February – 3,390 BC
Earth: Crash site
Ninsianna
Ninsianna couldn't help but touch the powerful wings which rose and fell against his back with every breath. Even in sleep he filled her with the impression that he wished to soar into the sky. He looked so peaceful nestled into his little bunk, one dark wing wrapped around himself for warmth. Who needed covers when She-who-is had endowed you with a natural blanket?
In sleep, the unreadable expression he habitually wore softened, giving him the countenance of an adolescent boy, although that could just be his lack of a beard. She traced the pink tint which had finally begun to come back into his pale skin, relishing the difference from the dark, hawkish appearance of most Ubaid men. She could sit contentedly in the bunk opposite him all day, just staring at him, but to do so wouldn't be polite, so she turned off the magic lamp and slipped to the entrance of his sleeping quarters.
“Mother,” she resumed her customary dialogue with She-who-is. “He is a peculiar one, and not just because he has wings! He never smiles, or laughs, or frowns. Or shows any emotion whatsoever. He just scrutinizes me as though I'm a string of numbers to add up in his head!"
She peeked back to make sure he was still asleep, and then lifted the latch of a tall, narrow cupboard where yesterday he had pulled out one of the strange, fitted garments he called a 'shirt.' Inside was another magic lamp. She pressed the symbol which made the cupboard light up as though illuminated by a miniature sun and began to rummage like an eager dormouse digging for grubs.
Hung on a bar on the upper half were five identical fawn-beige shirts, each draped on a curved piece of vine he called a hanger. Folded neatly beneath them were six identical pairs of kilts, well, not kilts, they covered his legs and Mikhail called them 'slacks.' It was a pity, really, to cover such muscular legs, but who was she to question the attire of a demigod? She caressed the fabric between her thumb and forefinger as she made a tally. Unlike the beige or brown of Ubaid kilts, these 'slacks' were dyed a dark green, the color of a date palm branch in the heat of the summer.
"He has seven identical pairs!" Ninsianna exclaimed. "I only own two outfits, and even the Chief only has five! Mikhail must be a very wealthy man."
At the bottom of the cupboard sat a second pair of the sturdy animal hide foot coverings he called 'boots.' Ninsianna peeked back to make sure Mikhail was still asleep, and then lifted one to her nose. It had a peculiar odor, neither tanned hide nor dirty foot, but that same sterile scent she affiliated with the sky canoe. She rummaged through some neatly folded, small garments. Behind them she found a small box, delicately interlay with sacred symbols. This box was different than everything she'd seen thus far within the sky canoe; warm and wooden, ornate in its simplicity. It was the kind of box someone might carve to place upon their altar. Ninsianna traced the drawings, unable to decipher them. She glanced back to make sure Mikhail was still asleep, and then opened the lid.
Upon a cloth of scarlet lay a small, brown figurine, little more than a broken branch, carved by the crudest hand. Ninsianna wrinkled her nose in disappointment. She shut the lid and shoved it back into the bottom of his cupboard.
Not finding anything of further interest, she moved beyond to rummage through the room he called a 'galley.' She was tired of eating dried meat and berries and, if she did not go outside to forage, would soon be out of food. In the cupboards she found cups, platters, and eating implements made of a strange material that felt cold, but could find nothing that looked like a cooking crock, storage baskets, or stores of food. Ninsianna's stomach growled.
“How can a man cross the stars and not provision his canoe with food?"
While this room was much less heavily damaged than the room where she had found him, the cupboards had opened and cast their contents upon the floor. Some of the items echoed items that might be found in an Ubaid kitchen: plates, bowls and spoons. Other items she could figure no purpose for them, so she set them aside, rummaging for anything that might ease her pangs of hunger. When she could find no food she set about cleaning, gingerly moving the colored spider webs he called ‘wires.' She'd learned the hard way that some of them possessed lightning and would bite her fingertips, leaving her with an unpleasant tingling if she didn't treat them with respect. Magic. Although it was a form she had never encountered before, the winged one possessed great magic!
Ninsianna chewed her lip as she cleaned, pondering how stiff and aloof the winged one acted.
“Do you think he finds me unattractive?” Her brow furrowed in worry. “This is the first time I've ever been interested in a man who has indicated no interest in me!"
She worked silently, turning over in her mind what the problem might be as she picked up each object and, having no knowledge of what its purpose was, shoved it into the nearest cupboard to get it out of the way. If he was so attractive, then what were the females of his species like? Did he find her as squat and ugly as she found most Ubaid men?
"Perhaps I ask too much of you, Mother?" Ninsianna laughed at her own absurdity. "How silly you must find my petty demands! Find me a husband! No! I don't like that husband! Find me a better one!" She-who-is had only promised Mikhail would take her to see the stars, not that he would throw himself at her feet! "I apologize for my impatience, Mother. I will do whatever you ask!"
She closed her eyes, hoping for a stronger answer, but while sometimes she could hear the voice of She-who-is as clearly as though the goddess stood at her side, most of the time She-who-is half-listened to her prattle the way a mother might let their offspring chatter while she attended to another, more important task. Ninsianna didn't take offense. A half-listening goddess viewed your requests with affection because she knew you loved her; not like the other Ubaid who only ever prayed when they needed something! Worship was meant to be an intimate conversation, not simply begging for favors!
She finished tidying up the galley, chattering as she worked, and then moved into the room he called the 'bridge.' Unlike the rest of the sky canoe, here the magic lanterns did not work, casting the room into strange, unknowable shadows except for the place where the sun streamed through the crack which spanned from the floor into the roof. It fell upon the place where she had first found him. The scent of dried blood assailed her nostrils.
“Mother,” Ninsianna stared at the brown stain that marred the floor. “How could any creature lose that much blood and survive?”
