by Jim Melvin
Your brother,
Invictus
P.S. Here’s my present—another secret word. This one is very precious. The next time you are in bed or taking a bath, say “Raaga” several times—but only if you are alone. It will make you feel good, but Mother and Father wouldn’t like it.
Our parents? Your brother? Mother and father? Laylah read the letter over and over. She decided not to burn it. Instead, she would show it to her parents the next morning. But the moment that thought entered her mind, the paper burst into yellow flame. She cried again.
“You are not my brother,” she said to him the next night. “I don’t have a brother. My mom and dad would have told me.”
He stomped around the swing, staring at her with fury in his eyes.
“You dare to call me a liar?” His body, now almost twenty years old and fully grown, glowed like a miniature sun. “Listen to me carefully, little one. I allow you to live because you’re my sister, but even you need to be careful. Your powers are just a fraction of mine. Compared to me, you’re merely a reflection.”
Laylah was terrified, and she burst into tears and ran all the way home. She didn’t return to the swing for months. Instead, she trembled in her bed until morning, when sleep finally took her, temporarily releasing her from misery. During that terrible stretch of time she never saw Invictus, the boy who claimed to be her brother.
Just a month shy of her tenth birthday, she relaxed in a warm bath while her parents made dinner in the kitchen. The magical word Invictus had written in his letter still teased her curiosity. Until this moment, she had managed to resist its supernatural lure. But the compulsion finally overcame her.
“Raaga,” she whispered, guiltily.
Laylah felt a strange but enchanting sensation. Her skin became hot and tingly. And her thoughts began to twirl like dancing rainbows. She felt as if she were floating outside her own body.
“Raaga,” she said again. “Raaga. Raaga!”
Afterward she lay exhausted in the bath, her face slathered with sweat. Her mother assumed she had come down with a fever, and she tucked Laylah into bed with a cold cloth on her forehead.
The next morning, Laylah said the word again. And then the following afternoon and evening. She said it every day, several times a day. The sensation grew greater each time. But it took a severe toll on her body. She lost her appetite and an excessive amount of weight. Dark circles formed under her eyes, and her cheeks collapsed.
Her parents were convinced she was deathly ill. Shamans studied her but could find nothing wrong. She tried to tell them about the boy and his terrible powers. But no intelligible words came forth.
One shaman, who was filthy and stank, told Laylah’s parents that he needed to be alone with the child to properly diagnose her condition. Out of desperation, they agreed. When they closed the door, the shaman leaned over Laylah and told her that evil spirits possessed her. If she hugged him, the spirits would flee from her body into his, where he would devour them.
Laylah saw through his guise. Without thinking, she whispered, “Namuci!”
The shaman fell to the floor, spit out a glob of blood, and died.
Her parents rushed back into the room and found her in hysterics. The shaman’s death shocked the village, but no one thought to blame her.
For whatever reason, the horror of what she had done strengthened Laylah’s resolve, and she was able to resist saying the nasty word. In a few weeks her health was restored—and with it, her good humor. Her parents seemed so pleased.
It all fell apart for her the morning after her tenth birthday, when Invictus crept through her window and entered her room. She tried to cry out but could not manage more than a few weak grunts. Still wearing his golden robes, he lay next to her on her bed. She hated being next to him, but somehow his presence froze her. A short time later, her parents entered the room.
“What are you doing here?” her father said. “Get away from my child!”
Her father attempted to pull the young man off the bed, but Invictus was far too strong, swinging his arm and knocking him against the far wall. Her mother lifted a small wooden table and smashed it against Invictus’ shoulder, but it did not seem to hurt him at all. He stood and faced her.
“Mother, don’t you recognize me?” Invictus said.
“I recognize you, but I wish I didn’t,” she said. “Why have you returned to torment us?”
“I love you, Mother. Do you love me?” And then he spit a sizzling ball of sputum at her brown eyes.
