by Aderyn Wood
Izhur rubbed his temple again, trying to order the many thoughts that jostled for attention in his mind. What would Jakom do? How could he perform such a sacrifice of an innocent? And what of her light?
“She could help us. She could become the most powerful Soragan our clan has known.” Izhur pressed on. “Perhaps we could sacrifice an animal – a wolf – like we do in the spring.”
Ugot spat for a third time.
Zodor’s eyes burned. “You have foretold of another to be our next Soragan.”
Izhur grimaced. Zodor’s youngest son, Yuli, had a strong light and was born at an auspicious time – during Agria, the festival of Light. It made sense that he could become Izhur’s novice in the future. The gift-born seemed to be rare these days. “Your son bears the power; there’s no doubt of that, Zodor. But this little girl, she—”
“Izhur, must I remind you that she was born on Ilunnight? How is it you, our Soragan, can ignore that? If she has power, as you suggest, then we would be wise to use her as a sacrifice. The Malfir will be appeased by such a gift. Do I really need to explain this to a Soragan?” Zodor’s face was motionless.
The man reminded Izhur of rock – strong, silent, still. He would not be moved, and if he couldn’t change Zodor’s mind there was no influencing the others. Izhur agreed with them, he was no Soragan. Soragans were respected; listened to. They were the leaders in all clans but the Wolf. Izhur was too young. He was no Jakom.
“If any of you object, speak.” Zodor looked to each of the elders in turn.
“She must be sacrificed,” Ugot said.
“I agree.” Jarel put a hand through his grey hair.
Flynth shook her head and more tears fell from her rosy cheeks.
Tod simply shrugged his shoulders and looked to the entrance of the tree-dwell. Izhur couldn’t help but scowl a little. Tod wouldn’t shut up when they discussed seasonal migrations, but he always shrugged off the tough decisions.
“This is a grave decision.” Lral’s dark eyes looked at Izhur, and he straightened his shoulders a little. This elder he respected above all others in the Eight, indeed the clan, even more than Amak, for Lral was the oldest and the wisest. “And you are right to defend her, Izhur.”
Izhur’s breath shuddered. He blinked.
“But I am old enough to remember the last human sacrifice.” Her eyes glistened as she spoke. “It brought us safety for many summers and winters. We of the Wolf have not known tragedy for a long time.” Her old eyes looked down to the oil pot and a single tear landed on the muddy floor of the tree-dwell. “It is time for us to appease the Malfir once more.”
Izhur slouched. He had lost.
Zodor stood. “It has been decided. We will sacrifice her tonight. We call on our Soragan to do the task.” He nodded at Izhur.
Zodor left, and one by one the others followed. Lightning ripped through the sky as Izhur watched the circle members make their way to their own tree-dwells. Only Amak remained.
She put her warm hand on his. “It is best for the clan, Izhur. We need to feel safe. This is your burden, you are our Soragan now.” She squeezed his hand before rising and following the others out of the shelter.
∞
Izhur trod carefully. There was no moon or nightsun to offer him light, and the faint gleam of starlight had been taken when storm clouds blanketed the sky with their dark ink. Lightning streaked through the black curtain of night and, for an instant, Izhur could see his course. The rocky path remained in front of him. He was not yet lost.
The baby in his arms began to cry.
“Shush now,” he whispered. But the crack and roll of thunder drowned the voice of man and babe. With each flash, he increased his pace. He had to get this over with. He had to prove his worth.
A powerful wind rushed from behind, pushing like a giant hand. Izhur’s long hair whipped his face and he shivered. A fat drop of rain slammed onto his cheek, quickly followed by another on his moccasin. The dark clouds above released their cargo all at once and the rain drilled down, icy and hard.
Izhur’s foot slipped on the rocky path that led to the altar. He slowed and held the baby close – her warmth, a strange comfort on his chest. She stopped her mewling and nestled in to the beads that hung around Izhur’s neck – the two threads, one of wood, one of azurite – that marked him as a young Soragan.
