Sword of the Gods: The Chosen One (38 page)

At one end of the
yard, the family's dairy goat bleated a greeting, standing on her hind legs to
see if Needa brought any scraps.  Leading the goat outside the village to
pasture each morning and bringing her home each afternoon was one of the tasks
he'd taken upon himself to pull his weight, although the goat was less than
pleased with his self-appointed industriousness.  A neighbor peeked over the
laundry she hung in the next yard over as he spread his injured wing.  He
studied her with an unreadable expression, wondering whether her curiosity was
hostile or benign.  No matter where he went, his every move was scrutinized.

Needa felt along the
bone, her trained fingers registering every nuance of the flesh which lay
beneath.  His wing twitched involuntarily when she got to the spot where it
felt like somebody was ripping the limb off of his body every time he extended
it.  The longer the injury lingered, the less likely it was he would ever
regain the ability to fly.  Without a cutting-edge surgical team to go in and
repair the damage, Needa was his last hope

“It didn't bother you
when you were made a wind to spread the barley seed,” Needa said.

“No, Ma’am," he
said.  "As long as I reach straight outwards and not up, it's fine.” 

 “Does this still hurt?” 
Needa felt along the place where his tendon had partially torn away from the
bone. 

 “Somewhat,” he said,
“though not as bad as before.  I can move my wings horizontally to do a
hop-glide, but I can't stretch them up to pull myself off of the ground.” 

The initial act of
becoming airborne, not the flying itself, was the real marvel of flight. 
Gravity only reluctantly released its hold.

“Have you been doing
the exercises I recommended?”  Needa massaged the area around the torn tendon. 

Mikhail suppressed a
grimace of pain.  Unlike Ninsianna’s pleasant ministrations, there was nothing
gentle about Needa’s perfunctory manner of dispensing healing.  She was
efficient … blunt … and every bit as talented as the Emperor’s best trauma
surgeons.

“I've been performing
your exercises three times a day,” he said.  “It doesn't seem to help.”  That
panicky feeling he'd been suppressing since the day he'd learned he might never
fly again clenched in his stomach like a small animal trying to dig its way out
of the earth.  Never had he felt so helpless in the face of an obstacle he
didn't know how to overcome.

“Show me how far you
can move it on your own … straight up … before it hurts too much to move
further.  Slowly!!!  No jerking the muscle.  And no playing tough boy!  I can't
help if you don't tell me the truth.”

“This is where it
starts to hurt,” he moved his wing so the knee joint was above his head.  The
trailing edge ran horizontal to the earth.

“Tell me when it gets
too painful to bear.”  Needa grabbed his injured wing just before the joint and
held it stable while she maneuvered the end-tip up another foot before
dizziness began to make his head swirl.  She held the wing in the uncomfortable
position while he exhaled to control the pain.  It hurt, but if the pain could
help him fly again, he would endure.

“What is the
prognosis?”  He sighed with relief when she finally released his wing and
ruffled his feathers to work out the small stabs of pain as blood circulation
increased into the injured limb.

“Try it again,” she
ordered. 

He lifted the wing as
far as he could go, grimacing as he hit the end of his comfort range.  He
pushed the uncooperative limb just a little bit higher.

“That's four inches
higher than a minute ago,” she said, “and a good foot higher than last week.”

“What does that
mean?”  He hoped it meant things were improving.  He didn't think he would be
of much use to the emperor he could only vaguely remember …
or
complete
whatever mission he'd been sent here to accomplish … if he couldn't fly.  He
stretched his wing until the spasm which had developed in the axillary muscles
finally began to subside.

“It means you need
more time to heal,” she said.  “Months.  But you
may
be able to fly
again once it does.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”  A smirk
twitched up one corner of his mouth despite his best attempt to maintain a
neutral demeanor.  He didn't relish the thought of having a gimpy wing for a
few more months, but it was the most hopeful news he'd received in weeks.

“Ask Ninsianna to help
you stretch like I just did several times a day,” Needa said.  “And to keep
massaging it for you.  Massage removes the evil spirits from the flesh.”

By 'evil spirits' he
assumed she meant the tiny daggers stabbing through the flesh which protested
having just been forced to move after months of inaction. 

“Yes, Ma’am.”  He
masked his thrill at having an excuse to ask Ninsianna to massage his wing. 
The only evil spirit he wished removed was the distance which had cropped up
between them since they'd left his ship.  Since coming to Assur, her gentle
ministrations had all but ceased. 

“Now, go make yourself
useful, young man!”  Needa shooed him away with her hand.  “You're eating me
out of house and home!”

“Yes, Sir!”  He gave
her a good-natured salute. 

~ * ~ * ~
* ~ * ~

You're the
one who bakes the bappir

In the big
oven,

Puts in
order the piles of hulled grains,

Ninkasi,
you're the one who bakes

the bappir
in the big oven,

Puts in
order the piles of hulled grains…

…When you
pour out the filtered beer

Of the
collector vat,

It is
[like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

Ninkasi,
you're the one who pours out the

Filtered
beer of the collector vat,

It is
[like] the onrush of Tigris and Euphrates.

