ivyrose • klaus

she is but cursed . . .

The Yew tree. Mouths with tongues dipped in wisdom and knowledgeable speak that the Celtic tree is a symbol for great immortality, but also of impending doom. However, there is a beacon of hope. The poisonous tree also represents resurrection, a never-ending life. 

"Walter," A soft voice asked a reading man. "I will ask this once: may you cease your frightening words. Peace is evading me the more you read."

A deep chuckle left the academic's lips while his hands closed a book. From under a yew tree, a woman, around the age of her thirties, rubbed her swollen stomach to feel a light breeze past. The flowers of the tree stood out from the green — their small, red petals resembled small red fruits, but the woman knew about the dangers of eating the enticing things — she and the life she carried would die.

"I am but warning you of the name you choose your offspring, Catherine." Walter shot a gaze to the woman's round stomach. "The Celtic worry about doom touching down on this Christian world. We only heighten that."

Catherine focused her attention on the encampment underneath the hill she sat upon, her eyes narrowing at the accusation for a quick moment. Shacks made of woods and stone were created in the dozens and a lit fire crackled from the center, lighting and warming the homes and cold hands. "No doom produced from my womb will exist. I know she will live her life plentiful, without your worries of prophecy." 

"And how doth you know the life you carry is a female?"

Catherine was silent, but her hands rubbing the stomach continued. The proper words were on her tongue, yet she couldn't speak them. All she did was shrug her shoulders.

"The lives I once carried in my arms were males, yet their breaths were laboured and cut short.  This one is strong. She will grow to be a strong woman."

Though dark at night, Catherine's mane of black hair and her dark skin seemed to reflect in the fire's light. Ornately decorated with flowers to resemble a crown a queen would wear, Catherine needn't not any expensive jewelry to shine among the dark. The green dress covering her body grew rather tight around her stomach and chest for her womb was about to produce the new life. Simply tutting his tongue, Walter slapped his thighs with the emergence of another man behind him.

Hugh spoke Tswana — their native tongue — to the academic, a large smile spreading on his face. Catherine all but rolled her eyes at their talk, but nonetheless accepted her husband's embrace. Left alone after Walter's departure, the couple stared at their family below.

"The wound." At the mention of the word, Hugh stiffened. Catherine craned her head to watch her husband. "Show me. Infections could kill you."

"My dear Catherine, you know infections such as this cannot kill me—" A ringed-finger stopped his talking. His wife's eyes, though dark in the evening, stared at him with furious light.

"Show me."

Unable to argue, Hugh ripped his tunic with little effort. Fallen from his shoulders, a bleeding wound stretching across his shoulders blades oozed. Catherine felt herself go sick for moment before she regained her body. Fortunate she carried healing herbs to tend to wounds, she ignored her husband's noises and cleaned his injury.  

Be it their distinct look or language, the nomadic people faced retribution at every stop in their long journey. The latest revolt forced them here. 

From the region of the Khoisan people, the Ingcuka travelled north up the dessert continent, past the Burundus, lived with the Kanem-Bornu people, escaped the Kingdom of Tahert and Tulunid Emirate. Once the crossed the new water border on the other side of the vast continent of Africa, the nomadic people travelled by boat to the Old World.