Daygo's Fury

by John F. O' Sullivan

  Uksit said nothing the next day, but Niisa watched him closely, and he noticed an occasional frown creep across his face. It was enough to confirm that he had recognised some change within his body.

  That evening, Niisa possessed Uksit once more. He brought his will to bear, focusing all his conscious effort on expanding that same lock. This time, as he felt the twitch, he held on, expanding with all his mind, all his energy, all his power. In possession of Uksit and lost within a singular focus, he could not bear witness to the results of his effort, but he felt a resistance growing against him. He knew it was Uksit’s subconscious resisting the intruder, trying to re-establish its natural stewardship of the flow.

  He grew tired and his control became murky. He felt himself weaken. Then he slipped. His whole being jarred. He lost the commune. He opened his eyes, disorientated, not knowing where he was. His vision spun. He resisted the urge to puke, just. He breathed deeply for a while, his right hand on the stone beside him holding him up, before he realised where he was and remembered what he had done. His head throbbed, but he turned his eyes to Uksit.

  The man was spasming furiously, but he seemed, somehow, to retain the commune. Had he noticed? Was he aware that Niisa had possessed his body? Niisa watched, fascinated even through his own pain. He wondered if the others were sensitive enough to have picked up on the disturbances in the air. As gently as he could, he returned to the correct posture and sat in silence to wait.

  He watched Uksit indirectly as he broke. His head tilted slightly to the side as he opened his eyes, but he showed no other reaction as he waited for everyone to leave the cave before him.

  Outside, Niisa turned to watch Uksit as he exited the cave. Uksit stopped immediately at the grassy hillside and raised a hand to his head. One of his eyes was bloodshot. He dropped to one knee as though he would retch.

  “Uksit?” called Bosede in alarm as she saw him. “Are you well?” She strode towards him, followed quickly by Onyeka and Obasi, and placed a hand on his upraised arm.

  He twitched at her touch and looked up at her in surprise. “What?”

  “Are you well? Your eye …”

  “I’m fine,” he said, his tone of voice normal, as though there were nothing unusual about his behaviour. He stood up. He looked quizzically at the two women and Obasi and walked away. They glanced at one another and then at Niisa. He shrugged and followed Uksit up the hill.

  Niisa was still dizzy when they sat for commune the next day, but he managed to achieve Samadhi. He had planned to simply observe the changes in Uksit’s aura, since he had failed to bear witness to it the previous day.

  But as he watched, wrapped in the self, it was not enough for him. He wanted to see larger changes. He needed more. His ambition was too great to be content with further crawling progress. He possessed Uksit, and once more he focused on expanding that same lock. But this time, knowing of the resistance he would face, he made war with that resistance. He bent his will against it.

  Uksit screamed. Niisa collapsed, returning to himself as though fallen from a great distance. It jarred, his head spun, he threw up on the stone beside him. The ear-wrenching sound reverberated off the walls. All around him, his fellows broke from the commune. Uksit jumped to his feet. He screamed again, high octaves rocking off the walls. He turned and ran for the exit, stumbling over and trampling on Yejide. He pulled himself through the rocky tunnel, headless of the sharp edges, and disappeared from sight.

  The priests looked at one another in sudden shock, dazed to be so suddenly jerked from their worship. A final roar from outside set them to motion. Quickly, they followed Uksit out the exit, Niisa at their heels having tried vainly to settle his stomach and his mind. He stumbled as he exited the tunnel.

  They found him in the centre of the camp stabbing the sharpened stone of a knife deeply in and down just above his left hip bone. Niisa counted five stabs before his leg collapsed and he fell in something close to a fit on the ground. The priests swarmed around him, pinning him down and removing the knife from his hand.

  After a short struggle, he lost consciousness, the ground around him soaking deeply red. A few moments later, he was dead.

