Author Games: Ragnarok

Task Six Entries: Best Not To Ask

Amaterasu

DISEMBOWELED BY CAT SIDHE

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Ko'lhamana

DID NOT HAND IN

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Yemeya

Day 7. "You really should get some sleep." It was Nyx...again. "What are you doing up there anyways?" Yemeya had found a spot much to her liking on the roof of...well, wherever it was they were. Camazotz (not to mention the Fates) wouldn't be pleased, but even out in the open, exposed to an entire sky of stars, there was no way to know where she was...let alone escape. She could tell by their alignment that they were in the northeast corner of America, but miles of evergreens was the only clue as to their location. Besides, she hadn't ventured outside to escape literally, just figuratively. What were they going to do, kill her? Seal her fate the quick and easy way rather than cruelly drag out her inevitable undoing? I'll take my chances...
"Hello...?" Nyx was still trying to get through to her.
"I'm sorry, I'm... thinking"
"Well, thinking won't help you with the next task. Sleeping will!"
Yemeya sighed. Nyx had accepted this way of life, embraced it almost. "Nyx. Come look at the stars." They were quite beautiful. There had been days when she felt one with the night sky, like the flickering worlds above were just at her finger tips...within her grasp... "Why don't you come up and look at this? Then I'll come to..." but Nyx had left. She watched the stars dance above her. Some had died years ago. What she was seeing was merely a ghost, a scar of light, a visible echo separated forever from its birthplace. No one could hold on to it. Nothing could stop it from...fading out if existence...and into...an eternity...of...darkness...
The birth of a miracle is a painful process. The woman screamed. Hold on. Her husband wiped the angry sweat from her forehead before it could stream down her painfully contorted face. You're almost done, sweetie, one more push. The woman's throat tore open with a horrible cry. The husband cringed at the sound, and the blood. Something is wrong. "Someone get help! Get some water!" I know you can do this... "Please! We need some water!!" His neck craned, trying to force his voice farther out of the tent. He couldn't leave her side. One more, sweetie... "Water!!" The skies began to rain. Beautiful clear, clean water. "Outside. It's raining, come outside. You're okay. You're okay. Take my hand. Come on. You're okay." The woman screamed. She fell to the ground. The rain had already washed the sweat away and soaked her coarse hair. Please... She screamed. ...Be strong... men came running ...let the water heal you... "We have to go. They're coming!"...Breathe... "I can't leave her!" The husband screamed...One..."I'm sorry...we have to leave!" The men left. The woman screamed ...more... The husband held her ...Push! The child screamed. The woman was silent. The husband wept.
Sometimes...they must die. She had done all she could. It was the woman's time. Part of her could feel that, but she was always there. It was worth the pain...to help bring new life into the world. Yes, it was even worth the death. If the rain didn't help...there was nothing else you could do...it was her time. Sleep now...your suffering is over. The woman was at peace. The husband wept. The child screamed. The rain stopped. Tend to your babe. The last few drops whispered to the husband. He needs you now. The man stopped. In the tent lay the blanket the woman had made for her unborn child. The husband approached the helpless babe as if it frightened him. He wrapped the blanket around him. His mouth tried to utter the name, but his lips trembled. "My son..." There was shouting. Men with spears and painted faces charged towards the almost empty village like an angry, unstoppable wave. The man clung to his child. Sorrowfully, he embraced his wife with his eyes for one last time. He ran. He waded through the small river easily, holding the baby to his chest, but his pursuers were slowed by the suddenly raging current. He muttered a "Praise Yemeya! Thank you!" and continued to run. The men chased him, and were in turn chased by the river. They threw their knives and spears, but muddy water circled and swallowed them. They retreated. The man laughed. Then, he fell to his knees. The spear was deep. The child was safe. The man smiled. The child was safe. The man died. Yemeya wept.
Okoth - 'born during the rains'. She rocked the tiny thing in her arms, the ebbing and flowing of her gentle embrace soon lulled him to sleep. Why must they fight? Why must they kill? Why...why must they die? She knew the answer: it was the natural way, it's what made them mortal. She couldn't save them all. Sometimes...they must die. She looked at the precious, pitiful child in her arms. The birth of a miracle is a painful process.
