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.

Asha is a fifteen year old girl born into a savage world sculpted by tribal wars and elemental magic. She is chosen as the elder shaman’s apprentice, the akira. She is also a Raven’s Eye, one able to communicate and see through a raven’s eyes, a special talent even among the shamans. Though she will one day be powerful, she is looked down upon as the failed firstborn daughter of the chieftain of the tribe. As she struggles to understand herself and her powers along with dealing with the eternal hatred and shame of her father, she must also constantly figure out how to bring her tribe through the clouds of war and danger that the ravens tell her about.

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.

Ancient Voices

Asha’s eye slowly cracked open. Light pierced into it, stabbing into her mind, and she quickly shut it. Sensations rippled through her body as her mind started reconnecting to reality. Cuts and bruises throbbed, her joints ached. Thunder exploded in her head. She took a few deep, steadying breaths, each breath drawing her closer to the surface of consciousness out of the depths of sleep.

Finally, with a surge of effort, she shifter her hand underneath her. Her skin felt soft sheets and warm blankets. She tried to push up, to lift her battered body, but the effort was too much and she fell back down.

“Stop. Don’t move. You need to rest.” The words were soft and kind. Familiar.

“Preen?” Asha slowly opened her eyes, hoping the light would be a little kinder.

A fuzzy figure stood before her, the light a halo around her form. Slowly, the world came into focus and the vision of the slight girl cleared, as well as more of her surroundings. Bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling, baskets of more dried herbs, stones and meat lay stacked around the small hut. She lay on a sturdy wooden bed covered in blankets and furs. A small cook fire lay in the center of the hut, the smoke lazily drifting up and out of the hole at the top. The shaman’s hut?

Memories of the battle raced back into her mind, emotions slamming into her fragile soul. “Chalese.”

She started to struggle back up, but two gentle hands pushed down on her shoulders. “Hush, now. You need to relax and take it slow.”

Asha didn’t have the energy to fight. She lay back down on the pillow, exhausted. Slowly, words formed on her lips. “Preen. What happened? How are we still alive?”

The woman’s eyes darkened as she sat on the edge of the bed. She wrung out a cloth that had been dipped in water and herbs, placing it on Asha’s forehead. “What do you remember?”

“Just the shaman capturing me. The dark tentacle touched me.”

Preen was silent for a moment. “You saved us.”

“How?” Asha struggled up, the washcloth falling off her head.

“I do not know.” Preen measured her words. “There was this explosion of light. You freed yourself from the stone. Then, I’m not sure. It was like you were someone else. You captured the other shaman. Then, this cloud of ravens flew into the sky, making it black. They started attacking the enemy, driving them back.”

“Someone else?” Asha collapsed. What was going on? She raised her hand, looking at it. “I don’t feel different.”

“You collapsed once the enemy retreated.” Preen took a deep breath. “You’ve been asleep for a week.”

“A week!” Asha fought against hyperventilating with the disbelief. Then suddenly, another thought dawned in her mind. “Chalese. The grieving rights.”

“We saw her off with honors.” Preen said. “I saw to her myself, and Tiran did the ceremony.”

A knife stabbed into Asha. By rights, the grieving should have been hers. By tradition, the ceremony was done by the shaman, of which she was now the only surviving one for the tribe. “The tribe must hate me.”

“On the contrary.” Preen replied. “You are our savior. We understand you cannot be all things all the time.”

“Although,” Her face screwed up in an odd emotion. “Tonka is trying to assert herself through her daughter.”

“Of course she is.” Asha sighed. She leaned back into the pillow, closing her eyes, wishing that the thumping headache would go away. One part of her was driving her out of the bed, to take charge, to leap into her responsibilities. But her body, thumping and throbbing in pain, simply wanted to drag her back under the blanket of sleep.

“What of my father?” Asha asked.

“We have not heard. Tiran sent a messenger after the battle, but he has not returned. Tiran has taken charge in the absence of any elder warriors.”

As if on cue, the man poked his head in the door. “How is she?”

“She is awake.” Asha replied with a slight smile.

Tiran strode in. He looked clean and refreshed, free of blood, although a long scab on his cheek still spoke of the battle. Preen stood up. Asha heard her whisper as she passed, “Be quick. She is still quite tired and needs rest, even if she believes otherwise.”

Preen left, and Tiran came over to the bed, perching on the side. “How do you feel?”

Asha sighed. “Like I got run over by a herd of elk.”

“You’ve been asleep for a long time. We were worried.” Tiran gave her a weak smile. “But I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Preen told me what happened. I can’t believe it.”

“Neither could we. It was like something possessed you. I hate to say, but Tonka is spreading rumors you gave yourself to a demon.” He huffed. “But she is just one. What did happen to you?”

“I don’t know.” She picked weakly at the blanket, wishing she had another answer to give. “I don’t remember anything after the shaman wrapped me in the dirt tentacles.”

Tiran paused for a moment. “I spoke to whatever it was.”

“What?”

