Day 13 – April 13 – The Far-side of the Tree – NaShoStoMo Challenge

I really wish I knew where ideas came from and why stories sometimes turn out very different from the way you though it was going to turn out... I actually do love baobab trees! I hope you enjoy today's piece for the NaShoStoMo Challenge!

Day 13 – April 13 – The Far-side of the Tree – NaShoStoMo Challenge

Damian scratched absentmindedly at the bark of the baobab as he sat and read. Every now and then – the moments when his brain seemed to realize for a few seconds that his body was in another reality than the one it was living – he glanced to where the train tracks disappeared from sight. How he wished and prayed that the next train would show up. It has already been three weeks without any train passing the station aptly called Tussen-hier-en-nergens.

Sometimes he would leave his book for a moment – not long enough for the white ants to find it, mind you – and crawl over to the tracks. There he would crouch down like a cowboy, place his ear to the warm iron and close his eyes. Then, for another moment he could imagine hearing the clack of a train coming. Perhaps even a whistle will sound and his father would come out of his office. Perhaps he could even go to the Wild West for a few moments. But then the iron grew to hot, or a bead of sweat will tickle his neck or cheek and he would open his eyes. The only thing left to do then; was go back to the baobab and pick up whatever book he was busy with and forget about the absence of the train for another while.

Some people from the dorp said that the trains would never come again and that they will all have to move somewhere else to make a living. “Might as well rip up the tracks and sell the scrap,” Twee-oog said one day outside the pub. He probably would have done it too if he had a wagon and more than one horse. These days people were only drifting towards the pub; drifting away from the station house and the counter there that served as a post office. No mail came now. No people travelling up north. No one travelling back south. Damian couldn’t remember a time when he had been this bored or when last he had seen his father smile. Even his mother and siblings seem to keep to themselves. They didn’t even look which book it was that he took off the shelf as they usually did – he was, after all, a laatlammetjie and ten years younger than his sister, Klara, who was the fourth child.

Damian only stopped reading long enough to walk across the tracks, go into the house, get another book from one of the trunks and walk back to the tree. His tree. It looked like a giant crouching next to the tracks with wild hair sticking into the air. It felt ancient. Damian imagined it to be the guardian of Tussen-hier-en-nergens. It was still alive – he was sure of that – but the tree never bore any leaves. It only stood there next to the tracks looking as if some larger being had ripped up a tree and planted it upside down so that its roots and not its branches reached out to the sun. Sometimes the wind sang strange songs when it blew through the root-like branches and Damian stopped reading to listen if he could understand what the wind was saying. Sometimes the tree made a hollow sound like when you blow across the top of a bottle, only much louder. He had an inkling that the hole on the other side of the trunk led into the middle of the trunk and that the tree was completely hollow. But since Thomas – the man who’s books he read – went missing after climbing into the hole, he had not ventured there again. If it wasn’t for the train staying away so long and everybody having other things to worry about, he probably would not even be permitted to sit under the tree.

No trains came for four weeks. His father didn’t even bother dressing properly in the morning anymore and he seldom went into the office. Barely anyone looked up the tracks anymore. It was as if the whole town had forgotten that the town was only built because of the trains. But word had come that there were very bad rains to the south. Apparently some of the tracks were beyond repair and had to be rebuilt – along with couple of trains – before the track will be used again like before. But Damian could not hear how long the trains would still be away. It was a lot more difficult to eavesdrop through a door in real life than in books.

On the day news came of the rains, Damian went again to the Baobab. He walked slowly around it to where the hole was where Thomas had crawled in. He bent down and peered inside. It was large enough for him to easily crawl through… And he would take a flashlight and not a lantern like Thomas did. And he would tie a rope to the outside of the tree and around his waist, just like in the stories. He would find out whether the tree was really hollow. Maybe it would even lead him down into caverns where the baobab grew leaves in the light of a million glittering crystals. Maybe there would be a whole other world down there with dinosaurs and a great lake… But he also remembered the day Thomas went into the tree. He was gone within minutes and even when the men lighted lanterns to try and see inside, they could see nothing. For months after that no one went near the tree and people said that there was something wrong with the tree or that the tree was angry at all the people moving there and building a town.  Damian felt his heart restrict at the thought of his father stopping him before he could venture inside the tree himself. It was his tree after all. He spent every day with it. It wouldn’t hurt him.

He sneaked into his father’s empty office and took a torch and rope from the cupboard. Then he sneaked back to the far side of the tree. He tied the rope around his waist and then to a sturdy rock nearby. The rope was at least fifteen meters long – long enough to circle the tree trunk nearly twice. He put on his flashlight, got down on his hands and knees, took a deep breath and crawled inside. He had never felt so alive before. Inside the tree was hollow after all and he could stand upright. But the torch’s light seemed not to be able to reach the trunk. Beyond his circle of light it was black as pitch. He glanced back and could still see the opening in the trunk and a small piece of the sun-baked ground. He went farther into the tree. Still he could not see the trunk. The whole in the baobab’s trunk slowly creaked closed and the rope snapped. 

