Legends of Garaaga Page 2

  Rashim's tattoo prickled. Something was watching him. The hunter stood still, not daring to move his head, but moving his eyes instead, examining the jungle before him, looking through every tiny break in the leaves and vines. It would camouflage itself. It would hide, waiting for the hunter to become its prey. But there was nothing. His tattoo stilled. Whatever it was had moved away.

  He stepped over the body and moved forward as quietly as he could. There was another path ahead. Larger. He looked up. The trees were dense, their canopies criss-crossing until they had clothed the area in shadow, hiding the jungle floor from the sun. The brush was thinner ahead, the large bushes replaced by the occasional tiny fern. The dark plants could live here, but nothing else. Rashim flipped his spear in his hand, and held it before him as he walked forward.

  The tales told around the village fires late at night spoke of the beast appearing thousands of seasons ago, or even longer. The thing that walked like a man, spoke as a man, had walked into the village, demanding to speak to the elders. As was the custom at the time, the elders had invited It for palaver, to share their meal. No one knew what had happened in the elders' hut. They only heard the screams, the sounds of flesh being rent from bone, and the inhuman roar that shook the jungle.

  It was said that the man that emerged from the elders' hut was no longer a man. It was taller, its flesh like stone, its face something from a nightmare. In its huge fist, it raised the empty human sacks of skin that had been the elders. It roared to the village, told them it would take tribute. Every 44 seasons. Nubile. Young. A single female that had reached womanhood, no more than 50 seasons old. It threw the skins aside, blood flying from the carcasses, spattering the side of the hut.

  The village stood before it in terror, mothers holding their young, men in awe of its power. It surveyed them. It spied something it liked and smiled. The legends said it had the maw of a tiger, sharpened fangs of stone that glistened with saliva. It pointed with a talon at the crowd of villagers. The women, old and young, ceased to be stricken with terror and moaned as one. The men felt themselves shrivel from its gaze. The beast then growled. A young girl, Yetrin, stepped forward from her mother's embrace, and walked to the thing. She did so with longing, arms outstretched as if to embrace a lover.

  The beast scooped her up in its large arms. The village came back to itself, released from the beast's power. 44 seasons, it reminded them. Or all die. With Yetrin in its arms, it turned and made its way back into the jungle. The elders who told the story always finished it the same way: Yetrin staring over its large neck, her face filled with ecstasy instead of terror.

  The path was darker now, the jungle canopy thick. The sun was going down behind the elder mountain, the place where the ancients journeyed when they were ready for death. Behind him, birds began to sing again. The same with the insect song. Nothing wanted to live this close to the beast. Nothing but the dark plants and night ferns.

  The eye was warm again, but he didn't need its warning. The beast was up ahead through the thick trees. He could feel its presence. Each step in the darkened earth brought him closer to It. Would it appear as a man? Or as the beast? Rashim knew it didn't matter--he was there to kill It.

  Like all the hunters before him, he was there to end It. Hunters, those trained by their fathers, were predators. And always hunted alone. When the time came for them to face the beast, they did so without question and as outcasts from their homes, from their village. Only the destruction of the beast allowed them back into the fold. None had ever been welcomed back. None had ever been heard from again.

  Rashim stopped. There was a different noise now. Something behind him. Instead of turning to face it and give away his position in the shadows, he stood still and opened his mind. Crimson waves emanated from up ahead. He swung the inner eye behind him. There at the mouth of the path, something on all fours stood. He concentrated and waited for the vision to coalesce.

  It was a tiger. Probably the same one that had followed him earlier. The tiger was hungry, but afraid of the path. Rashim closed his inner eye. The large cat wouldn't follow him into the darkness. Nothing would. The animals knew this way led to something that would destroy them. Something they didn't understand.

  The legends around the campfire. Did animals have such a thing? Did their elders tell them stories of the hunters and the beast? Did Tiger Mother tell her cubs in growls and grunts about the time in the distant past where the village tried to fight the beast? When the men followed it as it made off with its third tribute? Did spittle fly from her fangs as she tried to describe their terrible deaths? The way they were torn to pieces? Except for one. The first hunter. The only one to survive?

