Tribal Dawn: Mordufa: Volume Three Page 2

  “May Solianga and Luaani light your path.” Tau nodded. Vakaar pulled his scarf back up and disappeared into the shady trees. Standing, Tau inspected the camp and waited until the steps crunching dead leaves were attached to a slender figure.

  Unika approached, a skip in his stride. Amazed, his bright eyes lit up, observing the remains of the camp. “I felt bad about leaving you to do all the work. Where are they?”

  “Cats got them. It looks like they were hunted one by one while travelling. We’ll see on the way back if we can find proof to take to Jabali. We can take these piss-covered blankets for now.” Tau picked up a darker scrap, reluctantly.

  “Those poor people. At least they’re out of their misery now.” Unika grinned and threw the other over his back.

  The pair marched through the uneven terrain, alert. Pushing branches out of the way and admiring the haunting calls of owls and wolves to their mates, they found a blood-splattered trail. A stench of decay lingered between a pair of trees. Pieces of fur armour, torn and shredded, littered the floor, disguised under piles of leaves and fruit casings. The torso of a man, ribs half eaten, lay on a rock. Wriggling maggots and a ribbon of shredded organs encased the remains. Tau hacked off a rib before they departed to their camp.

  Sparks of gold fire welcomed them into the small circle, along with an aroma of recently cooked food far more appetising than the remains. Three rough hay beds covered in soft wool blankets lay around it, two empty. Tau sat beside the fire and picked up his stone bowl crammed with soft chunks of rabbit and sweet blackberries. Shoving a load in his mouth, he ate while Unika cleaned his hands before joining him.

  “Ebhi spoke of mind tapping when we get back,” Unika whispered. “I don’t think he should be doing the medu trau if we get sent to the east.”

  Tau chewed and shrugged. “It’ll be his way of coping, Unika. He’ll be ordered to kill his tribe. I couldn’t do that, not without something to make me numb or completely forget who they are.”

  “I know, and it’ll be fantastic if it works. My mother told me some awful stories of people who did it. Honourable men who… well, they’d come across their signal by accident. When it broke the trance, astounding warriors became mass murderers and rapists.” Unika curled his lip and looked at Ebhi’s silhouette. “He’s a good, strong warrior. I would hate to see his reputation hurt by it.”

  “Ebhi is the most skilled of us and not stupid. He wouldn’t do it lightly, Unika. Shitty jobs like this are becoming beneath us. The next step up is war. One day we may have to fight Pruiryp, Blood-and-White or Inferno as well. Maybe when that time comes, it’ll be more understandable.”

  Unika grimly smiled. “What’s the point of being a great warrior if we can’t feel the honour we earn and know our choices in times of danger were the right ones?” As Tau furrowed his brow, Unika went to his bundled bed. “Sleep well, friend. Luaani guide your dreams.”

  Tau chewed on a chunk of meat until it had little juice or taste left. As the golden embers simmered to a molten red, he looked up at the hanging silver orb of Mother Moon Luaani and her children of stars, petals of ice-silver, twinkling and glittering. How would he cope if the Sun tribe were ordered to subdue his home? If Ebhi broke his trance, could Tau live with being the one to drive a blade through his throat? Breaking the medu was dangerous. He rolled up a tar-leaf to smoke in the serenity of the autumn forest.

  - CHAPTER TWO -

  Sweet smells of crushed fruit, high children’s laughter and cries filled the orphanage of the Blood-and-White tribe. Blocks painted with celestial glyphs and a wooden rocking zebra were sprawled and scattered on the floor. A five-year-old girl with dark braids had rocked too boldly and fallen. An open graze dropped blood down her knee. She screamed the rest of the children away.

  Zura, the youngest child of Chief Atsu and Chieftess Jocelin, sped to her side. Wearing the sky-blue silk dress of a Moon tribe Moduma, she knelt beside her and took out a ripped cloth from her pouch. “Shhh,” she said in her sweet, slightly husky tone, patting away the fluid. “It’s a tiny cut, Nola. Let’s take you to the back to clear it up.” She reached out and helped the sniffing girl. Carefully stepping over donated toys, they entered the middle door at the back of the extended circular hut.

