by SC Huggins
Tafik shook his head stubbornly. “You brought me here and now you wish to leave me behind to face the unknown,” he said.
Rami glared at his wringing hands until he dropped it. What a weak man, even Rork wouldn’t act this shamefully no matter how much they railed against their heir’s weakness. “You are weak, everyone knows you to be the weak brother,” he said quite calmly. “Can’t you at least hide it?”
The light stopped moving suddenly, dragging his attention from his brother. They stopped.
“Look down,” it said. Rami froze, Tafik jumped and his momentum propelled him into his brother’s back, pushing him onto the path of the light. Rami rounded on him.
“Can’t you keep still?” he shouted in equal parts fear and anger.
“Sorry,” Tafik muttered.
The Yasre waited.
With noticeable hesitation, Rami looked down obediently and stilled. The white light washed over him, throwing his sturdy form and brown hair in relief.
“Is that-?” Tafik whispered over his brother’s shoulder. It looked like an eye. On closer inspection, they could make out the edges of a black stone stuck deep in the ground. On its surface was a closed mortal eye, the presence of the luxuriant eyelashes stranger than the eye itself.
“Dig,” the voice said.
“They could have just handed it to us, imagine the dirt...” Tafik trailed off under his brother’s harsh glare. He swallowed under the heavy look of censure and wondered how his nephew, Rork endured double this treatment from his parents.
After a moment hesitation, Rami bent down to dig. Tafik’s hand on his shoulder stayed him. He glanced back in irritation.
“Sorry,” Tafik said and pulled back.
Rami dug. Tafik waited, smoothening his hair and wringing his hands, only to drop it again when his brother cast him a disparaging glance.
Finally, Rami rose with the square-shaped strange stone in hand. He refused to acknowledge his lazy brother but seriously, hadn’t they gone too far for all this drama? Why stick the stone in the ground?
In his hand was a small black stone the shape of a small box. It looked ordinary, with six sides, and the single eye on one side. The eye lay closed, but with an elevation that ended with an eerily mortal eyelash.
Rami’s hand trembled, but he held on tight. There was nothing ordinary and everything sinister about that eye. Tafik trembled.
“All these troubles, the lies, killing father, for that?” Tafik asked in a whisper.
“Shut up,” his brother returned without glancing back.
“Turn it up to face the light,” the voice said.
Rami obeyed. The white light hit the stone, illuminating it. Suddenly, the eye opened with a snap and slowly slid close. Rami almost dropped the stone, as Tafik jumped back a good distance behind him.
“Sorry,” Rami offered to his new masters, the Yasre.
Tafik laughed nervously and edged closer.
“The stone must be fed every ten days with the blood of five grown men or ten children.”
The brothers looked at each other wearing twin expressions of shock.
“But where can we possibly get that number of people?” Tafik whispered fiercely.
“I-if we can’t?” Rami asked.
“You must,” the voice snapped, then dropped to a sibilant hiss, “perhaps you can’t do this,” it suggested.
“Of course, I can. I am committed to you.”
“Without the blood, it has no power. Could you have made it all the way from Virai to see us on an empty stomach?”
“No,” Rami said, sounding chastised. “Thank you,” he added hastily.
“Bring the man forward,” the voice continued.
Rami jabbed his brother in the ribs. Tafik started and moved to bring the man tied to the tree.
“Turn the eye on him.”
Tafik jumped to the side hurriedly.
The eye opened with that same hair-raising snap and the eyelashes lifted as fast as it took a normal eye to blink. Then, it made an audible sucking sound. They watched with wide eyes as the bound man withered before their eyes. His life’s blood draining out in a neat line from his eyes into the eye of the key. Soon, the man dried up with no blood spilled; no blood wasted. The skin of his flesh melting off his bones as if burnt as his bones crumpled to the ground, the crinkling sound causing shivers to trail down his spine. Death as clean as Rami had ever seen it.
The eye snapped closed.
“The key gives you so much power that other rulers and Kings would hesitate to oppose you, feed it.” The white light winked off, leaving behind two astonished brothers.
Snapping his mouth closed, Rami hefted the stone. “We have power.”
“How will we feed it?” Tafik asked.
Rami laughed. “We will find a way.”
“What did they mean by ‘it can do anything a mortal will need it for?”
“They were being arrogant, reminding us of our place” he laughed and caressed the key, holding it close, “but I don’t care.”
“Which Deji do you think spoke?” Tafik asked wistfully.
Rami stopped to study his brother. “I. don’t. care.” He smiled and turned to lead the way home. “You are suddenly full of words, of course, after the threat is gone. It is a good thing those women you woo are only interested in your good looks,” he continued casually, “not that they will ever marry a man who can’t protect them, even though he has a distant claim to the throne.”
“Not that I am interested in marrying any of them,” Tafik snapped. He hated how his brother treated him like he was stupid, but he endured it for moments like this.
“True.”
“Five grown men or ten children every ten days,” Tafik murmured, “the Deji are certainly not smiling.”
ITS BLACK COLOR GLITTERED in its whiteness.
