Unchaste

by Watts, Mia

  Unchaste

  A Moon Phases Story

  By Mia Watts

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  2665 S Atlantic Avenue, #349

  Daytona Beach, FL 32176

  Unchaste

  Copyright © 2011, Mia Watts

  Edited by Christine Allen-Riley and Jason Huffman

  Cover art by Les Byerley www.les3photo8.com

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-250-1

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic release: March, 2011

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  To Amanda P. Wright who is both A-M-U-S-I-N-G and a M-U-S-E.

  Author’s Note

  The Cahokia Indians are a real indigenous people. Their society was larger than London, at the time of its boom around 1000 CE. Though the Cahokia died out around 1300, no one knows the reason. All that was left behind was Woodhenge and a series of deliberately sculpted mounds, most of which have been leveled over the course of Northern American progression.

  As I indicated in the story, some of the mounds were merely structure bases that allowed for a better view of the terrain around them. Other mounds did actually house the goods and bodies of a wealthy man and his buried female servants.

  Little is known of them, as they existed prior to written history. However, mounds spanned from the Southeastern Unites States, well into the Midwest, where it’s believed they first grew to power. The name Cahokia for these indigenous people comes from a tribe near other mounds, discovered much later in the timeline. We can only guess what they called themselves. I chose to call them Arancaya, which translates to fair and just.

  For the purpose of this story, I’ve taken liberties of using words from several local, and more current, indigenous languages to fill out my story. I did, however, stick to true locations and the article mentioned in January 2011, National Geographic, does exist. Collinsville Road, does pass yards away from both Mound 44 and Woodhenge in southern Illinois.

  Some of the other details are for the purposes of fiction. There is no record to say that a high priest ruled the empire, or that brother tribes were formed to take some of the strain of agriculture off the main city. There is also no factual basis to the belief that a priest had to either be gay or a shifter to hold that position. These are fictitious elements created for the purpose of the story.

  As to the true purpose of Woodhenge, I leave that for you to decide.

  Chapter One

  “If you look out the van windows on the left, you’ll see a ring of wooden planks sticking out of the ground. That’s Woodhenge.” The tour guide bubbled with the enthusiasm of an eighteen year old hopped up on caffeine, which she probably was, given the size of her travel coffee mug. And the unblinking stare.

  Dead give-away, Flynn Chula thought.

  The modified cargo van stopped almost immediately, between white parking lines. Weathered wood stood like stoic columns on his right. Behind them, traffic whizzed by on Collinsville Road, a modern day snub to the historical landmarks. Flynn shook his head. The scene was as sad as the weather. The clouds leaked sullenly like dirty, saturated cotton balls.

  This is the extent of my family lineage? This? A half-devastated burial mound sliced by the Illinois Department of Transportation “go west” mantra next to a forgotten ceremonial circle?

  They were urged from the vehicle to huddle in the grimy parking lot. Flynn turned, taking in the scope of what his mighty people had become. The proud Cahokia, a thriving civilization which had been larger than industrial London and disappeared before Columbus ever put foot on American soil, had been reduced to brown historical markers beside a freeway.

  He trailed, last in line, toward The Mound, auspiciously labeled Mound 44. In the distance was one of the largest remaining vestiges of the ancient people, Monk’s Mound. Underneath all that dirt, either rested more dirt or one of the long forgotten burial mounds filled with artifacts, the remains of a wealthy man and as many virgins as he could afford to have buried alive with him.

  “Archeologists are set to dig on this site in the next few months. Measures are being taken to preserve the retrieved items in a local museum restoration chamber,” the peppy girl-child harped.

  “Why not leave it alone? Haven’t their graves been desecrated enough?” Flynn muttered under his breath.

  “Once this area had thousands of mounds, but as America was populated and land claimed, many of the mounds were leveled to make way for roads, farms, and small towns.” The bubblegum solemnity of her wide, blue eyes didn’t come close to feigning regret. “They’re lost to us forever. That’s why the historical society mission is to preserve the pieces of our history that still remain.”

  Our? There was nothing native in the girl’s appearance. Certainly there’d been enough generations to pass along a host of recessive genes, but Flynn doubted her ancestors had ever coupled with a heathen. Hell, even he didn’t look Native American, he reasoned. But here he was, one of the few remaining Cahokia Indians, a remnant shape shifter, checking out the history of the people he’d never known. Legends passed down through the generations, and a childhood fieldtrip to this spot with his dad, were all he had to work with.

  That and the National Geographic article released in January of this year, which reminded him he had a history. As a kid, he hadn’t been interested in some grassy hills and hunks of wood sticking out of the ground. The only memory he took of that day, was the creepy man who’d tried to coax him away from his father’s side with candy.

  Now, two months after that January article, his research into the Cahokia people had come to a dead end without so much as a match-flame of insight into how they’d disappeared, or any clarity on the stories he’d been told as a child. The stories he’d been told never to forget.

