1. The Poisoned Glade
The shaman wanders through the crimson forest. Only the slightest glints of light from the deep-orange sun high in the midday sky penetrate the thick foliage four stories above. The foul smell of the blackfruit has attracted raptors which tear into its flesh dispersing its fine spores. The raptors pause to watch the shaman as he passes. Alas, all the creatures of the forest avert their gaze to watch the wise master at his craft.
All his eyes are closed and with his staff gripped in his left hands and his right hands stretched ahead, he chants an ancient warning.
There are fouler things than blackfruit in this forest, he thinks. He feels his purple-scaled familiar, a snake wrapped around his staff, agree silently.
His arcane call draws him as if by invisible chains to the source of the poison.
The stench is otherworldly. The ground is soft and the shaman feels the ice-cold, putrid mud against his toes as he opens his eyes. The corrupted glade is black like coal but not dry; it is moist and rotten. The leaves have fallen and the sounds of the forest have stopped here. The pile of bones in the centre, balanced precariously, recounts the deaths of a dozen creatures at least. The bones are cracked and bent almost beyond recognition as if they had been twisted and warped like glass in a kiln.
This is the work of a sorcerer.
2. The Antidote
The shaman inhales deeply through his nose-holes. He cannot smell the scent of his people amongst the rot. He sighs a deep sigh of relief. The missing children did not meet their end here.
He hopes that soon the wind would change and he will catch their scent on the new breeze and bring them home safely but he has been tracking them for four days and a part of him is beginning to lose hope.
After closer examination, he concludes that the bones must be raptor and mud-hog. He wraps them in his cloak and carries the sorry package under one of his left arms away from the clearing.
Almost as soon as he dismantles the bone-shrine, the rot begins to recede. Seeing this, he rests his staff against a tree and opens the wooden flask hanging from his belt. From it, he takes a handful of seeds and scattering the seeds across the floor of the clearing, he implores the forest to be whole once more. In his imploring, the shaman enters a deep trance.
There are many raptors watching now. Their slightly iridescent feathers glisten in the sunlight. Two large mud-hogs are also looking on, although from further away.
The spirits of the forest trust the shaman who had always treated their woods with care and respect. Seeing his prayer they, silently and invisibly enter the glade. They are weakened by the sorcery but still they move with grace taking the form of gentle wind or mist or soft music. Behind them follow fragile moths, growths of moss and patches of wildflowers and, by sunset, the once-dead glade is teaming with life once more.
When the shaman once again becomes aware, he takes the bones and buries them. He apologises to the spirits for the pain they have suffered and he promises to work harder to protect them in the future. With his staff once again in his hand, he extols protective enchantments on the glade, empowering the forest spirits to hold back the sorcerer if he should return.
The sun was setting now and the shaman was all too aware that the sorcerer would notice that the source of his magic had been destroyed. The shaman wishes the spirits and animals farewell and sets off again into the thick foliage on his mission.
3. Respite
As he walks on, he recommences his chanting in a language so ancient that it's name is lost. He closes his eyes, clasps his staff tightly and extends his arms before him. In his song, he courteously asks the spirits to guide him to what he seeks. He does so without commanding and often pauses in his request to remind the spirits of his servitude and appreciation of their beauty. He asks for direction from the echos of those shamans who have walked this path before. He reaches out with particular longing to his long-deceased master who most often answers his call.
However, the shamans of old are quiet tonight. His familiar wonders if they are the first to wander this way such that no soul-echos linger here. In the vast forests of Bairek, it would not be so strange.
There are however spirits who answer his call. He feels them as warmth on his skin. He smells them as perfumed flowers and herbs. He does not notice their pity, for he is tired and hungry and dirty. He has not rested for all four days he has been searching and now his steps are slow and unstable.
He hears a splash and feels the cool water between his toes. The spirits have left him.
He opens his eyes to see a pristine pond. Its mirrored surface reflects the large white moon overhead. Fireflies dance around its edges and a moth lands of the end of the shamans staff.
The shaman wonders why the spirits would bring him here and leave him so abruptly.
His stomach grumbles and it dawns on him that he recognises the grasses surrounding this pond which bear large, nutritious tubers under the soft wet ground. He can walk no further for his weakness and he praises the spirits for their wisdom as he pulls the great roots from the soil and bites into the flesh of the pond-potatoes.
He decides to rest here tonight on a bed of rushes. He thrusts his staff into the ground so that it stands up straight with his snake familiar coiled around it's top. His unsleeping familiar will keep watch all night.
He takes off his cloak and washes the mud from it in the pond. Underneath he wears a rudimentary robe. A large square of linen with a hole for his head that is tied around his waist by a strong belt woven from grass fibres treated with resin. It was made by his sister and it comforts him.
He takes off his pack from his back and sets it down at the base of his staff. Seeing that all his clothes are caked in filth, he removed them all and throws them into the pond then follows them in himself.
The two curious mud-hogs have followed and they watch him float in the shallow water as they drift off to sleep, one resting on the other.
The shaman climbs out of the water and hangs his wet clothes on a nearby tree. He curls up amongst the brushes and falls into a deep sleep.