  Rashim's ancestor. The first. The man who had thrown his spear true, embedded its stone point in the beast's skull. The beast had howled, shaking the jungle with its cry. It had kicked the hunter far from the melee, shattering his arm and leaving him for dead. It had fled with its prize, leaving bloody tracks through the brush.

  The first hunter, Balna, had stood, cradling his useless arm, and followed the blood. He marked the trail, breaking off fronds and vines as he did. Through the night, through the immense pain, he had continued following it. He came to the end of a dark path where the moon's bright yellow light was lost. Its lair. He could feel it there, filled with wrath and pain. It roared again from its secret cave. Balna had felt it. Balna had opened his third eye and seen it.

  The next day, when Balna returned to the village and told his tale, he was given the best the village had to offer--the best hut, his own land, the best meat, the best bride. Since Balna had been a child, the village shunned him for his talent to see into their minds; but the fact he had harmed the beast and survived, proved his mettle and worth.

  The elders tattooed the sacred eye upon his forehead. Although his left arm was forever useless to him, he taught the young how to hunt, how to fight. When his marriage was blessed with child, he taught his son to use the third eye.

  In the 44th season, after his son had learned to "see" and to fight, Balna kissed his wife and son goodbye and headed into the jungle with a ruby-tipped spear. He was never heard from again. The first hunter had forged the tradition, and even Rashim's father had followed in lockstep.

  Rashim stopped and knelt. He opened his inner eye again and focused. The path was bright with green, the life-force lighting the way to the cave's mouth. The entrance, just dozens of footsteps away, pulsed with waves of blood red.

  Rashim struggled upright. He had practiced for this moment since his father had first placed the spear in his hand. The ruby tip sparkled as he pressed closer. The cave mouth glowed brighter. He heard its breath, felt its desire and its fear.

  The latter made him smile, exposing his own sharpened teeth. The tattoo burned, screaming with energy. Every cell of his body burned with it, a bright light that cast its own glow upon the path. Rashim stepped into the mouth of the cave, his third eye showing him the way.

  Bones lay scattered across the cave floor. Tiger skins lined the entrance. The skulls of its tributes stared up from the floor with dead gazes. It was close now. The cave path turned up ahead. Already he could tell it led into a wide cavern. Rashim smiled. There would be room to fight.

  He felt pressure against his skull and stopped. Mental hands pressed against his mind. Rashim fought the urge to scream as his inner eye's vision blinked once, twice, and died. The hands lifted, leaving him in the inky black.

  "Hunter," something whispered. The voice was soft, high-pitched. "Come to me." The words echoed in the chamber.

  Rashim took a step forward, feeling the pull of those words. His other foot began to stir but he made it still. There was a pause.

  "Strong," the voice said. He could feel it smiling in the darkness. "You will come to me, Hunter. Or you will fail." The words no longer had the pull. There was no will cast in them. Rashim took a shallow breath. "Come Hunter. Your test awaits."

  Fight or flee. Witness the beast and fight, or flee int
o the jungle as a coward. A failure.

  Rashim stepped forward, his feet now his own, obeying only his commands. Light flickered up ahead. A torch. Rashim slowly turned the corner and stared into the cavern.

  Water dripped from the ceiling in lazy droplets. In the flickering torch light, large stalagmites and stalactites appeared as the teeth of some giant, misshapen creature.

  Rashim's third eye was blindingly hot now. The heat from it made his eyes water. The torch was planted in the center of the cavern. Standing next to it was a small, brown-skinned man.

  Rashim continued walking, making his way through the maze. Mineral water dripped into his hair, stung his eyes, but he kept walking toward the thing that walked like a man. Rashim stopped when he was a dozen steps away.

  The spear felt heavy in his hand. The thing before him, its skin unblemished and smooth, opened its eyes. Rashim managed to stifle a scream as he stared into the cloudy, crimson orbs. The thing smiled with white teeth. It nodded to him and then its eyes flashed into flame.

