Posted on February 24, 2021 at 09:18:31 AM by Nzingha
hapo ambao asaa  If there was one place on the islands that darkness could not reach, Nzingha found it in the home of her Mzuka. At first—after the fateful day that she’d answered the bay mare’s call—the shaman had refused to be parted from her again. Whether she slept, woke, or cast her eyes into the realm of otherness where the spirits lingered, the image of Charybdis bleeding amidst the pale sand would not leave her. And so the skull-marked Marwari had become an unofficial member of the Ridge’s herd; a shadow that haunted the periphery of their sanctuary. A silent guardian of the innocence that flourished amidst the bountiful life of this land. She knew few of the children by name, but all of them by heart—and the sound of their laughter was a balm to the persistent ache of her heart. Her queen might be gone and her tribe torn asunder, but the sea of small and colorful bodies proved that there was still good in this world. She saw it in the gentle eyes of the red woman who acted as mother to them all. She saw it in the vigilance that the two queens traded between one another so deftly. And she saw it in Mzuka—in the spirit who wore flesh; she who had bravely faced a second death to spare the life of a child. From the moment of cleansing that they’d shared amidst the pounding surf, Nzingha knew that she was bonded to Charybdis in a way that no shaman was meant to be. Her purpose was to serve all spirits, but her heart—her heart now held room for only one. Of course, the mares’ tie was neither absolute nor inflexible; they were both wild and willful creatures, as ephemeral as the forces that they served. Mzuka came and went as the tides, and the dusky mare that she called Eidolon might linger for hours or days before an unheard whisper led her back into the jungle’s depths. But Nzingha always returned—finding her way back to the Ridge in a manner not unlike the orbiting of one celestial body around something even greater. And it was not only Charybdis that called her there. Of all the youthful souls that called this sanctuary home, the golden boy was alone in claiming the Marwari as a vital piece of his world’s foundation. The others might approach the spirit-speaker from time to time, but it was with hushed voices and fear-rimmed eyes. Her mask of white with its dark eye sockets was too intimidating—and her esoteric ways too alien—for them to find comfort at her side. Yet from the beginning, Asphodel seemed drawn to the very things that repelled so many others. For days after he’d appeared on the beach, the colt had clung to Nzingha’s side like a burr, resisting her gentle-but-firm attempts to extricate herself from this inexplicable dependence. And in the end, there’d been no other recourse than to grant the persistent boy his victory, accepting his presence at her heels with a resigned sort of patience that blossomed slowly into affection. Spring and summer marched inexorably past, and the little roan found his independence again. But Nzingha found the pattern of their earlier days more difficult to break—particularly when Mzuka was absent. Solitude had shifted from a comfortable companion to an unwelcome intruder; to a bearer of dark memories and darker thoughts. And so when she found herself alone on a day somewhere between summer’s dying breaths and autumn’s beginnings, the shaman searched for the child who was not hers habitually. She sought him out amongst the roving band of young hooligans and found nothing. She looked for him at the sides of those who’d fed and cared for him and saw only emptiness. So she wandered—absently, aimlessly—between the slender trunks and through the broad leaves. Led by the faintest whisper; the dimmest premonition that something was not right. A single note in the jungle’s symphony had changed, but it was cue enough to her curled and quivering ears. The slender woman’s pace increased, her pink-rimmed nostrils flared. That scent. It was as unfamiliar as it was pungent, but set Nzingha’s heart to thrumming and a flush of heat crawling beneath the surface of her skin. She skimmed over the forest’s loam as if the grasping branches and jutting roots could not hold her; as if the jungle was hers to command. All sleekness and sinewy grace, the Marwari might have been one of the shadowcats that called this land home—unaware that along the trail she followed was a predator of an entirely different sort. Finally, Nzingha’s flight began to slow. Glimmers of gold and ghostly-white peeked through the foliage ahead, and her dark eyes narrowed at the unfamiliar voice that sung into her swept-back ears. Of a sort, the silky tones spoke. Now come. Rounding the corner, the shaman watched Aspohodel’s heels disappear into the darkness along one side of the path and called out to him in the gentle nicker that was his and his alone. But the boy continued as if he had not heard—or as if his ears were filled with a siren’s call more powerful than her own. Baring her teeth, Nzingha crashed into after him; no longer a graceful predator but now a storm tearing a path through any obstacle that dared to stand in her way. “Asphodel!” Her voice found her at least, raw with desperation and fear. “To me, child! Asphodel!” NzinghA mare . nine . black sabino overo . marwari . 16.0hh  |
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