sharpened—were menacing, like a wolf’s. If fear was what parishioners needed, then scared they would be.
Da sorlou la enk mach? They would sometimes ask. But the answer, much like the question, meant absolutely nothing.
The question was on the tip of his tongue but he would never ask, because even though it meant something among their own kind (something like “What is the point of even doing this?”), Massa would likely have said, ‘the generosity of the token was a sign that they would be willing to keep up the deal year after year’. Those of the parish would keep doing so as long as the rains could be relied upon to give prophetic harvest–and as it so happened, they had continued through the centuries like clockwork. Once a year, torrential rains showered Noremway Parish, but not a drop touched the land outside it.
The magic that had been eroding since the time of Ragas had finally disappeared, never to return. He could feel the Darkness strongly here; and when the Darkness was near, the rains always ceased.
Garish felt along the wall and on the south end found an opening—a place where the stones were loose and could be removed, allowing a man to crawl through the wall. He pulled out the large block, which was much lighter than it looked. His large muscles strained a little, but the block itself looked like it could be several hundred pounds. After pulling it and the one next to it aside, he stuck his head into the darkness. The gap was barely wide enough for his shoulders but he managed to squeeze through with relative ease. The damp air rushed out, hitting his face, filling his nose with ecstasy. He’d never breathed air this humid before.
He found himself in a dark, damp chamber on a downward sloping path. Water dripped from the ceiling into large tubs on either side. These reservoirs were massive, capable of containing thousands of gallons each. As they filled, they spilled into the next, which spilled into the next, and so on until there was no more water falling into the chamber. Hollow tubes lead from the reservoir up into the ceiling; presumably, this was how the parishioners accessed their stored water.
He grasped his necklace of shrunken heads in his hands and prayed to the ancestors that all would be well, that he would find his way to the chancellor’s courtroom, and that he would make the deal that had been made many times before. He would return to Massa with news that all had been done as ordered, and he would climb into the upper echelons of the Ujimati .
The path continued its downward slope beneath the parish. As he descended into the dark, he clung to his necklace knowing that his ancestors—those who had fallen at that fateful battle so long ago—would be with him no matter what.
***
When Garish saw light again it was accompanied by voices. A man was speaking about people he called the caravan-folk. His description of the Ujimati was somewhat inaccurate, but interesting. The fear that the people of Noremway Parish had toward these caravan-folk was evident in the man’s voice, as was the awe they had for them. Garish slid through the narrow opening into the court room and saw a man, standing approximately five feet seven inches, with the hood of a cloak pulled over his head, shading his face in darkness. A crossbow was slung on his back.
He hid in the dark until the man was done talking. “There’s a lot more up here than you give me credit for, Urey,” the man with the crossbow said and laughed loudly, which allowed Garish the cover to move undetected from the darkness to a position that would afford him the upper hand, the element of surprise, or an affirmation of the mystery surrounding the Ujimati .
He had initially entered unsure of himself, but now that he knew where he was, and that these two men were waiting for him, he needed to be in control. Standing tall and menacing, flashing his sharpened teeth, he said, “Let’s get this started.”
***
After the sermon
Da sorlou la enk mach? They would sometimes ask. But the answer, much like the question, meant absolutely nothing.
The question was on the tip of his tongue but he would never ask, because even though it meant something among their own kind (something like “What is the point of even doing this?”), Massa would likely have said, ‘the generosity of the token was a sign that they would be willing to keep up the deal year after year’. Those of the parish would keep doing so as long as the rains could be relied upon to give prophetic harvest–and as it so happened, they had continued through the centuries like clockwork. Once a year, torrential rains showered Noremway Parish, but not a drop touched the land outside it.
The magic that had been eroding since the time of Ragas had finally disappeared, never to return. He could feel the Darkness strongly here; and when the Darkness was near, the rains always ceased.
Garish felt along the wall and on the south end found an opening—a place where the stones were loose and could be removed, allowing a man to crawl through the wall. He pulled out the large block, which was much lighter than it looked. His large muscles strained a little, but the block itself looked like it could be several hundred pounds. After pulling it and the one next to it aside, he stuck his head into the darkness. The gap was barely wide enough for his shoulders but he managed to squeeze through with relative ease. The damp air rushed out, hitting his face, filling his nose with ecstasy. He’d never breathed air this humid before.
He found himself in a dark, damp chamber on a downward sloping path. Water dripped from the ceiling into large tubs on either side. These reservoirs were massive, capable of containing thousands of gallons each. As they filled, they spilled into the next, which spilled into the next, and so on until there was no more water falling into the chamber. Hollow tubes lead from the reservoir up into the ceiling; presumably, this was how the parishioners accessed their stored water.
He grasped his necklace of shrunken heads in his hands and prayed to the ancestors that all would be well, that he would find his way to the chancellor’s courtroom, and that he would make the deal that had been made many times before. He would return to Massa with news that all had been done as ordered, and he would climb into the upper echelons of the Ujimati .
The path continued its downward slope beneath the parish. As he descended into the dark, he clung to his necklace knowing that his ancestors—those who had fallen at that fateful battle so long ago—would be with him no matter what.
***
When Garish saw light again it was accompanied by voices. A man was speaking about people he called the caravan-folk. His description of the Ujimati was somewhat inaccurate, but interesting. The fear that the people of Noremway Parish had toward these caravan-folk was evident in the man’s voice, as was the awe they had for them. Garish slid through the narrow opening into the court room and saw a man, standing approximately five feet seven inches, with the hood of a cloak pulled over his head, shading his face in darkness. A crossbow was slung on his back.
He hid in the dark until the man was done talking. “There’s a lot more up here than you give me credit for, Urey,” the man with the crossbow said and laughed loudly, which allowed Garish the cover to move undetected from the darkness to a position that would afford him the upper hand, the element of surprise, or an affirmation of the mystery surrounding the Ujimati .
He had initially entered unsure of himself, but now that he knew where he was, and that these two men were waiting for him, he needed to be in control. Standing tall and menacing, flashing his sharpened teeth, he said, “Let’s get this started.”
***
After the sermon
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