Cjiena: Beginnings

by Patrice Caraway

  CJIENA BEGINNINGS

  Copyright © 2019

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781708928384

  I dedicate this story to my husband Jeremy and to my children Elyssa, Zachary, Morgyn, Xander, and Lucy. Without you, I wouldn’t have remembered how to dream.

  FORWARD

  I started this book many, many moons ago after a dream I had when I was 16. Throughout the years I have been fascinated by the history that has been forgotten, and stories that seem to span across all cultures and religions.

  My love for history started when I was young, and a love sprouted for Native Americans. My childhood dream was to become a shaman and ride horseback across the plains. In my naive 8-year-old innocence, I thought that it was a dream that I could attain. Of course when I realized that there was no way I would be able to accomplish it, I became interested in archeology and read everything I could that had to do with Ancient Egypt and Greece once again creating a fantastic dream of digging up ancient finds Indiana Jones style. This of course was quickly dashed when I realized that the thought of touching a dead body - skeleton or not, was a little frightening. Plus, as wonderful as the movies are, archeology is nowhere as near glamorous as Hollywood would like you to believe.

  So, from there, I would read any articles I could get a hold of. At the time, the internet was still new, so my access was limited. Thankfully, I was blessed with a mother who encouraged me to read, and bought me books regularly, mainly the classics, but plenty of historical fictions as well. And of course, I learned the standard teachings of public education of the time.

  Once I made it into college, I took as many history, humanities, religious studies, and anthropology classes as I could. I helped on a single dig that once of my professors invited me to, however I soon realized the tedious work the professionals go through. The same professor ironically was the one that made me hold off on my book for so long. I remember him ranting about “Clan of the Cave Bear” and its inaccuracies. Although true, I realized that I didn’t want my book to be judged as harshly. I knew that I need to put in a lot of time into research and fact checking, never mind the fact that it would be a work of fiction.

  Then life happened. I got married and had kids. My life became about being a mother and a wife, but no matter how hectic life had become, I still read newspapers and journal articles when I could. Saved up to buy some precious art history books, and mountains of research material. Even after a messy divorce, remarried, a miscarriage, and another baby, my want and need to write this story overcame me. In 2011, I did just that. I sat down and wrote a story from start to finish. I sent it off to friends and family who gave me feedback, and I worked on it some more. Then once again life happened, and the story got moved to the back burner for a few years, then again, I came back to it, writing more, expanding on ideas, and putting my heart and soul into its creation. This is a dance I have played for almost 9 years with myself always finding somewhere to improve on my story whether it be new discoveries or newly found articles.

  So, I want to thank you, as a reader, for giving this story a chance to be read, and I appreciate you for helping me make my dreams come true.

  PREFACE

  He was asleep - the one who calls himself Zachariah. He had gone to bed soon after I had finished telling him my story, as briefly as I could. Zachariah was terrified. Maybe of me, or maybe from those who were chasing me, but he had quietly listened until the wee hours of the morning. My face was all over the news, the internet - ‘Angel or Demon Escape Smithsonian’- about the museum, which dared to put us on display like animals for the masses. I was sad that all six of my counterparts had been recaptured, but not surprised. I was the oldest among us all, perhaps the oldest left upon earth, and with the advancement in technology you humans have made in the last few years, it was not likely that the rest would have made it, despite their powers. Although your guns and tasers wouldn’t kill even the weakest among us, they could slow us down.

  They claimed we had killed and maimed some guards. If we did, I didn’t remember. When I found myself in the Egyptian room, I had been in such despair, and then so angry that they had defiled something so precious to me. Let the dead rest in peace, but your kind can never do that, can you? You twist immoral behavior to suit your pursuit of knowledge in the name of science.

  Now I sit in total darkness except for the computer screen that stands before me, wondering what it is I had to offer the world in my defense. Finally, after a moment’s waiting, I realized I have only one thing... my story. And so, I begin to type.

  First Days

  BIRTH

  You probably wish to know what’s happened to me, the pretty nightmare in all reality. I have not left young mortals, I am still here wrapped in a lair of magic’s illusions, waiting to once again make my entrance upon the world’s stage. Centuries have past, and the true stories of my kind have been morphed through the generations. Truth turned to legend, and legend into myth. I happen to like it that way. Hidden away from the world’s view and locked amongst the City of the Ancients, I rarely walk now amongst mortals, but not by my own doing.

  I am what all mortals fear. Life’s true horrors are no longer the foolish gangs and their guns or their drugs, but us, those whom you’ve always thought were just a figment of your imagination, knowing little truth of our real existence. We have become a fairytale – or a nightmare - passed down through the centuries…but we are real.

  You might think me cold-hearted, a monster walking amongst the living. But I too can love; I too can feel. After over 5000 years of living, I have watched many who I have loved and cared for die. But then again, that’s all you mortals do. You are born, you live a short and meaningless life, and then.... you die.

  Some of you become famous, with names that are set in stone, but for most of you, your memory turns to dust. You fade away as centuries pass, forgotten amongst eternity. But for me, their souls still haunt me, their memories are still there, my memories are still there. They dance endlessly through my mind.

