“Well. It seems obvious we would die.”
“Exactly. It is the same for Etera. If the flow of the life force in and out of this realm were to cease, Etera herself would die.”
“You speak of Etera as if she is alive.”
“Etera is alive, Pan. Although it appears we are all separate from each other—the creatures of the forest, the Mothoc, the birds in the sky, even the blades of grass—the truth is we are truly all one life. We see separation, but in fact, there is no separation. I see the look on your face but stay with me. We, as the Mothoc, are connected to this breath, this constantly flowing current. Each Mothoc serves as a channel to facilitate the movement of the Aezaitera in and out of Etera. That is why we live so long. We are rejuvenated by the flow of the life force in and out.”
Moc’Tor bent his head down to look into his daughter’s eyes. “Do you understand so far?”
“I think so.”
“As a Guardian, you are not only part of the Great Spirit’s breath of life, but you have the power to cleanse the Aezaitera as it returns to the Great Spirit.”
“Cleanse it? Why would the breath of the Great Spirit need to be cleansed? The Great Spirit is perfection in all things,” said Pan, perplexed.
“That is a good question. A great question. Yes, the Aezaitera, the breath and inflow of life coming from the Great Spirit and entering our realm, is perfect. But once it enters this realm, it is affected by what is happening on Etera. In time you will realize how challenging life can be. Distortions in our souls, like anger and fear, affect the Aezaitera and change it from its original pattern of perfection. Guardians have the ability to return the Aezaitera to its original state before it leaves this realm. And because of this, we are always in the positive flow and are continuously imbued and refreshed by the life force. We are virtually never sick, we heal incredibly fast, and our life spans are even longer than the other Mothoc.”
Moc’Tor stopped talking and waited, knowing what was coming because he had experienced this same understanding of the burden endured by a Guardian.
“But Mama. Dak’Tor—and my sisters.”
Moc’Tor drew his daughter closer. “Yes, Pan. At some point, you will have to finish your journey here without them.”
He felt the sobs wrack her body as she understood that she would outlive everyone she loved—her mother, her brother, her sisters. Even the half-siblings her father had sired by other mates before E’ranale had become his only choice.
Everyone she knew except her father would at some point transition to the Great Spirit—long before she did.
“I do not want to be a Guardian,” she said in muffled words as she buried her face in her father’s thick white chest hair. Her arms were snaked around his neck, and she clung to him.
“I know, daughter. I know. But I hope that in time you will come to see what a great blessing it also is. I will not lie to you; there are drawbacks, painful, heartbreaking drawbacks, but there are also great joys. In time you will come to see the balance.”
They sat there together for a long time, the father and the daughter, bearing the burden that had been placed upon them and them alone. The Guardian was revered, but few understood the great cost that came with being chosen.
Chapter 5
Dak’Tor approached his father. “May I speak with you?”
“Of course, son; sit with me.”
Moc’Tor’s only son by E’ranale had long ago matured into a fine male. Though not a Guardian, the top of his head was almost white, and the color continued over his shoulders and below, covering almost all of his back. It gave him a striking appearance. Moc’Tor was not sure what it meant, or if in time, Dak’Tor might develop some Guardian-like powers. If nothing else, he seemed to have a highly developed seventh sense.
“Father, you seem to sit down a great deal nowadays. Are you ill?”
“You know better, Dak’Tor. There is no cause for worry; I am the Guardian, and we do not fall ill. But tired—yes, I am tired; the strain on our people grows daily. But that is not what you came to talk about, is it?”
“I am concerned about the strain I see on you.”
“We live in a tumultuous age. So many changes, many of them good, such as the idea of the Leaders coming together in a formal Council. In fact, very soon, we will be convening to agree on some common laws—conduct that we will all be expected to follow. This agreement will be critical as we move forward; I fear that a great division is coming as my brother and I cannot see eye-to-eye on the future of our people. Perhaps you should join us tomorrow. You are, after all, heir to my leadership.”
Straf’Tor had stood up to address the Council. “A suggestion has been made to set down agreements, standards of behaviors—laws if you would—to guide our fellow communities and us as we move forward into this new age.”
“Give us an example, Straf’Tor,” a female from the crowd asked.
“I am not talking about restrictions that go against our general nature. I am talking about statements with which we can all readily agree. Such as never commit violence against another except in self-defense. Or that the needs of the community come before those of the individual.”
“Or—never without consent?” added a sarcastic male voice.
Straf’Tor had known that was coming. Much of the rising strife had to do with the very practice that had saved them from extinction. “Your point, Garl’Tar, has been made often. Move on.”
“My point needs to be made again, Straf’Tor. There are many of us who agree with it, and you are one of them. This has gone far enough. We have achieved our objective, and we must cease this abomination against the Others. We agreed to it in the beginning because it was the only way to avoid the complete dying-off of our people. But our population is re-established. There is no need to continue. Already, the next generation looks more like the Others than the Mothoc. Where will it end? When no part of the Mothoc is left at all?”