THE END

A Baobab tree - a strange beauty

(With thanks to the source of the picture)

Some translations for the curious few:

Tussen-hier-en-nergens = Between here and nowhere (This is a fictional town. I have no idea if there is a real town of this name in RSA.)

Dorp = town

Twee-oog = Two-eyes (A nickname, he has an identical brother that wears glasses while he does not.)

Laatlammetjie = an informal way to refer to a child born much later than his/her siblings.

Day 12 – April 12 – The Message

Day 12 – April 12 – The Message

Andrew sealed the capsule and wondered if anyone would get their message. The same message was still repeating in an endless loop hours after radio contact had been lost. Inside the capsule was a copy of their logs, diary entries and even a couple of personal letters. They had been so happy when they visited the planet which had been christened New Earth. The new home of the human race – and many animal and plant species – had been completely terraformed. It seemed a utopia, a Garden of Eden, not like the spoiled and dying Earth they had come to know. 

There was no communication possible between New Earth and Earth and that is why they had been sent. Either they would find the new world ready, or they would find a barren wilderness unfit for humans. If it was the first, colonisation could begin. If it was the latter, well, other planets were also being terraformed. The people of Earth would have another decade or two to suffer in their man-made hell before being able to colonise a new world. But the world was ready.

On the way back, something terrible had gone wrong with the ship. It spiralled off course and could not get back on its course. Then the main engines died after communication with New Earth had been lost. Now they could communicate with neither the people of Earth, nor the people of New Earth; but sent out a distress call nonetheless. When they got no answer and their oxygen levels were getting depleted they changed the message of the call. “New Earth terraforming completed. Begin colonisation.” Short. Simple. But he wanted to know that the message reached someone. Anyone. Preferably his loved ones, even though that was selfish – there were billions of other people that needed saving as well. 

Jimmy took the capsule from him. “Is this it?” 

Andrew nodded. “This is it.” 

“I hope they get it before it’s too late for them – for Earth, I mean. What happens to a message if no one receives it?”

“That’s deep,” Clive joked. He always had a joke, no matter what the situation. No matter how dark and hopeless. “If nothing else,” he added, grinning his Clive-grin, “we won’t have to go to a man-made New Earth now, we can go to the real thing.”

THE END

Day 11 – April 11 – Part 2 - The Battle of the Black Field - NaShoStoMo

Here's part 2 of today's NaShoStoMo Challenge stories. This one visits again the world of Airthai...

Day 11 – April 11 – Part 2 - The Battle of the Black Field

It was on the third day of the eight month that two kingdoms clashed on the plain called Eiragin. This battle was called the Battle of the Black Field. 

“Sound the call.” As the horns of the army sounded and was joined by the clashing of spear and swords upon shields, Prince Elkaatan of Trelkanor stared over the field at the approaching army of Reiaghy. Once sister-kingdoms, their last years had been plagued by strife caused by ambitious men with deep enough pockets to be able to buy fighting men. The horns sounded again and Elkaatan could feel the tenseness of the soldiers all around him. Dressed in white, red and purple – the colours of Trelkanor - he looked every bit the regal leader. Yet he was quite a few people removed from the throne. Well-liked by his people, but being only the fourth son of the king of Trelkanor, Elkaatan was to lead the suicide battle against the forces of Reiaghy. Though he could not see the Werlea between the soldiers, he was sure they were there. Réjhal, his own Ahma, a scholar of the True Light, was not at his side. Maybe he would even miss the entire battle. He prayed it would not be so; his men needed all the help they could get. He lifted his sword in his left hand and the clamouring stopped just long enough for the last blast of the horns to sound as the signal to charge.

From the river Tarathlon and Dieuwke could hear the sound of battle drifting from the field. “We are too late,” Dieuwke said, trying not to let those around her hear.

“We can’t turn around now.”

They got off the barge and got onto the horses awaiting them. 

“Reiaghy will have reinforcements coming,” one of the young hands warned Tarathlon. “If you cannot help, those of Trelkanor will surely all be slain.”

Tarathlon of Reiaghy and Dieuwke of Trelkanor charged towards the battlefield. Behind them more than one hundred Khallahna came, their yellow cloaks streaming in the wind. From the water the land rose until the battle plain was revealed beneath them. From the north they could see another party in the dark blue and gold of the Reiaghy close in. Trelkanor would be crushed, the men too few to hold the tide of blue-clothed men.