She howled and pressed her hands to her face, staggering backward. When she removed her hands, most of the flesh on her skull was gone, though strands of long yellow hair still clung to the exposed bone.
Her father regained his senses, staggered to his feet, and pounced on Invictus, all the while yelling, “Laylah . . . run!”
“Father,” Invictus said. “I love you. Do you love me?”
Invictus pressed his lips against her father’s and blew hot breath down his throat. Her father collapsed and went into a wild spasm. Smoke exploded from his ears, nose, and mouth—and his tongue swelled absurdly. When he blew apart, flaming patches of tissue splattered across the room. This terrified Laylah and shook her out of whatever spell Invictus had put on her to keep her still. She sat up and screamed.
Though her mother was maimed and blinded, she continued to grope for Invictus. But she was no match for him. He grasped her disfigured face and kissed her too, and she met the same fate as her husband.
Afterward Invictus raised his arms and bellowed. Golden flames erupted from every pore. As if struck from within by dragon fire, the house exploded. Sizzling shards flew several hundred paces, casting Laylah into the yard like a piece of broken furniture. When the conflagration cleared, she saw Invictus standing naked amid the smoking debris, his robes incinerated but his body unharmed. Her parents were gone.
Laylah managed to stand up. Amazingly, she wasn’t injured, but her clothes had been incinerated, and she was now naked as well. The commotion drew hundreds of villagers, who rushed toward her. But when they saw Invictus, they also ran. Only one man hesitated, as if daring to issue a challenge. For him, it was a death sentence. Invictus blasted a bolt of golden flame, ripping off the man’s head.
Laylah could stand it no more. But at least she now had full use of her body. She ran . . . fast and far.
“Laylah! Come back. I love you.” Her brother’s voice shook the valley. “Laylah, do you lovvvvvveeeeeee me?”
She reached the Ogha River. The roar of its swirling waters drowned out her sobs. She felt her brother approaching from behind. She would rather die than have him touch her again.
Laylah threw herself into the Ogha. She could swim well, but she was used to the still water of lakes and ponds, not the nasty swells of the mightiest river in the world. The tumult swept her along, helpless as a leaf. Despite the dangers, she felt peaceful. Death by drowning was a small price to pay to escape such a monster.
But Laylah’s life would not end on this day. Something grasped her thin arm. She glided along the surface of the river on her back and was dragged onto the steep bank on the far side.
She could still hear Invictus’ desperate cries.
“Laylah, come back. I love you. Do you love me?”
Powerful arms lifted her and pressed her against wet skin that smelled like a wild animal. She screamed, struggling to free herself. Then a large hand clamped over her mouth, her nose, and everything went dark.
2
A princess with golden hair stood alone atop a hillock overlooking a secluded valley. A warm breeze stroked her face like a loving hand. Just a short time before, her small village had been as steamy as a sweat lodge. But now the last remnants of the sun had disappeared, signaling the start of her favorite time of day. As always, she relished the arrival of dusk.
The Ripe Corn Moon soon would rise above the mountains surrounding the valley. She could hardly wait for its fullness to creep over the peaks
in the southeastern sky. The sight would fill her with joy.
Her name was Magena, which meant “sacred moon” in her language. She was an adopted member of the Ropakans, a tribal people who dwelled in the Mahaggata Mountains. Though she knew their ways and traditions, Magena was unlike the other members of her clan. Her skin was the color of cream, while the Ropakans were deeply tanned. Her hair was thin and golden in contrast to the dense black of her sisters and brothers. Her eyes were blue-gray; theirs, dark brown. Her body was long and voluptuous; theirs, short and stocky.
One difference far surpassed the physical dissimilarities: Unlike the others of her clan, Magena wielded magical powers—though she didn’t dare display them openly. Eight years before, her adoptive father had rescued her from the wicked currents of the Ogha River. Since then, he had urged her to hide her gifts in order to avoid jealousy and distrust among the villagers. Magena had complied, but for reasons she kept even from her father.