  Three small beds were lined against the wall, each separated by waist-height dividers brightly painted with swirly faces, stick men and huts by the younger children. Initials and names had been carved by teenagers in the early throes of affections. Many were crushes on historical warriors, leaders and famed figures, like members of her family. Her great-great grandfather was the oldest and faintest. Her grandfather, Pazade had the most, and her brother Tau came second with five. Her father and surprisingly her mother both had three each while she had the same amount, two recently created. The third dated back a decade.

  Disregarding the familiar throb in her chest at the ten-year-old etched letters, she lifted Nola onto the bed. She took out a dull knife and chopped at the stem of a potted, vibrant green plant until a powder leaked into a cup of water. Stirring until clouds swirled, she handed it over and gave her a kind smile, pulling up the chair to finish cleaning.

  “Some of the other children get scared when they see blood, but it’s normal. Look at all our warriors! Big brave men that march into the jungle to hunt for us. They get cut all the time.” Zura’s natural calming and persuasive aura ordinarily comforted children quickly. They would be running around, screaming again in no time, despite their injuries. Alluring olive-green eyes, lustrous hazelnut hair, full lips and husky tone – a diplomatic gift – villagers said she resembled her mother in her younger days. The song of a voice, composed grace and the pride never to kneel to anyone were said to be the three graces that the daughter of a Chief or Chieftess were born with. Even those whose fathers didn’t acknowledge them had their blood told by the way they walked, leading to investigations into their heritage.

  This time, Nola remained sniffing on the edge, holding her tongue. The damp cloth nudged the shabby dress. Purple bruises on her thigh flashed. Nola pulled down on the material, lip quivering. Zura remained calm despite the sickening and unexpected turn in her gut. “You didn’t get those bruises from the zebra, did you?”

  Nola remained silent and kicked her legs.

  “You can tell me, and I will deal with it. I promise you, you’re as safe as I can make you, but if you don’t tell me where those bruises came from, I can’t do my best to take care of you.”

  Nola rubbed her eyes and hid beneath her braid. She pointed to the decade old marking of Zura’s name and whispered, “Can you tell me the story of Dizelai?”

  Zura held her breath but kept her smile like she was taught to. Her eyes shone, even after all this time, it was still raw. Still, she nodded. “I can, but it’s not a happy story. Wouldn’t you rather hear about Chief Atsu and his war?”

  “No. I don’t want a happy story right now. I like Dizelai’s because he lived here and he was sad too.”

  Zura helped Nola slide off the edge of the bed and walked out of the room. The other children played and giggled, clashing toys and smacking them into other objects. They went straight to the girls’ quarters on the right side of the hut. Unlike in the messy, strange smelling boys’, here a rose incense burnt with a floral aroma. Flowery patchwork covers were neatly laid on the oak bunk beds. Dresses, tunics and skirts were folded on top to be put away. The floor was clear of clothes and the only stains were from war paints where they’d practised putting on makeup and a couple of hairballs from hours mimicking the hairstyles of other tribes.

  Nola led the way to her bed in the corner and grabbed the red knitted shawl bundled beside the flat hay pillow. Zura, confused, raised her eyebrows. “I thought you only wanted the story?”

  “The other girls said you took them to the place where our parents sleep when you told them. I’d like to see my mummy and daddy too,” Nola mumbled.

  “I suppose we can. We’ll pick flowers on the way.” Zura held her
hand, Nola shuffling behind. They walked back through the centre room where the Modumas and Fadumas called for the afternoon serving of vegetable soups. A herd of children rushed to answer the call. Zura stuck to the edge of the room and gave Nola a reassuring smile that she wouldn’t let her go hungry.