He was her son. He knew what he was, and what she was. He knew how he came into this world, and how he must someday leave it, but he was still her son. He was strong and stubborn, much like she was. She couldn't be with him all the time, her people needed her, but she raised him. She raised him to be a leader, a warrior, a teacher. He brought her so much joy, and she loved him, she cherished him above all her people. He loved her as well. He was a prophet, a bridge from Yemeya to her people. He helped them in ways she sometimes couldn't, he helped them understand things they normally wouldn't.
Yemeya had known what mortals were capable of long before the white men arrived. They had killed, captured, enslaved, tortured one another since the beginning of time. No, that wasn't it. That wasn't what appalled her. It was the sheer ease in which these unforgivable actions were being carried out of late. They had justified, even glorified their brutality. It was this idea of Progress. They spoke as if it were something wonderful, something beautiful, but in truth, it was a disease. It spread rapidly, instilling discontentedness and hatred everywhere it went. It distracted them from what would truly make them happy with dazzling promises, forever just out of their reach. One by one, it infected them, and she could only watch. She could only watch as her people turned against each other, used each other, sold each other. She could only watch as Okoth grew restless. She could feel him slipping through her fingers along with the rest of her people.
She did everything she could. There was never a drought, even after they stopped bringing her offerings. The rains were always gentle, the moon always lit their paths at night. She healed even the slightest cold, and brought many back with nothing short of a miracle, but was rarely thanked, or even mentioned. Okoth still tried convincing the people of her presence, but as time went on, they dismissed him as crazy, and a tone of shame crept guiltily into his voice each time he mentioned her. The children were the only ones she could reach, through their dreams, but their parents were swift in suffocating their imagination and drawing strict lined between reality and fantasy. A horrible feeling began to possess her. There was nothing she could do. She turned to Okoth, he was the only mortal left who acknowledged her, who heard her. Why won't they let me help them? They won't listen to me! The rain drizzled on Okoth's head. It was sent as a blessing, yet he received it as a curse. His words shook her so deeply, she could still feel them rippling through her as she remembered that hopeless hour. "They don't want your help any more, Yemeya." Not 'mother'...not one hint of compassion in her name. "Don't you get it?! They don't need you anymore. Why beg you to do something they can do themselves, on their own terms?" He sighed, revealing only briefly any regret. "Don't you understand? They've outgrown you." He stared at the wet ground. It was pouring now. He went inside, out of the rain.
Okoth Monyaak was considered a man ahead of his times. A man of progress. He had sold enough of his own people to purchase the white man's false respect. They told him he had 'great potential' and set him up with a nice house in the northern part of the country. Yemeya never left his side. Whether he knew it or not, she was always with him, even when it would have been easier to turn away. She watched as he took everything she had given him and used it to destroy the world she had known and loved so dearly. She was with him even to the end. She saw the regret in his eyes as he submitted to death. He may not have been sorry, but he wasn't happy. He had tortured, and lived a life of torture. So much pain... The end of his suffering was only the beginning of hers. I can save them... Her people screamed. Why won't they listen to me? The child died. Why? Anger began to eat away at her stomach. I could help them, if only... She couldn't move. If only... She was trapped within herself. I could... She screamed. No sound. Why won't they... She struggled. Nothing. Why...why...why...?
She woke up.
"I told you to come inside. Thank the gods it's not too sunny, you're no good to me dehydrated." ...Nyx...
She had never forgotten, but the dream picked at a scab she was hoping would heal in time. "I'm sorry, I'm coming." They walked back into the white abyss of hallways.
Day 8. The birth of a miracle is a painful process...