Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (33 page)

An ancient shaman from
Nineveh was the keeper of this particular song, which meant it must be an
especially sacred one as only Zartosht was higher in rank amongst the Ubaid
shamans than Papa.  Zartosht was a contemporary of Lugalbanda, the powerful
grandfather who had cast off his mortal shell and gone into the dreamtime shortly
after she'd been born.  His skin was paper-thin with age and his voice so
warbley she had to strain her ears to hear the words as he sang the Song of the
Cherubim, a song about the highest order of heavenly beings.  When he got to
the part describing them as having multiple arms and eyes, she could see the
song trigger a memory in Mikhail's mind.

“I know of these
Cherubim monks,” Mikhail said.  “I lived amongst them as a boy, but I can't
remember why.  They taught me….”   His voice became lost in thought.

Ninsianna placed her
hand upon the leading edge of his wing. 

“Master Yoritomo,”
Mikhail trailed off.  Shamans were used to pulling overwhelming images out of
the dreamtime.  They gave him time to digest the memory that had been
triggered.  Mikhail began to speak in that strange, third language he'd spoken
the night of the attack.  A language that had clicks, grunts and whistles as
well as spoken words.

“They taught me to
control my anger,” he finally said.  “I must always control my anger.  It opens
the door to other things.  But I can't remember why I was so angry.  I was very
young.”

“What do these
Cherubim monks look like?” one of the shamans asked.

“They resemble the
creatures you call ants,” Mikhail said.  “Only bigger.  They are taller than I
am.  And much better at controlling their emotions.  They are the most trusted
defenders of the Eternal Emperor.”

If Mikhail was
considered emotional, she couldn't imagine what these Cherubim Monks were like.

“Ants?  That's
ludicrous!” one of the shamans blurted out.

“So is a man with
wings,” another said.  “But you're looking at one.”

“That's all I can
remember,” Mikhail said after a long pause.  “But it's one memory I didn't have
before.”

There was a commotion
at the edge of the square, the Chief making his grand entrance.  Villagers
trailed in his wake like flies drawn to a sweet, sticky substance such as
honey.  Ninsianna moved their best chair to the appropriate place next to their
guest.  For spite, she moved it so they would be seated face-to-face as equals
and not at the head of the circle the way custom dictated if the Chief was
meeting a subordinate. 

The Chief wore his
finest ceremonial attire, the one he reserved for negotiating with non-allied
tribes, not the more casual attire he wore when relaxing with their allies.  He
must have spent all morning curling his hair and beard into the oiled ringlets
of a man of power and adorning them with beads.  His tall ceremonial hat and
five-fringed kilt had purportedly taken his deceased wife two years to embroider
with fringes, brightly colored thread and beads.  It was a show of wealth
designed to intimidate.

Papa hastened forward
and moved the Chief's chair to denote his rank.  Harumpf!  Ninsianna suspected
that where Mikhail came from, the Chief wouldn't garner much recognition at
all!  Chief Kiyan was not a bad man, but he was a fool insofar as his son was
concerned, an indulgence which could cause the tribe retaliation if he didn't
start dealing with the problem that was his heir!

“Greetings!”  The
Chief held one arm straight out in front of him, palm down.  Emissaries seeking
favor from a foreign chief usually kneeled, placed their weapons-hand over
their chest, and waited for the higher-ranking Chief to place his hand upon
their head before stating their business.

“Greetings.”  Mikhail
stood up and held out with his weapons-hand.  He stiffened his shoulders and
tucked his wings against his back into the ‘dress wings’ position.  Ninsianna
had never seen this social exchange before, but it appeared to be the gesture
of two potential allies … or adversaries … sizing one another up.  A gesture
between equals.

The Chief paused as
though not sure whether to take the breach of protocol as an insult or cultural
faux pas.  He decided to roll with it and accepted the offered hand.  Whatever
gesture Mikhail had just made, everything about his body language conveyed
respect. 

“Welcome to our
village.” 

The Chief tilted his
hand towards Mikhail's stool.  He waited for Mikhail to submit to a
higher-ranking male by sitting down.  Mikhail remained standing.  He appeared
to be waiting for the chief to sit down first.  There was no arrogance in his
expression …
or
in the position of his wings.  Another cultural
difference? 

The Chief glanced to
the sword strapped at Mikhail’s side and decided to sit down first.  The moment
he did, Mikhail sat down as well.  The Chief made small talk about the annual
flood which left fertile silt upon the fields, success at planting fig trees,
lack
of success planting olive trees, and various trade agreements amongst tribes
the shamans represented before getting down to business.

“Immanu tells me you
have no memory of your past,” the Chief said.

“Very little,” Mikhail
said.  “Nothing particularly helpful.”

“And yet you were able
to kill eighteen armed assailants, all by yourself, in a matter of minutes.” 
The Chief got directly to the question on everybody’s mind, scrutinizing
Mikhail to gauge his response.

“I know what I know,”
Mikhail's face was an impassive mask.  “But I don't know that I know it until I
need it.”

Ninsianna noted the
slight twitch of feathers which belied his stoic expression.  Irked.  The fact
he'd been attacked while vulnerable had started his relationship with their
village off on a sour note.

“I'm sorry that my son
felt it necessary to molest you in your home,” the Chief apologized, his
expression one of regret.  “It won't happen again.  You have my word.”