  The priests looked at one another wide-eyed, shocked still and silent. Niisa felt woozy on his feet. He dropped to the floor, sitting awkwardly, and managed to refrain from reaching a hand to his head. He felt white. Goosebumps crawled across his body. He stared at Uksit’s body, turning his sickness into a performance endearing towards his fellows.

  Even as he wanted to retch, he felt a smile that he kept from his face. There was a fourth stage to the commune. It was manipulation.

  He had surpassed all of his predecessors in knowledge. He was truly Daygo’s chosen child. Born to succeed in holy work. Designed to succeed. He glanced across at his fellow priests, suddenly feeling the act was beneath him. Why pander to lesser beings?

  They stood, not knowing what to do, as blood that had pooled around Uksit’s thighs seeped into the ground. The knife lay discarded a few feet away, dirt stuck to the slick blood on the blade. Birds sang in the trees. Monkeys’ chatter could be heard in the distance. The evening sun bathed the scene in bright yellow light. Niisa looked at them one by one, wondering if their heartbeat was still slow from the commune, even after the excitement and shock of what had just happened. Was a strange peace still settled over them? Did it make them feel odd?

  Everything was as normal, as a thousand, ten thousand days before, except a member of their order lay dead, murdered by his own hand on the grass between them. What power might Niisa hold over these primitives in a future day? Could he make them dance? Could he inhabit them totally?

  “What happened?” Obasi asked the air in front of him. The question fell and died to the quiet between them.

  Yejide looked above the trees to her left, as though pondering the strange occurrence. Only her mind did Niisa wonder towards. Only in she did he see potential. Bosede and Onyeka had clasped hands, Onyeka looking from face to face, her features drawn, Bosede stared at the body on the ground.

  Namuso was pale and white, his thumb rubbing over dried blood on his forefinger, always one to fidget, always lacking in concentration. Obasi finally looked away from the scene, his gaze turning upwards to the blue of the sky. Niisa could see tears wetting his eyes.

  Raba slowly turned his head. His eyes landed on Niisa’s. His eyebrows were turned up in shock and sadness, his face was white like the others, yet there seemed something in the eyes and the mouth. Eventually he looked away.

  They buried the body where they buried all their dead, atop the hill of the cave. They were two days digging the grave, taking turns between them, cutting through roots and pulling large stones clear. When finally it was deep enough to stop scavenging animals from digging it up, they dropped the body into it and filled it back with the rock and root and soil that was there before. Back to the earth, as much a part of the Daygo Stream as he ever was. No loss to the world. No change to the world.

  The days continued as before, returning to their normal rhythm. The sun spun around the Earth, and the moons, each following their own trajectories and timelines. The stars rose each night. The forest vibrantly continued to live.

  ******

  “Months ago,” Raba said softly, looking into the fire pit as the eight priests sat around it, “you came to me, Niisa, asking about manipulation. You asked, in the study of auras, had the seven practitioners of the third stage ever discussed manipulation. I wondered where this consideration might have come from. Afterwards, I wondered why, in the consideration of manipulation, why auras were a part of the conversation? Would it not be, that if it were possible, one might manipulate the air before one might manipulate an aura? Surely this, being the second stage, would be a more accessible point. But it was a fantastical conversation. And as such, I guessed, any manipulation would count as a fourth stage of the commune, and logic would dictate that this followed a third stage.” He looked up at Niisa, meeting his eyes. Niisa
sat comfortably, and looked back at him calmly. “Have you reached the third stage?”

  Seven faces turned to his, questions and confusion written across them. For a moment, he said nothing. “No.”

  Raba stared. “Did you manipulate Uksit’s aura?” he asked, his voice sharp and raw.

  “No.”

  “Are you responsible for his death?”

  “No.”

  “What happened to your sister?”

  “What happened to my sister?” Niisa inflected a question back into his words. Raba stared at him. He would never have thought to see anything approaching hatred in Raba, but he thought he might see some as he watched him, a touch of hatred and a touch of fear. “You look like you hate me now, Raba,” he said. “I am of Daygo, as are you. What have you learned in your sixty years here, if you have not learned love for Daygo? You hate me for a conversation?”

