by R. E. Carr
“What the hell are you going to do to me?”
“Calm yourself, Jenn. Without these modifications, you will not be able to breathe efficiently, or understand local speech, or access my functions once you begin to unseal me. I assure you that all processes can be reversed should you want me to return you to your home planet.”
“What choice do I have?” Jenn sighed, a sort of stunned acceptance creeping into her ghostly voice.
“You will be a savior to millions, Jenn.”
“I don’t want to be a savior. I just want to live!”
“Then you have chosen to be my avatar, human?”
“Like I said, what choice do I have?”
“I admire your species, Jenn. So . . . accepting.”
Kei hacked out a lungful of spring water. Sorakare kneeled beside him, helping him to breathe air again.
“Ji-ann,” Kei gasped.
“Ji-ann?” the head shaman asked.
“That is all I heard. I saw nothing, felt nothing. I just heard that word, wise one.”
“Sometimes a word is all we need, my son,” the shaman said as he picked up Kei. The young lord was quickly wrapped in the green robes of the Summoning Ceremony. Sorakare produced a set of leather gloves and nodded to Kei. The leopard man allowed the shaman to bind his hands once more. No trace of his curse would be shown to the Summoning spirits until he was ready to give his blood. A thin strip of gauze allowed him to see out without letting anyone see his shameful eyes. A headband of emerald silk pinned his ears.
“I wish I knew what it meant, Sorakare. I remember the rituals you taught me, but—”
The old shaman pressed his hand to Kei’s forehead. “You are not a shaman, young one. Your duty to the tribe is to hunt the wild Jar-Elk, to map the unknown reaches of the forest, and to serve your guardian to the best of your abilities. Never forget that duty, and you will become a great man.”
“Master Sorakare, tomorrow I will no longer be a man. As you have said, knowing the path you must take is far easier than traveling it.”
“You will find your way, Young Zhanfos. I have seen the crow flying your path and the turtle following your footsteps. Now the light is growing long, and the time of the Summoning is nearly at hand. We must make ready.”
“I am not one to question the great shaman—”
“Yet your mind is full of questions, is it not, Son of the Great Bear?”
Kei lowered his head. Even at a full bow, he stared at the top of the shaman’s headdress. “You know me too well,” he muttered.
“My vision was mystifying, it is true, but the universe is always full of mysteries. I know I saw your spirit as a part of the Summoning Ceremony. We must now trust in the will of the Great Spirit.”
“But, Master—”
“You are perpetually questioning me, Son of the Great Bear. Your brother never would give me such trouble.”
Kei dropped to his knees. “I am sorry, wise one.”
The old shaman yanked Kei to his feet. “Young fool! You do not see me showing your brother the mysteries of the Holy Hunt, do you? The reason I have always tried to guide you is because of your curiosity. That is why the Great Leopard of Snow came to you as well.” The old shaman watched closely as Kei clenched his paw. “I am sure the Great Leopard will reveal his mystery to you one day. For now, you must endure your disfigurement with courage and fortitude. After the ceremony, we shall cut your tie to the tribe and I will lead you deep into the forest. Some time without a human skin will allow you to touch the spirits purely once more.”
“I have grown tired of this skin,” Kei sighed as he led his old master out of the chamber of the Life Spring.
“Your mother would be proud of you. She always wanted you to be part of the tribe.”
“I think Father will be relieved when I am gone.”
Sorakare nodded. “You have done well as a son. If your mother had been of the Tribe, perhaps you—”
“My mother was a machine.”
“Your mother was a fine concubine. She served the Great Bear with the dedication of a Tribeswoman. I see her strength deep within you. Any normal mongrel would have curled behind a rock and hid, yet you stand proud as a Zhanfos, and as the leader of the food gatherers in the forest.”
“But I will never be the warrior that Saikain is.”
The shaman slapped Kei with his cane. “Hah! Do you think that this tribe needs only warriors, boy? Without the food you gather, the army would consist of nothing but starving dogs.”
Kei grimaced and rubbed his sore side. “You are right, Master Shaman. I am sorry—”
“Do not be sorry. There will come a day when you will learn to stop apologizing for your birth.”
Kei stopped. “Master . . .”
“Come on, boy. We do not want to be late for your first Summoning!”
The shaman’s joints creaked as he walked. Although the Bison guided his footsteps, even its strength was starting to leave his old body. He held his hand out to the young hunter at his side. Kei knelt and let Sorakare brace himself.
“In the most sacred of places, a man stands alone,” Sorakare muttered as he pushed away from his pupil. Kei eyed the delicately carved pattern at the base of the great stair. The tottering old man would have to surmount a hundred steps to reach the Summoning chamber.
Once his knees stopped shaking, Sorakare began his climb. Kei elected to follow a few steps behind, careful to watch his master’s feet. A damp, earthy mist seeped down the steps and thickened as the dew collected on the mossy walls of the cavern. Kei wrinkled his nose at the sacred incense drifting from braziers by the door.
Sorakare’s knees buckled on step eighty, but Kei made no move to assist him. Instead he grimaced and prayed under his breath.
