by Tia Reed
Vinsant managed to lift his head. The statue had disappeared, leaving only a rich glow that obliterated all save the warmth bathing him. When he was not struck down for presumption, he dragged himself to his feet. His knees hadn’t got any of their strength back, and he wished the god had ordered him to remain upon the ground, where he would be safe from embarrassing collapse. He thought of apologies while the light faded, or rather deepened into vibrant colours and sharp shapes until Vinsant found himself in a glade of incredible beauty. Strange trees soared to the heavens, their foliage singing in a refreshing breeze. Sunlight streamed from above, stroking leaves of every hue with gold. The grass was a cushion beneath his feet, the sky a blanket above his head. At the edge of the clearing, the forest teemed with life, insects clicking, deer frolicking, lions shaking shaggy manes. Vinsant wanted to bound over and run with them, his heart was bursting so full of a joy he feared he would never again touch once he left this place. Unable to help himself, he whirled and whirled and whirled, whooping and calling until dizziness dropped him to the ground.
“You have not yet answered my question.” The silky voice rebounded from every tree, surrounding him so that though he followed the echo he could not locate the source. “Who dares to place himself in my presence?”
“Your apprentice,” he said, throwing his chin to the heavens. The sun was a fiery ball but there was no sign of the god.
“Your desire to serve burns stronger than in many twice your age. Your path is laid before you. And yet you choose to betray me. What manner of apprentice are you?”
Vinsant bit his lip. If he clung to the merriment in the voice, he could almost convince himself he was suffering Father’s teasing. “One who wishes to atone.” He grabbed his bag and hugged it like might save his life.
There was a great rustling, as of a bear swaggering through deep grass. The canopy swayed and a giant figure stood at the edge of the glade, thighs deep in the trees, head blotting out the sun. Golden light obscured its face but the hairy, bowed legs and the clawed nails were unmistakable. Mahktos was not the creepy image of His statues but a divine being of such beauty that the human form seemed ill-proportioned next to it. Vinsant dug inside his bag and removed a sprig of frangipani.
“For my sister. It’s her favourite flower,” he said, shuffling to lay it closer to the god’s feet, then backing away. Miraculously, the sprig took instant root, its stem growing and branching, its flowers multiplying until a mature tree thrived. When Mahktos stooped and plucked a red flower, Vinsant blinked back into awareness. “For me,” he said, bringing forth the grapper. The stink of decay had vanished. He laid the fish at the foot of the bush where it flapped as though quite unaware it been dead these past days. Where it hit the ground, water seeped, pooling until a pond had sprung and the fish leapt happily from the water. Vinsant raised his beaming face to the god and found himself forced to close his eyes against the blinding light.
“You may not look full on me, child.” Humour tinged the rumble. “Not yet, though I might permit it when you are Majoria.”
Vinsant opened one eye and said, “Am I definitely going to make it to Majoria, then?”
A chuckle brushed his skin as the god diminished in size and brilliance, yet remained so much more than any mortal man. “Perhaps. If you train well, young apprentice.”
Vinsant opened his other eye. “So I’m not kicked out of the mahktashaan?”
“There are those who after a lifetime of service would not gift me the riches you have laid at my feet. There are others whose ambitions lack the noble purpose you seek. You, little apprentice, have pleased me, and so you may serve.”
For three breaths, Vinsant contemplated how frank he could be with a god without giving offence. Whether it was worth pushing his luck when Mahktos had granted him his request. For an instant, he wished Arun were here. Then, a wicked grin spread across his face because this mind-blowing experience was his alone. “You’re not mad I gave my sister the crystal and the quartz?” he asked.
The god bowed until his obscured face rested in front of Vinsant’s. “Oh, I’m mad, all right,” He murmured, “And you will pay for that treason, little boy.”
Vinsant felt like a little boy, all right, for all it dented his pride. He had stuffed up bad. He wasn’t sure how bad, but the price would sure be taxing. “What do I do to atone?” he asked.
