by Amy Marie
A corpulent tribesman moves to the center of the room to speak. His face crumples into a wrinkled frown as he shakes his Shaman’s staff at Chief, feathers dancing to the tiny percussions of the handle’s rattle. He speaks in the Native tongue, explaining his vision involving the maturing young man next to him.
“Prophecies are conundrums that span the vast array of tribes around the wheel of time. Foresight never warns us of the peace that is to come. Who would waste such vigilance? No. Fortunes are bestowed upon the select, with the sole purpose to right the wrong that is on its way. Something big is coming.” The final sentence is emphasized by the rise and fall of his staff in a wide arc.
The speech causes an uproar among the council. The pelt-armored warriors of the tribe stand and beat their fists against their chests, challenging the unknown foe.
“It is not what you think. This is beyond the light-skin invaders. This is from the Great Spirit, a battle unseen, beyond our time.” The Shaman points down the fighters’ aggressions until they take their seats once more.
“And the boy’s place in this?” With his deep resonating voice, Chief silences the crowd.
“I have had a vision. The boy holds powers unknown to us, perceived only by the Great Spirit and the elements of His domain. His naming ceremony at birth was a testament to this power. The boy must now go on a journey. I have seen his path in the fire. He must follow the dark flower to meet the one who is messenger of the white man. This can only take place where the dark meets the light. He will be a weapon of the arsenal, the foundation of four, which will defeat the evil that threatens the nature of our existence.”
All eyes fall on the young man. He stands unblinking, masking any reaction to the Shaman’s words. His round face is showing hints of sharp angles through his nose and cheekbones as he grows towards his prime age of manhood.
“Shkote’Nsi,” Chief says, addressing the young man, “I remember well the story of your birth. Upon your first cry, a burning ember leapt from the fire, as if to answer your call. You were named for the spirit of fire inside of you, which called the ember forward. You have been raised by the Keepers of Fire, do you accept this prophecy as your mission?”
Keeping his eyes from straying to the weeping woman, the boy gives a quick nod. He knows the Shaman’s words to be true. The fire has shown him many things in his dreams, and the flames have told a similar story to this prophecy.
It is decided.
The Shaman performs a blessing over Shkote’Nsi with his staff, and the council chants well-wishes. His mother brings a pre-packed leather satchel, and does her best to put on a brave face for her son’s mission. After all of the necessary ceremony is complete, the young man leaves the settlement he knows as home.
Weeks after following the Good River down through the rolling hills and into the territory of the white settlers, Shkote’Nsi stumbles upon a trail of wildflowers painted with the color of death.
The dark flower.
Confident he is on the right path, he settles down to camp for the night. He refuses to call forth the fire for warmth in fear of attracting an omen from the shadows, so he huddles under his fur robe to make rest.
Time passes with the movement of the stars, and the boy’s eyes flutter open. Something has stirred him from sleep.
A dark hooded figure stands over him. The boy wonders in his waking confusion if he is facing Chipiapoos, the spirit of death. He shakes his head to clear his thoughts. That spirit was not part of the prophecy.
“Are you the messenger?” Shkote’Nsi speaks in his Native tongue.
The figure’s cloaked head tilts subtly. A gloved hand is outstretched in answer.
The boy hesitates.
The figure stoops to grab a stick, using it to draw a symbol into the dirt:
“Come with me, fire spirit,” the figure whispers in the boy’s native language.
Trusting the figure for recognizing him and showing him the ancient symbol of the elements from his dreams, Shkote’Nsi reaches up to accept the guide. As he is helped to his feet he tries to look past the cloak for a face, but sees...nothing.
“What spirit form are you, messenger?” the boy asks.
Shkote’Nsi does not register the stab of the golden-hilt dagger through the air. Only when the blade has plunged deep into his chest to snuff the flame, does the cloaked figure answer.
“I am no messenger. I am your destructor.”
About the Author
Amy Marie is a first-time author of the Statera Saga. A sucker for a good old-fashioned good versus evil story, she’s been inspired to take on authoring a trilogy of her own. She has lived all over the United States, but will always consider Ohio her home. A huge fan of all fiction, she is always looking to get lost in the relaxing escape of a good novel. She’s worked several years for a major book retailer, and now enjoys a career in aviation as an air traffic controller. She delights in her friends and family, and the cuddles of her dog Brutus.
Follow her on Twitter:
https://twitter.com/Amy_Writes_Book
Follow her Facebook Page:
https://www.facebook.com/StateraSaga/
Acknowledgments
Thank YOU so much for reading my debut novel Reminiscence. I truly hope you’ve enjoyed sharing this adventure with me, and look forward to more in the future! Quintessence Statera Saga Book Two, will be coming soon! Stay tuned for updates!
If you loved Reminiscence, and if you have the time, please leave a review on sites like Amazon, Goodreads, and BookBub. It’s the best gift you can give an author. And if you’d like to keep in touch, please find me online. I’d love to hear from you! Hope to see you again soon!
I’d like to give a BIG thank you to all my friends from Authonomy and Write on, your feedback helped me in ways you can’t imagine.
An EXTRA thank you to my Mom & Tito, Dad & Jessele, St. Elmo & Sarah (my first online readers), and even my Uncle Tom: Thanks for reading a piece of my soul before anyone else would!
Thanks to my bestest ladies in my life: Liz, Stevie, Jenny, and Mindi: your quirky traits mixed to make some of these characters. And thank you Mindi, for inducing me into the world of literary fiction with smut books galore.
Thanks to my brother Tommy, who one day will read this.
Thank you to HL and Martha, for being my last minute beta readers. And as always, Martha, thanks for the wine!
Thanks to author Carolyn Reynolds for buying me my first tiara, and teaching me I’m capable of anything.
Thanks to Ron and Charles for putting up with my whining. Waah!
Thank you to the ones who knocked me down in life: You gave me the motivation not only to get back up, stronger than ever, but to fly.
And FINALLY, the most important thank you goes where it’s due:
Psalm 147:3 “He heals the broken hearted and binds up their wounds”
Thank you,
Amy Marie
