Chapter 3 #2
We have enough bloodshed; must we shed more? Must I lose you, too, Ooki? My once lover, my forever friend, my sister, my family. Why is she quick to throw it away?
Mytu’fi shouts from above. She begs me to climb.
Without my permission, my feet stumble backward to the tree.
Ooki’s glow is blinking out one rune at a time.
I squeeze her cowry necklace and hope that once we’re over the wall, she’ll find somewhere to hide.
That I’ll see her again in the great waters.
That I’ll hear her voice next to me as she braids my hair, telling me about her day.
How she swam to the furthest of our borders and discovered rustic and beautiful artifacts carried in by the sea.
I don’t want more loss. She’ll be the last person I watch die from this centuries-long war.
BANG.
A flash like thunder lights up the dark forest.
Mytu’fi screams. I search for her. She has stopped at the top of the tree. Slowly, her body slumps, her hand unable to grip the branches, her head lulls. Then, she’s falling,
Falling,
Falling to the ground.
Her body slams into the ground with a sickening thump.
Blood sprays from the side of her neck. She moves like a crumbled doll, her palm presses against the wound that is draining the very essence of her life onto the soil.
Her golden runes flicker, her mana desperately attempting to sew herself back together.
Before I can run to her, I hear another click. I whirl around, and there, standing between two barren oaks, a soldier holding an old wooden barrel—one I know only by the name: shootah.
The soldier's hands shake as he fumbles to reload. I take off towards him. He grabs a whistle around his neck and blows. The high-pitched whistle is rushing water clogging my ears and shaking my brain. I clasp my hands over my ears to shut out the sound.
The t’ku’nuk stomps. Ooki shouts. The t’ku’nuk horn blows, the earth quakes. The mo’kures launch off the branches, swirling for attack. I turn to Ooki. Her golden light is gone. Her song is silenced over the cry of the t’ku’nuk’s horn.
I direct my anger to the soldier who has reloaded and is taking aim. My sawfish daggers find favor in my palm.
If I’m to die, he will die with me.
My anger melts into rampage.
He shoots.
Misses.
I zigzag toward him. He attempts to reload.
But I’m quicker.
I leap, crashing on top of him.
We tumble to the ground. The shootah flies out of his hands.
I plunge my dagger into his belly. I turn the blade deep into his flesh.
He grunts, blood spilling from his lips.
His body goes limp. Another scream sounds over my shoulder.
I twist my waist and witness Ooki, one hand above her head to block the t’ku’nuk, and the other hand protecting a non-moving Mytu’fi, and the great beast rears up, then down on top of my sisters.
Grief knows every inch of me. Its hands squeeze my heart, robs me of voice, of any reason to continue this fight.
A sharp pain rips through my side. My eyes travel to the stinging sensation.
The soldier spits up a clot of blood and falls limp, his hand releasing the blade protruding from my stomach.
With shaky fingers, I take my sawfish dagger and bury the point into the man’s eye, halting him for good.
More soldier shouts cut through the night.
The t’ku’nuk take off into the woods, the mo’kures swirl above the trees, their song mimicking the screams of Ooki.
How could I lose them both? This can’t be. This isn’t how it was supposed to go. No. No!
I stagger to what is left of my sisters. Ooki holds Mytu’fi’s cowry shell necklace in her fist. I pry it from her fingers, feeling the smooth surface of the shells against my palm. I can’t recognize them. I couldn’t see their eyes. Their faces. The top half … I can’t … I can’t …
Flashes of my mutah run through my mind.
Blood, flesh, bones crunching in soil. Bodies breaking. Shootahs blazing. It’s happening again. I promised myself this time would be different.
I press Ooki’s and Mytu’fi’s necklaces to my heart.
This is not how it is supposed to end.
I hear my mutah in my mind. “E’kili run!”
I can’t. I say. Boots hammer the ground.
“Run!” Mutah pleads. “Call the earth.”
I fall on my side, cradle my heart as if it will escape my ribcage. My runes pulsate gold on my earth-brown skin. Instead of burning, my mana freezes my skin. I feel it dislodging the knife in my stomach, and freezing the blood from pouring.
These soldiers have taken enough from me!
No, not soldiers. These men aren’t men. They never were men. I’ve stared down the face of these monsters. I witnessed the beast inside of them, hiding behind preying eyes. I’ve seen their teeth rip through flesh, their claws slashing necks.
Werewolves.
That’s what they are. Half-men, half-kykyo.
They have taken everything from me, and I refuse to let them take any more. I will kill them, rid them from our land, allow the sea to drink their blood until they are no more.
My rage isn’t fire; it is frostbite. Creeping ice, clawing its way up a werewolf's heart and stopping it for good.
I bury my hand in the soil. The soil grips me back.
I pour my mana into the ground. Call upon the earth.
Damp soil mixes with the metallic tang of blood.
The ground trembles. A low rumble, then the earth clutches my arms, dragging me face-first into the ground.
I disappear into the soil. Allow it to engulf me in its darkness. The earth tells me her secret. And I listen closely.
“Feed, my child.”
“Feast upon them all.”