Chained By Fear: 2 (3 page)

Her parents were convinced she was deathly ill. Shamans studied her but could find nothing wrong. She tried to tell them about the boy and his terrible powers. But no intelligible words came forth.

One shaman, who was filthy and stank, told Laylah’s parents that he needed to be alone with the child to properly diagnose her condition. Out of desperation, they agreed. When they closed the door, the shaman leaned over Laylah and told her that evil spirits possessed her. If she hugged him, the spirits would flee from her body into his, where he would devour them.

Laylah saw through his guise. Without thinking, she whispered, “
Namuci
!”

The shaman fell to the floor, spit out a glob of blood, and died.

Her parents rushed back into the room and found her in hysterics. The shaman’s death shocked the village, but no one thought to blame her.

For whatever reason, the horror of what she had done strengthened Laylah’s resolve, and she was able to resist saying the
nasty
word. In a few weeks her health was restored—and with it, her good humor. Her parents seemed so pleased.

It all fell apart for her the morning after her tenth birthday, when Invictus crept through her window and entered her room. She tried to cry out but could not manage more than a few weak grunts. Still wearing his golden robes, he lay next to her on her bed. She hated being next to him, but somehow his presence froze her. A short time later, her parents entered the room.

“What are you doing here?” her father said. “Get away from my child!”

Her father attempted to pull the young man off the bed, but Invictus was far too strong, swinging his arm and knocking him against the far wall. Her mother lifted a small wooden table and smashed it against Invictus’ shoulder, but it did not seem to hurt him at all. He stood and faced her.

“Mother, don’t you recognize me?” Invictus said.

“I recognize you, but I wish I didn’t,” she said. “Why have you returned to torment us?”

“I love you, Mother. Do you love me?” And then he spit a sizzling ball of sputum at her brown eyes.

She howled and pressed her hands to her face, staggering backward. When she removed her hands, most of the flesh on her skull was gone, though strands of long yellow hair still clung to the exposed bone.

Her father regained his senses, staggered to his feet, and pounced on Invictus, all the while yelling, “Laylah
 . . .
run
!”

“Father,” Invictus said. “I love you. Do you love me?”

Invictus pressed his lips against her father’s and blew hot breath down his throat. Her father collapsed and went into a wild spasm. Smoke exploded from his ears, nose, and mouth—and his tongue swelled absurdly. When he blew apart, flaming patches of tissue splattered across the room. This terrified Laylah and shook her out of whatever spell Invictus had put on her to keep her still. She sat up and screamed.

Though her mother was maimed and blinded, she continued to grope for Invictus. But she was no match for him. He grasped her disfigured face and kissed her too, and she met the same fate as her husband.

Afterward Invictus raised his arms and bellowed. Golden flames erupted from every pore. As if struck from within by dragon fire, the house exploded. Sizzling shards flew several hundred paces, casting Laylah into the yard like a piece of broken furniture. When the conflagration cleared, she saw Invictus standing naked amid the smoking debris, his robes incinerated but his body unharmed. Her parents were gone.

Laylah managed to stand up. Amazingly, she wasn’t injured, but her clothes had been incinerated, and she was now naked as well. The commotion drew hundreds of villagers, who rushed toward her. But when they saw Invictus, they also ran. Only one man hesitated, as if daring to issue a challenge. For him, it was a death sentence. Invictus blasted a bolt of golden flame, ripping off the man’s head.

Laylah could stand it no more. But at least she now had full use of her body. She ran
 . . .
fast and far.

“Laylah! Come back. I love you.” Her brother’s voice shook the valley. “Laylah, do you lovvvvvveeeeeee me?”

She reached the Ogha River. The roar of its swirling waters drowned out her sobs. She felt her brother approaching from behind. She would rather die than have him touch her again.

Laylah threw herself into the Ogha. She could swim well, but she was used to the still water of lakes and ponds, not the nasty swells of the mightiest river in the world. The tumult swept her along, helpless as a leaf. Despite the dangers, she felt peaceful. Death by drowning was a small price to pay to escape such a monster.

But Laylah’s life would not end on this day. Something grasped her thin arm. She glided along the surface of the river on her back and was dragged onto the steep bank on the far side.

She could still hear Invictus’ desperate cries.

“Laylah, come back. I love you. Do you love me?”

Powerful arms lifted her and pressed her against wet skin that smelled like a wild animal. She screamed, struggling to free herself. Then a large hand clamped over her mouth, her nose, and everything went dark.

A princess with golden hair stood alone atop a hillock overlooking a secluded valley. A warm breeze stroked her face like a loving hand. Just a short time before, her small village had been as steamy as a sweat lodge. But now the last remnants of the sun had disappeared, signaling the start of her favorite time of day. As always, she relished the arrival of dusk.