“The mahktashaan stand warned that admitting you to their ranks will spell havoc for their order. There is much at play here beyond their ken. Deliver that message to them and tell them too that I give you no sanction for your service. Your secrets, and your sister’s you may keep, for they are part of what transpires beyond the realm of men. Go now. I will not tell you more. You must carve your own destiny, for I will not interfere.” Mahktos grew in stature, glowing brighter and brighter, blurring and fading the glades until Vinsant grew disoriented, then dizzy, and stumbled into what seemed to be a void of chords and shimmering lights.
When his senses returned, he was first aware of the ground below him, hard and unforgiving. Then a solemn ache asserted itself in his heart, as though it were bereft of some need. As though he grieved. It welled up until a sob escaped him. Then he felt an arm at his elbow, and Arun’s voice urged him to stand. He forced his leaden legs to work, and turned to face his judgement. With his apprenticeship sanctioned by Mahktos, the Inner Circle could hardly turn him out. That swordstroke that had threatened would never end his life. He expected a rebuke. A furious argument as to how his freedoms would be curtailed. What he did not anticipate, could never have guessed, was the stunned, open-mouthed silence that greeted him. That washed away the faintest traces of ire on every single mahktashaan in the room.
“Er…” he said, looking at Arun.
The Minoria released his elbow but beneath the hood, the shock was plain upon his face.
Vinsant turned his head to look at Mahktos. The statue was a hard lump of crystal.
“It’s all right,” Vinsant said, turning back to the Inner Circle. “Mahktos has said I can train.”
A metallic rasp drew his attention. Strauss had drawn his sword. Vinsant backed away. He would have stumbled over the statue’s foot if Arun had not caught his arm. It was his turn to gape when Strauss knelt and rested his sword across raised knee. One by one, the mahktashaan of the Inner Circle mimicked him, wide-eyed, open-mouthed or pouting. Except for Cromwell, who was spitting and snorting in his fury. None of it made sense since the statues eyes were rubies.
“Er…Arun…I mean Minoria?”
Arun stood before him and went down on one knee. Vinsant reminded himself to breathe.
“Majoria?” he asked the silent man, the only other person standing. The hood of his cloak was drawn so far over his face Vinsant had no clue as to how he felt.
Not yet, apprentice, Levi’s tense, gravelly voice sounded clear in his head.
Vinsant dropped to one knee. “All praise to Mahktos. All honour to you, Majoria,” he said. Mahktos, did he need this, whatever this was, to be over. “I meant it when I said I don’t want to be treated like a prince.”
“All praise to Mahktos,” the mahktashaan intoned.
When they remained kneeling, Vinsant looked around in panic.
“Stand, Vinsant. They will not rise before you do,” Arun said, rising.
Vinsant stumbled over his own foot. “Mahktos said I might be a mahktashaan,” he repeated, as the Inner Circle got to their feet. His hand went to his chest. It was a reflex, really, because in the short time he had worn the piece of quartz that marked him as a mahktashaan apprentice, he had been unable to keep his hands off it. He truly, truly, truly had not expected to find another piece in its place. Not yet. Not until he had stood under the great statue with Branak to give a ritual greeting. But there it was, a replacement stone around his neck. At his touch, a crimson light flared into the room.
Chapter Twenty-eight
They assembled before him on Meeting Field, every man, woman and child of the Ho
’akerin. They came in traditional dress: shirts, black trousers or skirts, hems embroidered with the spiralling circles and squares which marked the tribe. Draykan grunted his approval. His talk with Ishoa had decided him. He had charged runners with ferreting out wandering huntsmen and gatherers to urge them home. The summons had gone well until Erok’s party intercepted an emaciated tribesman returned from Verdaan, his bare feet blistered from the long trek, his torn pockets stuffed with porrin he tried to barter to the tribe. Draykan had entrusted the drug to Ishoa. She had scattered most of it to the wind.
“There is more porrin in this village than a soothsayer can safely store,” she had said.
Draykan had clucked his agreement. His soothsayer was a wise woman. Posting guards on the approach to her cave would have placed an additional strain on their scarce hunters.