“Apology accepted,”
Mikhail said with no emotion whatsoever.  By the way his feathers stopped
rustling and relaxed, she gathered Mikhail had gauged the Chief’s sincerity and
decided it was genuine.  Whether or not Jamin would honor his father’s wishes,
however, remained to be seen.  Somehow, Ninsianna thought they hadn't seen the
end of things.

“Immanu asks that you
be accepted into his household as his son.”  The Chief gestured beyond the ring
of shamans to the curious villagers who peeped out of their houses at the
unbelievable creature who had walked into their midst.  “You must understand
that membership in this village comes with responsibility?”

“Such as?”  Mikhail
sized up the Chief as though he were a pot of beans waiting to be counted.

“It's planting
season,” the Chief said.  “As soon as the Hiddekel River recedes, everyone,
from the youngest child to the oldest granny, takes to the fields to scatter
seed upon the silt.”

“I agree,” Mikhail
said.

“We don't have the
resources to support a warrior class,” the Chief continued.  “Every villager
has a trade.  You must figure out what you're good at and provide a service
that's valuable to the tribe.”

“I don't remember what
I'm good at,” Mikhail said.  “But I'll do whatever is necessary.” 

“Agreed,” said the
Chief.  “Lastly, as you saw yourself, our neighbors look for any excuse to
evict us from our lands and steal the hard-earned fruits of our labor.  Every
man and woman, as soon as they learn to walk, must learn to defend themselves. 
We only fight when provoked, but it happens with great regularity.”

“I think you already
know that is where my talents lay,” Mikhail said.  “So long as I reside within
your village, I will help you defend it.”

“Then all is well!” 
The Chief stood to allow Mikhail to kiss his hand as was their custom when
swearing fealty to the village chief.  Thinking better of it, he awkwardly
shook hands which he perceived to be the winged ones custom.  The Chief might
have failings when it came to his son, but he was no fool.  “Immanu, you have a
son!”

A cheer went up
amongst the shamans.  The Chief left with as much pomp as he'd arrived.  The
older warriors from her father's generation who had discreetly followed the
Chief to the meeting shooed away the curious onlookers. 

Many hours of
feasting, drinking, and singing the old songs later, the gathering began to
break up.  Ninsianna helped her mother settle the visitors into temporary
accommodations.  Relatives were putting up some of the shamans, a few pitched
tents in a nearby field, and the rest would spend the night jammed into her
father’s house.  It was time to settle her new 'brother' into his
accommodations.

She led Mikhail into
their modest mud-brick home.  She'd always been proud of her parents' house,
larger than many in the village, but to eyes now grown accustomed to the clean
lines of the great sky canoe, the rammed dirt floor appeared shabby, the
multi-purpose room too small, and ceiling far too low.  What did the houses
his
people lived in look like, she wondered?  When his people finally came for
him, would he feel ashamed for having been forced to live here? 

Mikhail silently took
in his surroundings with that unreadable expression he always wore.  She led
him through the large multi-purpose room and up the steep stairs that was more
a ladder than steps to the second story.  The ladder continued upwards through
a hole onto the roof where on extremely hot nights they would occasionally
sleep outdoors, but tonight a woven reed mat covered the exit because in April
the climate was still rather cold.  The ceiling in the second floor was so low that
he'd to scrunch up his wings and tilt his head between the joists so as not to
bang his head.  It was
not
a house designed for a five-cubit-tall winged
man.

“Father has set aside
this room for you.”  She showed him into what used to be her parent's bedroom.

“Ninsianna … this is
the largest sleeping quarters in the house,” he said.  “I don't wish to usurp
your parents.  It's not necessary.”

“It is our way…”

“But it's
not
ours!”  The determined set of his jaw indicated this was a subject he wouldn't
be swayed on.  “Please, is there another room?”

“There is mine.”  She
hoped he didn't see her blush.  “But it would be considered improper to share
it amongst my people.  It's not like the sleeping quarters in your ship.  My
room is tiny and there is only one bed.  People would think…..” 

She knew what they
were
already
thinking.  Although they were wrong.  At least about her
taking any
action
on her impure thoughts.  Nothing had gone on because
Mikhail expressed a total lack of interest! 

He stepped closer.  Her
breath caught in her throat at the sight of the first unguarded expression
she'd seen on his face since the day she'd found him in his crashed ship,
impaled through the chest.  She reached up and placed her palm upon his cheek,
conveying via touch the wish she didn't dare put into words. 

“Ninsianna.”  His
voice was husky as he captured her hand and placed over his heart, pressing it
flat against his chest.  He hesitated, and then tilted his head towards hers.

Oh!  Perhaps she'd
been wrong about that lack of interest?  Her eyes fluttered shut, waiting for
his kiss.

“Hey … Ninsianna!” 
Two visiting shamans strode into her parent's home, oblivious to what they'd
just interrupted.

“Which piece of floor
is mine?” one asked.

“The part with the
fewest lumps,” the other answered.

Her heart fell as
Mikhail stepped back and donned that maddeningly impassive mask he used to hide
his emotions.  She was disappointed, but happy.  So he was
not
completely
immune to her?  Her captured hand still rested against his heart as though he
didn't wish to let her go.

“I'll sleep in the
room downstairs with the shamans,” he released her hand.  “We'll figure out a
more permanent solution once they leave.  Tell your father it's not our custom
for a son usurp his father in his own home.”

“I will.”  She backed
into her tiny bedroom, one hand on the animal hide that served as a door as he
began to descend the steps.  He paused.

“Ninsianna?”

His eyes were no
longer unreadable, but filled with regret.

“Good night."

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