  Mental fists smashed into Rashim's skull. He screamed as the ethereal fingers tried to poke out his brains. Blood ran down his nose from the assault. Rashim fell to one knee, watching blood fall to the stone floor.

  "Open your eyes!" he heard his father's voice. "You must learn to open your eyes!"

  Rashim raised his head, the grating scratch of those talons in his mind leaving him blind and shuddering. "Open your--"

  His father's voice screamed with his own as he opened his third eye as wide as he could.

  The world jumped into color. The flickering torch was no more than a pinprick of light, lost in the crimson glow of the thing before him. Rashim raised mental hands, blocking the creature's assault. The thing screamed as it wrestled with him.

  "My father," Rashim whispered.

  He shrieked as loud as he dared with the eye. The world around him quaked. Rubble fell from the ceiling, pattering against his shoulders and head. A stalactite fell to his left, shattering into the stone floor. He barely noticed. The creature was howling. He'd hurt it.

  Rashim took a step forward. Blood poured from his nose, his eyes, his ears. "No more!" he screamed. The power surged through his words, an invisible force smashing outward.

  The man fell to its knees as he advanced. The crimson glow was fading. "You're dying," he told the creature and then loosed the eye once more. Something tore open in his brain from the effort. He stumbled forward. His third eye flickered but righted itself. Its pain. Its fear. It howled again and then raised its face to his. Rashim stopped in his tracks as the thing smiled. And then it was Rashim's turn to scream.

  As he watched, the man widened, his narrow arms bulging with muscle, flesh turning into stone. Its spine crackled and spit as it elongated, raising the creature's shoulders and neck. Long talons unsheathed from its growing fingers. Its face dissolved into a parody of human features, a fanged maw set in a permanent howl of desire. Rashim's inner eye flickered again. The world was not as bright now, not as defined. The shape before him grew amorphous as did the rest of the world.

  Going blind, he thought. Going blind. Rashim stumbled, his spear once more heavy in his hands. The earth before him shook. The thing was moving toward him, speaking in greasy syllables and guttural glottals. He looked down at the darkening stone floor, watching in wonder at the droplets of blood still falling from his face.

  The tattoo on his forehead was shrieking, but the pain was far away. Burning. The blood should be burning, he thought.

  Mejim's face fluttered before him. Her brown almond eyes. The curve of her breasts, the cleft between her legs, the feel of her nails skittering down his back as he pushed into her again and again. Her voice saying his name between moans of pleasure. Immolate.

  Anger rose from his loins. Anger and hatred. Rashim screamed and leaped forward, the spear before him.

  The world once more exploded into light. His third eye was an open maw, devouring the creature's light, swallowing it. The look of terror and surprise on the beast's face filled Rashim with something akin to pleasure. He was still screaming when the ruby tip smashed through its fiery eye. The world shook and quaked with its howl of pain. It fell backwards, throwing Rashim over itself. He smashed into a stalagmite, but managed to miss its deadly point. A stalactite fell from the ceiling and crumbled into rubble next to the creature.

  Bright pain ran along his spine, his legs, his entire body. He felt as though the world had crushed him into dust. His inner eye was gone. There was nothing left. He barely heard the thing's howls through the ringing in his ears. Rashim opened his eyes. The torch-light flickered and guttered. He saw the stone thing laid out upon the cavern's floor. It breathed in rapid chuffs of air. Not quite dead yet.

  Rashim struggled to move and groaned as a fresh wave of pain wracked his body. He crawled. His left leg was useless. Every inch he traveled was an eternity of pain. Closer. Closer. The thing's hands clenched and unclenched. A dark liquid spread from beneath its stone body. As his hands touched the pool of its blood, he felt energy flowing into him.

  The pain receded enough for him to scrabble the last few steps. He grabbed the thing's shoulder and pulled himself atop its chest. Its fingers moved but the hand did not rise. Its right eye glowed dimly in the guttering torchlight. Rashim reached for the spear, wrapped his hands around it. The thing muttered something in that strange language. Rashim pulled the spear from the eye-socket. It departed with a wet, squelching sound. The thing shook. Rashim stared into the fading eye.