  Stepping out into the tribe, basking in the gold spears of light from Father Sun Solianga bathing them in the little warmth he had for the autumn. People circled three-legged copper serving pots, eating outside their homes or stalls with their families, happily speaking and joking. The women, predominantly topless to show either that they were unbound or to make it easier to feed infants, wore grass skirts and ivory chunk piercings to show their strength if a war ever called upon them. The majority of males in the tribe became warriors. Training began, if they desired, a short period after their naming ceremony at fourteen. Each wore brown deerhide armour, spears, swords, daggers and bows for weapons depending on their roles and where they were ordered to defend. Sword and dagger wielders patrolled the Chief’s hut and the village. Archers were in the watch towers. Because of the lack of great enemy threats, Atsu commanded the bowmen to hunt, keeping them in shape.

  The Chief's hut at the north of the village was the grandest building amongst the southern rainforest tribes. When the first settlers built a shelter for their leader, the builders died of sickness or disease in the new land. Out of respect, the skulls of the workers were moulded into the pillars circling the hut. It was believed they protected their creation for generations and cursed those who approached as liars, murderers or thieves. Over time, the crafters tried to maintain the condition of the skulls and ivory and new bone replaced the original. Where the thatch roof met the great doors, the skull of a feline cat greater than any alive had seen in the jungle sat, its jaw wide open, baring its savage razor-sharp teeth. Painted in an array of rainbow colours and glyphs of the moon, sun and stars, the piece commanded fierce respect from any who looked upon it. Feathers matched the luminous paints across the top of its head. Dangling down were pieces of string holding a mix of bone and metal charms that gently rang in the wind.

  Zura looked back to the orphanage and compared it to her home. The place was not much smaller than the Chief’s hut and in dire need of repairs. The roof had holes from the torrential weather, strings hung freely, and only two or three charms were left. The once brightly-coloured paints that the children splattered on the log walls had become faded shadows of their once thriving glory.

  “I’ll get a couple of warriors, and we’ll take something to eat with us.” Zura requested the aid of two guards on their break nearby and picked up two bowls. Piling a mix of green floret vegetables and smoked torn steaks, the two warriors brought their meals with them after she reassured them her father wouldn’t kill them for the pleasure.

  Heading to the west side of the tribe, the four followed the way into the farming fields. The guards eased a passage through grains taller than themselves, being careful not to slice any farmers hidden behind the stems. Nola pointed out the flowers she wanted for her parent’s grave. The two escorts reluctantly cut them, making a bunch of vibrant blossoms to carry around. When they got to the other side, they were greeted by the grim fence between them and the sleeping dead.

  This final resting place was never visited by the Chieftain’s family, except for Zura. The past blood of the Chiefs resided beneath the hut in eerie cold hallways and marble tombs signified by trinkets, weapons and letters from villagers. Glyphs hung above each space alongside birth charts for star-callers to read the type of person they were, or simply for future generations to enjoy.

  The graveyard was disparate. Out in the cold and out of the way of the tribe, grey stones were chiselled by craftsmen if families could afford the privilege. Those who couldn’t made their own symbol for their loved ones out of sticks. They were promised they would be as well-kept as the beautiful stones. Row upon row of soil, wreaths and weeping relatives set the tone of respect and mourning for the four as they trundled through. The breeze carried the smell of newly-turned earth from a recent Mordufa burial performed by their healer, Rudo.

  As trained by the Moduma sent from the Moon tribe at the request of her father, Zura swallowed her personal emotions. They followed the familiar route she’d walked for the past ten years. This was not her private time now. This was for Nola. She looked to Zura for strength, especially in the place where the shells of her mother and father lay beneath the earth.

  They approached the finest tombstone, one made of marble that Chieftess Jocelin insisted they pay for after his death. Every week since he died, she set a single violet passion flower under the glyphs and letters of his name. Fewer and fewer of the children visited his side as they grew and forgot. His parent's graves weren’t too far away.

  Zura dryly swallowed back her tears and spread the layers of her robe on the ground. She handed her meal to the guards, unable to eat. She brought Nola to sit on her knee and fed her the last portions and readied herself for the story. “Dizelai was an orphan, just like you. In a moon, it’ll be ten years since he was taken away from us.”

  The guards glanced at each other. Zura bit her lip, ignoring their doubtful eyes. “He was a wonderful young man. He would go fishing for the orphanage and catch the rare ones with the rainbow tails and sweet taste.”

  Nola gasped, her mouth watering at the thought. “The rainbow fish? They’re the nicest! We never get many of them.”

