Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (13 page)

Ninsianna turned to
escape back into the safety of the sky canoe before Papa prevailed upon her to
do something foolish, like trust him not to turn her over to the chief.  The
Chief had made his demands and Papa had capitulated.  How could he!

Her father grabbed her
hand.

“Ninsianna, is it
true?”  Papa shook with an almost religious fervor.  “Has one of the winged
demi-gods returned to grace our village?”

“I have never heard
you speak of such a thing,” Ninsianna half-lied.  It was only a half-lie
because she didn't deny she'd seen a winged man, only questioned the fact that
Papa had never spoken of them before.

“Ninsianna, you must
tell me the truth!” Papa insisted.  “We have legends about a time the winged
ones shall return.”

“Why have you never
told me these tales before, Papa,” Ninsianna neatly side-stepped the question.

“First you must show
him to me.”  Papa pointed at the crack where she'd emerged.  Although her
father feared what he saw, he intended to meet the creature of which he spoke. 
From past experience, Papa wouldn't leave until he'd done what he'd come here
to do.

“Al right,"
Ninsianna sighed.  "But first let me tell him you're coming lest he think
you're an enemy and smite you.”

Ninsianna ducked
through the crack and went inside, explaining with the handful of words they
shared and sign language that someone wished to meet him.  Mikhail agreed … she
thought.  She wasn't really certain as they didn't speak the same language, but
he
seemed
to trust her.  Going back out through the crack, she led her
father inside.

“Gods be praised, it's
true!”  Papa exclaimed.  He fell to his knees and bowed his face all the way
down to Mikhail's feet.

Mikhail shot Ninsianna
a look that communicated
'why has this man thrown himself on the floor in
front of me?'

“Up,
suas, le dol
thoil,”
Mikhail said in the pidgin language they'd been using to
communicate.  Although Mikhail was thus far not prone to displays of emotion,
he appeared uncomfortable enough at the sight of her father bowing at his feet
for her to glean what he asked.

“Papa, you're
embarrassing him!  He bid you to get up!”

Still kneeling, Papa
began to recite in a sing-song fashion a shamanic song she'd never heard
before.  It was sung not in
her
language, but what she recognized to be
the language spoken by Mikhail!

In Ki’s most
sorrowful, desperate hour,

When all was
lost to blight,

She sang her
Song of Creation,

And enticed
Darkness to protect the Light.

Primordial Light,
the architect,

Ki’s
daughter, She-who-is,

Spun the
darkness of He-who’s-not,

To create
life, All-That-Is

But then one
day, the sickness returned.

Moloch. 
Enemy of Ki.

The Evil
One.  The ex-husband spurned.

Collapse. 
Entropy.

He spread
his evil, throughout the worlds,

Undoing all
in his path.

Devouring
his own children,

To make Ki
feel his wrath.

But
He-who’s-not, the Guardian.

Lord Chaos. 
The Dark Lord.

Sang the
Song of Destruction,

To protect
the Light he adored.

She-who-is
wept bitter tears,

To see her
playthings broken,

The Dark
Lord couldn't bear her grief,

And offered
his mate a token.

To keep the
balance so he could protect her,

They would
play a game of chess.

She-who-is
would create new pieces.

He-who’s-not
would reclaim the rest.

But both
must remain ever-vigilant,

Against
Moloch’s eventual return,

He sends
forth Agents to pave the way,

To escape
the hell whence he burns.

When Moloch
gains a foothold,

And desires
to be fed,

She-who-is
shall appoint a Chosen One

To warn of
Moloch’s spread.

SHE shall
send a winged Champion

A demi-god
fair and just,

A Sword of
the Gods to defend the people,

And raise
armies from the dust.

As Moloch
corrupts Agents to do his work,

So shall Ki
appoint Watchmen to do HERS,

From the
ashes of despair,

When all
appears lost,

Hidden
Agents shall choose to serve HER.

True love
will inspire the Other One,

To pierce
her heart upon a thorn,

And bring
back hope where there is none.

For agape
can access Ki’s Song.

When all the
players have made their moves,

And the
Morning Star shines bright,

He shall
light the way through the darkest hour,

And restore
the path of Light…

And if these
measures should someday fail,

And Ki’s
protections fall,

The Dark
Lord shall seize his vessel,

And protect
the Light by destroying them all.

“
An féidir leat tuiscint a fháil dom
?
”
Mikhail asked in his own language, one eyebrow raised in surprise. 

“Roinnt,”
Papa replied.

“
Cár fhoghlaim tú a labhairt mo theanga?
”
  Mikhail
used his hands to accentuate his words.  He leaned forward in his chair,
anxious to hear what Papa had to say.

“
Tá sé tugtha síos trí na glúine a lán
,”
Papa
ground out each word, painfully slow, as he paused to search his memory and
articulate properly each word he translated.

