Asha was grinding a poultice under the careful eye of Chalese when the first wails rose into the natural calm. It started with a scream which shattered the air, surprised birds rising with a flurry of wings. It pierced the sky like an arrow, grabbing hearts and pulling them toward whatever horror awaited. A new cry sounded, then another, as more gathered at the source of the sorrow and added their voices to the death song.
Asha eyed Chalese, who nodded solemnly. Asha rose, racing toward the sound, stopping fast when she saw the crowd, all pointing and staring in gibbering horror at what awaited their eyes.
In the dimming sunlight, the river ran dark. But as Asha drew nearer, she realized it was not the loss of light which polluted the river’s tranquil nature. Ribbons of crimson wafted through the currents, twisting and turning like the tentacles of an octopus. They grew and multiplied until the whole river ran red, choking the life out of it. Silence descended as a weight pressed down upon the gathered. Focused on a dark, still form that floated slowly downstream on the water’s surface.
Without speaking, Asha walked out into the stream. The current tugged at her robe, the water staining it crimson as the fibers soaked up blood and pulled it up through the garment. She stood in the center, waiting, with a quiet touch stopping the movement of the body as it drifted toward her. As she lifted her eyes, she saw a dark cloud far in the distance. A sound at the back of her mind told her it was not weather which unnaturally darkened the sky, but a thousand ravens gathering for the feast.
Her eyes drifted to the body, her breath catching as she recognized the mauled and mangled form. Arrow shafts stuck out of the torso like porcupine spines, the gash of an axe blow splitting his head. But the green eyes bore down on her, lifeless yet accusing. The name came fast and quick as she recognized the sculpted muscles and ropes of scars. The blacksmith, Tarren.
Her eyes drifted to the bank where Chalese was standing apart from the group of wailing women. The elderly shaman nodded sagely. Asha sighed. Now is not the time to be a child.
She closed her eyes for a moment. She curled her toes into the soft river sand, pulling at its strength. As she took a deep breath, she reached for the calm of the mountains, the timelessness of the trees, the power of the wind. She pulled the elements within her, strengthening her soul. When she released the breath, she opened her eyes, turning to the women on the bank.
“Enough.” Her voice was not harsh. Not reprimanding. But strong and secure. It shocked her as much as pleased her. I can do this. Speak through me, Raven.
The women stopped. A few looked toward Chalese, who stood with her eyes closed, as if she was trying to fade into the background. Suddenly, a petite, lithe woman with hair like honey broke through the crowd. A few reached out as if to pull her back, but she persisted. Wading into the water, she joined Asha, reaching out to touch her arm gently before she looked down at the body. Her eyes misted, her lip trembling as her fingers traced the outline of the face.
“Oh, my Tarren.” Preen whispered. She looked up at Asha, setting her chin like a mountain rock. “How may I help, Shaman?”
Asha threw her a grateful smile, then looked at the women of the tribe. “The river has brought you the news you seek. The ravens have started their feasting. There will be much sorrow before this night has ended, and many days to come. As women we give life to the men of the tribe, as women we return them to the spirit world. We rejoice for the ones who will return to us, and rejoice for the ones who have found their honor in death.”
The women stood as statues for a moment, before silently nodding. Some turned back to the village, while others strode into the river to help remove Tarren. As Asha walked out of the river, she caught Chalese’s eye. The old woman was smiling, her eyes bright. “You have done well, akira.”
Asha fought not to blush, feeling a welling of warmth within her, glad she had finally pleased her teacher. Yet her shame of before came rushing in, weighing on her mind. “I merely spoke the words you taught me to say.”
“There is a difference between reciting words and speaking them so others follow.” She tilted her head at the women as they started preparing for the coming flood. “They know their duty, but would be lost without someone to guide them. As would the souls of our warriors.”
Asha looked down for a moment, at her blood stained robe and hands. The power of before was fading, leaving the fifteen year old shaking as she stood on the soggy ground of the bank. “Do you ever regret choosing me?”
“Who says I had a choice?” Chalese barked. “It was not I who chose you, but the ravens. And the ravens do not lie.”
Asha must have twitched at the harsh words, for Chalese suddenly smiled, stretching a hand out and caressing the younger woman’s hair. Asha’s eyes widened at the unexpected gesture as Chalese chuckled. “Yes, it is true ravens do not lie. But I still would have chosen you. There is strength within you that few hold. You just need to see it within yourself.”
The woman abruptly turned and tottered away, leaving Asha stunned.
“Shaman.”
Asha looked to see Preen standing before her. “What is it? Should you not be with your husband?”
Preen looked out over the water, her eyes trembling, staring off into the distance. She paused for a breath or two, then with a heroic effort to mask her quavering voice, she said, “There is nothing more I can do for him. The gods have made their choice.”
“But still he must be prepared to go to the gods.”
“His mother and sisters called the right to prepare him. They said I am. . .too new a wife to need to grieve.” Preen’s whole body trembled as she stared out into the distance.
Asha stood uncomfortable, unsure of what to say, as well as outraged that Tonka and the rest would exclude this woman from her grieving rights. Preen had not been a popular choice, according to the thin, harsh Tonka who tried to rule like a queen when no one was looking. But Asha had always liked the soft, fair woman that Tarren had called ‘his flower’. Preen had never looked down on her like the others for their disgust that the firstborn was a daughter, or treated her differently because she was the akira. Tonka had gotten away with her treatment because Preen was of another village, and the others would not stand up for an outsider against the ‘queen’ of Varok.
“I can speak to her.”
“Ha.” Preen snorted, still looking in the distance. “You hold no standing in her eyes, shaman. I am sorry to say. Perhaps Chalese, but even then. . .no. I will grieve my Tarren in my own way, by helping others as he would have done. You know, he did not even need to go to war. He had already done his part. But he would not let his brothers and friends go off and stay here. He was always thinking of others.”
Asha watched as a tear silently rolled down the other woman’s cheek. Her tongue fought for the words to say, but nothing would come. Finally, she just put a hand on her shoulder. “You are stronger than any of them. Stronger than the river stone. Tarren picked well when he chose you.”
Preen finally relented her gaze to look at Asha. “You are stronger than they know too, shaman.”
Then the woman walked off, standing on the bank of the river, her eye drifting northward to the far-away pass.
Asha watched her for a moment before sighing. She looked down at her blood stained robes, wondering for a moment if she should change, then deciding not to. Tonight and the days to come would be the death days. Then she could purify and cleanse herself.
Above her, a raven called, a sad mourning call. She closed her eyes, listening. The vision of the battlefield came fast and furious. Blood soaked stone, littered with bodies, broken arrows and axes. Horses screamed in terror and pain. Men groaned as they called to the gods to take them. Others laughing triumphantly at the pain of their enemies. At their defeat.
The knowledge of the ravens boomed within her like a bell. Her father had failed. He had gone against the vision of the shaman and failed. Even if he lived, he would be disgraced in the eyes of the village. He would never suffer being replaced as chief, would never be able to deal with the shame before the gods. Unless he could turn the rage and anger of the village against another.
Her.
Her nose picked up the scent of a storm, even though the skies were clear. She knew instinctively it was not a true storm, with rain and flashes of fire, but one which would tear the village apart.
The ravens would have quite a feast before this storm was over.
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