. The birds were still silent. Even the cicadas had stopped buzzing. Rashim felt as though the entire jungle waited for him to assess his prize. As he came closer, he imagined the jungle would explode with noise when he examined his fallen prey.
He felt warmth rising from his belly, his face flushing with joy. He wanted to run toward the prize, remove the spear from the fallen creature and scream into the sky, the spear thrust toward the heavens. But his father's voice silenced the thought. "You will never know if your prey is truly dead until you see its eyes." Rashim pushed the urges away and continued his careful walk.
The last of the fronds parted and he stared. The thing was naked and laying on its side. The spear jutted from one ear, blood still flowing from the wound. Its sallow, leathery, wrinkled skin bunched on the back of its neck. Rashim continued forward until he stood over it. The feeling of triumph had been replaced with fear and shame. It was an old woman. Her large, saggy breasts lay stretched out on the dirt. Rashim grabbed the end of the spear and pulled it toward him.
The woman's body rolled over. Her dead, cataract filled eyes stared off into the sky. A small tattoo of marks was visible on her neck. Rashim's mind deciphered them and he took a step back.
Najif. 44 seasons. Najif was the last taken 44 seasons ago, when she had just entered womanhood. 44 seasons had passed, and she looked as ancient a woman as he'd ever imagined.
The beast had taken her as tribute. The beast had used her. The beast had turned the beautiful young girl into this. Rashim felt a crimson wave of rage break over him. The tattoo on his forehead, the eye, thrummed, making his body shake. In disgust, he planted his bare foot against her skull, twisted the spear, and pulled. A well of watery and discolored blood seeped out as the ruby pulled free. Grey bits of inner flesh spattered out with a wet, plopping sound. Rashim stared at what had been Najif. He nodded to her. "Find your way," he whispered.
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