The Leadsman ran a practiced eye over his tribe. When the drug did not leech hunger from the starved, he had four hands of able men to feed four times that many. For certain, the spirits had noticed the dereliction of the tribe. The hills no longer teemed with prey, and few goats had kidded this season. But perhaps there was hope. Today, barely a glassy eye stared out from the crowd. Vorn was the exception of course. And Lutham, who looked up to Vorn. Vila had sought Draykan out to make sure he knew those layabouts had stolen Sian’s porrin. His ear still hurt from her scolding. Draykan shook his head at the pity. The elder man had been a fierce hunter in his day. The younger, wasted on the drug, would never lift a spear to prove himself. Him and too many others of Erok’s generation. Draykan gave thanks to the spirits every day that his son had not fallen to the false bliss. Still, he bled for his tribe. Stamping out the drug was a near impossible task when the addicts stored their supply in secret caches among the rocks.
The sun rose full over the hill, flooding the valley with light. It was time. Gold-tipped ceremonial spear in hand, Draykan hefted his stocky body onto the flat speaking rock behind the blazing hearth. He had ordered the fire lit for ceremony. At the end of this meeting, it would serve another purpose. He raised his hand high, and the tribe fell quiet. His extended family sat on the dry stubble between the protruding rocks on the small stretch of flat, open land, waiting on his word. The gurgle of a babe mixed well with the rustle of leaves, the cry of the hawk circling overhead, the bleat of the goats on the steep, rocky hill behind him. Sounds of life, all of them. At this moment, he was proud.
Perhaps he was not entirely pleased. Sian sat at the back, away from her parents, apart from the youngsters. Behind her, Erok caught his look. It would bring trouble, what he had asked Erok and his friends to do. It would bring worse strife to follow tradition. He raised the ceremonial spear. On cue, Ishoa stepped forward, twisting her body and rattling her staff in the spirit dance, praising Forest, Sky, Earth and Water. The extra feathers she wore in her hair, around her arms and wrists, the bright paint on her face, befitted the solemn occasion.
They hear her, Draykan thought when the boughs sighed. He breathed the deepening scent of moist earth and sweet hay, drew courage from the darkening hue of the sky. The Ho’akerin were blessed in their soothsayer.
Ishoa swept her staff across the curve of the crowd and thudded the end into the ground. She remained below the speaking rock, and for that Draykan was grateful. He could speak with conviction knowing she chose to ratify his decree.
“Tribesmen and women, my brothers and sisters, my children, I am here to make a law,” Draykan began. He was a skilful hunter with no rival despite his advancing years. He ruled with a deep understanding of his people, not a bone fist. He led by wits, not words. It had always been enough. Today, faced with a tribe that depended on the vile drug to get through the day, he was not so sure. Vorn was lying down, staring at the sky. The babe that screamed day and night was silent in his mam’s arms.
“Our people are falling to the bliss.” The people started fidgeting. They had not expected this. Draykan blinked. How could they not have? No other threat could have forced him to declare a meeting of the tribe. “Our men shirk their duty. Our boys do not learn the skills they need to sustain the tribe. Our women scrounge for food to nourish their babes.” It was blunt, but true. He saw the consternation on the faces of the women. Their men were falling to the drug. They lamented it every day, but they could guess where his speech was going. A woman with a useless man was a married tribeswoman with status. A girl who never married, who never produced young hunters and gatherers to ease the existence of the aged…His eyes alighted on Sian. She was looking down. She always looked down. Spirits forbid she met the eye of a tribesman. Draykan shook his head. A longhouse full of ones like her. It would be a blessing compared to the leeches they fed. It was time the tribe returned to taking care of its own. It was time the tribe stopped sapping strength from the weakest.
Murmurs had broken out in the seconds he had fallen into reverie. The fire crackled before him, leaching heat into the hot morning. Sweat beaded on his brow. Draykan had always believed one led by example. He hated this need for words, but they had to understand. He frowned as he gauged each face, suspicious, resentful, cautious. He was ready to lay his spear down over this.
Perhaps it would not come to that. It was a measure of respect that when he spoke again his tribe quietened straight away.