The black was no ordinary black, so shiny it was that it could be mistaken for a bright white color from a distance. But it was a mirage, for it only got blacker as you drew closer. A red light shone from within its depths as the great black stone moved without making a sound. The great size of the black stone was equaled only by its brightness. Cloaked in magic, it moved unseen through villages and clans until it settled just above the Zari River. It dropped slowly until it just touched the surface of the waters. On contact, it made a sizzling sound, very much like that of fire touching water.
Roughly ten feet by ten feet, the great black stone continued its descent into the depths of the river. The eye-shaped center of the stone suddenly glowed an eerie red color and the stone sank deep into the river with a quiet swoosh. The surface of the water remained serene and undisturbed as it sank.
No mortal in all the twelve clans knew of its presence within the watery depths of the river. Everyone drank, ate and bathed with the water from the river Zari with no consequence and no knowledge of what lurked beneath the surface.
A disappointment
Virai
The boy fled with wild abandon.
His short legs pumped up and down with the vitality only the young could muster as he flew through the meadows. The surrounding countryside rang with his laughter. Silver blond hair swung in a white halo around his head as Rork turned to see if father was close behind him.
Face aglow with joy, his eyes bulged in shock and renewed laughter when he saw just how close behind him father was. Rork laughed uncontrollably, lost his momentum and stumbled when his father, Rami mock-growled at him. Putting his hands out to push the leaves of the pera tree out of his way, he quickened his pace. The plants were just his height and slapped at his cheeks and bare legs as he cut a swathe through them. Rork ignored the slight burn the leaves and stem made against his skin and tried to push his body to go faster.
Rork whipped his head back to check on his father’s progress; his blond hair whirled with the movement, and he grinned in unbridled elation at the reassuring sight of father's big form struggling to move through the bushes. Heart lightening with hope,
he turned back around quickly. Panting, he pushed the next branches out of his way and looked up into the distance. He could just begin to make out the rise of the small hill with its stand of rocks that curved inwards to form a good hiding place. His best friend Dago had hidden there yesterday during their play, the marks from the beating he had endured for spending the rest of the day trying to win a game he’d lost still burned. Yesterday, he learnt Dago just might know Virai more than he did, if not, why had his friend known about that perfect hiding place and he hadn’t? If he could just reach there, he just might win this time.
Something caught his eye, the rays of the afternoon sun hit the flat surface of the green leaves just ahead and lit up the steel in his gray eyes. Dark slanting eyebrows drew together in a puzzled frown and Rork blinked rapidly, trying to comprehend what he was seeing. What was that?
Without thinking, he reached out a slender arm, bronzed from too much time spent under the sun running around the village, for the sweet fruit glistening in the sunlight. Just as he closed his fist around the pera, it transformed, becoming a stone in his palm. Letting out a squeak of dismay, he gasped, lost his footing and went airborne. Shoulders shaking with laughter at his stupidity, Rork struggled to keep it up, he needed the amusement to dull the pain of disappointment in his stomach. He had fallen for a common trick. His laughter changed to a shocked gasp when he landed with a painful thud on the ground.
Winded, Rork didn’t lose his smile, his joy even though he had lost in this game yet again. He had never won. The first-time father made him play the game; it had confused him, the repetition, the chase bored him. The purpose of the game lost on him. He preferred playing with Dago especially since father had stopped pretending to care about him and his well-being.
But they both pretended because it was easier than the truth. Father would use these little games of his to feign interest in his powerless heir while Rork would obediently keep up the act by playing his role to the hilt. But it wasn’t entirely an act on his side. He needed to win.
Drawing his eyes closed, he breathes in deep, savoring that sweet fruity smell that permeated the meadows at this time of the year. The breeze teasing his skin blew a slight sheen of dust across his sweaty face. He savored it, dreamed of it- the sureness of being loved, cherished by his immediate family and the close-knit community that was Virai. He felt rather than saw the shadow of his father over him. Rork smiled but kept his eyes closed. He wasn’t ready to see his father gloat.
"You can't even see through a small magic that most babies in this village will not fall for," Rami's disappointment rang clear in his raised voice.
Rork flinched.
“Get up, I didn’t bring you out here to sleep,” he said gruffly.
Rubbing his sore arm, Rork looked up at his father. “I wasn’t sleeping,” he subtly rebuked and turned away with set shoulders.
Rork struggled to keep still under father's stare. Barely. His chest hurt because he knew what father was thinking.
Rork shouldn’t have been born.
He spent more time working on the farm than all his friends put together did on their farms and their hunts just to appease his parents' disappointment at being saddled with a powerless heir. He stayed back in the forest to hide out, hunt and pray to the great Mother for just a little power. No matter how little it was, Rork would do great things with it, he promised in his prayers.
But it seemed the more time he spent on his knees the powerless he became.
Their eyes met, the color as different as their personalities, father’s were a vibrant brown while Rork’s were steel-gray. Something passed between them and Father laughed in a peculiar way. Rork held himself still and forced a smile in return. Father never just laughed except it was at someone’s misfortune or to goad them. His hand landed on Rork’s head, hard enough to jar him but not to hurt. Rork stiffened and bore his ministrations. Why do they pretend?