  Each day of my existence plays perfectly over and over in my head. I have seen more than your mortal eyes have ever dreamed of. Civilizations have fallen before me and over time have crumbled at my feet. I have met many of the men whose lives you’ve only read of in books, and many of those who never were immortalized in history. But I shall slow down and start from the beginning. I forget your mortal minds become easily confused though the truth is quite simple.

  I was born in the mountainous steppes; in the land you now call the Ukraine towards the end of what is known as the Neolithic Age. We had already mastered the domestication of animals, dependent upon our horses and oxen to draw our carts as we traveled. We considered ourselves semi-nomadic, moving between several camps as the seasons changed and herds would migrate.

  We wintered primarily in caves, digging trenches in its floors to store our extra provisions. When we would leave to hunt, we would place rocks over the trenches to keep out any animal who might venture forth in our absence, seeking food and shelter. If an animal took up our cave as its den, upon our return, the animal would serve as the winter camp’s first feast. The women would brush the rocky earthen floor with a bundle of dried rush leaves. Tied together, they were able to sweep away any refuse left by the animal. Even now, I can still recall the scent of the sweet herbs the woman would lay upon the floor, so that with each step we would make, a pleasant aroma would fill the cave. This helped cover the stench of so many unwashed bodies confined to such a space.

  Spring was always welcomed as, homes could be constructed with brush and limbs, and waterproofed hides. Each family would have their own confine. The only time during winter when someone was not housed within the cave was during ch
ildbirth or a woman’s bleeding time.

  The people in my tribe were more superstitious than religious, believing that spirits and that the Great Mother and Her consorts, the Sacred Ones, dictated their lives. Many thought we were at the will of these beings, that every moment was controlled by them. Every blessing was considered a gift from the Mother, while every curse was for displeasing the Sacred Ones. Perhaps this might explain their reaction to my birth, for I was seen as both.

  The men believed strong spirits would be brought in during woman’s bleeding times, because if something would bleed and not die, it must be a curse, something a woman had done to displease the Sacred Ones. It was considered unnatural, yet a special time for the woman as they would not be permitted to do any work or take care of children.

  Children were cared for by all in the community. All people were considered relations, and all had a hand in their upbringing. Children were held sacred, as a new birth equals new life, and each life meant a new member to the betterment of the tribe as a whole. Each person brought new ideas, new understanding of how to adapt to our environment. Because of this, birth was the proudest time for a woman, for a mother.

  My mother was a mortal, a simple creature perhaps. She was like all women of her time. She cooked, cleaned, sewed and helped look after the village’s children. She was nothing great, and even less so once news spread of her pregnancy. Although she was considered a woman, my mother was not married in our tribe’s custom.

  I have no real truth of my father. Few of our kind really do. Some claim to be fathered by the archangel you know as Michael; others try to lay claim to Lucifer and his fallen brethren as their sires. If my mother ever really knew, she took the secret to her grave. But I claim neither as my father, nor any other god for that matter.

  I was born late in the evening during the height of winter. The stars had begun to twinkle in the sky, as the moon began its climb. My mother labored for hours in the makeshift birthing hut, sweat pouring from her brow. The tribe’s women crowded around her singing and praying for strength, helping my mother walk around the hut’s circular confines slow and steady. As the wind finally began to howl and a storm began to form, my mother began to scream as the pains became unbearable. The midwives coaxed her to continue to push; the pain finally gave way as I made my entrance to the world.

  The woman crooned and spoke sweetly to my mother of the girl child she bore, as they began to carefully clean me off and inspect me. I was fair and pale with a few wisps of blond atop my head, with eyes as blue as a cloudless sky. The woman remarked at my beauty and all was well until they turned me over. There upon my back between the shoulder blades, lay two stubs where wings had begun to grow. They were not large; more of that of a newly hatched chick, but the damage was already done. The women began to moan and cry, chanting prayers to keep away the evil spirits while beating on their chest. Their wailing became so loud, that I balled up my fists and squeezed my eyes shut, and joined in, frightened by their howls.

  They quickly handed me over to my mother and left the hut, to spread the story of my birth. My mother, weary from her labor, could only cradle me against her chest and cover me with her blanket. She cried softly against my cheek singing a lullaby between her sobs. As she finally began to slip into sleep, she whispered. “May the Mother forgive me.”

  Later in the evening, as I fed upon mother’s milk, the tribe’s leader called to my mother to be brought forth from the hut with an old man coming to stand beside him. Normally the mother was left to rest after she bore a child, but my birth must have caused them to forgo this tradition. When my mother exited the birthing hut, she stood before a large assembly of our tribe who gathered behind the old man and the chief. Sensing something was amiss, my mother drew me closer to her in angst.

  Although the leader always seemed to be one filled with courage and power, fear still caused his voice to quiver as he spoke. “The Ulgog, who is speaker to the Mother and her Sacred Ones, will determine the fate of your child.”