Izhur patted her back through his thick wolf skin tunic as he walked. But he shouldn’t have. He should have remained cold, distant. How else could he prepare to do the task that had been assigned him? This was to be his first sacrifice. The first night of Ilun was presenting him with all manner of challenges he’d never faced before. Even in his time as novice to Jokam, he’d not attended a human sacrifice.
As he walked, he thought back on the meeting with the Eight and grimaced. Zodor and his bespurned influence. The man was a skilled hunter. No one could doubt that, but he knew nothing about the Benevolent Ones. He knew nothing of the Otherworld, and he knew even less about the Malfir. This sacrifice was wrong. Even a Soragan prentice could see that. Still, Izhur would have his own small influence. The corners of his mouth twitched.
Izhur had made a decision, back in his tree-dwell while he hastily prepared. He would not sacrifice this innocent to the Malfir. It would offer the demons too much, and he couldn’t bear the thought of them tearing apart her spirit, consuming all the power of her light, only to make them stronger. No, he would give her back to the Otherworld – to Ona.
Jokam had taught him the ritual, of course. And Izhur had prepared the implements back in his tree-dwell. But now it was raining. How was he supposed to keep the oil pot alight?
Never mind that. Just get to the altar.
Again he quickened his step, and again the lightning blazed. Closer. A clap of thunder roared and seemed to shift the rock beneath his feet. The wind whipped his hair into his eyes and his foot hit a large glossy protuberance. Izhur fell, twisted and landed on his back, cushioning the babe’s fall.
“Great Mother,” he whispered. Lightning flashed and he glimpsed the rain like fine darts pelting toward him from a black void.
He lay on his back a little longer and the baby nestled once more. Her warmth halted his shivering. He had to get up, keep moving.
He stood and adjusted his satchel. The babe moaned. With soft words, he soothed her and returned to the rocky path, limping.
The altar stood in the centre of a large chasm. Made of hard rock, it had been carved out of the granite many winters past by long dead ancestors. A flash of lightning revealed its stature and the gruesome faces that had been carved into its side – two headed beasts with the maws of lions, the eyes of snakes and the ears of bats – silent guardians. Iridescent lines etched into its surface shone blue with each flash of light. The winter altar was a dark, grim place, so different to the altars in their spring and summer lands. It was, after all, a place where they normally sacrificed to the Malfir. An animal every winter was given over; it was the only ritual that Izhur hated. Usually small animals were sacrificed, sometimes a larger beast like a deer or wolf – especially during Ilun. Izhur had never seen a child bled. It happened. He knew it. But to see it – to do it …
He sucked his cheeks and stepped forward, hoping he could send her to the Benevolent Ones rather than to the clutches of the Malfir. Usually, such a sacrifice required the presence of the clan, to offer their support and energy to the Soragan. But the Eight had charged him with sacrificing the child to the Malfir, and this was a task performed by the Soragan alone, lest evil spirits contaminate clan members. The Eight would remain ignorant to Izhur’s plan. As long as they knew she was dead, they’d have no knowledge of which realm she’d been given over to. Izhur swallowed. He would have to draw on the energy of nature.
Wind circled the chasm in frenzied chaos, sending rain sideways. It stung Izhur’s bare cheeks and he wished for the warmth of his rabbit-skin hood. He stepped carefully lest he fall again.
The altar seemed too large for
the baby. Its slick surface gleamed briefly with each flash of light. Izhur laid Neria and Osun’s daughter on the center and tightened the swaddling clothes, a vain attempt to keep her dry, warm. He fumbled with the satchel, removing the necessary items: an oak root, a vial of sacred water, the oil pot, and a knife made from bronze magic. Its orange sheen glinted with each lightning strike. Before, back in his tree-dwell, Izhur had sharpened and polished it.
He bent to sink his fingers into the rocky soil and clench a palmful of mud which he put on the altar at the baby’s feet. He placed the oil pot near her head, the oak root to her right and the vial of water on her left.
The rain teemed. Small puddles pooled on the surface of the altar. Izhur’s wolf-fur cloak hung heavily on his narrow shoulders, saturated. It tugged with each gust of wind, and he gripped the altar to keep balance. He clenched his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering. Lighting the oil pot would be impossible. Even if he succeeded, the rain would drench the flame in an instant.
