Origins(Prequel) (Island Of Zarada)

by Michele Evans

  ORIGINS

  Island of Zarada Prequel

  by

  Michele Evans

  Nefertiti Press

  www.IslandOfZarada.com

  Copyright 2016 Michele Evans

  ISBN-10: 0-9862946-5-9

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9862946-5-5

  Published by Nefertiti Press

  http://www.islandofzarada.com

  Illustrations by Olga Volkova

  Author photo by Maxine Evans photography

  Island of Zarada is a trademark of Nefertiti Press

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission from the author.

  PART 1

  The Vindans

  Intalla had summoned his Controllers and was awaiting their arrival. He glided back and forth impatiently. Where are they?! Soon he heard voices. His cronies drifted in one by one, their old eyes droning around the room and his answer to their disdain was a sinister growl.

  It required constant vigilance, keeping them in a state of submission. As Dictator of Vinda he could eradicate them anytime he pleased, and they knew it, but this was the game they played – who was most distrustful of whom, and who could win his favor, if he could not be overtaken.

  The few attempts to unseat him had failed, mostly because the Controllers could never trust each other enough to agree on a plan and work together to see it through. It was not in the Vindan nature to ally with anyone – not even family, who turned against each other as a matter of course.

  The Vindans were tall, slender beings with flexible limbs made of soft metallic tissue. Their silvery skin rippled in waves and their oval eyes burned with fire. From the tops of their heads, fine wires sprouted wildly in all directions.

  They hovered above the ground, drifting silently from one place to another, which enabled them to sneak up on their enemies and do their own eradicating. Of course no one was supposed to have the Melting Substance in their possession – an offense that was punishable by death. But the Vindans were a most violent and cold hearted race, bent on ruthless action and impulsive wrath – quick to destroy those who didn’t bend to their will and willing to risk death to get their way.

  So they stole it or bribed the Eradicators for it, all the while knowing there was the inherent danger of accidentally eradicating themselves or being caught in the act and thereby suffering the same fate as their intended victim.

  Controller was the highest position a Vindan could attain, after Dictator. The Controllers served two purposes: The first was to spy on the mass population, identifying anyone who engaged in traitorous activity, and the second was to keep a close watch on the other Controllers, competing for Intalla’s approval – now and then attempting to expose a conspirator amongst their privileged group, thereby rising higher in the esteem of their leader.

  In exchange for their loyalty, Controllers were handsomely rewarded with spacious living quarters, luxuri-ous amenities, personal servants, and an unlimited supply of hindola.

  The Vindans’ lives were dependant upon ingesting a mineral called hindola. They mixed it with haw and ate it or more often smoked it out of a pipe. It kept their skin glossy and the fire in their eyes burning hot.

  Without it, their skin lost its sheen and slowly dulled, their eyes dimmed and grew cold, and in a few days they were dead. It grew in the mountain caves of a remote island, where the Vindans had originated. Another species harvested it for them and delivered it – for a price.

  The mass population of Vindans crowded into small compartments in large warehouse like buildings. They could live out their lives in these close quarters, doing nothing. However, if they were ambitious, they had the option of becoming Servants, performing menial work for the regime. In exchange, they received extra hindola and larger living spaces.

  With enough time and effort, Servants could eventually rise above their stations. Intalla brought the most wily Serv-ants into his circle, ensuring a dependency on him. With dutiful behavior they could climb higher and higher, ultimately moving all the way up to Controller.

  “Why have we been summoned?” complained Kafa, the most outspoken of the Controllers. The rest of them, their eyes hot with irritation, glared at Intalla, grumbling their dis-pleasure at being roused.

  Intalla’s eyes blazed. “I will tell you why you are here when I am ready to do so!” he screamed, raising a clenched fist. The Controllers trembled. With one command he could have them all hauled to the Melting Room where their bodies would be consumed layer by layer by the Melting Substance.

  “What a lazy, loathsome pile of junk you all are!” Intalla snarled at them. “We are in a crisis and all you can think about is yourselves! The reality of our situation is this: We have used up our resources. All the trees have been felled and our haw will not grow without shade. We must leave or perish.”

  Panic filled the room. More grumbling ensued. “But, what will we do? Where will we go!?” Kafa demanded.

  Intalla floated across the room to a map on the wall which showed the region. He tapped an irregular brown shape with the tip of his long finger. “We live here.” He moved his finger across the blue and touched an orange shape which was larger and more symmetrical. “We will move here – to the island closest to us,” he said. “No Name.”

  He splayed his free hand outward and bared his uneven teeth. “It’s perfect. And the best part is that no other race has settled there. It has been waiting just for us, with everything we need at our disposal.”

  Murmurs of dissent echoed around the room. Intalla put up his hand and spoke over the din. “Listen to everything I have to say before griping,” he said, as he crossed the room again. “This island is not only the closest to us and uninhabited by any other race, it also boasts the towering Trothe mountains, which feed many streams and rivers; it is rich with lush forests, ample fields and shady places for our haw, and it’s covered in hundreds of thousands of acres of wilderness that stretch as far as the eye can see. It is referred to as No Name Island, but we will call it Vinda Major.”

