E.R. COOK

This is an ongoing fictional serial book, one chapter published every week. If you have not read up to this point, please check out the other chapters. But for the TLDR version: Asha is a shaman’s apprentice. The village chief is her father, who is taking their warriors to battle despite her dark visions of defeat, merely to spite her and prove his dominance over her. As you can read, this book deals with violence and trauma, but it’s not all doom and gloom. Like other works of fiction, any resemblance to any living person, place or thing is purely coincidental.

The Storm Builds

When Asha returned to the village center, she saw Chalese presiding over organized chaos as the villagers sprang into action to prepare for the celebrations for the dead. A group of women had been sent to the river to join Preen in retrieving any bodies that had floated down, while others began setting up a preparation area where the families of the dead would perform their grieving rites, washing and anointing the bodies with oil and herbs before wrapping them in linens. Young boys had been sent to gather wood to take to the grave fields, building the wooden piers which would be the final resting place of the dead before they were set alight and sent on their journey to the Golden Lands. The older women and men who could not fight were busy building the reed baskets which would be filled with food and weapons for the souls to take on their journey to protect them as they walked through the Forests of Night on their way to the Golden Lands. If they faltered on the journey, or were deemed to not worthy by the gods when they got there, they would be sent to float in the eternal nothingness of the Pits. The celebrations had to be done correctly.

The night passed in a blur. More bodies were retrieved as watches were set through the night, while other villagers finally passed out long after the moon had risen to try to snatch some rest before the chaos resumed in the morning. Asha had only managed a couple hours, rising long before the sun to help stoke the fires and prepare the porridge at the central fire which would be the villagers only sustenance for a few days. Chalese did not seem to sleep at all, yet was as vibrant and bushy-tailed as the red squirrels which frolicked in the forest. Asha wondered if she was drawing on some nature power, but dared not asked, merely forced her own exhausted body to work as if she too were tireless. Absorbed in her own grieving and darkness, she was still aware that this would be seen as a test by many of the villagers as to what kind of shaman she would be in a crisis.

In the small hours of the morning, she was alone in the village center when she heard the cry of the gate guard, followed by an answering call from whomever approached. She put down her tools and wandered to the gate. As she approached, she saw the small weary group entering, pulling travois behind them. The warriors were returning.

As if on cue, more women had arrived, silently going to the weary beaten soldiers and relieving them of their burdens, those too injured to walk or the already dead. Others steered the wounded to the area set up with sinew thread and bandages to try to stop the approach of death as best they could. Asha walked up to the leader of the group, a young lean man with close-cropped black hair except for two long braids that ran on either side of his face. His eyes were the dark green of the forest, his face chiseled and hard like the mountain. But his skin was covered in blood and soot, his eyes weighed down by death.

Tiran was the eldest son of the village’s second most important family behind her own. They had been childhood friends growing up, he becoming almost like her elder brother as he protected the headstrong and adventurous child from the slings and barbs of the others who either feared her for her station or were picking up on the disgust of their elders for the girl who should have been a boy. Once, before the ravens had picked her, she knew her father had fancied a marriage between them. Now, Tiran’s father was seen as a rival, and Tiran a possible contender for his position. Not to mention she was a shaman now, a position that did not take mates or bear children. Yet even in that awkwardness, her heart burned seeing the young man so defeated and broken.

“Tiran.” She walked up to him, unsure of what to say.

He lifted heavy eyes to her, clouded and glazed. “Shaman. We have brought both the dead and the living back as we could. Others will follow but we are the first.”

Asha stopped, taken aback by his tone. She took a deep breath, reminding herself of the horrors he had just went through. She spoke again, softer. “Tiran. It’s me.”

For a moment he just stared at her, but suddenly his eyes cleared for a moment. A spark of recognition lit up within them. “Asha.”

It was all he could say before his facade broke, when the horrors came rushing back. He seemed to collapse and she ran forward to greet him, staggering as the bulk of the taller boy fell onto her. His head rammed into her shoulder, burying it within the cloth of her robe as his arms swept around her. She felt the wracking heaves of his body as the unshed tears, hidden so artfully behind the wall of the warrior, ripped themselves out of his flesh.

For a moment, Asha just let the tears fall, knowing that they would be a balm much better than empty words. If any of the villagers saw the display, they kept it to themselves. Here and there, she saw more tears falling from warriors as they found their loved ones. Every so often, a scream or wail would rent the air as a villager saw the body of their kin, or heard tale of their death upon the field.

As Tiran’s spasms faded, his tongue fought for words. “Asha. It. . .it was. . .it was. . .”

“Hush. I could see.”

All at once, Tiran pushed back from her, his tear streaked face twisted with anger. “Your father. . .your vision. . .stupid!”

Asha knew the words weren’t meant for her, and waited as he fought to turn his fragmented thoughts into solid form. Finally, the elder boy connected with her eyes, his own clear and stone once again. “Your father ignored your vision, and it was just as you foresaw. They ambushed us. But not just in the pass. Before it. They anticipated us trying to ambush them, crawling above them in the pass. But they were waiting. They. . .”

He turned away as his emotions sought to overwhelm him again.

“My father.” Asha finally asked, softly. “What of him?”

“Him.” Tiran snorted. “He lives, at last I knew. The Vark let us retreat after the initial fight, taking our dead and retreating to the river. They did not seem anxious to follow and press their advantage, although my father says that they are merely picking the best time to rout us out.”