“She said you needed to be strong, and to find her. That things were breaking and you would have to be strong to save us.” He focused on her. “The dark shaman called her an Old One.”

“Ancient One.” Asha whistled. “Why would they rise to assist us?”

“You know who she was?”

Asha shook her head. “Not really. There were many Ancient ones, according to Chalese. She says we used to tell their tales all the time, but as we stopped repeating them their names were lost to Time. But they are the ones who made our world, shaping the land and sea, plants and animals. Us. They are older than the demons, older than the gods we worship.”

Saying Chalese’s name brought another wave of sorrow. “Thank you for showing her spirit to the other side. I have so much shame that I was not there.”

“There is no shame. You saved this village.” Tiran argued. “Chalese will understand. I’m sure she is proud of you.”

“She would be the only one.” Asha said. “What are we going to do now? Our village is destroyed, my father is gone, and all you have is a half-trained shaman who faints.”

Tiran snorted, “I would rather have that one than a thousand others. As to your father, my messenger just arrived. He is on his way home.”

A thousand emotions slammed into Asha at once. “He will not be pleased.”

“I don’t really care if he is pleased.” Tiran growled. “He has a lot to answer for.”

“Will your father challenge him for leadership?”

The glint in his eye told her he was thinking of challenging. But her merely said, “The gods will let us know how he is to pay.”

Asha lay quiet. Somewhere deep within, a part of her giggled in glee at the thought of her father being deposed. That karma would finally repay everything he had ever done to her. But the village was torn enough, and as shaman, she could not play politics. She had to do what was best for the spirit of the village. They did not need another war.

“I don’t know if the gods are listening anymore.” She said. “The pact is broken.”

Tiran sighed. “It was just the Vark. Maybe. . .”

“No.” Asha shook her head. “That was our pact with the gods. The shamans would not take part in battle. We would respect the sanctity of the traditions, of the ceremonies. That has all been shattered.”

“So what? The gods are going to kill us all?”

“I don’t know. Most likely, they will just turn an eye. And if the demons are returning onto this world, if they are finding willing hosts, they may let them take over the world.”

“It seems the Ancient Ones aren’t all into that idea.”

Asha took a deep breath. “If only I knew what that meant. ‘Find her’. How do I do that?”

“I don’t know, but she made it sound like it was very important that you did.”

Suddenly, tears sprang to the corners of Asha’s eyes. She was so tired, and hurting. But it was more than the immediate exhaustion and pain. She was so tired of fighting. Fighting her father. Fighting the villagers. Now, she was supposed to be some savior. But only if she could find some mysterious ancient being that had somehow possessed her.

A sob suddenly flew up her throat, her body convulsing. As if on instinct, Tiran shifted, coming to her side, pulling her up into his lap, wrapping his arms around her. She lay there in his warmth and protection, the sobs slowly subsiding. A part of her knew properly she should pull away. But he was warm, and strong, and for a moment it felt nice just to rest in that pillow. To believe that her troubles were gone, that he would take care of them. That all her worries just dissipated. Is this what it’s like to be married? To love?

She knew she should pull away before the connections grew stronger, but she couldn’t. Asha lay quietly as he simply held her, wondering what could have been. Seemingly without her bidding, her lips formed the words. “Do you ever wonder what could have been? Had I not been chosen as akira?”

He was silent for a moment, but she felt him smile when he said, “Sometimes. We all wonder at our futures, at the thousand of moments that come and go that grow into a thousand more, each one changing second by second as our lives pass us by. I wish I could be chief because I think I will be a good chief. I wanted to be a good husband to you. But I believe what I said earlier.”

He continued, “You are meant to be a shaman, and you will be a great shaman. And I will be right beside you, helping and protecting you. I will do what I must for our tribe.”

“That’s just it. I don’t think I can be a shaman.” She sat up, facing him. “I can’t be strong.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The Ancient One you spoke to. She told you I had to be strong.” Asha fought back another sob. “I don’t think I can be.”

“You must. And I know you can be.” He reached up, caressing her cheek. “Your father has done everything in his power to diminish your spirit, because he fears it. Because you are as wild as a river, as strong as the mountain, as fierce as a mountain cat. If you believe it.”

He leaned forward, kissing her forehead. An electric chill ran through her, zinging her to her toes. She gasped silently to herself at the touch. But he leaned back and smiled at her. “Get some sleep. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow, my shaman.”

Tiran rose and left, the leather door of the hut sliding into place after him. Asha collapsed back on the bed, exhausted from the effort of his visit and the rush of emotions. As her eye drifted over the hut, she saw the white robes hanging on the wall. Leaning against them, was an old gnarled walking stick covered in runes and embedded rocks. Chalese’s stick. The shaman’s stick. Her stick.

Her skin still tingled from Tiran’s kiss and touch. She closed her eyes, mourning what could never be, chiding her hormones into obedience. Tears slid down her cheek, silent sobs racking her body.

Tiran was right. Tomorrow, the real work began.

But at least for tonight, she was just a little traumatized girl lost in love.