  Raba looked pained, and he looked away, perhaps shamed. There was quiet over the pit. Niisa sat within it. Soon members of the circle began to leave, finding seclusion from the strange tension they felt in the air. Only Yejide stayed sitting with Niisa and the silent Raba. Niisa looked at her. She looked back at him, her face saying nothing, her seated posture calm and at ease, comfortably sitting, as she could for hours, her hands stacked between her legs, palms facing the sky. Always a witness. They continued to watch each other in silence.

  As he looked into her eyes, an image of a black panther walking across his path came into mind. The panther turned her gaze onto the boy Niisa, her eyes alight in the darkness, as the great fire of the gathering started to take light behind the foliage.

  He had surpassed everything that they could teach him, he had reached a level none of them had. He had nothing to learn from them anymore. They were only of use as experiments. The following day, he would focus them on Raba. He would learn and he would wait for Daygo to show him the way.

  7. Daygo’s Fury

  Liam strolled behind the merchant, his stride leisurely and relaxed, as though he had all day to simply follow him, watch him, and wait. He was Haryani, wearing the long green and gold linen robes favoured in his country. His bodyguard was two steps behind him, as was customary. He was a huge man, dark of skin and wide of shoulder. His leather armour showed the beginnings of a belly of leisure protruding from his abdomen when he turned. Strapped to his waist was a hand-axe with a vicious-looking killing blade at its head and a large two-handed sword at the opposite side, not quite a longsword. He walked comfortably with them, as though well used to their presence. Liam smiled grimly; he wondered if this was a result of a long time wearing them or of being familiar with their use.

  He had been trailing them for half a winter hour. The days had grown considerably shorter and, with them, the twelve hours of daylight. The twelve hours of night spread out ever larger, ever darker. Twice the bodyguard had turned to chase him away, shouting curses to clear off as he did so. Liam had stood still, staring back at him before jogging backwards a few steps until he gave up the chase. Liam then returned his relentless pursuit, the bodyguard glancing back angrily and cursing. The third time his Haryani master raised his hand and muttered angrily for him to stop. It was only a slum rat, only a boy of thirteen, fourteen years. What threat was he? They walked under the seal of approval of the gang, doing business openly, they had nothing to hide, nothing to fear.

  They continued towards their destination, turning from street to street. It was late in the evening, the streets were becoming gloomy and were starting to empty out. A street ahead, around the next corner, was quiet. Liam knew there was no business performed there, no pubs or shops; just houses, with closed wooden shutters for windows, keeping out the winter chill. Liam lifted up the hood of his cloak, tying the strings underneath his chin. The cape was tied tightly to his waist and extended just behind and past his knees. It offered no restriction to his movements.

  They turned left into the next street. Liam picked up his pace, turning after them. His head turned behind him, taking in a last look of what followed. There were two men a hundred yards behind, following in their direction at a leisurely stroll. The other side of the street offered no threat, merchants standing in a circle, chatting. He looked ahead once more as he passed into the new street. It was mostly empty as he expected, a couple of kids playing at the end of the road, slum kids that knew not to hear or see anything. A homeless man lay sprawled across the side path. He looked unconscious.

  Liam’s bare feet tread lightly over the dirt ground, making no discernible sound as he broke into a run. The bodyguard looked back and gave a yell of shock and surprise as Liam leaped towards him. He raised his arms in defence as Liam’s blade cut through his throat, his arm a blur, making the slice with surgical precision, just deep enough to kill and no deeper; safer not to test the strength of the blade, it had more work to do. He landed on lithe feet, arm straightened behind him. A burst of blood marked his trail as he danced forward and around the Haryani diplomat as he turned. A half-formed word of questioning escaped his lips, quickly descending into a cry of shock and pain as his left kidney was pierced through. Liam sidestepped back in front of the diplomat as he turned yet again. This time his knife shot upwards and forward, like the strike of a coiled and deadly snake; it bore its fangs, then returned to its ready coil. Liam’s feet never stopped. He danced around and through the men, keeping away from their flailing, shocked arms and took two steps backwards away from the scene.