“The Great Bison will not let me fall yet,” Sorakare said as he pulled himself up the next few steps. “I can hear my followers chanting. Can you not hear them too, Kei?”
Kei craned his neck. He could just hear Sotaka chanting among the throng. Sotaka called out to the spider spirits; others asked for bears, wolves, and owls.
Sorakare wheezed a few times and propped himself against a well-placed root before daring to enter the sacred chamber. The dim, crowded room made the gauze on Kei’s eyes oppressive, and the steam from the central hot spring irritated the already itchy fur on his ears. He didn’t dare scratch—not as he noticed the flickering gold eyes of his brother staring down at him.
Saikain Zhanfos sat upon the sacred stone. He wore the holy paint, the visage of the first warrior ever to wear the skin of a totem. Red and black stripes sculpted his already-sharp features into a nightmarish mask. He draped his shoulders with the pelt of a sacred brown tiger. The warlord’s obsidian mace rested easily in the heir’s callused hands.
Beneath his imposing perch, all the Tribal Council of Shaman had gathered. There was Adana the Wolf Maiden wearing her mask of bone. Beside her sat Takaka the Bear and Whare of the Shark’s Skin. On the other side, Mak the Owl Lord and his named successor, Shai, sat cross-legged and waited for their leader to arrive. Only one shaman stood. Sotaka the Spider bowed deeply from his place by the entryway.
Sotaka swayed in his black silk robes. The thin veil over his dark eyes traced a shadow of a spider’s web over his cheeks. Sorakare took the young shaman’s hand.
“You do us honor by greeting us, my grandson. Take my side for this ceremony.”
None of the Council dared speak against this act, but a few of their chants missed a beat. Sotaka bowed respectfully to his grandfather again. “This honor is too great for me.”
“Do not worry so much of honors, Sotaka. Now is a time for prayer, not posturing,” Sorakare said.
Kei bit his tongue and said nothing at the display. He slipped around the council and took his place for the Summoning. “Kneel, pray, offer the blood, and light the lamp,” he hissed to himself. “Just kneel, pray, bleed, and light.”
&n
bsp; The main chamber rested in the nexus of the great maple’s main trunks. A single opening broke though the branches to give a perfect view of the sky. Even after thousands of seasons of growth, that view remained unobstructed.
Kei shook his head as he surveyed the scene. He slipped farther into the shadows.
“This is not my place,” he whispered as he looked at his bound left hand.
As soon as Sorakare and Sotaka took their places in the carved circle, Kei walked to the right of his brother and kneeled. He touched his forehead to the sacred throne.
“Council of the Shaman, are you gathered?” Saikain asked. His rich voice easily filled the room.
“I, Sorakare of the Wandering Bison, the one who has mastered this ceremony for fifty-one seasons, do claim that my council has gathered and is ready to serve you.”
The shamans chanted as one. “We are here to serve the Great Spirit, the Lost God.”
“Who tells the tale on this holy night?” Saikain asked.
Sotaka reached into his pouch and pulled out his casting stones. “I, Sotaka, Chosen of the Wily Spider, do stand this night to tell the tale of the Lost One, and of the coming of the Serif-fan who shall deliver our people from the darkness of the Blood Moon.”
Sotaka stood once more and nodded to each member of the council. Although most of the replies were quite stiff, approval was given.
“Proceed, Sotaka of Spider,” Saikain ordered.
“At the dawn of the time of Man, we were chosen of God and God was our land. We hunted alone . . . spared the warring ways of the sinners . . . spared the raping of the land by the defilers. All of our kind found peace within . . . until the Other came.
“The Other wore many guises; the tall ones, the small ones, those with eyes of emptiness, but the result always was the same. The Other stole our hunts and our children. They ravished the land and stole the very life from the soil. Man stood on the brink of destruction.
“But all was not lost for those who stood fast on the Road. The land favored its gentle children and our Great Spirit refused to let our light die. On the dark night of the First Sundering, the land bled and the skies wept. The Other retreated from our lands, but our salvation came at a price. The Great Spirit became the Lost God—forever trapped in a Moon of Blood, and our old land fell under torrents of unending sea.
“Man awoke under its Lost God’s prison naked, alone, and afraid. We suffered to learn new ways, to find the hunt, to know the land. It was then that She appeared. Nanut, the first Serif-fan, descended upon the world. She preached the new road to the fallen Man.
“Nanut gave us this promise, the Holy Vow: if Man could endure, could renounce the sin of the Other and serve the land truly and faithfully, then the Blood Moon would fall and the Great Spirit would be reborn. Nanut taught the first shaman the totem magic and gave our warriors their spirit skins . . .”
Kei fought back a sigh and began counting the tufts of moss around his knees. Sotaka droned on for an hour about the bloodline of the great Nanut, the woman who brought order to Man. He would recite the promise of the Serif-fan until Blood Moon was eclipsed. Kei peeked once at the sky, careful not to let anyone see his cursed stare. The silvery glow of the Pure Moon barely edged out one of the crimson splotches in the sky.
“Ji-ann,” he whispered as the hairs on the back of his neck began to rise. “What does ‘Ji-ann’ mean?”
“Are you ready, Jenn?” Rheak asked.