In the background, voices joined in to support Garl’Tar.
“And what of our culture?” he persisted. “The genetic lines used to be traced through the males but are now traced through the females. The balance of power was off in the beginning, it is true. We males treated the females as if they were ours to mate with as we wished. But that has all changed. We corrected our error only to go too far in the other direction. The females have too much power now!”
Even more voices, louder ones, joined that of Garl’Tar.
Straf’Tor did agree with Garl’Tar. The crossbreeding had gone almost dangerously far and certainly far enough—but that was not the point of the assembly, and he had to bring it back on track.
“That is not the subject of this meeting. We came here to agree on guidelines, standards of conduct. We all recognize there are strong feelings on both sides, but for now, can we not put them away so we can at least accomplish this goal?”
After the mumbling had quietened down, the group agreed that there should be at least three laws for the community at large; The Needs of the Community Come Before the Needs of the Individual, Honor the Females in all Matters, Show Forbearance for the Failings of Others.
The second statement had been hard-won, but Straf’Tor and Moc’Tor argued strongly for it. They did not want to forget the sins of the past, especially with the resentment now brewing against the females. In the face of this growing sentiment, there was a need for a statement lifting the females, not pushing them back down. Neither would budge, and the Council members all stayed into the late hours before Moc’Tor was finally able to dismiss them.
Straf’Tor had returned to his quarters where he could consult Ushca and enjoy some solitude with her. “There was dissension again in the Council meeting over how far to continue using the Others’ seed. There is a large group that feels we need to stop where we are. What do the females think about this?”
“I do not know what they think in other communities, but here, most of them wish to continue. The females are now used to their
appearance, and with each generation, they see the benefit to the offling increasing. The younger generations are now more inventive, faster, and have finer muscle control. They are not as strong, but they are still far stronger than the Others. Like us, they will have few natural enemies.”
“Has Lor Onida told you anything at all about the other communities?”
“Yes,” she sighed. “There is something that fits directly with your concern, Straf’Tor. The People of the Far High Hills are rumored to have taken it further. Several of the females produced offling from Waschini seed.”
Straf’Tor stopped cold and stared at his mate. “Waschini? Are those not the rumored pale, fragile versions of the Others who are said to have come across the icy waters in huge floating shelters? How is that possible? I thought they were a myth. They do exist?”
“That is how the story goes, yes. Some females came across what seems to have been several sentries on foot. They were far separated from any others. The females were attracted to their startling hair coloring, almost the color of the sun.”
“I do not believe it. I am not convinced they are even real. I would have to see one. Did they bear offling?”
“From what I was told, yes. For some reason, they are even smaller than any of our other combinations produced. They have very little overall body covering. And what they do have is very light—almost the color of the winter wheat. They will have to take after the Others in wearing wrappings. But the mothers were already several generations modified.”
“I need to confirm with Lor Onida how true this is. If it is accurate, then it is time. The line must be drawn, and it must be drawn hard. It is one thing to do what we have to do to survive; it is another to spit in the face of the Great Spirit by taking matters too far. After having come this far in recovery, if this is not stopped, it will bring destruction upon us all, and on Etera.”
The next morning, Straf’Tor requested the presence of Lor Onida and Oragur. Before long they stood before him, and Straf’Tor had his answer. He was enraged. The females of the Far High Hills had indeed stolen seed from the Waschini and produced offling. The Waschini had not survived the encounter.
Straf’Tor stormed across the room, his arms stretched wide. Lor Onida, Oragur, and Moc’Tor watched him in silence.
“Is this what we have become? Is this who we are now? Is it not bad enough that our females use their abilities to subdue the Others, sneak into their villages, and take what they want from them? Have we forgotten they are our wards whom we are supposed to be protecting? Oh yes—I know that no harm is done if you do not consider performing such an intimate violation on another as harming them. The fact that it is females doing this to males should make no difference. Oh—but now it has gone further. Now they have killed to get what they want.”
Moc’Tor stepped forward. “Straf’Tor, that is not true. They did not kill the Waschini—at least not intentionally.”
Straf’Tor continued, unfazed. “We have no fear of the Waschini. The stray washed-out ones that are said to come across the waters are no threat to us. But it is of no benefit that they become aware of our existence. It may be better that they were frightened to death—or whatever caused them to die. But that does not change the fact that this abomination has to stop. And you heard Lor Onida.
“There is even more to the story,” continued Straf’Tor. “The females were far, far out of their territory. There is no explanation, no excuse for what they did. They should be punished, but as far as I know, their Leader, Tres’Sar,” he pointed at Lor Onida, “your Leader, looked the other way. Enough. Enough.”
Moc’Tor reminded them that he had said words to that effect many years ago. He had said enough over another instance where an act had almost been committed without consent—the young maiden of the Others, whom Trestle, the impaired young male, had intended to violate. He was one of the first born with problems, the specter of things to come. Now, again, they were arguing about the same issue—imposing one’s will on another. “To him, it was a drive, no different than eating when hungry or drinking from the stream when thirsty. Luckily, the maiden survived the trauma. So I gave his mother a choice—we could either kill her son or crush his seed pack, permanently removing his mating drive.”