Tarathlon turned to the Khallahna. “You know what you have to do,” he said. “Keep them from each other as long as you have to. Follow me!”

Tarathlon’s horse carried him swiftly down the hill to the plain where he stopped between the bodies of a few who had tried to flee the field. He searched for the source of power within him, straightened his arms and pushed between the two groups of fighting men with all his might. He knew he could keep at least twenty men like this and he started entangling the leaders of both groups. The fighters first strove with the sudden blocking of air around them, but soon slackened when they saw there was nothing they could do. The other Khallahna followed suite, their arms outstretched, blocking the air and making it impossible for the men to fight. Seven of the men broke away from the group to go and stop the nearing column of men from the north.

Dieuwke, too, had her arms outstretched. Within her the power was stronger than ten of the men combined. She walked through the blockings as if they didn’t exist until she was within earshot of the leaders. Behind her, much slower, Tarathlon advanced.

The carnage was greater than they had thought. Only a small band of the Trelkanor men remained standing around their prince.

From the Reiaghy he could feel the dark power of the Werlea breaking down the barriers ever so slowly.

“I am Tarathlon,” he said, “A leader of the Khallahna. You were led into the battle by the greed of the Werlea and their minions. Let them step forward and all your lives may be spared. If you do not, they will face blinding or death.”

For a moment there was utter silence. Then Tarathlon could feel the bonds on the air weaken around almost twenty men. The Werlea stepped forward, grinning as they stepped towards him. 

“We have trained in our knowledge for hundreds of years,” their leader spoke. “Now you want to quell us?” He reached out his hand and clenched it into a fist. One of the men Tarathlon was holding was cut-off in mid-scream and fell to the ground dead.

“You dare oppose me?”

“I do,” Dieuwke said and stepped forward. A murmur went through the crowd.

“Really?” he said, sarcasm dripping from his voice. He stuck out his hand again and Dieuwke blocked it, sending his arm back in a wide arc. The Werlea cursed. “Finish them!”

Some of the Khallahna stepped forward and more men, of both Reiaghy and Trelkanor, fell to the ground with their breath taken from them. Stunned, Tarathlon turned to the Khallahna, searching for the traitor’s faces. The others released the men they held fast and who now didn’t dare move on their own. The Khallahna strove with the traitors among them and with the Werlea. Some of the soldiers now joined in as well, attacking the Werlea with sword and spears and axes. Side by side the soldiers of Trelkanor and Reiaghy fell to kill the Werlea. Dieuwke stretched out her hands and blinded many of the Werlea, leaving them without their Power and begging for mercy. None could believe her strength.

Elkaatan lowered his sword slightly and looked at Tarathlon. Dieuwke saw the leader of the Werlea move towards the prince, but she blocked him so that Elkaatan only staggered a few steps back. 

“Not fast enough,” the Werlea said and grabbed a small knife from his belt and hurling it at the prince. Dieuwke tried her best to stop it, managing to keep the blade from sliding in more than an inch into his flesh. The prince was knocked down, grabbing at the hilt of the knife to remove it from his chest. With a final effort, Dieuwke got it free, slamming it back at the Werlea, the knife sinking deep into his thigh. She turned to block some of the other Werlea who were advancing.

Tarathlon ran over to the prince, clamping his hand over the wound, using his Talent to staunch the blood. Too late did he see the advancing, half-dead Werlea who took up a fallen soldier’s knife and stabbed Dieuwke from behind.

With a last effort Dieuwke made her hand a fist and twisted her arm sharply, causing pain to restrict the Werlea’s chest and leaving him gasping on his knees. Tarathlon ran to Dieuwke’s side. Elkaatan brought his sword down on the gasping Werlea and slew him. Those of the Werlea and traitors of the Khallahna still alive, on seeing their leader dead, started to flee from the field, their yellow cloaks making good targets for the archers.

Tarathlon knelt next to Dieuwke and, with his remaining strength, blocked the pain from her wound. Her eyes had been closed, but with the block in place, she opened them briefly before they faded and no life in her burned anymore.

“She is a hero,” Elkaatan said, “we will sing of her for a long time to come.”

Tarathlon shook his head as tears flowed freely from his eyes. “Say nothing of her. Not her name, nor where she came from. Say that she was of the true Khallahna and nothing more.”

“I will not, she will get the honour her actions deserve.”

Tarathlon lowered his voice. “I don’t think you understand,” he said softly. “She was not taught how to use the Power.” 

Elkaatan looked at the white cloth covering the body. “Born that way? That strong? But she must have blinded thirty Werlea on her own!”

Tarathlon nodded. “Better leave that knowledge to live another day. She has a daughter.” He took the cloak from his shoulders and laid it over her. 

