Posted on March 5, 2021 at 04:56:37 AM by Nzingha
hapo ambao asaa  Something passed between Nzingha and the red-stained spirit in the moment of their touch. The shaman felt it hum to life within her like the soft breath of wind, like the thundering beat of waves upon a rocky shore. Mzuka seemed to pull strength from her, the weary (fearful?) tremble of her body subsiding, the film that had covered her eyes lifting. And though the skull-faced Marwari would have given this freely, she felt something new flow into the hollow chambers of her heart. Something that was similar to the purpose and resolve she’d once felt in the Shore— and yet worlds apart from it. Devotion. In that moment, Nzingha belonged to this creature as she had never belonged to Xiomara; as she could never belong to another. Perhaps Charybdis sensed this— because even as she offered her gift of absolution, the white-splashed mare was drawn closer to the dark woman. Gradually, the tempo of Nzingha’s heartbeat increased to match Mzuka’s, even as the spirit’s slowed. Standing with only an inch between the warm canvases of their skin, they were briefly united. Breathing with the same lungs, bowing beneath the same burden. For these moments, they were both stone. But where the bay mare was granite— unyielding, save where time and tide shaped her— the shaman was obsidian. After the losses that she’d endured, a single blow might have broken her. But not her Mzuka, who was as indomitable as the sea. Not Mzuka, who rose again as if she’d never fallen, the words that she spoke soft as its rhythmic sighs. You’re hurt. One of Nzingha’s ears tipped back at these words, her brown eyes puzzled in the depths of their dark socket-markings. The blood-and-bone woman was injured far worse than the Marwari, whose inky coat bore only superficial scrapes and scratches— yet her greatest concern was for the welfare of others. Exhaling the contents of her lungs in a soft snort, the shaman eyed Charybdis sternly. And had her attention not been drawn by the tentative and unexpected touch, Nzingha might have scolded her companion for such self-negligence. (Spirit though she might be, Mzuka was just as vulnerable as they while she wore her cloak of flesh.) Instead, the black mare’s head tilted towards the golden boy, the pointed curves of her ears tipping forward inquisitively. Children had never been drawn to Nzingha before. If the ominous mask of white that she wore was not enough to intimidate them, then her esoteric nature inevitably did. Only Pilar’s son had ever stood before her willingly— and the slender boy had disappeared not long after she’d brought him before Mti’ma, the mother of trees. This young one did not seem to possess the same gifts as her once-pupil, but there was still something about him that called to the dark woman— a purity that defied the darkness that had already sought him once. Lowering her head, Nzingha’s nostrils quivered as he familiarized herself with the yellow colt’s scent, her whiskers tickling briefly against his. The moment was broken by the sound of Siobhan’s voice— and the last echoing fragments of Charybdis’s plea. Peeling herself gently away from the sun-touched boy, Nzingha nudged him gently toward the waiting guardian. Gently commanding, the shaman’s voice added impetus to this light pressure. “Go, child. As the spirits command me, so do I command you. Go with the red woman, and I vow that I will join you after.” But her heart ached in the seconds that followed their parting, and her dark eyes were luminous with an inexplicable concern. Nzingha had never been drawn to a child before, but this one— the slender mare shook her coat as if to test the strength of their fledgling bond; as if to see whether it might break in that vigorous motion. Only when the trio— colt, filly, and mare— were out of sight did she turn back to her Mzuka, the quiet authority that she’d assumed moments earlier still lingering. “Let us go then, Mzuka, and be cleansed.” Hooves forming scarred puckers in the damp sand, she stepped forward until the waves were rising to meet her. Until the saltwater crawled up her legs, her belly, her spine. Until sweat and dirt and blood were washed away— every impurity lifted from her and swallowed by this unknown abluvion. NzinghA mare . nine . black sabino overo . marwari . 16.0hh  |
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