by JLipton
In the time before time were the Dreamers. They lived in a land not quite real, not quite imaginary. The Dreamers gave form to the land, wide and far as in a dream, with spots of color, and odd mountains rearing up like the random thoughts of a dazed man. The land was red and brown and green tress drifting in and out like pleasant memories. Animals they brought from the Dream-time, some half-finished, the vaguery of a dream disturbed; some over-done, the work of a fevered mind focused too sharply on a puzzle not meant to be solved.
Then people they brought, red and brown like the land, baked tough by the sun, made supple with the cool water of the brooks. An old people, when newly-formed, memories of the Dream-time slowly drifting away as they awoke in their new home. The Dreamers remained, a tie from the people to the source from whence they came – interpreters, prophets, wise-men and –women, pronouncing hopes in the snore of a digeree-do, telling the past through paintings, waves and dots.
In any group, there are good men, bad men and well-meaning men. So it was amongst the Dreamers. And so it came to pass, that nightmares passed from the Dream-time into the land – those would suck the blood, those who would steal the soul, men whose animal nature showed in their form as it showed in their soul. Demons and other night-fevers flowed like a repellant ooze to infest the night.
II – The Slayer
The Dreamers watched as their people were consumed by the night-haunts. But that which is dreamed cannot be undreamed, so they conferred on what to do. A wise-woman stuck her finger with a spine of cactus. She shook a drop of blood onto a leaf and bound it with dream-stuff. “Blood is the mystery, blood is the mastery, by the blood is she bound, by the blood will she blind.” She dropped the leaf into the darkness.
Akatha-aska, once a normal child, once a naked imp running with her friends among the huts, was out gathering herbs for an ill uncle. She hated the dark, the unseen demons who flit among the shadows. But it was her duty --one she did with teeth clenched – but a duty all the same. Suddenly she felt a shudder go through her, a jolt that rocked her from head to foot. Through the dark of night, she saw the Dreamers clearly, as though the moon and all the stars cast their light on one small spot.
She tentatively approached the circle of Dreamers. “Come, child”, for although she was an adult at 15, to them she was a youngster. She came closer, and they observed her, her form under her soft white wrappings.
The eldest stood over her. He bent down, spread river mud and his thumb and drew a black line across her forehead. “Like clay, she is weak and may break; ;like clay, like her people. Like clay, she holds the dream-stuff, the connection to those she fights.” The wise-woman drew a line of crimson under her eyes. “They hunger for blood – she will deny them.” Another pulled a lump of dream-stuff from the Dream-time; a line of white appeared on her cheeks. “She is dream-stuff; she is one with the haunts. She draws her strength from the hopes and dreams of those she protects.”
Akatha-aska returned to her village, her pouch full of herbs. She stopped at the well, attempting to remove her markings, but they would not come off. She drew into her hut, and full of apprehension, lay down and slept.
III – The Traing
Flickering shadows danced around the gourd lamp, set to once side on a small, flat rock. The pole that normally held it was doing its own flickering dance as Akatha-aska maneuvered it to practice her forms. “Thrust, parry, riposte, duck, spin, parry – ow!” A bright, red welt blossomed on her forehead were a half-dozen angry marks attested to a night of pain.
“You must live in the now.” The eyes of the gnarly, old woman flashed. “You are too caught up in what was and what might be.” Akatha-aska smiled, thinking of her mother and her sister and her niece back home, and of Mahana-oya. “Ow!” she yelped as Natha-u-lama crashed the pole into her forehead. “Now. Now. Live in the now.” The old woman sighed. “Go home. Enjoy your family. When we resume tomorrow, I will not have patience for absent-mindedness.”
Akatha-aska practically leapt back to the village. It was twilight, and the pink and purple and blue and orange of sunset were nearly fully consumed by black, gray and silver, the spectrum of the night. Her mother had saved some dinner for her, and as she wolfed down her food, she took her neice on her knee, and told her stories of fighting evil monsters. “Poor child won’t sleep a wink tonight…” her mother shot her a glance which bounced unfelt off Akatha-aska’s enthusiasm for her tale. Taking a last gulp of water and wiping her mouth with a leaf, Akatha-aska kissed her niece, her sister and her mother and tore out of the hut toward the stream.
