Hidden Magic

by Melinda Kucsera

  The idea of a hidden magic called me to this story. In some places, the characters wrote themselves. But as a first-time writer, I struggled to get most out of every page. The story here has evolved so much from the first draft. Working with Melinda Kucsera and Magical Mayhem Press has been an amazing learning experience. I am a far better writer for having joined this anthology.

  William C. Cronk

  An attack without warning drastically reduces their village’s herd, leaving two cousins to face the wrath of their elders. But their leaders might be looking for a scapegoat, not for the truth, and those two cousins might be it. If the rest of the villagers doesn’t get to the cousins first. When the same politics and prejudices get between the two boys, which will triumph—blood or friendship?

  Though the clouds hide its face, the Great Sun Anuu is still there.

  Its Light shines in hidden places.

  Old proverb of the Seven Peoples

  The screams of the goats jerked Finyaka from a daydream. He smelled blood and heard growls. He grabbed his freshly cut shepherd’s staff and scrambled to his feet. A flash of black-and-tan raced by him. Vice-like jaws snapped around the neck of a wide-eyed doe as the muscular ghost dog dragged its prize into the dust and chaos.

  His cousin, Matasa, shouted profanities that were barely audible above the bleating goats and snarling hounds. He whistled, then shouted, “Finyaka! Nahrem!”

  There was no time to answer. A goat behind Finyaka screamed. Blood splashed the pale straw on the hill. The hound’s prey was already gone by the time Finyaka reacted. Despite his shaking, he took a defensive stance. The only buck in the herd backed the does he could gather into a tight group and pointed their short horns at the encircling pack.

  The odds were against them. Finyaka prayed to the Great Sun Anuu. I am only sixteen summers old, I don’t want to die! Terror gripped him, but he fought the urge to flee.

  “Finyaka! Nahrem!” Matasa yelled.

  Out of the swirling dust, a leaping hound materialized, and Finyaka swung his staff. The wood bent in his hand from the weight of the hound, but the blow sent the hound into the bunching herd.

  The growling hound struggled to keep its footing as the buck lunged, driving its horns into the hound’s belly. Finyaka slammed his staff down across the back of the impaled hound. The wood cracked as the hound fell onto the blood-stained sod.

  Another goat screamed then another. The hounds attacked en masse now. Finyaka retaliated. His world narrowed to a whirlwind of blood, dust, and bodily fluids, punctuated by slavering hounds and screaming goats until his staff shattered.

  What remained of the herd was covered in blood. Karas, their faithful herd dog, limped between the hounds and the bristling goats. Blood ran down her leg.

  “Finyaka! Nahrem!” Matasa shouted again.

  “Here.” Finyaka waved a hand through the dusty air. Where’s Nahrem? He should be here. But there was no time to think about his missing brother.

  The remaining ghost hounds were still circling them. The alpha, a female by her ruddy back bristles, crouched before Finyaka. She was large, nearly the same size as him. He readied himself for an attack and gripped the remains of his staff. I am going to die like a goat in the jaws of a ghost hound.

  The alpha sprang. Finyaka ran ten strides before he’d realized it. The alpha had missed him. He wasn’t sure which of them was more surprised.

  The hound’s head shot up as she turned, and her ears laid back. A snarl emanated from her muzzle as she glared at him with intelligent black eyes that unnerved him.

  Finyaka tightened his grip on the broken haft of his staff. The alpha dog lunged. He struck with everything he had, thrusting his broken staff deep into her side. They tumbled to the ground. Warm blood gushed over his hand.

  Finyaka scrambled to his feet. He was between her and the herd now. The alpha fixed her gaze on him. Karas limped to his side. Finyaka knew she stood little chance against the larger, more muscular hounds.

  The alpha yowled in pain as she rolled to her feet. Blood marked the spot where she’d fallen. The broken staff still protruded from her flank. The remaining ghost hounds ceased their attack and rushed to their wounded alpha’s side. Finyaka forced himself to stay calm as he faced five of the beasts.

  Not sure what else to do, he yelled, “By the Light of the Great Sun, run you beasts, or I'll end you!”

  The pack stepped back. Finyaka tensed. The alpha whined then the pack vanished.