Although she knew very little about sky canoes which flew between the stars, even she realized Mikhail must repair a lot of damage before this vessel could carry them back into the heavens. That slender thread that had been half-listening to her chatter all afternoon strengthened, sending an image into her mind. Somebody needed to clear the debris before Mikhail could repair it. Why not her?
Yes … She-who-is liked those who helped themselves! Ninsianna thanked the goddess for her guidance and began to clear the debris.
“Papa said I should teach him our language," Ninsianna continued her one-sided conversation, "and then bring him back to our village to introduce him to our people. Maybe by then Jamin will have given up?"
An unwanted thought intruded into her mind; a tender thought, filled with an emotion she no longer wished to have. She pushed it away, determined to never think again of the one thing she and Jamin had always shared in common, their love of travel and ability to learn new languages.
"May some terrible, non-life-threatening illness befall him!" Ninsianna scowled. She remembered Papa's admonition to never wish ill upon another. "Okay … how about you bless him with an abundance of women throwing themselves at his feet? Or a wonderful hunt? Send him a white gazelle so he'll wander off and forget all about me."
She worked diligently, deep in thought as she channeled her worries into frenetic activity. Jamin had never been one to walk away from a challenge. Even if her father did manage to convince the Chief to order his son to stay away, she doubted he would just accept his fate.
"You need to
do something about him!" Ninsianna said. "If Jamin keeps telling everyone that Mikhail is a demon, I fear how our people will receive him."
She glanced at the doorway, the one she feared to exit. If Jamin came back with a bigger raiding party, Mikhail was in no condition to stop him. The last thing Assur needed was a powerful winged being living outside of their village that bore them a grudge!
Ninsianna rubbed her temples. Until Mikhail's own people found him, they needed to be his people, something which was difficult with Jamin stirring up trouble. She was so deep in thought that when a hand touched her shoulder, she shrieked and whirled, momentarily fearful that Jamin had come back to snatch her. Mikhail towered over her, impossibly tall and pale. Ninsianna took a deep breath and forced her heart to slow by assessing the physical condition of her patient. Mikhail's his lips had lost that bluish cast and already he appeared to be much more steady on his feet.
“You … make … good.” Mikhail's brilliant blue eyes scrutinized her expression, studying her features as he no doubt pieced together what she'd been up to. He did not smile at her the way her father would have, but nonetheless he appeared to be pleased.
“Yes … good,” Ninsianna said. She pointed back towards the galley, mindful of her rumbling stomach. “You … eat … where?" She wanted to know where he kept his food stored.
“No.” Mikhail stood like a tall, stiff tree, not understanding her question.
She took his hand and led him back into the galley. “You … eat … where?” She gestured around the modest kitchen.
“There.” Mikhail pointed at the table.
“No." Irritation made Ninsianna grimace. “You … eat … where?" She gestured to her mouth as though spooning food into it. Understanding dawned on Mikhail's face.
“Anseo … here,” Mikhail pointed to a square, silver box embedded into the wall. He lifted a latch and pointed to the empty chamber inside. “Ith … eat … bia … anseo … here."
“Eat … food,” Ninsianna corrected. She peered inside the box and asked, “Uimh bia … no food. I gcás ina … where?”
Mikhail fiddled with some symbols engraved on the front of the box, saying something she couldn't understand. Ninsianna shrugged and gestured outwards in a universal expression of 'I don't comprehend.' Mikhail pointed to the box and made a gesture as though snapping a stick.
“Bia … food … briste,” Mikhail said flatly. “No food. Briste.”
“Broken,” Ninsianna corrected. “Briste. Broken. Food broken? How can food be broken?"
“Is ea … yes. Food broken." Mikhail watched her with his emotionless expression. “No food … food broken.”
All of this conversation in a language she didn't understand gave Ninsianna a headache. She sat down and put her head down into her hands, pinching her temples to suppress the woodpecker that had begun pounding a hole into her skull.
“Ninsianna, go bhfuil tú ceart go leor?" Mikhail touched her hair so she would understand he asked if she was okay.
“My head hurts." Ninsianna said. Their difficulty communicating was wearing her down. She was a physical creature, not a verbal one.
Mikhail took her hand and tugged her to her feet.
“You … sleep … now."
He led her back to the sleeping quarters, still unsteady, but except for the wing which still dragged to one side, she never would have guessed that a mere two days ago she'd been prepared to perform the death rituals for him. Her head pounded so badly he was surrounded by a halo and there were two of him. Migraine, her father called these headaches. She pressed her cheek against his chest and wrapped her arms around his waist for comfort, pressing one temple into the undamaged side of his chest until his warmth sank into her pounding head and made it feel a little better. This is what Papa did to make her feel better whenever she got her headaches.
Mikhail froze. She could feel his muscles quiver beneath his skin as though he were wracked with emotion. Fear? Desire? Revulsion? Whatever the emotion was, he did not allow it to show, but from the subtle rustle of his feathers, it was emotion. At last he put his arm around her, but otherwise stood as stiff as a tree.
Mikhail's expression was perplexed, as though nobody had ever given him a hug before. Was he repulsed by the gesture?
“Dea … good." She touched his cheek to show her appreciation. For perhaps the first time, a dark eyebrow lifted. Repulsed, no. Simply confused.
His arm lingered when she tried to pull away, as though he wasn't certain whether to hold onto her or let her go. She sighed as her body sank into the gloriously soft padding of the sleeping pallet and pulled up the covers, too exhausted to even strip off her shawl dress. The world instantly drifted very far away, leaving Mikhail to stand above her, puzzling over what had just transpired.
Chapter 20
Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One Page 23