4. Caravan
The shaman awakens in the dark. He feels sick and dizzy and his vision is blurred. For a moment, he is unsure which way is up as he is jostled about. He goes to sit up but bangs his head. He is surrounded by sawn wood. Faint light shines through the gaps in the boards. He can hear the clatter of hooves and the wheels of the cart knocking against rocks and roots on the uneven ground.
He shifts his weight to lie more comfortably. He feels a sharp pain in his shoulder. He reaches up to touch it and finds a deep gash.
His pack, staff and clothes are all missing. "Why can I not remember what happened?" he asks himself in exasperation.
He thinks he might hear the voices of the cart driver and another perhaps but they are too muffled to make out clearly. He realises he can smell the distant sea. It cannot be more than 5 kilometres away, he thinks. On the inland breeze he smells people, from all over the world. The wind through the cracks carries the scents of fish, excrement and rot. These are city smells, he thinks. There is also the rich aroma of spices from Daslia, the ancestral homeland of his people, and fine wines from Vaitaret. He is certain that these are the smells of Bairek, the great port at the edge of the forest where the sea begins. He had seen its edges through the woods before.
The journey feels like many hours and the shaman drifts in and out of consciousness. He is sure he has been poisoned by his assailants. He assures himself that he will soon return to full strength and find his way back to the glade in the forest.
It is evening when the cart stops. The drivers and a third man are discussing something outside. He cannot hear what they say but they are so close he feels he can smell their entire lives. The drivers are poor men who have not washed in many weeks. They wear leather shoes and thick hide coats. It is cold here though the shaman is hardier than them. The third man is rich but not noble. He has laced his clothes in perfume but is also unwashed. The perfume has the scent of the golden lily which grows in these parts and the shaman knows that it is far cheaper than the exotic fragrances favoured by the mighty of the Great City.
The shaman is startled as he begins moving again. A fourth man is carrying him now. The shaman recognises his scent; he is one of the Pirol people who live far to the south-east in the rain-forests of which the shaman has only heard. Not native to this land and surely a slave.
The shaman is taken underground in the crate and set down gently on a hard floor. The Pirol man opens the crate and leaves the room silently, a large metal gate slamming behind him. The shaman sees that the Pirol man is wearing a metal collar around his neck.
The shaman stands up and steps out of the crate. He is in a large stone room, the likes of which he had only ever heard of before in lessons from his master. There are no windows and he can smell the damp. A small sewer-vole dashes by in front of him. The animals here are afraid, he feels.
He goes to the gate and touches the cold metal bars but he knows he is powerless against wrought iron as thick as his staff.
He closes his eyes and calls for the spirits but there are none here. This is a dead place, he thinks to himself as he stares at the wall. He calls again for the spirits, desperately, rushing his prayer and begging that they help him return to his mission. He opens his eyes, startled, when he feels a small and gentle reply from the corner.
As he stares into the dark in the direction of the presence, he notices something and is once again filled with hope.
Between the slabs of rock, where the mortar has worn away there is small patch of moss. Not knowing how much time he has, he sits before the moss and gets to work.
5. Moss Spirits
"Dear little spirit of the moss, do you see me here weak and naked before you?" asks the Shaman.
The spirit sees him.
"I am trapped in this cell, oh emerald green king of the rocks. I would like to be free to continue my mission."
The spirit is saddened by this.
"Could you help me, my precious friend, or do you know another like you who could?"
The spirit seems absent. The shaman feels that the moss spirit is gone and only the moss remains.
The shaman is forlorn and begins to weep. It feels like an age before he falls asleep in a heap in the corner.
He is awoken at dawn by light shining down the stairs to his underground chamber. The shaman recognises the man who descends the stair by his smell. He is dressed in died linen clothes with a hide coat to keep of the cold. His skin is grey and smooth, almost translucent in places. His fingers are webbed and glistening scales cover the top of his head and run down his neck. He is wearing a tarnished silver bracelet around each wrist with a small semi-precious stone set into it.
This man, who has now approached the bars and is inspecting the shaman carefully, is wearing the same golden lily fragrance as he had been the previous day.
6. Escape
The shaman awakes in shock. The cell is coated in green over every wall, the ceiling and floor. A bed of moss has grown around the shaman like a blanket which his wraps around his waist as he rises. The gate is open; the keyhole filled with moss. The shaman bows deeply to the horde of moss spirits who had known him by reputation.
As he walks towards the steps he realises he is not alone. The Pirol man watches him from the bottom of the stairs, eyes wide and mouth agape.
"Are you a sorcerer?" asks the Pirol man.
"No, I am a friend of spirits" says the shaman.
"An oorusi?" asks the Pirol man.
"I do not know what that is."
"In my home, the oorusi pleads with the trees to bear fruit, and they oblige him because his heart is pure" says the Pirol man.
"In my home, I care for the forest and all its inhabitants. In return, the forest cares for my village" explains the shaman. "What is your name, jungle-man?"
"My people call me Hamu-Sa-Saniit-T'aruten, which mean 'he who reaches the highest branches'. You might call me Hamu. My master calls me Pike. What is your name?"
"My people call me Root-Strider on account of my profession. My mother named me Viliaranin." The shaman had not said this name in a long time.
"Let me leave with you, Root-Strider" says Hamu.
"Yes. If you help me find my possessions. My snake and my clothes," says the shaman.
Hamu nods and they both creep up the stairs, keeping low to the ground.
Comments