  Finyaka blinked, and they were gone. But they had been there. His body ached, and the turf around him had been upturned and stained red with blood. Karas growled softly beside him, reminding him she was also hurt. There was a nasty gash in her left flank. Karas sniffed the ground where the alpha had bled.

  The goats bleated. Carcasses lay everywhere. Nearby lay the body of the ghost hound Finyaka had killed. He tried to still his trembling as he whistled for Karas to gather the goats that had broken off from the herd during the attack.

  “By the Great Sun, what just happened?” His older brother, Nahrem, gasped as he crested the hill.

  Matasa turned on him. “By the dark, where have you been?”

  “Fetching water, cousin,” came the defensive reply, but Nahrem didn’t have any water skins to show for it.

  “We nearly died, you idiot. Look at the herd!” Matasa pointed at it.

  “The Great Sun be praised. You’re still standing.” Nahrem snorted.

  “May the Sun burn you!” spat Matasa as he limped toward Karas and the remaining strays.

  Finyaka crumpled to the ground. Nahrem jogged to his side. “Get up, Finyaka. We need to gather the herd.”

  Finyaka couldn’t stop shaking as silent tears fell uncontrollably down his dusty face.

  “Grow up, you ant. What kind of a man are you?” Nahrem shook his shoulder hard enough to hurt. “Do you want Matasa to see you like this?”

  Finyaka shook so violently he couldn’t stand. Nor could he talk through the tears clogging his throat. Pain blossomed along his left cheek. Stunned, Finyaka stared at his older brother.

  Nahrem’s face was contorted by rage as the older boy grabbed him by the collar and jerked him to his feet. “Listen, you little pile of goat excrement. Get up and help Matasa, or else you’ll be another carcass to count.”

  Finyaka blinked at the threat, but he found the strength to stand. His body trembled, but he wiped his eyes and blew his nose. “We’re in trouble, aren’t we?”

  “Yes! You lost part of the herd. I walk away for a few moments to get water and come back to this.” Nahrem waved a hand to take in all the carnage.

  “You’ve been gone most of the day.” Finyaka hunched his shoulders.

  Nahrem drew back his fist.

  “Strike him, and I’ll end you.” Matasa raised his staff to make good on that threat.

  Nahrem released Finyaka’s collar. “Try it, cousin, and we’ll see who ends who. Did you gather the rest of the herd?”

  “No thanks to you.” Matasa lowered the staff, but he still gripped it hard enough to turn his knuckles white.

  Nahrem laughed. He whistled for Karas as he made for the bleating herd.

  “What’s the final count?” Finyaka asked Matasa as he followed Nahrem.

  “Two dozen does are dead or missing, and three are badly wounded. We’ve lost all but a dozen of the kids. Karas has a bad gash. I’m hurt too. How about you?” The taller boy looked at Finyaka with concern.

  Finyaka ducked his head. “I’m sore, I broke my staff, and I can’t stop shaking.”

  “Because you’re a doe.” Nahrem smiled evilly. “What a sunless mess. Those two wounded does—you two can carry them back. This one here is beyond help.” He drew his knife from its sheathe and slit the animals throat. “What a waste.” Nahrem pointed the knife at Matasa. “Now if you and the doe there,” Nahrem pointed his knife at Finyaka, “don’t want the lash tonight, you’d best follow my lead.”

  Nahrem crossed to the carcass of the ghost
hound and removed its ears. He shook them at Finyaka as he passed. “Proof of the attack. You two take the herd home. Yaka, send Dah and the family back to help skin the dead. Oh, and show him the ears.” Nahrem tossed them at him.

  Finyaka grimaced but caught them, and his older brother cuffed him. Finyaka fought a fresh onset of tears and cowered before his brother.

  “Take my staff, Doe. Now get while I clean up your mess.”

  Finyaka ducked his head and skulked back to the herd. Matasa whistled for Karas, and the two drove the herd from the slaughter ground in silence.

  Matasa was scowled and muttered to himself but kept his left hand pressed tight to his right side. Blood stained his tunic there.

  Finyaka’s arm and face throbbed, and his tunic was sticky from sweat and blood. Frustrated, he said, “What should we do?”