It was at the last dance of the ganga held in the village square and presided over by the Qiga of Virai, his father, that he saw things clearly. He would never forget the events of that day.
The young girls were to perform the popular dance and drama while the young boys in his age group, ten warriors would wrestle before the villagers.
At ten years of age, it would be Rork’s and Dago last fight in the famed wrestling match. For the past three years, he had wrestled his best friend Dago in the final round and won. Again, it was to be he and Dago in the final round this year. They walked out to the sandy square together, friends from birth, large grins on their faces as they enjoyed the adulation of the crowd.
Dago gripped him hard around the elbows. “This is our last fight,” he said, voice fierce with accomplishment and pride.
Rork laughed and mock-punched him in the ribs. “Everyone knows that.”
Dago nodded and punched back. “Let’s put on a show.” His brown eyes held a gleam that caused a rush of feeling to tingle down Rork’s spine. He had only felt that way on a dangerous hunt.
“Do we need to do that?” he began uneasily, “we should just fight and—”
“Oh! Come on, just a small show, your father will love it. We already know you will win anyway, with your powers and skills, come on,” Dago pushed and Rork agreed.
Soon they stood facing each other in the small square. For the first time, Rork felt sweat crawl from his hair down his chin.
The fight hadn’t begun and he leaked like a broken pail of water.
He took a quick glance at Father where he sat in a raised Dias as befitting his position as the Qiga of Virai. Had he seen the sweat?
Could he tell how nervous and shaken Rork was?
Stupidly, he met Father’s narrowed gaze and even across the distance that indefinable something passed between them. What he saw in the depths of his father’s eyes made him shiver and he turned back to Dago.
“What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing.” Rork spread his feet apart in readiness and brought his hand forward in the age old grappling hold.
“What do you mean nothing? Alright, we will put on no show, we just fight,” Dago said and brought his hand forward but didn’t attack.
“You said we put on a show, we will.” Rork insisted stubbornly.
Dago hissed. “We can just walk away. But I know you won’t back down even though you don’t want it—”
“Are these children going to fight or not?”
Rork recognized his uncle Tafik’s voice above the murmurs of agreement of the crowd.
Dago sneered. “He can’t fight ‘cos he won’t want to get dirty and here he is calling out someone.”
Rork laughed at the face his friend made.
“And now they laugh.” Tafik complained from his position at his brother’s right hand.
Dago attacked.
He moved quickly, but Rork sidestepped and dodged with nimble movements, landing a side kick at his friend’s back before Dago righted and turned to face him.
“You see why I suggested a show? Even though you beat me, I might shine a little,” he panted.
“Humm?” Rork didn’t understand.
Dago moved again, his fist flying quick and strong towards Rork’s face, who turned his face away just in time. But Dago had followed that with an upraised knee aimed at Rork’s stomach.
In his attack, Dago had left his side exposed and his friend took advantage, landing quick blows to the sides and ribs that left him winded and wheezing in pain.
They grappled and released.
Dago’s breath was coming in strong puffs and coupled with his labored breathing he was just about ready to surrender. Yet, he had lasted longer than any other who had ever fought Rork from their age group.
Dago smiled, teeth flashing white in his dusty face. “Prepare yourself,” he said to the puzzled Rork.
It happened so fast.
Eyes closed, Dago breathed in deeply. His nostrils flared as if to take in more air and Rork suddenly felt himself rise upward unt
il he was airborne.
A hush fell over the crowd at the sudden twist for magic had never been used in the games before now, but they soon screamed their excitement and encouragement. His breath lodged somewhere in his throat and Rork struggled to control his panic. He’d never really liked magic because he preferred things he could control. For instance, he could control his defenses against Dago’s attack or the number or force of the punches he’d throw. But magic? How could he fight now when he wasn’t even on the ground?
Perhaps, he hated magic because, in a village where it ruled over everything, he had none to boast of. It was a bitter admission and from the corner of his eyes, Rork saw his parents lean forward in their seats.
So, this was the show Dago hinted at.
Rork raised his arms and tried tethering his weight. He held his body straight and bore down, but it was futile. He wasn’t getting down unless Dago opened his eyes and realized what was going on.
Out of the corner of his eye, in the part of his mind not drowning in shame, he saw his parents stand. Their horror plain and clear for all to see.
The formerly excited crowd grew silent.
He waited and prayed Dago would open his eyes and see him still hanging uselessly in the air. He prayed that Dago wouldn’t do anymore than this for he was already humiliated. Worse still, he knew what this public admission of weakness meant to his family since he was the heir.
Rork wished to call out to his friend but sank his teeth into his lower lip instead and bowed his head slightly. Heat of shame flew up his cheeks and nearly overwhelmed him. He deserved this but he wished Dago would stop.
But Dago wasn’t done.
Eyes still closed, hands stretched out by his sides, he raised the sands and threw the fine particles at Rork’s eyes. Pinned in place by the force of Dago’s magic, he could only watch with a sinking heart as the horror unfolded before his open eyes. And he soon lost that small battle when the sands hit his eyes.
He gasped silently when he felt the sting and his eyes watered. No matter how much he tried, he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing down his cheeks in reaction.