Elkaatan understood what he was getting at. “You have my word. I will make sure her family is provided for.” A messenger gave a swift message to the prince. He said a quick farewell before trudging off to the other side of the camp.

Tarathlon bent down and kissed Dieuwke’s covered brow. “I will see you again Dieuwke,” he spoke softly. “After all this have passed.”

Day 11 – April 11 – Part 1 – He Who Throws Down - NaShoStoMo Challenge

Seeing as I've been quite lax over the weekend with NaShoStoMo posts... here's the first one for today - just in time for morning tea (if you are in S.A., that is...). Today's first piece is loosely based on some Khoikhoi mythology.

 

Day 11 – April 11 – Part 1 – He Who Throws Down

“You dare ask why the people here have no use of your weapons? Go east; go over the sand for two days until you reach a great chasm in the earth. The air there is thick and warm; heated from below in great caverns. There he sits, the one called He Who Throws Down. Face him and tell me that those weapons you carry harm him at all. Go now, but do not expect that you will return.” The old man held the other’s gaze until it faltered. Rivulets of sweat made their way from his brow and neck, but that may just have been because of the heat here.

The man shifted his gun from the crook of one arm to the other. 

“There is nothing this black powder cannot undo. I will face this Thrower if you wish me to. I will return with his head and claim the Killer’s Inheritance.”

The old man laughed. “Yes, yes, they always say that. In my young days many men also said that.” He paused for a moment. “You must bring proof you were there even if you don’t bring his head.” The old man’s voice took on a strange tone. 

“Proof? What do you want me to bring? A bag filled with sand?”

“Look for a string of red glass beads. They are old and strung on a string of pure gold. Bring it to me and I will know that you were at his lair.”

“I will bring the creature’s head,” the hunter grinned.

And so Ewald walked across the burning sand for two days and saw nothing but sand and rocks and a few snakes burrowing into the soil, seeking comfort from the sun. Soon his legs and arms grew tired and he wished for more water than he had. On the second day he reached the great chasm; a rent in the earth that came upon the unwary traveler and would swallow him if he did not keep his eyes on the ground. Nothing but sand was near it, but he could see many white human skulls and bones at the bottom. Some of the skulls were broken. On one of these bones he saw the red beads and he climbed stealthily downwards to retrieve it. The stones and gold would also reap a good price. He reached the top again and looked into the face of one of the most horrible creatures he had seen in all of his life. It was large and bloated with black markings like that of a leopard upon his skin. His face seemed more animal than human, as did the claws he dug into the sand. His bulging red eyes were like that of a reptile. A scraggly mane hung in clumps around his neck. The monster sat parched and scorched in the sun next to the great hole and laughed when he saw the man. His voice rebounded between his ragged teeth and the great black hills in the distance.

“Have you come to kill me?” he asked in a hissing, growling voice.

“I…I have,” Ewald said, taken aback that the nightmarish creature spoke to him. He remembered the unwavering and unbelieving gaze of the old man and pointed his gun at the Thrower. The creature showed even more ragged teeth as Ewald pointed and pulled the trigger. 

The bullet ricochet from the creature’s baked skin and struck Ewald on his arm, leaving a deep gash.

The creature laughed. “No mortal can kill me! No metal can pierce me, no sun can kill me!” he said. “Come, come, and aim again! Take a rock and see if you fare better with it! See if you can win the inheritance!” He took up a rock that fit into his palm and, as he did so, looked down into the hole and realized how so many human bones came to be there and he grew frightened. He let the stone fall and retreated, making sure to keep his face to the creature until he could see him no more.

Ewald bound his arm as good as he could with cloth torn from his shirt and hastened back through night and day to the old man. Reaching him, he showed him the red beads that he took from the bones. The man took them and placed them upon the table in front of him before giving the man some water.

“You have not brought his head,” he said and Ewald shook his head. “I could not.”

The old man smiled again. “No one will ever kill that monster, though they will try. But it does not matter, for now I am unbound,” he said and stood. He took the beads and slipped them into his pocket. “You won’t have use of money for a long time. Maybe someone else will be kind enough to bring you your own string of beads.” Ewald tried to follow him, but could not get further than ten steps from the shack’s door.

Twenty years later Ewald welcomed a young man into the shack. It did not take long for the young man to speak. Ewald touched the beard grown over many years. Then he spoke: “You dare ask why the people here have no use of your weapons? Go east, go over the sand until two days pass and you reach a great hole. The air there is thick and warm, heated from below in great caverns. There he sits, the one we call He Who Throws Down. Face him and tell me that those weapons you carry harm him at all. Go now, but do not expect that you will return. “Look for a string of red glass beads. They are old and strung on a string of pure gold. Bring it to me and I will know that you were at his lair.”