A thick branch of lightning sparked the rock somewhere up above, and the thunder echoed round the chasm. The baby screamed. Izhur looked up. Angry sparks of light blinked into a dark infinity revealing purple, blue and charcoal mountains of cloud. The sky roiled.
A dark creature, bird or bat, flapped its wings and flew up amongst the clouds and lightning. Its screech echoed around the chasm. Izhur frowned hoping it wasn’t another omen.
The lightning would have to do as a replacement for the flame, but he kept the oil pot in its position. Next, he took the knife, his hand shaking. He tested the blade and sucked in a breath when he pricked his skin. A single red steak ran down his hand, mingling with the rain.
The baby screamed, still. Her swaddles had loosened and one little arm waved at him. Izhur closed his eyes and started the chant. “Ona, Goda, Imbrit, Atoll, Mittha, Utun, Tonat, Shephet.” Repeating the names of the Benevolent Ones, beckoning them to hear him and accept his sacrifice.
It happened quickly this time. His surprise nearly sent him straight back, but Izhur steadied his mind as he looked through the plane of the Otherworld. All around him the pale silver streaks of rain fell in odd directions. When he looked to the altar, the golden light of the infant burned – her blinding light.
He couldn’t help but marvel at its strength. At its centre, a red core gave way to gold circular rays pulsing outward toward him. So much power. What were they giving up?
He steadied himself. He had to do this. He had to show them he was a Soragan – their Soragan.
Izhur forced his hand forward. It clutched the knife, a black shadow that moved shakily with the tremor of his hand. His lips mouthed the chant “… earth, water, fire …” and his voice carried, filling the chasm. He drew from the power of nature, gaining energy from the trees, the rain, even the rock, until his voice boomed, matching that of the thunderous storm. A deep thrill ran through his being like a euphoric wave. He’d never felt so much power before. It would have been all too easy to give in to the rush, to pass over fully, but he focused and calmed.
“Take this child into your bosom.” His words echoed. His arm lifted and braced just above the babe’s heart. “She is our gift to you.”
The world paused, like something had been registered, and then it started again.
Izhur’s arm shot downward.
One blue streak darted through the Otherworld and struck Izhur’s hand. The knife flew. Izhur was thrown backwards and smacked the side of the chasm. The crack of thunder deafened and his mind snapped back from the Otherworld.
He opened his eyes, and the pain in his back forced them shut for a heart beat. He looked to his hand. There was no mark, no burn, but the lightning had snatched the knife.
What about the babe? She was silent. Had he struck her?
Gradually, he stood. The rain drilled harder. A streak of fire ran down his spine, but he sucked his breath and took a small shuffling step toward the altar.
Lightning came and went and he saw the small bundle on the altar where he had left it. He shuffled closer, one foot in front of the other until he stood above her. Her little hand still waved at him, and for the first time that night, Izhur smiled.
He scooped her up and laughed and let his tears mix with rain.
“It’s a sign, little one. A sign!”
He didn’t bother with the oil pot or the vial of sacred water. He left his satchel exactly where it sat on the ground. He braced the child to his chest and ran, ignoring the screaming pain in his back. His feet slid on the rocks, but the lightning lit his way. He was the Soragan. They had to listen to him. They must listen, for Ona had surely spoken this night.
The tree-dwells stood as he had left them, though the rain now made them glisten with each lightning strike and the large boughs swayed in the wind. The hearth fires burned low, but were still visible through the small cutouts of the shelters. He went to the one at the center, the most privileged – Zordor’s tree-dwell, set high in an elm.
Izhur stood at the foot of the tree and filling his lungs, yelled into the pelting rain. “She is no sacrifice! She is no sacrifice!”
His voice screamed in the night. The clan came out of their shelters. Some stood at the entrance to their tree-dwells; others descended slowly and lingered on the ground with a square of hide held above their heads.
“She is not to be sacrificed.” Izhur pumped a fist in the air, his voice rasping.