  “We need to tell the elders. That was a large pack.” Matasa said.

  Finyaka nodded. They had lost a quarter of the herd.

  “Your brother should have been there.” Matasa shot their cousin a glare.

  “I know,” Finyaka whispered.

  “Where was the sunless son of a goat?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Matasa stopped and stared at his younger cousin. “Seriously? You have no idea?”

  Finyaka shook his head and his gaze. Why are people always mad at me?

  Matasa grunted something and rolled his eyes. He tapped a goat with his staff to keep her in line with the herd and winced when that movement pained him. He spat blood, and his breathing was ragged.

  “Are you okay?”

  Matasa nodded, even though he was pale and sweating far more than he should be. “Let’s get the herd home. I’ll be okay.”

  “By all that is holy under the Light, what happened?” demanded Elder Yorumo as he swept his arm toward the tired, blood-flecked herd.

  The Great Sun hovered on the hazy horizon, casting its warm glow on the outskirts of the oasis village. The bleating herd drew the attention of the people caring for the date and olive trees. They rushed to see what the commotion was.

  Matasa closed his eyes and lifted his head skyward to pray to the Great Sun Anuu. His side was on fire, and he could hardly breathe because of it.

  His brother, Harinda, gave him a concerned look as he took the wounded doe from Matasa’s aching shoulders. Barking dogs and shouting men ushered the bedraggled herd off the hard dirt path to the night pens as the seven elders mobbed the two boys.

  Finyaka produced the ghost hound ears to stave off questions, and the elders exchanged glances.

  “How big was the pack?” Elder Akmalo snatched the proffered ears from the trembling Finyaka and examined them then passed them on to the other elders.

  “Over a dozen,” gasped Matasa. It was hard to focus because the pain was getting worse.

  Finyaka took a knee in the shade of a date palm to inspect Karas’ side.

  “Where is Nahrem?” asked Elder Nuroimo, first among the Council as he leaned on his staff. His assistants stood nearby, waiting for instructions.

  “Skinning the dead. He’s trying to salvage what he can of the day.” The pain was making it hard to speak, but Matasa had to get it all out.

  “Natam, Hursuh, Nyrud, go to grazing hill and tell Nahrem to return, quickly. Finish what he started and report to me when you return. I want to know what you see.” Elder Nuroimo waved for his three assistants to be on their way.

  More villagers took their place and congregated around the two boys. In the back of the crowd, arguments erupted while others murmured, trading false rumours of what had happened. Everyone had a different take and was ready to defend it.

  “Elder Nuroimo, Matasa’s hurt. So is Karas.” Finyaka daubed at the wound in Kara's shoulder with the end of his ankle-length wrap.

  “How bad is it, boy?” Elder Nuroimo squeezed Matasa’s shoulder.

  “My right side… hurts. One of... the hounds… tackled me.” Matasa was starting to see spots.

  Someone pulled his stained tunic over his head, and cold hands gingerly examined his side, which blossomed with pain at each touch. Matasa gasped and almost fell, but the hands kept him standing. His head lolled as he closed his eyes.

  “One of the horns caught you. It’s not deep, but it bled a great deal, and you’re bruised where the hound struck you. You have bruised ribs, no doubt.” Elder Yorumo removed his hands and cleaned them on his sash, staining it with Matasa’s blood. “Minan, find the wise Sinaya. We need her healing arts.”

  Familiar hands touched his bare back. Matasa was surrounded by family. His father looked concerned, and Hinah, his sister, handed him a water skin. The dust and exertion had left him parched, so Matasa drank deeply and almost vomited. Strong arms held him up as more villagers gathered around. Matasa heard his name and Finyaka’s mentioned.

  “Nahrem hasn’t returned?” someone asked.

  “He’s salvaging the dead.”

  “I heard he killed a hound.”

  “Only one? I heard three!” someone else said.

  On it went; the stories growing as the jostling crowd did. Everyone had something to add to Nahrem’s exploits, expanding them.

  Matasa felt sick, and not just because of the wound. Someone placed a stool behind him and guided Matasa to sit. He winced in pain.