Hymn to
Ninkasi -

Sumerian
Goddess of Bread and Beer

End-April – 3,390 BC

Earth:  Village of Assur

Ninsianna

Ninsianna stretched to
ease the crick which had developed in her back and wiped the sweat from her
brow.  Every spring, they entered planting season full of energy left over from
the idle winter, but within days they were reminded that the sun was a harsh
taskmaster.  If not for the fact Mikhail appeared uncomfortable every time she
took off her shawl, she would have already stripped down to the waist like
their neighbors had already done. 

The too-small cast-off
shawl of her childhood was artfully tied to cover all the parts that made the
stoic Angelic stiffen and stare bolt-straight into her eyes.  The garment was
sweaty, filthy, and plastered to her skin, making her silent curses to the sun
all that more colorful.  She could almost
hear
She-who-is laughing at
her discomfort.  Thank the goddess they were nearly done planting the day's
allotment!

“Ninsianna,” Mikhail
pointed to the plot next to theirs.  “Why do those two old women plant their
field alone?  Don't they have family to help them?”

The plot in question
had been freed from the receding flood waters a full week before
her
family's
plot came above the floodtide, but the widow-sisters still had much left to
plant in contrast to their nearly planted field.  Yalda and Zhila were both
women in their seventies, an advanced age even for the Ubaid.  They bent over
their baskets of seed, arthritic hands and backs bent from a lifetime of hard
labor, methodically casting seed upon the silt.  As they worked, they chattered
to one another, one sister finishing the thoughts of the other.

“That's Yalda and
Zhila,” Ninsianna said.  “Halifians killed their sons in a raid and their
daughters are married to men from far-off villages.”

“Why do they not go to
live with them, then?”  Mikhail tossed another handful of grain out onto the
fertile soil.  "Elderly women shouldn't be forced to perform such hard
physical labor."

“They don't wish to be
a burden upon their children,” Ninsianna said.  “They are sisters and don't wish
to be separated.  So they fend for themselves.”

“Doesn't anybody help
them?”

“If we finish planting
our own fields before sundown,” she said, “we usually go over and help them
finish spreading the rest of their baskets.  They are very old and it takes them
a long time.  It's only an extra hour we have to offer per day, but it helps. 
They are very kind, funny old women.”

She didn't
add
that the reason so many villagers helped them was because Yalda made bread so
soft it melted in your mouth, while Zhila was a talented brewer of just about
any concoction which could be fermented.  The widow sisters were savvy about
who
they rewarded with the
real
fruits of their labor, the bread
and beer they manufactured from grain harvested from their field.  No matter how
much other villagers tried to steal their secret recipes, no one had ever been
able to replicate the one-two punch of the brewer-and-baker widow-sisters who
avidly worshipped Ninkasi, the goddess of barley and beer.

“What about
them
?”
Mikhail nodded towards where Jamin and several warriors lounged on the edge of
the field, their baskets empty.

“It gets more
difficult for the Chief to get them to do their fair share every year,”
Ninsianna snorted.  “They say they are powerful warriors and such work is beneath
them.  If we don't plant, we don't eat!”

“We should move
faster, then,” he said.  “So we can offer to help.  You have an extra hand to
plant your allotment now.  We can do more.”

“Yes,” Ninsianna
nodded with approval.  “We shall go faster.”

Tossing handfuls of
the wild barley seed into the air, Mikhail whipped his enormous black-and-brown
striped wings with a frenzy to distribute the tiny grains across the silt.  The
breeze whipped up by his wings caused her to close her eyes and relish the
feeling of being cooled by a living fan.  Laughter welled up in her chest, the
joy of watching him show off for her making her heart swell with happiness.

“Mikhail, stop!” she
laughed.  “If you spread your seed any further, you'll plant grain all the way
up to the Taurus Mountains!”

“Are we done yet,” he
asked with a smile.

Her heart skipped a
beat.  For a moment, she forgot to breathe.  If she'd thought he was beautiful
before, that was nothing compared to the joy she felt as she saw him smile for
the very first time.  Ever since the goddess had touched her with the gift of
sight, Ninsianna could see straight into people’s souls.  Right now, she was
being blinded by the golden-white spirit-light which surrounded him, radiating
out of his heart as though it were rays of the sun.  Realizing her jaw was
open, she shut her mouth and attempted to compose her features into something
other than naked desire.

“Did I do something
wrong?” he frowned.  The colors in his aura clamped down behind that thin, blue
eggshell which was the color she would always associate with him.

Ninsianna placed her
hand over his heart and took his hand to place upon her cheek, tilting her head
to smile up at him. 

“No, Mikhail.  This is
the first time I have ever seen you smile.”

His fingers slid
across her cheek to tangle in her hair.  “Ninsianna?”

His mask slipped. 
Naked emotion showed on his face.  Time slowed down, allowing her to savor the
moment.  She paused, her breathing labored, as she stared into his unearthly
blue eyes, bluer and paler than the midwinter sun.  She knew.  Even if the
goddess had not gifted her with the gift of sight, she knew.  But this was not
the right moment.  Her elderly neighbors watched from their right, while Jamin
and his friends chattered feet from where they stood.  They weren’t exactly …
inconspicuous.