Ninsianna realized
what she was seeing.  Not only had Papa memorized a
song
in Mikhail’s
language.  Shamans memorized
many
old songs handed down from the time
legends said a great canoe had carried her people across the ocean to the
fertile banks of the Hiddekel River, secret songs only shamans were allowed to
learn.  But Papa actually
spoke
Mikhail’s language?  When had Papa
learned to speak the language of heaven?

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

February – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Crash site

Colonel Mikhail Mannuki’ili

Mikhail

Mikhail scrutinized
the man Ninsianna had brought onto his ship.  The song was a very old dialect,
but if he listened carefully, he could understand every word the man said.  The
song seemed familiar, as though it was a variation of a song he must have heard
many times as a child.  It was like a lullaby, half-remembered from the cradle
and hummed subconsciously over breakfast.

“Can you understand
me?” Mikhail asked. 

The man listened,
translating the words in his mind.  In heavily accented Galactic Standard, he
answered.  “Some.”

“Where did you learn
to speak my language?”  Mikhail used his hands to accentuate his words as
Ninsianna did to get his point across.

“It has been handed
down through many generations,” the man said.  “The highest level shamans are
taught these songs so they can help the winged ones once they return.”

“How many of you are
there?"

“Over the
generations,” the man said, “old shamans have died without an apprentice.  Only
a few of us remember the oldest songs.”

Middle aged, the man
had the sturdy build and swarthy complexion of someone who did more than simply
sit around studying arcana.  A shock of ebony hair, peppered with the same
color titanium steel as the exterior of his ship, jutted helter-skelter out of
the man's head, as though he ran his fingers through it often whilst thinking
deep thoughts.  The man's eyes and hair niggled at his subconscious, but for
the life of him, he couldn't pull up the memory about what it was he found so
familiar.  Perhaps it was the family resemblance?  Although the man was not
handsome, he had the same tawny-beige eyes as Ninsianna.

 “What is your name?”

“I'm called
Immanu," the man said.  "I'm shaman of my village.  Assur.”  From the
elaborate bone necklace the man wore around his neck and fringed kilt made of
animal hide, if ever Mikhail was ever to point to someone and say 'this is a
shaman,' this man would be the person. 

While they were
speaking, Ninsianna had come to stand at his shoulder, one hand placed upon his
broken wing.  Was she protecting him?  Showing him off?  Or hiding behind him
for protection?

“Who is Ninsianna to
you?" 

“Ninsianna is my
daughter."  Immanu smiled at her with more than a little pride. 
"When she didn't come home, I was worried."

Ninsianna perked up at
the words “who” and then her name.  “Papa?”

Immanu reassured his
daughter in the unknown language, then translated it so Mikhail could
understand what he'd just said.  “This creature has been sent to protect us by
She-who-is.”

Ninsianna replied in
her own language, which Mikhail only knew a handful of words.  By the look on
her face as she spoke and her father’s reaction, Mikhail gathered she said
something along the lines of “I know.”

Immanu looked at his
daughter with an odd expression upon his face, then turned back to Mikhail. 
“Ninsianna is rather … special.”

“She saved my life.” 
Mikhail pointed to the bandages wrapped around his chest.  “Do
all
of
your people possess such ability to heal?”  He wondered if the man would claim
she was this 'chosen one' he'd just sung about in his song.

“Some."  Immanu
shook his hand in a gesture of 'so-so.'  "Not many are as talented as
Ninsianna is. 
Or
her mother, for that matter."  The shaman seemed
to be turning something over in his mind.  "I don't know if she is the
Chosen One whom you seek.  I'll not tell you something unless I know it to be
true.”

“I can’t remember
what
I'm supposed to seek!”  Mikhail pointed to his head wound.  "I know
I'm here to complete a mission, but ever since I got
this
, I have
trouble remembering the simplest things."

“Ninsianna?”  Immanu
switched to his own language.  Mikhail couldn't understand what he said, but by
the way Immanu pointed to his own head, he assumed he questioned his memory
loss. 

Father and daughter
bantered back and forth, comparing notes.  As they did, Mikhail studied how
closely their non-verbal language mimicked that of his own species, only much
less subtle than the carefully controlled body language he assumed all Angelics
were taught from birth.  The fact somebody spoke his language was not
puzzling.  Even without his memory, he had the feeling
many
people spoke
his native tongue.  What amazed him was the fact the shaman spoke such an
ancient
dialect
of his language. 

“Please, Immanu,
translate,” Mikhail interrupted when Ninsianna started poking at his injured
wing as though he were a prize rooster.  “I wish to understand what your
daughter has been trying to tell me.”

“She said that the
goddess sent her a vision of you before you arrived,” Immanu said.  “It's why
she sought out your sky canoe.”