  He waited a moment for their pumping hearts to do the rest of the work, filling their air pipes with their own blood, turning what had given them life into their tool of death. Hands to their throats, their blood was an uncaring mess; undisturbed by the restraints it flooded every crevice and through every gap, dropping to the floor, watering the earth.

  What started as gurgles, ended in coughs. Red bubbles burst from their lips and their hands lost strength and fell with their bodies to the floor. The red stains spread at Liam’s feet as he bent down to do his work. He knew where the items of value were kept and he acted quickly, extracting everything of worth from the two men. He searched the bodyguard for a knife but was disappointed to find none. He shook his head at the logic of the man.

  He stood up and turned without hesitation from the scene, strolling quickly for the end of the street. He unhitched his cloak and wrapped it around himself tightly. His eyes turned slowly to the three boys who had earlier been at play. They stepped back fearfully from his gaze, their eyes wide in awe and fear. Liam’s face remained flat, expressionless. He looked to each one. Each glance long enough to make it understood. He would remember their faces. He would be back if they told anyone about him. It was an empty threat, mostly, but would be enough for them to keep their silence. He didn’t want the matis finding out who he was. They twitched away from him as he passed.

  He turned around the corner and crossed the road to the nearest alleyway. It turned out that it was easy to make money in the slums, when you truly lived with no restrictions.

  ******

  Racquel stood with her hands lightly clasped around the isolated piece of wooden railing at the waterfront, the fresh oaken feel prickly on her fingertips. She looked out across the glistening waters with the small rowboats tied to their moorings. The festival lights danced across the surface in a thousand wavy flickers, framed in slimy black. The city walls could be seen at the end of the river to her left, a darker shadow upon the horizon of the night, locking its citizens out from the wealth and prosperity within.

  Up and down the boardwalk, celebrants danced drunkenly. Street performers glided gracefully across the boarded timber, tumbling, dancing, singing, playing various and random instruments. Some watchers tried and failed to mimic them, stumbling drunkenly and sometimes falling into the shallow waters of the riverbank with a splash and a peal of laughter from onlookers.

  A cacophony of sound assaulted her ears, drunken laughter and shouting, singing and playing instruments, cries of pleasure and alarm, all lost within a pl
ethora of noise.

  People were dressed in a motley collection of colours and clothes, randomly and extravagantly put together. Neckbands and bracelets were worn in abundance along with skirts and scandalously bare tops. Strange hats lay atop heads with cloth tied and dangling from their hair. Faces and arms were painted and eyes darkened, making people look fiendish in the dim light. Copulating couples stood or lay, randomly dispersed amongst the debauchery.

  Racquel watched as a scantily-clad woman walked by, her large breasts threatening to bounce out of the loose multi-coloured cloth that was tied from around her neck to the back of her waist, with a string holding it together at its centre. Will she happily ride any man that gropes at her tonight? she wondered. Surely, if not, she would not flaunt herself in such a way.

  Glowing red and orange beacons lit up the night sky in various directions. Bonfires were set afire at street corners and squares, and no doubt buildings would burn to the ground tonight as they did every year, but precautions had been put in place to stop unnecessary spread. It was the one planning feature that had been enacted in the slums, the Great Roads and intermediary roads off them acting as fire breaks.

  It was the Day of Remembrance festival, a celebration of cultures long gone, nationalities and races now extinct, that existed before the terrible slaughter of the beasts. Dress, dance and music were to match that of these past cultures, though Racquel found it hard to believe that anyone once dressed as people did in the festivities.