The moon was Magena’s friend and ally. She reveled in its reflected light. The sun did not scorch her, but neither did it nourish; she could wander freely during the day, but she often felt weak and sick to her stomach. When night came, she burst with vitality. The moon fueled her strength, and when it rose to fullness, her strength reached its maximum potential.
As she stood on the hillock that evening, Magena sensed her father’s presence before actually seeing him. His name was Takoda, which meant friend of all in the language of the Ropakans. Since the early years of their relationship, Takoda had taken rascally pleasure in sneaking up and startling her, often leaping from behind boulders or trees with a wild look in his eyes. When she shrieked, he would laugh until he cried—and then apologize with the insincere remorse of a trickster. At first Magena had resented her father’s strange sense of humor. But eventually she grew to adore his good nature.
Nowadays he rarely succeeded in frightening her. Magena was eighteen years old and in the full bloom of womanhood. She had eyes like an eagle’s, ears like a Tyger’s and a nose like a bear’s. But many of her people made similar claims. What separated her from the others were her strange powers, which radiated from her body like heat off a wildfire. No one could enter her invisible aura without her noticing. At nighttime, especially, it was impossible to approach her undetected.
“Father, will you never tire of this game?” said Magena, her sweet voice barely audible. “I’ve told you dozens of times that you’ll never surprise me again. Even asleep, I hear you. You make as much noise as a moose.”
Takoda grunted, kicking the grass at his feet.
“I crawled up behind you as slow and silent as a snail,” he whined, “and still you heard me.”
Magena let out an exaggerated sigh. Then she laughed. “Dear one, if you meant to imitate a snail, you failed. A cave troll is more like it. I heard you before you began your climb.”
“Bah! You’re no fun to be around anymore.”
But then he hugged her, and she pressed her cheek against his weathered face. They stood side by side—she a full span taller—and looked down at their small village.
“I love you, Magena,” Takoda whispered. “You were not born from my seed, but I’m as proud as any father could be. None among the Ropakans can boast of a finer child. Having you as a daughter has been a high honor.”
“Dear one, having you as a father has been a far higher honor. You rescued me from a monster and invited me into your family—with arms open wide. I owe you more than my life. Without you, I would not have my soul.”
“You owe me nothing that you have not repaid a thousand times.”
They hugged again and stood silently together. Below them, their village roared to life. Tonight the Ropakans would give thanks to the Great Spirit for the arrival of the year’s first crop of corn. Dancing and feasting would last until morning. Venison, bear and turkey already were roasting. Potatoes, beans and nuts simmered in clay pots. Peaches, berries, and figs were spread on long tables. Black tea brewed from smoked holly leaves stood alongside apple wine and cornstalk beer. All in all, it was more food and drink than twice their number could consume.
“Come, daughter. We must return to the village before your mother’s side of the family eats everything.”
Just then, the drums began to rumble. The ceremony had begun. A smile spread across Magena’s beautiful face, and she laughed again.
“Race you there!” she said, sprinting down the hill.
3
Fewer than five thousand Ropakans were sprinkled throughout the vastness of the Mahaggata Mountains. Magena’s village contained about five hundred Ropakans and was divided into ten clans. Takoda was village chief as well as patriarchal head of his clan, whose members were ranked according to the proximity of their kinship to their leader. Highest was his eldest brother, Akando, who would become chief if Takoda were to perish. Next came two younger brothers and three sisters, followed by his father, mother, wife, three sons, four daughters (including Magena), and thirteen grandchildren. But all members of Takoda’s clan, regardless of nobility, came to him for advice, guidance, and spiritual blessings.
Magena scampered through one of the openings in the palisade, a circular fence of pointed logs that surrounded her father’s village. She passed huts of various sizes, some housing as few as four, others more than a dozen.
