Dead King's Sword (Old Draft)

49. Hideous

Zeren

***

Moonlight sprinkled across the road and brightened the edges of the leaves. Floating orbs of light illuminated the path, but beyond their reach, most trees were ebony blobs that I perceived as being there but couldn't make out any fine detail. I sighed; I could still feel the warmth of my youngest sister's hug as she had told me goodbye. I had bought her a stuffed blue bunny to add to her collection of toy animals, but I knew if I didn't return, it would break Megu's heart. The other girls were older, but they also needed my assistance and support. I had no choice but to survive and return home.

A cool breeze brushed my skin. If the spirits were everywhere and in everything, then why didn't my ancestors make themselves known to me?

This was my third day of walking, and other than sore feet, knees, thighs, and back, I had discovered nothing.

Far above, the stars twinkled in the black canvas of the night sky. Even though I was alone, I felt that the luminous balls of gas were my companions. Some might think me stupid for feeling this way, but I felt the stars watching me, protecting me. With no particular destination in mind, I walked towards the distant silver face of the moon.

After an hour, my eyes felt tired, and my body moved sluggishly. Yawning, I diverted from the path, seeking safety in the woods. I took out my flashlight as I had left the radius of the street orbs' illumination. I sniffed, checking for any trace of urine or feces that some races used to mark their territory. It would be safer if I had someone to guard me while I slept, but this was my journey, my attempt to reconnect with my ancestors. I had to do it alone. I had seen pictures of my ancestors in my photo albums, creepy grey photos that seemed to hold the memories of the dead, but I had never felt any attachment to them.

Moving past an oak tree, I saw Dawson's bloated body hanging from its bough. I blinked, and the image vanished. Life—death, neither could exist without the other. I found somewhere to ensconce, sat down on the soft earth, placed my back against the trunk of a maple tree, and set my phone's timer for ten minutes. Hearing and sensing nothing, I asked, "Is anyone even here?" then softer, "Do any of you care what happens to me? Do you give a shit about your people?"

I remembered the story my mother told me of our tribe's creator god, Namjo. He had one eye and could separate a mountain with one chop. He had pulled the earth out of the sea and created man first, then woman, but had always viewed women as the weaker sex. Men had 'namun', a part of the creator god that allowed them to be rational and strong. Women didn't have namun. And as a result, people from our tribe had abused and belittled women up to a century ago. I remembered my mother had once argued with my dad because she felt that something was wrong with his sperm; it had only given her girls.

I didn't like Namjo. Gods like Esam or Shovek treated the genders equally, but they belonged to the Europeans. I had never felt connected to my tribe or ancestors because the few people I knew that shared my blood, outside of my immediate family, treated me like trash.

My thoughts halted; I felt something watching me; the hair on the back of my neck rose. I sprung to my feet and picked up my bag. Maybe it would be better to keep walking.

As I turned towards the road, something pricked my back, and I knew I was still being watched. I didn't want to look behind me, but it would be stupid not to. I spun slowly and faced myself, but I was five years old and a lot shorter than now; my hair was combed and put into four black braids decorated with bright blue bubbles. The apparition wore a white shirt and jeans. Clenched in its small fist was a red elephant—Aku. The child's eyes were entirely black. It stepped forward; I stepped back.

"Are you a demon?" I asked. "What do you want?" I drew my dagger from its scabbard, but some invisible force pried it from my fingers, and it went spinning, head over heel, till the blade embedded in the ground.

Young me vanished, and in its place stood a lady. She was tall with dark brown skin; straight blonde hair framed her face. A gold dress with a slit by her right thigh adorned her slender body. She said, "Why do you only seek the gods when you need power?"

She circled me; her eyes, cold. Then, stopping near my side, she raised her hand.

Something invisible choked me and threatened to snap my bones. I thought, 'When have the gods ever done anything good for me? I came here to gain the ability to protect my family. Nothing more. Nothing less.' It became harder to breathe; I was inhaling through a partially blocked straw. My eyes watered, and I couldn't speak, couldn't do anything to protect myself.

She said, "When you become a slave, you forget who you are, what you are destined to be."

She lowered her hand, and the pressure on my throat lessened as she introduced herself, "I'm Yala, a disciple of Virah."

I rubbed my neck, trying to soothe the pain while studying my adversary in silence.

Virah, the daughter of Niveria's two eldest gods, was the goddess of the storm, but, at some point in history, her role had been changed to the goddess of fertility, while her brother, Hanuc, became the god of storms. After she had lost control of the sky, legend had it that our tribe had enjoyed three hundred years of perfect weather, so our people, especially the men favoured Hanuc over the unstable female deity.

Yala said, "Virah's blood runs through you, yet you have never paid her any offering or a single word of prayer. For your ignorance, she has granted you this: 'For seven months you will suffer. Your skin will break out with sores and bumps, and whoever found you beautiful will now find you hideous. Your magic will fail, and you will have to look within yourself to find the inner strength you need to survive.'"

My mother had often bragged about being a descendant of Virah, but she had bragged about many things, and at some point, I had stopped taking her seriously. How was I supposed to know what was genuine from what was false? My fingers clenched and unclenched; my feet hurt from how much I had walked that day, but I ignored the pain.

The edges of Yala's body started to dissolve, fade, then at once, she was gone, her voice nothing more than a whisper on the breeze. I felt bumps shifting beneath my skin and pushing to the surface. I watched my arms as dozens of lumps blemished my flesh and became aware of the same sensation moving across my face and neck. "No," I whispered.

I took out my phone to look at my reflection and nearly dropped the damn thing. I was hideous.

***