“Why are the others not with you, my father and yours?”

Tiran sniffed again. “Your father refused to return. I think he somehow believes he can rally our remaining troops, try to take to the pass again. My father stayed behind to try to keep the rest of our warriors safe from being thrown to the wolves.”

Tiran turned his eyes to the north, his voice soft. “I think it’s because he’s a coward. He knows what awaits him here. Who will back him after he went against you?”

A crackle of thunder pounded somewhere deep in Asha’s mind. The storm was coming.

Thoughts warred. Something malicious howled with delight deep within her at the thought of her father getting his comeuppance, at being brought low by his own narcissistic need for power and control. She as shaman would not be affected by his being brought low, as she had her own power and standing now. But for a second, her mind went to his young son Toran, a child of a few years. She knew she should hate the boy, as his mother had replaced her own and he threatened her own standing in the tribe. But with her father deposed, he and his mother would be turned out into the forest to fend for themselves, a certain death sentence. One where no one would do the grieving rites. Something shuddered within her at condemning such an innocent to that fate.

But she had more important things to worry about. “The dead. If my father stayed. . .”

“Viro is leading the main force behind me with most of the wounded and dead. Your father kept only the able-bodied. I came to give you warning, but I see that was not needed.”

“The river bore Tarren to us last night.”

Tiran fell silent as he processed the news. He looked over at the preparation area. “Preen. . .”

“At the river. Tarren’s mother claimed his grieving rites. She volunteered for watch.”

Tiran’s jaw tensed. “Damn that woman. She oversteps her place. If only your father hadn’t married her eldest.”

“If only for a lot of things.” Asha replied, although a part of her wanted to agree. She bit back the dark part of her baying to lay into the woman, to gossip and sneer about her with Tiran. “Now is not the time to rehash old wounds. Preen has found her place, and the gods will take care of Tonka. They see all and all will be recounted when she goes to the Golden Lands.”

Tiran’s snort spoke of how tomorrow would not be soon enough for him, but he did not speak the words. It was an ill mark on the one who wished another dead. He sighed, rubbing his head with a hand.

Asha reached out. “We should get you cleaned up and see to your wounds.”

“These are just scrapes. Most of the blood is not my own. By the grace of the spirits, I was not where the fighting was heaviest. When the retreat was called, we fell back with few losses.”

“For that, I thank the gods.” Asha smiled at him.

For a moment, he smiled too. Then he grew serious. “They were wrong to have ignored you. The villagers. The warriors.”

“I do not blame them.” She said, “they merely followed their chief. We all have our duty and role to play.”

He laughed, an odd sound in so much despair. Then he grew quiet again, sighing. “You know, my father approached me about dancing around the fire with you.”

Asha startled. She knew that her father had wished a pairing, but no idea that it had gone any farther than that. It surprised her that her heart started skipping, her throat trying to close as she formed the words. Why does it matter what he thought, or wanted? I am shaman now! Why does what he would have done matter to me? Yet she still heard her quavering voice ask, “And?”

“And I was going to say yes.” He bluntly stated. “But the ravens called for you first.”

“Oh.” Asha hung her head, trying to hide the odd rush of disappointment that was filling her veins. She jerked in surprise as a sob caught in her throat, a tear pricking at her eye at a life lost that she hadn’t even known could have been.

“But,” Tiran went on, reaching out to lift her chin, her eyes meeting his. “I’m glad that they did. The ravens chose well.”

Asha could not speak, the words caught in her throat as she fought against the sudden rush of sadness and despair she did not know she held.

“You would have made a strong wife, and I a good chief.” His hand drifted down to the Raven’s Eye stone around her throat. “But this. . .this is who you were meant to be. I heard you speak to your father. Your vision. It was true. He was the false one.”

She was silent.

“I must see to my men.” He turned, walking away after one last wan smile.

She was still standing there when a guard approached. “Shaman?”

She startled back into the present, the grief and death momentarily forgotten rushing back into her mind. Asha shook her head. “Yes?”

“The group, they are so small. Do more come?”

Asha licked her lips, trying to regain the mechanics to speak words again, the remnants of the flood of emotions still licking at her thoughts. She struggled to turn from the fifteen year old yearning for love to the shaman who was in charge of the tribe with the chief gone. “Yes. Some stayed behind but the wounded and dead come along soon. Send out riders with as many of the work horses as we can spare to help speed them along.”

The man saluted and ran for the gates to give orders to the few warriors who had stayed behind to guard the village.

Thunder rolled in Asha’s mind as Tiran’s words echoed. He was the false one.

Her father would be fighting a new war if he did not return soon. Perhaps that is why he stood upon the battlefield still, wishing the gods had taken him so that he could have died a king instead of being pulled down into the dirt. If he returned, his only saving grace was to somehow turn it into her fault. A war that would tear the village apart piece by piece.

She looked out over the village, now kicked to life with the return of the warriors. The preparation area was filling, the grave grounds growing as the piers were built. Some were being tended to, but many were merely waiting for their wounds to take them, spending their last moments as they could in the place that they loved. But few could fill their minds with the balm that they had fought a valiant fight, that they would be welcomed in the Golden Lands. Because of her father.

Tiran’s other words also rang in her mind. This is who you were meant to be.

Now, if only I could believe that.