  Sinaya the old wise woman, placed a stool before him. Her old joints popped as she sat and rested her hands on his cheeks. Her dark piercing eyes peered into his as she moved his head to the left and then the right.

  “Harrumph.” She removed a long, thin reed from her healer’s kit.

  “Chew on that. It will ease the pain. Now, tell me everything, boy, every detail. Leave nothing out.”

  Matasa winced and nodded. He took another sip of the water skin then the proffered reed and chewed on it. Halfway into the reed, his pain began to subside, but Matasa felt lightheaded. His family squatted around him, and Elder Yorumo, leaned on his staff beside the wise woman. The villagers pushed in closer to hear his tale.

  “Finyaka and I were with the herd when we were attacked by ghost hounds. One of them tackled me to get to the goats. It was on me before I saw it. I twisted and felt something cut into me. I fell. As Elder Yorumo said, I caught a horn. When I rose the last of the hounds ran off.”

  The buzz of conversation rose in pitch and volume as the crowd discussed Nahrem’s supposed exploits. Nahrem’s name was constantly bantered about.

  That castrated show goat. Matasa spat.

  Sinaya touched his side, and Matasa inhaled sharply. She tsk-tsked, then closed her eyes and hummed something.

  “Should you do that?” Yorumo gave her a pointed look.

  Sinaya returned his glare with interest. “The boy has a broken rib. If I don’t heal it, he’ll be useless for weeks.”

  “He might not be able to do anything for few days once the Council is through with him. Especially if Nuroimo has his way. Tsimunuu's sons and his family is involved after all.” Yorumo tugged his robes, so the geometrical shapes and designs that showed his position among the elders hung straight.

  Sinaya huffed. “Nuroimo should have the interests of the village in mind instead of just one family.”

  Matasa moaned. Part of the herd was dead, and all except a few of the kids had been taken on his watch. Worse still, this had happened on Nahrem’s watch. Nahrem’s father, Tsimunuu, was a powerful man within the village. If Matasa was found negligent—and Tsimunuu would most likely find a way to get that verdict—the penalty could be severe. His fate was in the hands of a man that hated his family.

  “Nuroimo does, Sinaya. You should as well.” Yorumo gave her a reproachful look.

  “You do what you need to when the time comes. Right now, he needs that rib healed.” Sinaya bent to do her work.

  The murmuring increased as the crowd jostled for a better view, squeezing Matasa’s family off to the side.

  “Give me room to work!” Sinaya elbowed a few unlucky spectators out of her way.
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  Cries of “let him face the Council first,” and “save your Radiance for Nahrem,” rose above the hum of conversation.

  Sinaya set her jaw and carried on. She hummed, but repeated shouts for Nahrem drowned out her song as a deep warmth spread from her hands into Matasa’s aching side. When she removed her hands, there was only a dull throb where the sharp pain had been. A thin dark line marked the spot where goat horn had sliced him.

  Yorumo glanced at the crowd, taking its measure. “Where was Nahrem?”

  Matasa glared at Yorumo. “With Sanjah,” he spat.

  The crowd erupted in shouts of “liar” and “scandal.”

  Yorumo had to raise both hands to quiet them. “That is a severe accusation.”

  Matasa sat up straighter. “I’m sure it’s true. He left just after we reached the grazing hill. Said he was getting water. He came back after the attack.”

  “Did you see Sanjah?” Yorumo gripped his staff.

  “No. But it doesn’t take half the morning to get water, then come back with no water skins.” Matasa cut a glare at the most vocal members of the crowd, and they responded with more jeers.

  Many in the crowd defended Nahrem while others volunteered Sanjah’s whereabouts.

  Yorumo nodded. “Fair enough. How many times have you watched the herd with Nahrem?”

  “Twice.” Matasa paused then realized he was wrong. “No, three times including today. Normally, I watch them with my Dah and brothers. But Finyaka asked if I could join him today.”

  “Your father is a disgrace!” yelled someone from the crowd.

  Matasa craned his head to see who had said that. His brothers stood with their backs to him. Their hands clenched into fists.

  “Has Nahrem gone off before?” Yoruma stifled a yawn.

  Matasa scowled at the elder. “Not with me, but Finyaka said he has.”