The Ripe Corn Moon soon would rise above the mountains surrounding the valley. She could hardly wait for its fullness to creep over the peaks in the southeastern sky. The sight would fill her with joy.

Her name was Magena, which meant “
sacred moon”
in her language. She was an adopted member of the Ropakans, a tribal people who dwelled in the Mahaggata Mountains. Though she knew their ways and traditions, Magena was unlike the other members of her clan. Her skin was the color of cream, while the Ropakans were deeply tanned. Her hair was thin and golden in contrast to the dense black of her sisters and brothers. Her eyes were blue-gray; theirs, dark brown. Her body was long and voluptuous; theirs, short and stocky.

One difference far surpassed the physical dissimilarities: Unlike the others of her clan, Magena wielded magical powers—though she didn’t dare display them openly. Eight years before, her adoptive father had rescued her from the wicked currents of the Ogha River. Since then, he had urged her to hide her gifts in order to avoid jealousy and distrust among the villagers. Magena had complied, but for reasons she kept even from her father.

The moon was Magena’s friend and ally. She reveled in its reflected light. The sun did not scorch her, but neither did it nourish; she could wander freely during the day, but she often felt weak and sick to her stomach. When night came, she burst with vitality. The moon fueled her strength, and when it rose to fullness, her strength reached its maximum potential.

As she stood on the hillock that evening, Magena sensed her father’s presence before actually seeing him. His name was Takoda, which meant
friend of all
in the language of the Ropakans. Since the early years of their relationship, Takoda had taken rascally pleasure in sneaking up and startling her, often leaping from behind boulders or trees with a wild look in his eyes. When she shrieked, he would laugh until he cried—and then apologize with the insincere remorse of a trickster. At first Magena had resented her father’s strange sense of humor. But eventually she grew to adore his good nature.

Nowadays he rarely succeeded in frightening her. Magena was eighteen years old and in the full bloom of womanhood. She had eyes like an eagle’s, ears like a Tyger’s and a nose like a bear’s. But many of her people made similar claims. What separated her from the others were her strange powers, which radiated from her body like heat off a wildfire. No one could enter her invisible aura without her noticing. At nighttime, especially, it was impossible to approach her undetected.

“Father, will you never tire of this game?” said Magena, her sweet voice barely audible. “I’ve told you dozens of times that you’ll never surprise me again. Even asleep, I hear you. You make as much noise as a moose.”

Takoda grunted, kicking the grass at his feet.

“I crawled up behind you as slow and silent as a snail,” he whined, “and
still
you heard me.”

Magena let out an exaggerated sigh. Then she laughed. “Dear one, if you meant to imitate a snail, you failed. A cave troll is more like it. I heard you
before
you began your climb.”

“Bah! You’re no fun to be around anymore.”

But then he hugged her, and she pressed her cheek against his weathered face. They stood side by side—she a full span taller—and looked down at their small village.

“I love you, Magena,” Takoda whispered. “You were not born from my seed, but I’m as proud as any father could be. None among the Ropakans can boast of a finer child. Having you as a daughter has been a high honor.”

“Dear one, having you as a father has been a far higher honor. You rescued me from a monster and invited me into your family—with arms open wide. I owe you more than my life. Without you, I would not have my soul.”

“You owe me nothing that you have not repaid a thousand times.”

They hugged again and stood silently together. Below them, their village roared to life. Tonight the Ropakans would give thanks to the Great Spirit for the arrival of the year’s first crop of corn. Dancing and feasting would last until morning. Venison, bear and turkey already were roasting. Potatoes, beans and nuts simmered in clay pots. Peaches, berries, and figs were spread on long tables. Black tea brewed from smoked holly leaves stood alongside apple wine and cornstalk beer. All in all, it was more food and drink than twice their number could consume.

“Come, daughter. We must return to the village before your mother’s side of the family eats everything.”

Just then, the drums began to rumble. The ceremony had begun. A smile spread across Magena’s beautiful face, and she laughed again.

“Race you there!” she said, sprinting down the hill.

Fewer than five thousand Ropakans were sprinkled throughout the vastness of the Mahaggata Mountains. Magena’s village contained about five hundred Ropakans and was divided into ten clans. Takoda was village chief as well as patriarchal head of his clan, whose members were ranked according to the proximity of their kinship to their leader. Highest was his eldest brother, Akando, who would become chief if Takoda were to perish. Next came two younger brothers and three sisters, followed by his father, mother, wife, three sons, four daughters (including Magena), and thirteen grandchildren. But all members of Takoda’s clan, regardless of nobility, came to him for advice, guidance, and spiritual blessings.

