Chapter 18
Kiaga
A bright light is the first thing I recall.
It’s warm, it’s welcoming, and there’s a sound that goes with it. I later know the sound as laughter. At the time, I just knew I liked it.
“Kiaga,” the maker-of-light, the author-of-laughter says. And then her eyes sparkle and the corners of her mouth turn upward. “You are Kiaga, and I am Ama.”
“Ama,” I repeat.
Her mouth turns up even more sharply. She’s smiling. It’s my favorite thing. I want to see it more and more.
“Where are we?” I ask.
“This is my home,” Ama says. “And you’re my child.”
For a very long time, there are only the two of us. But then Ama makes me brothers and sisters. She smiles more. We all do. We learn to tend to the earth, as children of the earth. We plant and cultivate flowers, fruit trees, and vegetables. We learn to take grains and grind them and make bread.
Baked bread becomes almost as good to me as Ama’s smile.
We make shelters to keep us safe and warm when the rains come, and when the rains turn cold and freeze, we prepare rushes to keep our homes more comfortable. We prepare food for seasons when the earth slumbers and does not provide. We grow. We live. We love.
I’m not sure how much time passes, because Ama never changes.
I don’t either.
The others do, growing older, becoming feeble and sick, and eventually, returning to the earth.
The others age and die, but I do not. I am nourished by Ama’s smile.
I remain in her shadow, never far from her light.
Thanks to the bright, warm strength of her smile, walking across the welcoming, loving earth where I was created, I know I will endure.
But one day, after one of the other earth children I particularly love returns to the earth, leaving me lonely, I begin to wonder why Ama made me and why I am different.
I ask.
“You were the answer to a question,” Ama says.
“I was alone for a very long time here. I made many things—flowers, fruit, and even small creatures.” She points at a bird taking flight.
“But none of it was quite what I wanted, at least, not until I made you.” She opens her arms, and I walk into them without thought.
When she tightens her arms around me—a hug—I stop wondering.
Ama made me because she loves me. She made all of us. Some of us are larger, some are smaller. Some age, and some do not. Our differences aren’t a problem.
We all love her, and she loves us too.
Life is simple.
It’s bright and we’re strong, and Ama’s all the strength we need.
Days pass, noted only by the rising and setting of the sun and the turning of the seasons.
Small creatures grow and then become more plentiful.
I help Ama create more of them, in varied and different sizes and with different strengths and tastes.
Frogs to sing us to bed at night.
A squirrel that loves tree nuts and berries.
A fox that loves squirrels and frogs.
Birds to eat bugs.
Birds to eat birds.
Mushrooms to dispose of the remains of things returning to the earth.
Each new wonder brings me joy, and my happiness makes Ama smile.
It’s enough for me, but I fear it may not be for her.
Sometimes, I find her staring into the sky, gazing at the beauty of all the stars.
She’s so large and so powerful, and we’re so small.
Though she loves us, I can tell she yearns again for more.
So when the fallen star strikes our world, I’m not surprised that she races toward it. It’s bright, it’s strong, and it’s different than all of us. All of Ama’s creations. It’s an angry red and blue. It burns like fire, and it sparks like lightning.
It consumes all in its path.
Trees.
Rocks.
Frogs.
Foxes, squirrels, and mushrooms.
They’re all destroyed as it burns its way past.
I worry for Ama, but I follow her as she follows it. It finally comes to rest not far from the largest lake Ama has created. The Greatest Lake. “Be careful,” I whisper. “It looks dangerous.” It’s a new word, one I have never thought before. It means that she should mind my fear and take caution.
But she doesn’t listen. Her eyes sparkle, and she looks beautifully alive. Her smile’s everything, and I haven’t seen it as often. I shouldn’t interfere. I hide behind a large oak tree, and I wait with the scared squirrels, and the quiet frogs, and the trembling fox to see what will happen.
The comet burned and destroyed, but now it has stopped. As Ama approaches, the flames from its fire burn smaller and smaller until they coalesce into a form—not like Ama, and not like us. This form is larger, and different in a way I can’t place. It’s a form I cannot understand.
It has hair, but its hair is flame and ice.
It has a face, but the face is rage and desire.
It has a body, but it’s made for destruction. It’s clad in armor, and it’s full of bristling energy. When it sees Ama, it coils, and then just as I feared it might, it springs at her.
I barely have time to sprint out in front of her and fling my body outward to block hers. As the creature of rage and desire and fury strikes me, it consumes me, one cell at a time. I burn. I freeze. I tremble and shake. I am de s t r o y e d.
But in the last moment before the world shatters and I spread out like the explosion of dust and light that I now am, I hear Ama, my Ama, cry out. “No, Kiaga, no!” She reaches for me.
“Veralden Radien burnssss!” The horrible creature laughs, and then I feel another explosion, this one the last.
And I’m g o n e