Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (32 page)

Beyond the village,
the great river Ninsianna called Hiddekel had carved out fields from the higher
desert, creating an enormous flat alluvial plain neatly divided into fields,
the rocks from those fields laid out in low walls to demarcate which plot
belonged to whom.  The river was still in flood tide from the spring rains, but
already villagers were busy planting the fields closest to the village, their
higher terrain making them the first fields released by the receding flood
tide. 

It was a stone age
village, much of it by appearance built within the last generation.  Everything
looked orderly and well-run.  This chief he was about to meet might have his
faults, but lack of industriousness was not one of them.  He could see why such
a leader would want his hot-headed son married off to someone as pragmatic as
Ninsianna.  It had not been
his
fault she'd spurned the Chief's son, but
the timing of his arrival had caused his relationship with these people to get
off on the wrong foot. 

He didn't look forward
to this meeting.  If the Chief rejected him, he would be banished back out into
the wilderness. 
Alone. 
No one
had come looking for him. 
Although he didn't mind solitude, there was a difference between preferring
one's own company, and being alone.  Never had he felt so
alone
.   

“You'll do fine.” 
Ninsianna slid her small hand up to take his larger one, giving it a squeeze. 
“Papa summonsed the shamans who remember the old songs.  Much of the original
meaning has been lost, but they hope you make sense of them.”

“How many songs are
there?”  The way Ninsianna’s father took every word he uttered as though it
were a divine truth made him uncomfortable.  He didn't look forward to facing
an entire
group
of shamans who looked to him the same way.  He was just
Mikhail.  A soldier.  Nothing more.

“There are hundreds of
them,” Ninsianna said.  “And thousands more where only a fragment is
remembered.  We don't use written symbols to help us remember the way that you
do.  It's all remembered in a song.”

“I hope I can
understand what they say,” Mikhail said.  “My grasp of your language is still
limited.”

“You don't know every
word,” Ninsianna said.  “But what you
do
know, you speak almost without
an accent.  You'll do fine.”

Her lips curved up in
that warm, reassuring smile which had been the first thing he'd noticed about
her.  Beautiful, tawny-beige eyes glowed warmer, picking up hues from the
mid-morning sun, making them appear gold.  He'd seen such eyes before, but the
memory refused to come to the surface.  Her eyes inhabited his dreams,
whispering for him to trust her, to do whatever she asked, because it was the
will of the gods.

It was not logical to
spend so much time fantasizing about her!  But with a total lack of memory, he
had no idea
how
to act.  Not when a female so enticing had made him the
center of her universe.  Not sure what to do, he did nothing.  But he wouldn't
force fantasies of her from his mind, either.  The night of the attack had
taught him that he kept much darker urges than his feelings for Ninsianna
bottled up inside of him.

Checking for the
reassuring feel of his sword and pulse rifle, he adjusted his dress uniform,
straightened up to his full height, and settled his wings against his back in
the tight formation he knew was the proper way to greet one's superior
officers.  Towering over his savior by more than a cubit, he allowed Ninsianna
to tug him towards the mud-brick village.

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Normally when an
important guest arrived in the village, people lined up to greet them, offering
songs of joy, flowers, and food.  If, on the other hand, the guest was
unwelcome, the men would line up along the rooftops on either side of the
narrow alley which allowed passage beyond the first row of houses, ready to
fend them off with spears.  Now? 

The entrance to the
village was unguarded except for the usual sentry who eyed their passage with a
cold, unwelcoming stare.  Just inside the first row of houses, Jamin’s warriors
lounged sharpening their weapons around a communal well, glowering at them, but
remained silent.   Jamin himself was nowhere to be seen, probably being kept on
a tight leash inside his father’s house. 

No children played in
the street, but men and women went about their business as though it were an
ordinary day, grinding barley, sorting acorns, or chipping obsidian to make
spearheads.  Some stared at the unbelievable creature which had walked into
their midst, even though her father had warned them Mikhail would come today,
while others pretended not to see him at all.  Squaring her shoulders, she led
him towards the central plaza.  By his lack of expression, Mikhail had picked
up on the unwelcoming vibe. 

“Ahhh, Mikhail,
welcome!”  Immanu rose up to greet them the moment they came within sight of
the assembled shamans.

“Where's the Chief?”
Ninsianna asked.

“He'll be making a
grand entrance later on this afternoon,” Immanu said.  “Come.  Sit.  The
shamans are anxious to meet you.”

Papa led Mikhail to a
stool on one end of the ring of shamans seated upon mats.  Elevated.  Not only
did Papa understand that sitting on the ground was a challenge for a creature
with wings, but he gave Mikhail a place of honor.  Ninsianna shot her Papa a look
of gratitude.  After the icy reception by the village at large…

Mikhail ruffled his
feathers as he sat down on the too-short stool, carefully arranging his wings
into the tight formation she thought of as ‘dress wings.’  He made eye contact
with each one of the shamans, no doubt sizing them up, but his face remained
neutral, expressing neither satisfaction nor dissatisfaction.  Shamans tended
to be a stone-faced lot, but they nodded with approval.  Whatever they'd been
expecting, Mikhail was it. 

“We have prepared a
feast in your honor,” Immanu said. 