  Images and visions filled his mind--his mother's body burning on the pyre, her tears as she watched his father walk into the jungle, the loneliness of his father's passing, Mejim's tears as they made love for the last time. Rashim screamed once more and smashed the spear through the other eye.

  He fell against the thing's chest, exhausted. Its scaly, stone skin cooled his body. He slept. He dreamed of maidens thanking him. He dreamed of a triumphant return to the village. He dreamed of Mejim bearing him a son, a small bundle of arms and legs that had his hair, his face, and her beautiful almond eyes.

  When the dreams passed and he opened his eyes, he lay in a pool of liquid and dust. The cavern was so dark he could see nothing. The pain in his leg was excruciating, but not nearly as bad as the thunder that crackled in his skull. He brushed away a fresh rivulet of blood from his nose and reached forward. His fingers touched wood. The spear. He curled his fingers around it and pulled himself upright. His left leg screamed in pain as it dragged against the uneven stone floor. Rashim moaned but managed to stand on his right leg.

  A drop of mineral water splashed against his nose. He let the droplet run into his parched lips. It tasted terrible, but seemed to satisfy a small part of his thirst. Shuffling in order to keep his left leg from touching the floor again, he managed a slow circle, looking for light. There was none. Rashim closed his eyes and focused, willing his inner eye to open once more.

  The world flickered into blurry life. He couldn't make out details, couldn't even discern the shape of the rocks around him. But there, to his left, was the light. The green. His eye went out. Rashim turned toward the exit, screaming with the fresh pain in his skull. He struggled and stumbled, banging his broken, ruined leg against the cruel stalagmite shapes as he made his way to the cave's mouth. The dim light from the jungle was barely enough for him to see his own feet, let alone what was in front of him. But he continued forward.

  He wasn't sure how long it was before he realized he was no longer in the cave, but instead in the clearing where he'd found Nejif. And he wasn't certain when he'd passed out.

  Sheets of rain fell through the canopy washing away the mud and blood from his body. He opened his mouth and let mother sky fill it. Each swallow was difficult, but revived him. His body ached, but his mind began to wake. It was morning. How long had it been since he first entered the cave?

  He smiled. "I beat the beast."

  Three sunrises passed before he finally found the village clearing
. Three sunrises of using a large branch for a crutch, of the vines holding his leg in place, of passing out and waking up only to start the process all over again. Up ahead, he saw the smoke of a cooking fire. Not long now. Mejim was waiting for him. Mejim would heal him, make love to him. The village would love them both, perhaps offer them an orphaned child to call their own.

  Rashim stopped in mid-stride. The smell. He knew that smell. Rashim rushed forward, ignoring the screams of pain in his leg. Each step toward his hut was an eternity. He screamed her name in a broken voice. When he met the clearing's edge, he fell. The pyre had been burning for some time. There was nothing left of Mejim, but charred flesh and bone.

  Keepers

  ~2300 BCE

  The house was dark. Isin awoke shivering on a pallet of cloth. Making his way through the forest to Lothal had left him exhausted. The ocean journey to Akkad had depleted whatever strength had remained. He knew it was only a matter of time before his body rendered him to the gods.

  Outside, he heard the city awaken. Murmurs of the river were blotted out by the sounds of men making their way to the docks, the crackling of fires, and of women chattering to one another as they headed out for the morning wash.

  Through a wood covered window, beams of sunlight spread through the cracks, illuminating the far wall in streaks of dim yellow. Isin coughed, tasted blood, and swallowed. He listened to the rattling in his chest, winced, and let out a soft groan. Not for the first time, the thought he wouldn't live long enough to meet Trianni crossed his mind. "For Hennar," he whispered.

  Hennar had visited him in dark dreams. Her beautiful face twisted and morphed into the wreck he'd seen before fleeing the smoking remains of the village. Her blackened visage tried to speak in the delirium, but said nothing, its lipless mouth merely squirming. If not for the ritual, he would doubtless have joined her in death.