Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One
Page 18
February – 3,390 BC
Earth: Crash site
Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili
Mikhail
Mikhail scrutinized the man Ninsianna had brought onto his ship. The song he sang was a very old dialect, but if he listened carefully, he could understand every word. The song seemed familiar, as though it was a variation of a song he must have heard many times as a child. It was like a lullaby, half-remembered from the cradle and hummed subconsciously over breakfast.
“Can you understand me?” Mikhail asked.
The man listened intently, translating the words in his mind. In heavily accented Galactic Standard, he answered. “Some.”
“Where did you learn to speak my language?" Mikhail used his hands to accentuate his words as Ninsianna did to get his point across.
“It has been handed down through many generations,” the man said. “The highest level shamans are taught these songs so they can help the winged ones once they return.”
“How many of you are there?"
"Only a few of us remember the oldest songs.”
Middle aged, the man had the sturdy build of someone who did more than simply sit around studying arcana. A shock of chestnut hair, peppered with the same color titanium steel as the exterior of his ship, jutted helter-skelter out of the man's head, as though he ran his fingers through it often. The man's eyes niggled at his subconscious, but for the life of him, he couldn't pull up the memory about what he found familiar. Perhaps it was the family resemblance? Although the man was not handsome, he had the same tawny-beige eyes as Ninsianna.
“What is your name?”
“I'm called Immanu," the man said. "I am shaman of my village, Assur." From the elaborate bone necklace the man wore around his neck and fringed kilt made of animal hide, if ever Mikhail was ever to point to someone and say 'this is a shaman,' this man would be the person.
While they were speaking, Ninsianna moved to stand at his shoulder, and placed one hand upon his broken wing. Was she protecting him? Showing him off? Or hiding behind him for protection?
“Who is Ninsianna to you?"
“Ninsianna is my daughter." Immanu's mouth parted in a proud smile. "When she didn't come home, I was worried."
Ninsianna perked up at the words “who” and then her name. “Papa?”
Immanu reassured his daughter in the unknown language, and then translated it so Mikhail could understand what he'd just said. “This creature has been sent to protect us by She-who-is.”
Ninsianna replied in her own language, which Mikhail only knew a handful of words. By her expression as she spoke and her father’s reaction, Mikhail gathered she said something along the lines of “I know.”
Immanu looked at his daughter with an odd expression. “Ninsianna is rather … special.”
“She saved my life." Mikhail pointed to the bandages wrapped around his chest. “Do all of your people possess such talent to heal?"
“Some." Immanu shook his hand in a gesture of 'so-so.' "Not many are as talented as Ninsianna is. Or her mother, for that matter." The shaman seemed to be turning something over in his mind. "I don't know if she is the Chosen One whom you seek. I will not tell you something unless I know it to be true.”
“I can’t remember what I'm supposed to seek!" Mikhail pointed to his head wound. "I know I'm here to complete a mission, but ever since I got this, I have trouble remembering the simplest things."
“Ninsianna?" Immanu switched to his own language. Mikhail couldn't understand what he said, but by the way Immanu pointed to his own head, he assumed the shaman questioned his memory loss.
Father and daughter bantered back and forth. As they did, Mikhail studied their non-verbal language, much less subtle than the carefully controlled body language he assumed his own species must be taught from birth. The fact somebody spoke his language was not puzzling. Even without his memory, he had the feeling many people spoke his native tongue. What amazed him was the fact the shaman spoke such an ancient dialect of his language.
“Please, Immanu,” Mikhail interrupted them when Ninsianna started poking at his injured wing as though he were a prize rooster. “Do translate. I wish to understand what your daughter has been trying to tell me.”
“She said the goddess sent her a vision of you before you fell from the sky,” Immanu said. “It's why she sought out your sky canoe."
Mikhail raised one eyebrow in surprise. Shamans? And visions or prophecy? Although he couldn't remember who he was, he did have a gut feeling that the song the shaman sang was little more than a fairy tale. However, with no memory to guide his judgment, he had no choice but to take Immanu’s assertions at face value.
“I have suffered serious injuries,” Mikhail pointed to his broken wing, “and I can't remember who I'm or how I got here. Although you may have legends about my people visiting your planet at some point in your past, I do not think I am your sword of the gods.”
Chapter 15