Records of Nova from Sahil

To my beloved, the one who will outlast me, and the one I will never see again. This shall be the records of my kidnapping. A giant black bird spirited me away in the dark of night while I was walking home from a bath in the rivers of Mto wa Maisha with Juma, the man I shared the bond of lovers with—my heart aches at the thought of him. We both served the great God Maasinta, may her glory never fade. Our duty was to teach her gentle son Nelson to read and write. His radiant presence is dearly missed; among all the gods, he must have been the one with the biggest heart—never once did he look down on us mere mortals. I hope to see my dear Juma and Nelson again, though the hope is fragile, for the bird god took me. Judging by his size, he must have been a god. He placed me on this mountain, where my only company is a dozen strangers from various cultures. I am the only one capable of writing, so it falls to me to keep these records for those who come after us.

Two weeks have passed. The bird god brought more people. We found food in the nearby forest. The layer of clouds surrounding us never disperses. Some tried to descend the mountain but returned quickly, bearing nasty frostbite from the clouds. We must make do with what we have. Thankfully, the mountain soil is warm, and the nearby forest seems to house no dangers. We look forward, even as our feet look back, as the Sankofa taught us. I wonder what Juma is thinking right now. He must be worried sick.

Four weeks have passed. More people have joined us, and some were taken again by the bird god and his children. We suspect the birds see us as cattle. Some suggested dying while fighting or attempting to poison the birds with the toxic plant we found in the forest—white snakeroot. Knowing gods better than any of them, I assured them that their wrath would be our end. I beseeched them to gather food to offer to our captors. If they see us only as a source of food, we can show them we are more valuable alive than dead. We also started building houses on the northern side of the mountain, where the sun always bestows its light upon us—blessed be thy grace. The trees here are layered and can be peeled apart, making building easier. I hope Juma and Nelson are safe and sound.

Two months have passed. We decided to name our small settlement Twilight Roost. I started educating some of the more gifted settlers. It has been weeks since the birds last took one of us to the other mountain peak that protrudes from the Frozen Sea—our name for the freezing clouds. As I thought, as long as we provide ample food, they leave us alone. I fear the forest cannot yield enough for both us and them.

Three months have passed. To our surprise, the birds brought seeds and farming tools today. We will be able to plant and grow our own food. Juma must think me dead by now. As I have only this one page, I must limit myself.

Five months have passed. While digging we discovered limestone and a well with hot water. A gentle Altaii named Batyr is trying to win my favor. I am not ready to let go of Juma. On some nights, when loneliness overwhelms me, I cry for him... I shouldn’t waste space on that.

Over one year has passed. Much has happened. We welcomed our first newborn to Twilight Roost and built a bathhouse—praise be to Nyambe. The birds—I’ve started calling them Mockingbirds—have brought many useful things, even books! Now I have more paper, but my ink is running low. I collected soot from burning Polylepis bark, but I lack a binding agent. I hope I can find something suitable. The birds stopped bringing new victims half a year ago. Now they only take our offerings, not our lives. Batyr still hopes for me, but Juma remains in my heart—I fear he always will. I wonder about him, not daily as I used to, but still more often than not...

Five years have passed. Tragedy struck. The clouds shifted upwards and engulfed our village; many died from the cold. We are planning to build a shelter against this hazard. A crafty Ignari called Vivi found a way to bind stone to create hearths. The birds also brought a magical book that can analyze objects placed upon it. Nelson must be coming of age this year… Juma, my heart.

Eight years have passed. I am pregnant. Batyr is the father. Juma, my love, please forgive me. I hope you have moved on as I have.

Thirteen years have passed. I opened a library, the Mockingbird Library—ha, those damn birds. I noticed an unsettling shift in the villagers; some seem to revere the birds now. Let me use the last few drops of ink to implore you—NEVER TRUST THE BIRDS! They took my firstborn; I know it was them!!