  It’d been a strange youth of Little Bo Peep, The Gingerbread Man, and tales of human sacrifice to appease the gods. It hadn’t been until later he found out that they’d mashed together in his memory and not every fairy tale ended with human massacre. It had been a relief to discover not all young children grew up with those images.

  Flynn’s father barely remembered the tales, but they’d been passed along like vaguely unfinished whispers, skipping some generations, drawn forth by aged grandparents who remembered “something from somewhere”. Then their eyes would drift to faraway places as they dredged up nearly forgotten stories to pass along until it reached family who could shift forms. Trying to make sense of childhood memories they were the keepers of, as they reviewed Cahokia myth through the sketchy map-work of age.

  It had seemed like an entire youth of solid American life with the oddly placed shadow of the unknown. Flynn’s dark auburn hair certainly hadn’t come from ancient Native American ancestry, nor had his green eyes and pale skin. Yet there was “something”, and it echoed the two-syllable word in the emptiness of his understanding. As though memories could be inherited, yet had been diluted with time and mixed ancestry.

  Flynn blinked past the vagueness, seeing wooden posts and mud-slicked rectangular mounds on either side of Tour Guide Barbie. She brought the absurdity screeching home— her commercialism, her high-gloss look—amidst the silent whispers of the Cahokia. It was a mockery.

  At least her mockery was plain to see. His blended in with
the earth-tones, the pat of rain on pavement, mud the color of his hair and grass the color of his eyes. Flynn couldn’t explain it, but he felt he’d insulted this holy land more than the four lane highway impinging on Monk’s Mound.

  Tour Guide Barbie wasn’t supposed to know the emotional significance of where she stood. When the tour ended, she’d drive off and leave this place. Flynn, on the other hand, carried the blood of warriors, dead more than six hundred years. He was supposed to know. The shadow of incomplete tales murmured its garbled message, and he didn’t speak the language. But he was supposed to, and the land knew it, shamed him for not grasping his own heritage.

  Barbie led them around the smallish Woodhenge, walking on toward Mound 44. Flynn lagged behind, slipping through the planks to stand at the very center of the monument. Tipping his head back he looked up at the sky as droplets kissed his cheeks and forehead. He closed his eyes, wondering what this place had been like hundreds of years ago, in its prime.

  The pitter pat of rain came faster, striking the planes of his face, the ancient angles he still shared with these lost people one of the few testaments of his lineage. The Cahokia were a mystery. Dead and gone with nothing more than pottery shards to guide the archeologists on their search for information. To the few like Flynn, the history was reverential, buried in sacred soil and recalled around the family table.

  The clouds rumbled with displeasure and lit from within, detailing the smoky hues of the weather system. The tour group had moved away, their voices muffled by the solid dirt wall of Mound 44.

  Flynn opened his eyes and whispered to the sky. “I want to know.”

  Lightning arced through the sky, forking from three different sources. The ground beneath his feet jumped with static electricity, raising the hairs on his legs. A loud crack dumbed his senses. Darkness spilled its ink over his mind. He was left with nothing but the smell of charred earth.

  Chapter Two

  Amaro’s fist tightened around his spear. “You aren’t fit to lead your people.”

  Koda’s jaw tightened. He folded his arms across his chest, puffing it out in the understood display of strength and dominance. He and Amaro had met several times to solve their disagreements, yet they hadn’t reached a solution.

  “Renounce to your sister and bind her to me in marriage. I’ll rule both our people,” Amaro said, lifting his chin in a swift jerking motion of insolence. His black as night eyes never left Koda’s.

  “My sister has six summers, Amaro. Even you wouldn’t soil her youth with your seed.”

  Amaro’s lip curled. “I have no use for seeding her. The people would understand the meaning of our union.”

  Koda took a step closer.

  Amaro’s full lips thinned, his nostrils flared at the end of his finely sharpened nose. Amaro hadn’t moved, standing immoveable and strong. His long hair whipped around wide, bare shoulders and across his face. One tendril undulated onto, then beneath his bottom lip.

  Koda’s gaze dropped to the leather amulet nestled between Amaro’s collarbones, its red ochre stained pouch a sign of his position and power among his people, and identical to Koda’s. They were brother tribes of the same origins, splinter groups which had broken off when the numbers in the empire had grown too large for the land to maintain.

  Then, Koda and Amaro had been boyhood friends and fought side by side to protect the people. Koda remembered his stubborn companion’s character. Not much had changed since they’d been awarded a tribe of their own and sent to the outskirts. It had been an honor, bestowed on them by the high priest, for bravery in battle. Only five groups had been sent out to build new cities and continue growing crops for the empire.

  “Friend,” Koda said gently. “Let’s work together. Our people will follow.”

  “Keep your tribe off my land,” Amaro demanded through gritted teeth.

  “Keep yours from thieving off my land,” Koda answered tightly.

  “Stealing our grain hurts the empire, not just our families.” Koda tried to keep his anger at bay. “What purpose does starving us serve?”