  “Well, it’s because they’re tough to catch, but Dizelai… he could, and he brought one for everyone.” Zura squeezed her eyes and weakly smiled. “One day, his raft went the wrong way up the river, and he ended up near my home. He wasn’t supposed to be there; it was naughty of him. It was an accident. He held a spear but couldn’t wield it properly. I knew he wouldn’t harm me. Between us, he wasn’t a skilled fighter.”

  Nola giggled quietly behind her wooden spoon. “How did he keep talking to you then? Chief Atsu is a fighter. Your brother, Dafari is fat and fights.”

  “Yes, that is true, but I don’t like fighting. When he arrived on the raft, he had long, dark, messy hair and these onyx—” Zura saw the look of confusion on her face. “—near black eyes. His clothes were rumpled, nothing at all that Chieftess Jocelin would approve of. Anyway, I became his friend and over time, I started to come to the orphanage to help out.” She paused, head spinning with regret. It didn’t matter how many times she told the story. That feeling, that darkness inside wanted to swallow her whole.

  “And then he died?”

  “No. No. He… he had to go travelling for a while because we decided that we wanted to bind. For him to become my mate, he had to make this journey first. When he returned, he gave me this.” She nudged her glossy locks out the way and flicked the rough-cut ruby over her chest. “He asked a special crafter to make this just for me.”

  Nola tapped the gem and rubbed the edges carefully. “It’s not like Chieftess Jocelin’s. Hers is bigger and shaped like a moon.”

  “That’s because Atsu had a lot more money than Dizelai. Pazade helped him buy my mother’s. He wanted the most elaborate one. Sadly, the day Dize returned was the day he died too.” Zura kept herself together, despite the wobble in her tone.

  “That’s really sad, Zura.” Nola reached out and hugged her tightly. “I’m sorry you lost your friend.”

  “He’s with Luaani now, little one, there is nothing to be sad for.” Zura embraced the hug, resting her hands on the girl’s shoulders. “But he wasn’t the only orphan that got close to the Chieftain’s hut. Atsu was one too when Chieftess Jocelin bound to him. He cares for my mother dearly.”

  “Did he come from our orphanage?”

  “No, he came from elsewhere, but that is another story. Shall we go see your parents?” Zura asked, realising the time of day from the position of Solianga.

  “Yes. I think my mummy will like these flowers.” Nola smiled and grabbed her fluorescent bunch from the guards. The group wandered through the graves, ackn
owledging those they had lost over the years, some to sickness, some to hunting, and a few blessed enough to live an enduring and healthy life.

  They reached the twigs wrapped with twine standing out of the dry soil. Nola broke free from Zura, sprinting to the pair, and knelt down, her knees covered in dirt. The flowers on the bed had withered and crumpled since the last time Nola visited.

  Zura softly smiled while Nola spoke of her progress in the Moduma’s care; how she had been taught to cook a few things and learned the flicks with a nub of charcoal on paper and leather until she could spell and read her name. Something wouldn’t stop bothering Zura. The bruises weren’t the first she’d seen of their kind on one of the younger children this moon. For the last few months, they had cropped up every couple of days. Once bright and bubbly personalities had become withdrawn and frightened when they were asked about it. They gave poor excuses for the cause.

  When Nola was finished, they strolled back to the village. The two guards took their leave. Zura sat on a bench beside an ancient well. Clay and wooden pots of colourful flowers, withering with the touch of autumn were dotted around. They sat together and watched as villagers went by.

  “Nola, do you feel safe here?”

  The girl abruptly stopped kicking her legs to think, and then nodded. “Yes. We have lots of warriors and a place where bad people go.”

  “The cave is a scary place.” Zura shuddered from her memories. Cages were stacked on top of each other. Prisoners starved and skeletal were sedated and stared out lifelessly and the stench of death was an impossible one to disregard. “Would you send anyone there? Any bad people?”

  Nola looked up. Her lip trembled, and she brought her knees to her chest. “No. I need to be thankful to those who give me things ‘cause my mummy and daddy aren’t here now. They won’t help me.”