Magena scampered through one of the openings in the palisade, a circular fence of pointed logs that surrounded her father’s village. She passed huts of various sizes, some housing as few as four, others more than a dozen.

Given her status as daughter of the chief, Magena lived with her family in the largest and most elaborate hut in the village, the lone dwelling in the central plaza. Its roof and walls were water-proofed with sheets of bark from hickory trees. To create more height, the floor was dug several spans below the ground. A hearth used for cooking and heating stood in the center.

Magena joined the rest of the villagers in the plaza and stood beneath the ceremonial pole, which had been hewn from the trunk of a yellow poplar and was fifty cubits tall. She admired the trail of decorations carved on the pole, depicting what the Ropakans called the Path of Beauty. In order to recognize their own inner splendor, Magena’s people believed they needed to travel a path that acknowledged the beauty in all living beings. The perfect balance that allowed the pole to stand upright mimicked the balance of nature. All of the village’s major celebrations and ceremonies occurred in a clearing surrounding the pole.

Several blazing fires lighted the clearing. More than a dozen men carrying deerskin drums already encircled the ceremonial pole. Their faces were painted with red ocher, and they wore feather headdresses adorned with fresh flowers. Jingly bells of varying shapes and sizes hung from their breechcloths, wrists and ankles.

More scantily clad men and women accompanied the drummers. They shook hollow gourds filled with dried corn. The pounding and rattling produced an infectious rhythm, signaling the official beginning of the celebration. Magena, wearing a mulberry shawl and a short skirt, grabbed a wooden flute and blended into the throng, dancing with her mother, sisters and dozens of other women around the fires.

A short time later, the full moon rose over the peaks of the southeastern mountains. Magena left the dancers, walked to the edge of the firelight and gazed at the golden orb. The sunlight reflecting off its mottled surface filled her with joy, and a blessed strength surged through her body. But something disturbed her. She could sense danger but was not able to identify it. Finally, she decided it was just her imagination, and she rejoined her family by the fires.

Soon after, Takoda emerged from the darkness. Magena giggled with delight. Her father wore a headdress made from the red-tipped feathers of a war eagle sewn into a deerskin bonnet. Strings of beads and strips of colorful fur dangled over his face, which was painted red with a black circle around one eye and a white circle around the other. He also wore a bear-claw necklace, a brightly dyed breechcloth, and moccasins laden with green gemstones.

When Takoda appeared, it was a signal to begin the communal blessing. In silence, the chief danced slowly within the plaza’s interior, pressing his hand against the right breast of each adult male and the right cheek of each adult female. The children received three quick taps on the tops of their heads. Before touching each villager, the chief spoke his or her name and then gazed toward the heavens, the dwelling place of the Great Spirit. When he came to Magena, he smiled more deeply than he had for any other.

The blessing ceremony was long but pleasurable. Afterward, the villagers broke their silence with hoots and screams. The wild dancing resumed, and everyone—even the children—consumed large quantities of beer and wine. The intoxicated villagers danced frenetically, stomping their feet and twisting their bodies into impossible postures. Singing, shouting, and chanting grew in intensity until everyone leapt about in a communal hysteria.

Around midnight, the village shaman entered the plaza, wearing a fearsome mask. His skin was painted black, and his hair was slathered with bear fat streaked with red ocher. He danced and ranted until he became covered with sweat, the bear fat gushing down the back of his neck. He wailed and fell onto the ground, his body squirming. In bizarre response to his antics, a buzzing swarm of flies swept into the plaza and swirled among the villagers. The children covered their faces and rushed about in panic.

Suddenly the shaman’s body ceased to quiver, and he lay still as a corpse. As if in response, the flies flew into the fires, sizzling and popping like kernels of corn. Gouts of black smoke rose from the flames. When all of the insects were consumed, a dreadful silence ensued. And the shaman had run off.

For a long time afterward, the villagers were wary, whispering among themselves about the meaning of the portent. But Takoda spoke calming words, and their good spirits returned—as did their hunger. They began to feast. While the Ropakans ate their fill, the two eldest men stood beneath the ceremonial pole and sang a mournful ballad that Magena adored. The somber lyrics described the long history of her people, including the glory of their traditions and the greatness of their ancestors.

As morning approached, unmarried couples separated from the gathering and went to private places. During these large celebrations there was much love-making. Women went from man to man and men from woman to woman, while the married adults and children remained in the plaza.