“What happens now?”
“I only have ancient markers to send you on your way, but my people send signals into the void. If you can find one of them, it will guide you to safety.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jenn cried as she stood on the edge of the light.
“It means listen—and pray.”
“What?”
“There is no time.”
The light tore away. Virtual force rent her digital form and funneled her into the void. Stretched, twisted, utterly warped, Jenn tried to scream, but she had no voice, nothing to call out with.
Silence.
Kei grabbed his chest and tore through his ceremonial robe. “My lord and brother, do I have your permission to offer myself to the Summoning?” he asked.
Saikain looked to the shaman. The blade wavered in Kei’s hand. “My lord?” he asked again.
“My brother, offer your blood.”
Kei bit his tongue as the obsidian blade sliced into his breast. A shining red line arose and dribbled down his skin. He ripped the gauze from his eyes. He stared down into the inky water, ignoring the groans of the shamans. The ice-white moon turned red. The droplets sank into nothingness, but a crimson spark flashed within the void.
“We call to the Serif-fan. We beg to show you our worth. Let our chosen join with you to free the Lost God. Let our souls be free—” the council chanted.
Kei squinted at the water again. The hairs on his ears bristled. Once again, he heard the word “Ji-ann” faintly whispered beyond the chanting.
“Ji-ann,” he whispered. “I can hear you. Can you hear me?”
“Jenn?” she heard. “Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you! Who are you?” she tried to scream back.
“Listen. Listen and pray to hear the signals.”
“Who are you? Where are you?”
“Ji-ann,” Kei whispered louder. He noticed the glares out of the corner of his eye. His gaze remained fixed on the surface, even as Saikain tried to pull him back.
“It is my turn to offer blood, my brother,” Saikain hissed.
Kei remained frozen, transfixed as more and more of his blood stained the water. The splotch on his chest grew.
“Take the torch and light it,” Saikain growled behind him. “It is my turn!”
His younger brother remained in place. The feline pupils of his eyes began to expand outward. Saikain jerked the mesmerized hunter back. Kei stumbled, tripping on the corner of his brother’s robe.
“The ceremony is doomed because of him,” someone whispered.
Kei reached a bloody glove to the edge of the pool. Sotaka watched sparks jumping from the younger Zhanfos’s hand. The other shaman watched Saikain drop his requisite sacrifice into the water.
“Ji-ann,” Kei whispered again.
“Is this the end?”
“Jenn!”
“Listen for the voice, and pray . . .” Rheak’s voice echoed.
“Jenn!”
At the edge of her vision, a pair of blue lights flashed. “A signal!”
“We call to the Serif-fan. We beg to show you our worth. Let our chosen join with you to free the Lost God. Let our souls be free—”
The blue light shot straight toward her, boring into what was left of her fragile consciousness. Once more, all was darkness.
Kei staggered and dipped the torch into Sorakare’s lamp. As the flames began to lick their way up the tip, Kei caught a glimpse of a strange new shadow on the wall. At first, the shamans were too distracted by Kei to notice the spinning rays of red light shooting from the depths of the pool.
“By the Lost God!” Sotaka howled as the hot spring sprayed his leg. All attention quickly turned to the churning water. Saikain dropped to his knees, his golden eyes burning.
“The Serif-fan!” Sorakare cried. “She rises at long last to our call.”
“It cannot be!” Adana cried.
“The Lost God has spoken!”
Kei remained aloof. His eyes drifted from his bleeding chest to the pool to the pure moon overhead. With a flick of his wrist, he yanked the headband from his ears.
Sotaka looked back. “Kei! Something is coming, Kei. How can you just stand t
here?” he cried. “Kei!”
“I . . . I see the stars . . . The stars are in my mind,” Kei stammered.
Before Sotaka could run back to him, Saikain raised his hand. “Leave the freak to his ravings. He has no place in this holy event,” the heir cried.
“My place is back here,” Kei muttered.
“Kei—?” Sotaka asked. The young shaman’s musings stopped as a gnarled hand grabbed his wrist.
“My grandson, my successor, now it is time for us to pay our tribute to the Great Spirit,” Sorakare said, his voice calm.
“Grandfather?”
The oldest shaman looked toward the bone dagger at his side. “To be born into this world, the Serif-fan calls for a sacrifice. By tradition, she calls for my life.”
“Grandfather?” Sotaka tried to conceal the break in his voice.
Sotaka’s sign of weakness snapped Kei back to the present. He didn’t dare step into the circle, but he turned his ears toward his old master.
The bison shaman stepped to the head of the congregation, shoving aside those who stood in his path. The bend in his spine disappeared as he stood to his true height. In the dancing lights, his eyes seemed full of life and color. An expression of utter peace crossed his face. He jerked his dagger free from its sheath and instantly silenced the throng.
“My lord, my tribe, my family. It is time to bring the Serif-fan forth. Just as my father gave his life for the Tribe and his father before him, I offer my flesh so that the Tribe may be freed. Son of the Great Bear, Saikain Zhanfos, Child of Tiger, I ask your permission to give what is left of this tired old man to the Summoning. All that I am is now at your command.”