“What is the meaning of this, you fool?” It was Zodor. The great hunter didn’t bother with a cloak to protect him from the icy rain. He marched toward Izhur and stood over him in nothing but a short tunic. Zodor’s unbound hair whipped around him and his muscles, like carved flint, gleamed in the flashes of lightning that still flicked through the night.
Izhur’s eyes filled with fire as he stared up at Zodor. “I tell you, she is not a sacrifice, she is a gift from Ona herself.”
“Madness.” Zodor’s voice boomed. His eyes burned with anger. “The Eight decided.”
“The Eight was wrong. I am the Soragan—”
“You are mad.”
“I’ve seen her light.”
“You’ve seen her evil.”
A pause stalled them. They stood opposite each other, breathing hard.
“Give her to me.” Zodor held out his hands.
“No.”
“Give her to me.” The hunter grasped for her, but Izhur stepped back. Zodor lifted a fist and struck.
But Izhur struck too and a blue light sparked within his hand. It shot out like a spear of fire and hit Zodor full on the chest. The big hunter was picked up and thrown back.
Clan members gasped and two of the men ran over to kneel by Zodor who now lay limp on the wet ground. One by one, the small crowd turned to look at their Soragan.
Izhur took the moment. His vision swirled as though he trod the fine edge between this world and the Other. “I am Soragan here. I say again – I have seen her light; she is no sacrifice.” His voice echoed through the night, and boomed louder than any thunder.
And the clan bowed their heads.
Part II
Summer of the Forest
Yuli
Yuli scratched his ear. A fly buzzed nearby and he swatted at it.
“Be still and learn,” Izhur hissed. The Soragan’s irritation was obvious, even to a boy who was almost five summers old.
“Watch how she breathes; look how she concentrates.” Soragan Izhur’s eyes stayed fixed upon the girl.
Yuli shifted his weight and tried to do what he was told. He studied the girl, Iluna. She was just four moons younger than Yuli; he’d known her all his short life. They’d shared his mother’s milk as babies because her own mother died giving birth. Yuli’s father sometimes said that Iluna had cursed her mother. He said this to Yuli’s mother and Ugot and some of the other adults when he thought Yuli wasn’t listening. No one liked the girl. No one except for Izhur; although Yuli’s mother seemed to have a soft spot for her. Yuli didn’t like that. Neither did his fa
ther.
The girl stood about five big steps away in a small clearing, as still as a winter’s morning. Although she could have been further. Yuli could only count to five. Iluna could count to ahunred. Yuli didn’t like that either. His father said she was too clever for a girl her age.
Yuli had to squint through the branches of a small birch to watch. She was trying to summon an animal. He didn’t know which animal. He wasn’t listening when they’d discussed it earlier. He wasn’t listening when Izhur explained to them how it was done. Soragan Izhur would have to explain it all over again for Yuli.
But it didn’t look too complicated. All she did was stand in the middle of the forest and look around. He could see her wide nose and mouth. Frog-Face, they called her sometimes. And her messy hair. She always had knots because she didn’t have a mother to untangle them for her. The way she cocked her head on an angle because she was deaf in one ear always made her look like a durg. Not that Yuli had ever seen a durg. They were rare; most of them were exposed as babies or small children. But he’d heard the evenfire stories about them.
Anyway, Iluna looked silly, but he swallowed a giggle. He didn’t want to get into trouble again. Izhur would give him another long lecture and tell his mother, and then his mother would give him a punishment, like make him wash old Aunt Zelda’s under tunics. He hated doing old Aunt Zelda’s under tunics; they were stinky.
Iluna raised her arm and turned her hand so that her palm faced the sky. It all looked easy enough, and boring. Lessons with Soragan Izhur were always boring. He shifted his weight to the other foot and slouched.
“That’s it, slowly now,” Izhur whispered, his eyes still hadn’t moved from the girl.
The fly came back, its buzzing echoed through Yuli’s ear. Maybe she was trying to summon the fly. Yuli giggled.
“Shhh.” Izhur pursed his lips that way he did whenever he disapproved. His narrow eyes would squint, and he would rub his temple. Izhur was always pursing his lips around Yuli.