Magena was one of the exceptions. Though unattached, she sat alone at a long table, munching on a roasted ear of corn and drinking black tea. She had eaten a great deal, abating her earlier drunkenness. But her head still swam as she watched the others wander into the darkness. Aponi, one of her younger sisters, had gone off with a stout male warrior admired throughout the village. Aponi was fifteen, old enough to marry, if she so desired.

Though eighteen, Magena had not yet married. This wasn’t unusual. Many chose not to wed until they were older, preferring to extend the pleasures of sexual promiscuity. But the white princess, as they called her, was not interested. Her heart lay elsewhere, though she could not say where or why.

The son of the patriarch of the second highest-ranked clan approached Magena. His name was Kuruk, which meant “
bear”
in her people’s tongue. Though he was the same age as Magena, he already was the largest man in the village, as tall as she and heavily muscled. Not even Takoda could match his physical strength.

Kuruk had long desired her, and every time Magena refused him, he grew angrier. When he sat down next to her, she tensed. He was very drunk.

“My pale flower,” he said with stinking breath, “now is the time for you and me to join
 . . .
”

But Magena didn’t allow him to finish. Instead, she sprang to her feet. “I’ve told you I reject your attentions. There are many in the village who desire you, but I am not among them. I have no interest in you or
anyone
. Please accept this as my final answer.”

Kuruk stood awkwardly, knocking the table sideways. Plates of food tumbled onto the ground. This caught the attention of the villagers who had remained in the plaza, including Takoda.

“You filthy
watsquerre
(swine),” Kuruk said to Magena. “If you knew me, you would not speak to me
 . . .
like this. You have no
idea
who I am or what I am about. I’ve come to save you. Without me to protect you, you’ll be slaughtered like all the rest.”

Takoda became enraged. “What madness is this? Are you
katichhei
(a rogue)? You’re no better than the Mogols.”

Kuruk spun toward Takoda. The sudden movement caused him to lose his balance, and he almost fell. When he regained his bearings, his face was twisted with anger. “
Occooahawa
(old fool)! You call me
katichhei
? I call you
tauh-he
(a dog).”

Even as Kuruk uttered his insulting words, a scream erupted from one of the small huts nearest the palisade. The shaman came out of the darkness, holding his throat. Blood spilled between his fingers and seeped down his forearms. He stumbled into the clearing and fell onto the sandy floor of the plaza. The expression on his mask did not change.

Takoda was the first to realize their peril.

“Mogols! Flee
 . . .
everyone
! Hide in the mountains.”

Because of the celebration, most of the villagers were unarmed. Takoda ran toward his hut to get a weapon, but Kuruk stepped in front of him. The larger man pulled a knife from his breechcloth and swept it at Takoda’s stomach in an attempt to disembowel him. But Kuruk’s drunkenness was not feigned, and he missed his mark, losing his balance and falling against Takoda, who grasped Kuruk’s wrist and then drove his knee into Kuruk’s elbow. Magena heard a popping sound as Kuruk collapsed.

Magena picked up the knife and handed it to her father. “What are we to do?” she shouted.

“Take your mother and sisters and escape to the mountains. Stay alive! I will find you.”

There was another scream—and several more. Hundreds of ghostly shapes moved toward the edge of the flickering firelight. It was too late to run.

The adult males who had remained in the plaza—about fifty in all—joined Takoda, encircling the women and children. Most had no weapons, but a few held war clubs and one a bow and arrow. Meanwhile, the screaming intensified. The invaders moved from hut to hut, butchering anyone they found.

Aponi is out there,
Magena thought.
And two of my brothers
. She shuddered. But she also felt rage rising inside her, and her flesh began to glow.

Kuruk regained his feet but grimaced as he held his bent elbow. “Come out,” he shouted at the dark shapes. “Why do you wait? They’re helpless. Kill the chief, and the rest will surrender.”

“My son, you dishonor me with your treachery,” said Kuruk’s father, who stood next to Takoda. “I disown you! May your spirit wander forever with the cowards.”

Kuruk spat and turned away. In response, several hundred Mogols entered the clearing. Their faces were adorned with hideous tattoos, and they bore necklaces made from the dried scalps of former victims. They were much larger than the Ropakans—the smallest among them dwarfed even Kuruk—and they carried bows and arrows, war clubs, spears and long blowguns.

Their leader—the tallest of all—strode over to Kuruk and placed his arm around his thick shoulders. But then another emerged from the darkness, stunning Magena and her father far more than Kuruk’s betrayal.

“How can you do this to our people?” Takoda said to the newcomer, tears spilling from his eyes. “To our
children
?”

Akando, eldest brother of Takoda, did not reply with words. He just smiled, which was more disturbing than anything else he could have done.