There he stood. Mahana-oya, his taut muscles showing him a warrior already, a mighty hunter. He had kept the four of them fed since Akatha-aska’s father died… But she didn’t want to think about that, didn’t want to think about anything but his strong arms, circled around her. He made her feel so safe, like nothing could penetrate the mighty band that surrounded her. His chest brushed against her breasts and she moaned with pleasure, aching for the day – soon, soon, make it soon – when she could feel all of him possessing all of her.
Did they talk in that dark-filled meeting? If so, it was the love-filled, lust-strong murmurs of two young adults in the prime of their lives. We needn’t eavesdrop on their tenderest moment – it’s the same whispers Romeo told Juliet or Isolde said to Tristan. All to soon, the time came for them to straggle back to their homes, and hold each other tight in their dreams.
IV -- The Lesson
Akatha-aska worked hard, harder than she’d ever know. During the days at her chores, cooking and sewing and tending to her niece, during the afternoons at her training, practicing with the never-satisfied Natha-u-lama. During the nights, roaming from village to village, fighting monsters beyond her worst nightmare.
Horned or hoofed or hairless they came, each with one intent, to kill the "girl" who would stop their feast. She kicked, she punched, she grew expert with pole and ax and knife, and, always, with stake. Many times, one would come upon her, and send her flying to crash upon her back. She let out an "Ooof" as she landed, tucked her feet under her, and sprang back up, the weapon of the moment already a blur toward the head or heart of her foe. They fought in silence, save for the thuds of bodies hitting hard ground and the inevitable whoosh of dust floating to the ground.
Near dawn, she would limp home, with barely enough energy to crawl to her bed and close her eyes for no more than five minutes, it seemed, before the hut came alive, and it was time for the daily cycle to repeat. A month of this and she didn’t notice when Mahana-oya wasn‘t around, didn’t miss his hard body clinging to hers.
Then came the day. Her patrol led her to the outskirts of her own village, and there were the signs. Blood spilled on the hard-beaten paths, villagers curled up in the corner of their huts, cowering with fear and shock. The signs led, like an arrow aimed at her heart, to her own hut, to her family, her life.
She kicked open the door and quickly took in the scene. Her mother, the giver of her life, lay dead in the dust, the blood which ruled her cycles, the blood she had taught Akatha-aska to cherish and wonder at, drying in a pool at her neck. Mahana-oya held her niece, a doll in his mighty hands, and crunched into her neck. She died with a whimper, and Akatha-aska ducked as Mahana-oya threw the carcass at her. Her sister Tarantha-aska, her last connection to life, stood stunned, watched, empty of passion and emotion at the death of her child. Mahana-oya beckoned to Tarantha-aska and she turned toward him, a robot, an automaton.
Mahana-oya turned Tarantha-aska to face Akatha-aska and slowly, lasciviously, slid her bodice off her shoulders, baring her breasts. He put one strong hand upon her breast and slid his teeth into the curve of her neck. Tarantha-aska cried once, fear finally seeping through the mesmeric hold Mahana-oya had upon her. Akatha-aska was stunned by the evil her beloved, her only love had become. Tarantha-aska gave a final gasp and slid down his body, to join her mother in final sleep. Then Akatha-aska could spring at him, tears in her eyes, punching, kicking wildly, flailing out in all directions. Akatha-aska laughed, not the sweet mellow tones she loved, but a hideous raucous noise, jangling chords. She punched again, and the laughter stopped, one harsh note hovering in the dark.
Near blinded by tears, she gathered the dust-covered bodies of her mother, her sister and her niece. She sprinkled them with cooking oil, spread some around the hut, and took a log from the oven. Her hands burned, but she didn’t notice, she touched the flame to the oil, to the hut, watched as her life flew up in yellow and orange sparks. She watched as the hut burnt to the ground, until nothing was left but ashes.
She smeared the ashes, black and white and gray and red, across her forehead, her cheeks, her chest. She strode out of the village, off to a new beginning, but not a new life. When she got to the clearing, she spat at Natha-u-lama. "No family! No friends!" She turned on her heel and left the old woman sobbing for what had been done, for what had been needed. She alone heard the last words Akatha-aska ever spoke, bitter and hateful, "No Watcher."