Given her status as daughter of the chief, Magena lived with her family in the largest and most elaborate hut in the village, the lone dwelling in the central plaza. Its roof and walls were water-proofed with sheets of bark from hickory trees. To create more height, the floor was dug several spans below the ground. A hearth used for cooking and heating stood in the center.
Magena joined the rest of the villagers in the plaza and stood beneath the ceremonial pole, which had been hewn from the trunk of a yellow poplar and was fifty cubits tall. She admired the trail of decorations carved on the pole, depicting what the Ropakans called the Path of Beauty. In order to recognize their own inner splendor, Magena’s people believed they needed to travel a path that acknowledged the beauty in all living beings. The perfect balance that allowed the pole to stand upright mimicked the balance of nature. All of the village’s major celebrations and ceremonies occurred in a clearing surrounding the pole.
Several blazing fires lighted the clearing. More than a dozen men carrying deerskin drums already encircled the ceremonial pole. Their faces were painted with red ocher, and they wore feather headdresses adorned with fresh flowers. Jingly bells of varying shapes and sizes hung from their breechcloths, wrists and ankles.
More scantily clad men and women accompanied the drummers. They shook hollow gourds filled with dried corn. The pounding and rattling produced an infectious rhythm, signaling the official beginning of the celebration. Magena, wearing a mulberry shawl and a short skirt, grabbed a wooden flute and blended into the throng, dancing with her mother, sisters and dozens of other women around the fires.
A short time later, the full moon rose over the peaks of the southeastern mountains. Magena left the dancers, walked to the edge of the firelight and gazed at the golden orb. The sunlight reflecting off its mottled surface filled her with joy, and a blessed strength surged through her body. But something disturbed her. She could sense danger but was not able to identify it. Finally, she decided it was just her imagination, and she rejoined her family by the fires.
Soon after, Takoda emerged from the darkness. Magena giggled with delight. Her father wore a headdress made from the red-tipped feathers of a war eagle sewn into a deerskin bonnet. Strings of beads and strips of colorful fur dangled over his face, which was painted red with a black circle around one eye and a white circle around the other. He also wore a bear-claw necklace, a brightly dyed breechcloth, and moccasins laden with green gemstones.
When Takoda appeared, it was a signal to begin the communal blessing. In silence, the chief danced slowly within the plaza’s interior, pressing his hand against the right breast of each adult male and the right cheek of eac
h adult female. The children received three quick taps on the tops of their heads. Before touching each villager, the chief spoke his or her name and then gazed toward the heavens, the dwelling place of the Great Spirit. When he came to Magena, he smiled more deeply than he had for any other.
The blessing ceremony was long but pleasurable. Afterward, the villagers broke their silence with hoots and screams. The wild dancing resumed, and everyone—even the children—consumed large quantities of beer and wine. The intoxicated villagers danced frenetically, stomping their feet and twisting their bodies into impossible postures. Singing, shouting, and chanting grew in intensity until everyone leapt about in a communal hysteria.
Around midnight, the village shaman entered the plaza, wearing a fearsome mask. His skin was painted black, and his hair was slathered with bear fat streaked with red ocher. He danced and ranted until he became covered with sweat, the bear fat gushing down the back of his neck. He wailed and fell onto the ground, his body squirming. In bizarre response to his antics, a buzzing swarm of flies swept into the plaza and swirled among the villagers. The children covered their faces and rushed about in panic.
Suddenly the shaman’s body ceased to quiver, and he lay still as a corpse. As if in response, the flies flew into the fires, sizzling and popping like kernels of corn. Gouts of black smoke rose from the flames. When all of the insects were consumed, a dreadful silence ensued. And the shaman had run off.
For a long time afterward, the villagers were wary, whispering among themselves about the meaning of the portent. But Takoda spoke calming words, and their good spirits returned—as did their hunger. They began to feast. While the Ropakans ate their fill, the two eldest men stood beneath the ceremonial pole and sang a mournful ballad that Magena adored. The somber lyrics described the long history of her people, including the glory of their traditions and the greatness of their ancestors.