“We no longer cherish the Earth and the Forest and the Sky and the Water. We no longer pay homage to the spirits for their gifts. Instead, we worship the false bliss that porrin brings. It takes from us but it does not give. We have become like that drug. It teaches us the habits of the lowlanders. More and more of us take from the spirits that nourish us but do not give. The Ho’akerin will no longer succour these leeches.” He stopped to gather his thoughts, gave an imperceptible shake of his head. He was a man meant to have a spear in his hand, not words in his mouth that tumbled over each other and ran back inside to repeat themselves. A small marvel the tribe were still looking at him, expectant. He took a deep breath. From here they would unite, or divide until the Ho’akerin were no more.
“No more,” he said. “We must renounce the drug before the spirits renounce us. We must deny any who use it the shelter of the tribe. We must seek the cooperation of the Five Tribes of the Akerin, and ask each of them to do the same.”
Draykan looked around. Every sober body was strained forward, their mistrust clear on their weathered faces. Waiting for the decree that would deprive them of loved ones. He lifted the spear of his leadership high. By luck or by divine intervention, the sun struck the golden tip. Rays reflected onto his tribe, gilding them with light. “I am Leadsman and I do say porrin is outlawed from our midst save by direction of a soothsayer. I am Leadsman and so do I say.”
Stunned silence erupted into angry shouts as Erok and his friends entered the Meeting Field, sacks slung over their shoulders. Draykan nodded his response to the guarded query in his son’s eye. The hunters approached the fire and tossed their sacks in. The cotton smoked and smouldered. Sweet-smelling smoke rose in a thin, black line. The murmurs became shouts. One derelict excuse for a tribesman charged through the field, and attempted to snatch the booty from the flames. He must have been high on the drug to be so heedless of the injury the roaring fire could cause. It took both Erok and wiry, dark-haired Brax to restrain him. Delirious, he fought with the strength of an ogre. It was Harz, Draykan saw, a hefty hunter whose prowess had been diminishing, and not because of age. He climbed off the rock and waited for his son to subdue the addict.
The rest of the tribe was up standing now, watching the flames eat what caches of the drug Erok had uncovered while the tribe had gathered for the decree. There would be other stores, but this was a sore test for those consumed by the false bliss.
With a rustle of her grass skirts, Ishoa jumped in front of Harz, posed in a crouch and waved her hand before his face. He quietened, but glared at soothsayer and fire. His wife, Lelola, stepped forward.
“We have not been asked our thoughts. We have not voiced our consent to this decree. It i
s void, Draykan.”
Ishoa waved her staff at Lelola. The pods rattled as the feathers flew about. “Who speaks?” she asked, planting the staff in the ground. “Lelola of the Ho’akerin, born to the Ta’akerin, or the drug of the false bliss?”
Lelola had the restless, furtive look of the addict, Draykan saw with a start. He had not realised it. Had not thought the women infected.
“The tribe has not ratified this,” another voice agreed. Then a third spoke up, and a fourth.
“The tribe does not have to,” Erok reminded them, jumping upon the speaking rock. His voice, strong with the conviction of youth, cut across the dissent. “A leadsman may make a decree in the best interest of the tribe.”
“I need it,” Harz said, breaking free of Brax and raising an angry fist to Erok. “And so do Vorn and Lutham.”
“Why should the soothsayer be the only one to commune with the spirits?” Lelola said. “Why do you deny us that right?”
Ishoa moved around the group, her hands dancing before her to feel the energy of the group, to see them. She clapped her hands. Daylight flickered and the staff she had abandoned was once again in them. Pointing it unerringly at Lelola, she said, “What honour do you bring them by destroying the bounty they gift you? What communion do you make when you surrender to the drug?”
Vorn wandered over. “This decree is not good. We do not want it.” He lay by the fire and continued his contemplation of the flames.
Vila pulled Sian over by the hand. “Erok is right. Leadsman Draykan does not need your consent. You have no memory of a decision the tribe opposed, so you think a voice is yours. The Leadsman is our leader. He decides when the tribe cannot.”
“We can decide,” Lelola said. “And we do.”
“No,” Draykan said. “The drug does.”
“We want it,” a new voice said.
“We want our husbands,” Larpa added, hands on hips, to a chorus of assent.