  “What nonsense are you spouting at us?” Kafa bellowed. “This is trickery. None of that matters! Why don’t you tell us the reason no one lives on that island – rain does not come often enough. We will die of thirst and starvation before we see a blade of haw. We cannot and will not go there.” He crossed his arms in defiance. The others nodded in agree-ment.

  Intalla’s anger rose. “I was just getting to that!” he barked. Kafa cowered. Intalla leaned in to establish his dominance, and Kafa lowered his eyes in deference.

  “It is true,” said Intalla, backing away. “Unpredictable rainfall is the island’s one drawback. But I am confident we will find a way to survive.” He paused. “We have to. We cannot stay here.”

  Kafa bristled. “What about our hindola?”

  Intalla smiled, showing his horrible teeth again. “Do not worry I tell you – I have thought of everything. It will be brought there just as it is brought here. We have enough tira to buy hindola for a long long time. Now go tell your consti-tuents to prepare. We leave tomorrow.”

  Visitors

  It took multiple trips, but the migration was completed. The new island was renamed Vinda Major; and from that point the old island was referred to as Vinda Minor.

  It was true that they had enough tira to buy their precious hindola; but without rain, it wouldn’t matter how much hindola they possessed. Even the Vindans required water for drinking and growing the haw that was their staple.

  When they first arrived, they were fortunate, for the rain
fell in abundant quantities, with just the right amount of dry days in between. The Servants planted and harvested the haw and built a new fortress. They also built living quarters and performed various other tasks in the hopes of being pro-moted. The rest did nothing but bicker and grumble day and night, night and day. That was their life.

  Intalla resumed the business of Dictator; supervising the completion of his building projects, ensuring the delivery of hindola and the growing of haw while making sure the Con-trollers were always spying for potential traitors.

  He thoroughly relished the interrogations, seeing it as a form of entertainment, and as a way to set an example to anyone who might be considering crossing him. The interro-gations began with questioning, but slowly shifted to a grueling and merciless session of attacks and accusations, finally ending in the suspect being taken to the Melting Room to be eliminated. It was a rare occasion that a suspect was found innocent and released.

  Intalla had another important duty – one he had assigned to himself and kept to himself – ensuring the Dictator line. His eye was fixed on Idocra, his only grandchild. He had already made the decision that it was she who would take over for him when he grew old and feeble. It was a long way off, but he had to plan this transition carefully, or an unexpected rival could step in and take over, possibly elim-inating her before she was established as the new leader. He planned to introduce her as the future Dictator as soon as she had come of age.

  She was eight years old now, feisty and curious. Her favorite pastime on the new island was traveling to the shore, where she spent countless hours hovering over the glistening sand picking out iridescent shells with her silvery fingertips. She was on her way there now with her mother, Hofa, cruis-ing through the thick forest.

  Above the treetops she caught glimpses of the two suns, sending down golden rays, warming her silver skin. She heard the crashing waves as they moved closer to shore, and her excitement mounted, knowing they were almost there. But then she heard something that disturbed her – strange voices. Her mother halted and placed a slender finger against her lips. “Shh,” she mouthed.

  They pressed up against the leaves, peering through the branches to observe a most unusual sight – scores of beings from another race – beings they did not recognize. Idocra’s eyes grew wide with curiosity, but her mother’s face sneered in revulsion. Hofa turned and raced back to the fortress, looking back at Idocra from time to time, making sure she was keeping up.

  When he heard the Hofa’s cry on the other side of the door, Intalla’s skin prickled and waved in displeasure; and the grating timbre of her voice made his eyes turn a shade of blue. That daughter of his was always squawking about one thing or another and he was many times obliged to give her what she wanted or suffer endless shrieking and carrying on about details he had no interest in.

  She was his only remaining family member. He had eliminated the rest, but even in his dim Vindan brain, a desire for the line of rulers to stay pure was stronger than his impulse to kill. He saw a fierce and mighty future leader in little Idocra. Hofa had to be kept alive and placated for the time being so she could raise his progeny. Once Idocra was old enough, he could have Hofa eliminated and be rid of her prattle forever.

  He cried back the signal to enter and she glided in with the child. When Intalla saw Idocra his annoyance turned to delight. “Idocra! Come to me,” he exclaimed, spreading out his long arms.

  Idocra went happily to him. He sent beams of fire out of his eyes and she reciprocated, forming two flaming channels between them. He ran his flames over her face, making her skin gleam. She giggled in delight. They bared their crooked teeth, laughing together.

  Hofa fumed, her eyes narrowing. “We don’t have time for your useless play!” she chided, crossing her arms. “There are invaders on our south shore! What are you going to do about it?!”

  At the sound of her harsh tone, Idocra, fearful of being punished, rushed back to her mother. The flaming beams radiating from Intalla’s eyes withdrew into his head, and his mood soured. “What did you say, Daughter!?”