Moc’Tor still struggled to get the image out of his head of how Oragur had carried out the act, though after Trestle recovered, he was gentle and quiet and never caused any trouble again.
“We must come to an agreement, brother,” said Straf’Tor. “We must stop this before it goes any further. Say you agree with me, and together we can put an end to this.”
Moc’Tor slowly shook his head. “I wish I could, Straf, but I cannot. It seems we are at an impasse. You have a following that wants to stop where we are. My people want to continue because we see the benefit of the Others’ seed line mixed with ours. We intend to move forward another generation to make sure we continue to breed true. Perhaps then we will stop.”
“Perhaps then? So you admit you see no end to this?”
“I am not saying either; we will decide according to my people’s wishes. This is not something I alone can dictate.”
Straf’Tor glared. “Is it not? Decades ago, did you not give a speech stating exactly that? That it is our place as Leaders to do exactly that? And were you not just now talking about laws and standards of conduct? For the love of the Great Spirit, if this is not where we should be setting limits, then what is?”
“Straf’Tor, our father has been gone for some time now. It is just you and me; we must lead together.”
“And yet you are the one making it impossible. How can we lead together when we are divided on this critical aspect?”
“It is late. Perhaps we should stop and calm down,” said Moc’Tor.
“We can stop, brother. But nothing will change tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the day after. If you have made up your mind, if you will not stop this abomination, then there can be no peace between us. I can no longer stand here and condone what you are doing.”
“What are you saying, Straf’Tor? Are you talking about war?”
Straf’Tor scoffed. “It would be a short war, Moc’Tor. Your followers are frail compared to mine. They are stronger than the Others, but there is no comparison with us in strength. You may think your offling are more inventive, but that matters little when our offling can, at will, snap any of yours like a twig. They disgust me!”
“If our community splits, Straf, we are the largest. It will divide all the other communities. Is that what you want?”
“I never wanted that. But if it has to be this way, then so be it. You are ignoring our obligation to the Great Spirit to provide for Etera. I am appalled that you, the Guardian, would do so. Even you, brother, will not live forever. Yes, there is your daughter, Pan, but she is not well-enough versed in the Order of Functions, and we can all see the strain this division is having on you.”
“Do not lecture me on the importance of the Order of Functions. And do not bring my offling into this. When it is time for her to take her place as Guardian, she will be ready. You speak of the strain caused by division, yet it is you who support that division. And how can you support division when it goes against everything we believe?”
Straf’Tor started to walk away but paused for a moment, his back to his brother. Hardly turning his head, he said, “We will stay until the laws are agreed upon, and then we will leave Kthama. There are fewer of us than of you; it is only fair that we are the ones to leave. I am sorry it has come to this, but this is where we are. And once we leave, there can be no contact between our people ever again. If it has fallen to us to serve Etera alone, then so be it. But I will risk no more contamination of my people with your thinking.”
Moc’Tor watched his brother walk away. His heart was heavy, and he was more tired than he remembered ever being. He walked the corridors aimlessly until he found himself outside Kthama.
The Guardian looked up at the canopy of stars. What had he done? But
what other choice had the Great Spirit given him? There was no other choice; it was this or perish. But was it still what the Great Spirit truly wanted? Had Moc’Tor taken his community too far down that path? He could not believe they were wrong. Our offling are far more advanced than we are. The future belongs to them. Why can Straf and the others not see that?
Moc’Tor felt he had failed in some way; had he failed his people? They could not afford a rift, but neither could Moc’Tor prevent one. Straf’Tor was right. Our offling’s ingenuity is no match for their offling’s size and strength.
If Moc’Tor could not change their minds, then he must allow this division because in a battle between the two branches of offling, without a doubt, Straf’Tor’s following would be the victors. And as Straf’Tor had stated, what of the Mothoc blood? In the rush to find a solution, maybe Moc’Tor had not given that enough consideration. In a flash, the realization hit him. Straf’Tor was right; the Mothoc blood must not perish from Etera.
Moc’Tor bent over, resting his hands on his knees. I, of everyone, should have kept this need at the forefront of my decisions. How had he lost his way? Perhaps he was indeed no longer fit to lead.
He would give Straf’Tor time to calm down and then talk to him again.
I will try one more time. If he still wants to take his band of followers and leave, then I will concede. I could not stop them, anyway. But at least they had set out their laws first. Perhaps if they could achieve that much, they could maintain peace—some form of unity in spirit.
Moc’Tor returned to Kthama to seek relief and a few moments of peace in the arms of E’ranale but found her curled up on their mat, already asleep. However, he needed to talk to her.
The Age of Darkness: Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness Book 1 (The Etera Chronicles Series Two - Wrak-Wavara: The Age of Darkness) Page 9