  He thought he saw a moment of regret in Amaro’s eyes. It lasted only an instant before he rolled his shoulders back, lifting his chest in pride. “The high priest will present me your land if you cannot produce on it.”

  With sickening dread, Koda realized what the goal was. Amaro wanted land. With it, and his proven ability to produce, he’d be given Koda’s tribe. If he continued to prove successful, the high priest would give him greater status, perhaps awarding him with riches in the afterlife as well as commendation among the empire.

  The high priest was a generous man, but he was old. His apprentice wasn’t. The glint in that man’s eye put fear in Koda. The younger acting priest had been slowly taking over the role with the decline of his mentor’s health the past two summers.

  Impressing the imminent high priest, Manaba, would require a display of hostility from Amaro.

  “You’d destroy me and the relatives of your tribe to do this?” Koda asked in disbelief.

  Amaro looked into the distance. His beautiful profile had ripened with maturity. His proud forehead and high cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw and hooked line of his nose over full, wide lips, were familiar and dear to Koda.

  There’d been many training sessions as warriors where Koda had looked at the boyish version of this man, and had dreamed of having him as a lover. But warriors defended and took women to their dwellings. They didn’t entwine themselves with other men.

  Still, Koda had thought often of his thickly muscled thighs and large hands. Until the honor came and they were parted, destined to lead their tribes for the good of the empire, and never meant to share land.

  “You aren’t the boy I played with,” Koda told him sadly.

  Amaro’s faced him, expressionless. “All boys grow to manhood if they’re worthy of it. The others die in battle.”

  “I’ve grown to adulthood, Amaro, yet you claim I’m unworthy.”

  “To lead, yes. You fought bravely,” the other man allowed. “You’ve earned respect as a warrior. As a leader, you’re weak.”

  “Compassion is not weakness. A sapling must give when the wind moves swiftly. It would snap, otherwise.”

  Amaro smirked. “We aren’t saplings. I’m an oak with deep roots, braving the winds without injury. See where the wind bends you, old friend, but know that an empire cannot be built with green wood.”

  “You crave Manaba’s admiration, yet he’s not trustworthy.”

  “Manaba is blessed by the gods,” Amaro hissed.

  It was true. They’d all been witness to his arrival through the Portal of the Gods, and the proof of his awesome gift to change shapes. Manaba truly bridged the physical and spiritual worlds as only a high priest could. To possess the ability of living in a man’s shape, or choosing the form of an animal meant the gods found him worthy. They allowed such a man to commune with all of nature in a way no other could.

  And they’d delivered Manaba as Macawi grew frail with age, requiring a successor to rule the empire.

  Once delivered through the gate, Manaba had been tested then apprenticed under Macawi. No, there was no doubt Manaba had the gods’ ears.

  The gods couldn’t be wrong, though it seemed they’d made an error with the character of the one they’d sent. Yet those same gods had created Amaro.

  Amaro’s black eyes glittered. If ever the gods had made a beautiful man, it was this one. Well-formed and strong, he wore the scars of battle with pride like any Arancayan man. On Amaro, they emphasized the firmness of muscle and length of his thigh. Koda longed to trace those warm lines with his hands, to delve between Amaro’s thighs and examine other godly gifts, yet never dared.

  “He is blessed,” Koda agreed. “But will you stand by his side until the gods are angered by his wastefulness? Do you think the gods won’t notice those who fell alongside him?”

  “I can’t be destroyed for doing what was commanded by a living god.”


  Koda tempered his anger. “I want peace with us, brother.”

  Amaro leaned in earnestly searching Koda’s face. “You’d have it, if you’d join me.”

  “If I gave my people to you,” Koda corrected.

  “There can be only one leader.” Amaro stepped back, twisting his closed fist on the spear he held. “I have no sister to offer you. It’s the logical solution.”

  “Renouncing my leadership to a girl of six summers is logical? I’d no longer be a man,” Koda snapped.

  “I’d restore you as my advisor.”

  “To a people that wouldn’t respect me. If I value myself so little, why should they value me at all?”

  A sharp crack sounded in the distance. The ground rumbled with life. Above them the clear blue skies gave no evidence of the reason. From the other side of the clearing, they heard an ungodly howl of pain.

  Amaro started running. Koda kept pace as they sprinted for the Portal of the Gods.

  Chapter Three

  Flynn shook uncontrollably. The pain came from nowhere, yet it filled his body, jammed his nerve endings with confused signals, scraped the fine protective cover off each with steel wool. His moaning carried to him through a distance of sensory static.

  Curled in a fetal position on his side, he managed to open his eyes and look at his clawed hands. Except they weren’t hands, they were paws.

  Shifted. No blood.

  He knew that was good, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why not bleeding was a good sign. He rolled onto his feet, craning his neck to see the sky. Clear endless blue greeted him.

  He blinked in confusion, torn between his spasming muscles, the shock of not knowing what had brought the blinding pain, and thinking he needed to get out of the rain. It took another moment before he remembered there wasn’t any rain. Which confused him all over again.