  “There are armed warriors there right now. Hundreds of them – moving up and down the south shore carrying giant swords in their hands and razor sharp daggers in their belts.” Her voice rose in pitch as her arms flailed. “Fires are rising up from the ground; and on the fires sit great pots full of strange smelling stuff.

  “Young ones play in the sand while the men sing together and bang on cylindrical boxes. Horrible sounds come from their throats which make the women jump around!”

  “Calm down, calm down, Hofa,” he said, gesturing with his hands. “Surely you exaggerate.”

  “Oh, you’ll see. They will come and kill us all!” she exclaimed, gripping Idocra’s shoulders. “Then you’ll know I was telling the truth.”

  He ignored her hysteria, which she displayed over the smallest disturbance. He ran his long fingers over his smooth chin, a puzzled look settling on his face. “Dancing and sing-ing?” he mused. “Here on our island?”

  “Yes – yes – that’s what I said. Oh, it’s horrible!” Hofa wailed.

  “Quiet, I say!!” he screamed. “I’m thinking.” She bristled, but said no more. She had on one occasion pushed him too far and he had said to her at the time, “I can eliminate you as easily I’ve done your mother and brothers.”

  Intalla called in his top general. The old veteran floated in – a weathered creature, with coarse black scars crisscross-ing his heartless face. Shortly trimmed wires protruded from his head, as if standing at attention. “Yes, Dictator?!” he barked.

  “Bring me the leader of the intruders on the south shore. Do not be too forceful. We don’t want to create a skirmish, but we must show our strength. Be firm, but cordial. Ask him to come with you as a welcomed guest.”

  “I will bring a battalion,” said the general.

  “Yes, yes. Surround them while I conduct the interroga-tion. Remember though – do not attack,” reminded Intalla. The general nodded and left.

  Intalla could be wise. Like all Vindans, he was lazy and greedy, but he possessed an unusual intelligence and ambi-tion for his kind, and these traits had enabled him to outsmart the others thus far. It was possible that these warriors could best his soldiers, who were trained only for policing their own kind. In any case, he had to assess the situation before playing his hand.

  Idocra, still captivated by what she had seen on the beach, suddenly piped up. “Oh, and they have funny pets. Big fluffy felines with enormous wings and hooves!”

  “How big are these ... pets, my dear?” asked Intalla, humoring her.

  “Oh, about as tall as you,” Idocra replied. “I even saw one flying waaaaay up in the sky.” Her orange eyes widened and her arms undulated gracefully.

  Intalla chuckled, thinking his granddaughter had a very active imagination. He could enjoy a tall tale as well as any-one else. But when Hofa nodded and said, “What she says is true, Father,” Intalla’s smile faded.

  “This is indeed troubling,” he said. He hovered this way and that, nervously tapping his fingers together. “I will not tolerate trespassers! With their carrying on and flying beasts and who knows what else. They will of course have to be killed – after my curiosity is satisfied, that is.” He sat down at his desk and jotted down some notes. Not looking up, he murmured, “Leave me to my business. And take the child.” Hofa and Idocra left and Intalla waited.

  When the general returned, Intalla was momentarily disarmed by an unexpected representative. Before him stood a statuesque female warrior with flowing dark hair and piercing blue eyes. She would be swift and effective in battle, he thought.

  She had capable, muscular limbs, keen eyes, accurate and true to their target, and a discernable intelligence that eliminated any hope of deception on his part. Yes, one to one combat with this race would put his kind at a clear disadvantage. Vindans were tall and mean and full of flying flames, but otherwise they were physically weak and awk-ward.

  The visito
r looked squarely at Intalla and waited for him to speak, but he was still dumbfounded by the vision of her. He needed more time to scrutinize this beautiful being and was surprised to find he both respected and feared her and in a deranged way wanted to please her.

  She was everything he was not: strong, skillful, magnifi-cent. He desired to win her approval and avoid her ire. He decided that he would make this warrior and her people his allies and use them for his benefit.

  Satisfied, he began. “I am Intalla, leader of this island. What are you doing here without my permission?”

  The proud warrior raised her chin. Narrowing her steely eyes, she said, “I am Undua, ruler of the Zarada Nomadic Tribe. I recognize your kind. You’re of the Vindan race.”

  “You are right, Undua. I am a Vindan and Dictator of our race. But you didn’t answer my question.”

  Undua scoffed and crossed her arms. “This is not your island. It is No Name Island, unclaimed territory. These shores have been a stopping point on our travels for genera-tions. We don’t need permission from you or anyone else to land here.”

  Intalla smiled his crooked toothed smile. “That may have been true at one time, but things have changed. As of late, we have claimed the island and renamed it Vinda Major.”

  The Sultana frowned. “Droughts visit here frequently. That’s why no one lives here. You won’t be able to stay long, either.”

  “We will find a way.”

  “You’ll die trying, stubborn Vindan.”

  This insult was enough of a reason to have her killed. I should have the urge to send her a fireball, he thought. But he didn’t feel insulted. Instead he was oddly amused and stimulated by this worthy adversary. He stifled a chuckle, then his mood turned vicious, his hot eyes burning blue with rage. “What if I say you cannot be here now or ever?!”