A
modest
feast,
Ninsianna thought.  Chief Kiyan was notoriously stingy when it came to
investing his own resources.  It would strain her father’s budget to put out
even the meager preparations he'd been able to make, but she was glad he made
the effort.  She hoped Mikhail didn't know enough about her people’s customs to
realize the Chief's absence was a slight.  A dance-step in the intricate social
waltz of one tribe greeting the emissary of a second tribe they were not
certain they wanted to do business with.  She cursed Jamin in her mind.  Damn
him for stirring up trouble! 

“Did you explain
Mikhail’s injuries and his memory loss?” she whispered to Papa so Mikhail
wouldn't hear.

“Yes,” Immanu said. 
“I warned them not to pester him with too many questions he can't answer.”

Mikhail sat stiffly in
the ceremonial attire he called ‘dress uniform,’ a set of garments even
fancier
than the seven identical outfits he owned.  Gradually his wings relaxed out of
their stiff formation as the shamans tested their ability to converse with him
in his own language.  Being grilled with questions didn't appear to bother
him.  In fact, he expected it. 
'F
aisnéisithe
’
he called the meeting scheduled for today. 
Debriefing

“What can you remember
about the place you're from?” one shaman asked.

“Only fragments,”
Mikhail said.  “My father.  Bits and pieces of information that don't seem very
important, to tell the truth.”

“What do you think of
the Song of the Sword?” another asked.

“I'm certain that I've
heard a version of this song before,” Mikhail said.  “But it feels like a song
you sing for children.  You have verses that are not in our version.  But I
can't remember the exact words.”

The shamans seemed
satisfied with his explanations.  As frustrating as it was to not have him
answer all of their questions, his forthrightness reassured them.  Although at
no time did he completely relax, after a while he no longer seemed
uncomfortable.  He was a guarded creature, even more taciturn than the shamans
and not prone to loquaciousness.  Ninsianna wondered how long it would take for
their nonstop questions to try Mikhail's patience. 

Mama gestured for her
to help her pass around dried dates, roasted acorns and water for their
guests.  The acorns were still warm from the oven, a special treat!  Ninsianna
walked from shaman to shaman, offering sustenance in a grass basket she'd woven
with her own hand.

“Ninsianna,” her
father said.  “You and Mama must leave.  It's time for the shamans to sing the
sacred songs.”

“Yes, Papa,” she said,
disappointed.

“She stays,” Mikhail
said.

“But it's forbidden,”
a shaman said.  “Women may not venture into the province of the shaman!”

“In my culture, there
is no separation between males and females,” Mikhail said.  “She stays.”

Was this a real
memory?  Or did he make it up because he sensed her disappointment? 

“But…” another
complained.

“Ninsianna has earned
my trust.”  The stern set of his jaw and icy blue eyes communicated he wouldn't
compromise on this issue.  “The others haven't.  She stays.”

His wings unfurled
from the tight formation he'd kept them in all day, stretching to half his
wingspan.  The shamans seated beside him jumped.  With his wings pinned against
his back it was almost possible to forget what he was.  Unfurled, it was
obvious why his species was called the swords of the gods. 

“It's all right,” Mama
turned to go.  “You stay.  I need to go finish the supper I have prepared for
our guests.” 

The shamans muttered
about her presence, but settled down as they discussed which songs should be
sung first.  A winged creature of legend had just fallen from the stars to sit
in their midst.  Old taboos about women had little importance if that was what
their guest insisted upon. 

Pulling out an assortment
of rattles and drums to keep the percussion which made the memorization of long
songs possible, the air filled with the vibration of chanting.  Some shamans
sang the actual words.  Others hummed harmonies underlying each song.  Some
songs had a single voice singing information handed down through history via
brute, rote memorization.  Others required two or more shamans to each sing a
role answering a central narrator as though they were re-enacting an epic play.

Starting with the Song
of the Sword, each shaman sang a lesser song telling a little piece of
Mikhail’s people's history.  A time of great calamity.  An ark, which had
carried her people from a land called Nibiru across a great sea and landed on
this shore.  Guardians … winged beings and other half-human creatures that had
battled giants and driven them from these lands so they could live in peace.  A
promise … that someday the winged ones and their kin would return. 

“Does any of this
sound familiar to you,” one shaman asked.

“Some of what you sing
sounds familiar,” Mikhail said.   “Like a lullaby where you remember the tune,
but not the words.  These half-human creatures you sing about?  I know that
they are as real as I am, but I can't remember what they look like.  Other
songs prompt no recognition at all.  Your origin myth … the story of travelling
across a great sea and battling giants?  I'm certain I have never heard of such
a thing before.”

“What other parts seem
familiar?”

“The Eternal Emperor,”
he said.  “When you sing of him, I know that he exists, but not in the manner
of which you sing.  You think of him as an all-powerful god.  We see him …
differently.  Like a chief.  I think I may have even met him.”

"You met
god?"  The shamans pondered this piece of information.

“What about the songs
of the other heavenly beings?” Immanu asked.  “The Cherubim, the wheels, and
the chariots?”

“Cherubim?”  Mikhail
raised one eyebrow in interest.  “Sing the Song of the Cherubim.”