  The old man murmured words of assurance to my mother, who reluctantly handed me over. His brow was furrowed together, and a frown was set upon his lips, but I could still see the wrinkles around his mouth giving evidence of a man who smiled often. His blue eyes were filled with sadness, waves of emotions struggled within his heart. Even while looking at me, he seemed to really look past me, contemplating the part which he was to play in my life. He softly began to murmur in the ancient language, his long gray beard swaying as he made strange symbols in the air with his wrinkled hand. Neither my mother nor the tribe’s leader could fathom his words, however I easily plucked their meaning from the Ulgog's mind and understood at once his words were meant to be a prayer.

  “Great Mother of all things, I call out to you. You, the giver of life and the bringer of death, answer my call. Give us a sign of your will. Tell us what to do with the child fathered by those whom you have chosen. Guide me so I might serve your will”

  By some unseen insight, and intention that no normal babe possesses, I reached up and grasped a clump of the Ulgog’s beard in my tiny fist. His eyes grew big and round full of fear. But when I pulled down on it bringing his face closer to my own, the fear was replaced by wonderment. Our gazes locked, and a secret knowing, and a sacred bond seemed to pass between us. We knew each other fully, feeling the power that the other possessed, but that neither truly understood. At that moment I knew this man would never bring me harm, at least not by his own will. Sadly, it would become a friendship like so many others that would be tested by cruel hardship.

  Clearing his throat, the Ulgog began to speak with a heavy heart. “At dawn I shall take this child deep into the woods to climb the great summit and leave her. If the Mother and her consorts will the child to live, she will be kept safe. If not, let the elements and the animals take her.”

  He then quickly turned away with me still in his arms and carried me from the birthing hut. My mother began to cry, her wail piercing through the night, as dogs howled in response to her cries. Still not entirely understanding what was to be my fate, I was lulled to sleep as the old man hobbled to his own hut to prepare for the journey.

  STORY OF ULGOG AND CREATION

  As the darkness faded, and light glimmered upon the horizon, the Ulgog began to make his pilgrimage to the holy mount of the Sacred Ones. Although I was still asleep, the sound of a fierce argument soon brought me out of my slumber.

  “But you’ve heard the stories of this kind of creature. They bring death and destruction everywhere their path leads them. I will not risk the lives of the tribe by giving this creature the chance to live. Kill this thing now, before it destroys us all!!” a voice bellowed.

  Anger vibrated through the old man’s response. “I have heard the stories just as you Molog, but these children are all the creations of the Mother. Whether it is a curse for displeasing Her court, or a blessing by Her hand, remains to be seen. It is not my or anyone else’s place to pass judgment and play the executioner.”

  “This thing has already brought disgrace upon my family. My whore of a sister lay with a Winged One and got herself pregnant! She can no longer wed, nor have children for her crimes. What other shame would you have our family bare?” the voice continued.

  “If it is by the Mother’s will that this child should live, then you as her uncle shall protect her.” He chastised. “Quit thinking of your wounded sense of pride and honor. This child is a child of your sister’s body, and therefore shares the same life force which runs in your veins.”

  “I shall NEVER protect a thing which sprouts from the very roots of darkness. It is a parasite, a plague to infest our tribe and it will one day destroy us all. I will forever speak out against you and that thing, for you have shown me you are not worthy of being speaker to the Mother.” Turning, the man, who I learned was my uncle, stalked away back towards the village.

  Sighing, the holy man continued his journey, the staff which he carried served to keep his balance as he walked
over the rocky terrain. “I don’t care if he is our tribe’s war leader, or next in line to be chief. He knows nothing about the will of the Mother.” he grumbled.

  He continued to argue with himself for a short while, until we came to the foot of a tall mountain. There he sat down to rest for a moment, his back against a tree. He rested me in his lap, and realizing I was awake he gently brushed my cheek with the tip of his forefinger. “I was a child when the Ulgog before me told my parents that I was to become his pupil as speaker. He said he watched me for years; that a feeling had passed over him as it does each Ulgog when they search for their replacement.

  You see, every Ulgog is born with something stronger than the normal person, a knowing that goes deeper than the mortal plane. We have an understanding and intuition of what the Mother wants, and we seek to use them to do her will, although it still requires a large amount of training.” stated Ulgog.

  “Fortunately, I was fairly young when I was chosen. My aptitude for learning quickly allowed me to train through vigorous exercises to retain large amount of memories. I was taught to expand my knowledge of all living creatures, and the tales of the Sacred Ones themselves. I worked hard for many years to ensure the exact memorizations of all the tales that were taught to me.” He paused for a moment looking into the distance, memories seemed to watch over him.

  “Each Ulgog passes down the memories from one to the next, but the exercises are meant to test our ability to not only follow, but to become a leader to the people. The Great Mother is like any mother, who will cradle her children to Her bosom in the time of need and chastise them when they disobey. She is the creator of us all, and loves us for we are all Her children, and it is my duty to obey Her command.” He sighed for a moment before touching my forehead, once more a sad smile cloaked his face.