by Nick Travers
Chapter 39
In the morning, under a blazingly clear sky, we land in a clearing on the edge of the village. Our approach is spotted. A welcome party shuffles into the clearing to greet us as we disembark, headed by an old crone wearing a shawl of white feathers. When she sees us, she falls to her knees, arms outstretched on the ground before her. The other men and women in her party do likewise.
“Oh, great Gaia,” the crone wails from her prone position, “have mercy on us, we have given a tithe this year, please spare our young.”
This is not the welcome I was expecting; friendliness or aggression I can cope with—this is just freaking me out. “Anyone know what she means?” I whisper.
“I think she’s talking to you, Nina,” Scud hisses.
I was afraid of that. I study the villagers kneeling before me. Maybe they haven’t seen an airship before; maybe they think I’m some sort of god from the sky. What do you say to people intent on worshipping you? “Oh, er... hi. Please, er... please get up.” It sounds incredibly lame, even to me.
The crone remains kneeling, but raises her head to look at my knees. “Oh great one, who is, um... forever young, welcome to our humble village.”
“Is this the Village of the Damned,” Fernando asks, showing a complete lack of sensitivity and tact.
The crone frowns at him. “Damned indeed, since we still pay for the sins of our ancestors. But to us it is home.”
“We need to have a look around,” Trent whispers from behind me.
The villagers exchange apprehensive glances, as if we have come to destroy something. I reassure them. “It’s okay, we come in peace. Perhaps…we can look around your, erm... lovely village.”
That seems to upset them even more. Something about this place is definitely not right.
The villagers rise to their feet and I try to introduce my crew, but the villagers ignore the friendly outstretched hands. Perhaps they have a different greeting tradition here.
The old crone looks truly shocked as I offer her my hand. Then she bows, takes my hand in both of hers and kisses my wrist.
“Everything,” she says, “is the same as before.”
Before? Have other airships visited recently? Her reaction suggests she has never seen an airship before, but she must have. Weird.
I ask the old crone her name and she blanches, as if I’ve just pronounced her death. Perhaps I just stepped on a local taboo.
“I am the Priestess of Gaia, your humble servant. The fields are this way.”
As the Priestess leads Scud, Izzy, and me towards the patchwork strips of land we saw from the air, I notice several of the welcoming party slip quietly away. The Priestess treats us to a boring quarter hour lecture on agricultural techniques as we slowly wind our way towards the habitations.
When we arrive at the village, the place is deserted. Now I regret leaving my Whisper in the Shonti with Trent and Fernando. Something is definitely going on down here and I have a good idea what it might be. Too late to back out now, besides, we must find this clue.
The village is set out in concentric circles; a circular plaza, at the heart of the village contains a tall grooved stone obelisk reaching for the sky. I read somewhere of an ancient village custom called Maypole dancing, that made reference to ribbons attached to the top of a tall pole and children dancing in and out of each other. The aim was to weave a tapestry of colors round the pole. I wonder if this stone obelisk is perhaps a form of Maypole.
Scattered around the plaza, are large thatched huts made of wattle and daub. The place looks pleasant enough—I can’t think of any reason why this village might be damned. One of the huts is painted white, as though it has some special significance.
Beyond the first circle of huts are smaller dwellings, each with its own compound for animals. Further out still, the patchwork of fields for food crops and further out again, fields full of animals. Cutting through all these concentric circles, radiating out from the center, like the spokes of a wheel, are roads and paths.
I try to estimate how many people live here—anything from 50 to 500, or it could be a few thousand. It’s impossible to tell how many families live in each hut.
After a thorough trawl of the village, the Priestess stands before the obelisk trembling and looking lost. An awkward moment passes between us in which no amount of encouraging smiles from me help. The Priestess’ eyes fill with fear. Is she waiting for me to strike her down or something?
“Fat penguin,” Scud says suddenly.
Oh no. “Not now Scud.” I forgot how he hates awkward silences.
“Just wanted to say something that would break the ice,” he whispers. In another circumstance that might be funny, but not here.
I decide to address things head on. “We are looking for the answer to a riddle,” I tell the Priestess. “It could be a series of numbers, or something else, we’re not really sure. The riddle is this:
At Gaia’s feet,
The doomed must meet,
No more to rise again,
At Gaia’s hands the children stand,
To rise and rule the skies.
Does that mean anything to you?”
The old crone falls to her knees and prostrates herself again. “Oh, great Gaia,” she whines, “there are no more tributes this year. Surely the sky people have enough?”
Izzy pulls me to one side. “I’ve been talking to some of these other villagers while they show us round; apparently, some sort of goddess called Gaia arrives each year in an airship and demands they handover one teenage boy and one teenage girl. A sort of payment for their terrible sins of the past. In return, the villagers are left alone for the rest of the year. A previous generation tried refusing the tribute, but Gaia burned the whole village to the ground, so each year they grudgingly pay up—sounds like protection money to me.”
“That’s gross.”
“I know, but apparently, they think you are this Gaia person and you’ve come back for another set of tributes in retribution for something terrible they were planning.”
“Like what?”
“They won’t say, but they are very scared.”
I think I know what they have in mind, but somehow, in a way I don’t understand, their plan has backfired on them before it has even sprung.
I help the Priestess to her feet again. “I am not a goddess. I am not Gaia. My name is Nina Swift.” But at the sound of my name she looks even more fearful—I guess I’m right about their plan.
“Oh woe to us,” the Priestess wails, “that we could think of betraying the god of life. Have mercy on us.” Only my tight hold on her hand prevents her from falling to her knees again.
“I am not Gaia,” I say again. “Why do you think I’m Gaia?”
The Crone puzzles at that question then drags me off across the plaza waving for Izzy and Scud to follow. She forgets she is manhandling her god. “Come. Come—I will show you.”