wanted to poison the lot of them, what was to stop me from tainting the slop while they all slept? Perhaps the same thought occurred to Ringus, for he sighed and helped himself to some gruel before I was even halfway done.
My exhaustion increased a thousandfold with the warm food in my stomach. Ringus placed his empty bowl on the table and nodded at me. Together, we hefted the cauldron’s heavy wooden lid over it.
I was done, free to go.
It was then that she came to me.
I didn’t recognize her at first, understand, so deep was my fatigue. I saw only the benign form she took. A pigeon.
The pigeon flapped across the courtyard, pearly gray in the moonlight. It landed an arm’s span from Ringus and me, cocked its head, and began approaching, walking in a jerky bob, its beady eyes as red and waxy as incarnadine berries.
Closer it came, unafraid. Unnatural.
“What … ?” Ringus said, and a blue mist oozed up from the ground beneath the pigeon, viscous and sulfurous.
Both Ringus and I backed up. Our rumps jarred the butchering table behind us. Without turning or looking away from the pigeon, I fumbled on the table for the machete I’d used to slaughter the renimgar.
“Kwano the One Snake, the First Father, the progenitor and spirit of all kwano everywhere, I bid you begone,” Ringus gasped. He was uttering the Gyin-gyin, the Dragon Temple chant every child, every father, every mother and Holy Warden knows. “I evoke the powers of Ranon ki Cinai, governed by the exalted Emperor Mak Fa-sren.”
The pigeon began swelling. The blue mist rose into the air in a column and began swirling about the bird in a tight spiral. My fingers closed over the machete.
“I evoke the authority of the Omnipotent Dragon,” Ringus breathlessly intoned, eyes bulging, “the One Dragon, the progenitor and spirit of all dragons everywhere.”
The pigeon swelled to the size of a melon. Its feathers stood out like quills; its eyes sank deep into its flesh. Its beak gaped as wide as the mouth of a fish out of water.
“Shut up,” I hissed at Ringus. “You’re making it worse.”
“I evoke the power of Re, holy bull of Clutch Re—”
The obscenely bloated pigeon emitted a strangled squawk and exploded. Shreds of flesh splattered against our shins. Feathers rained down upon us, charred and smoking. The blue, sulfurous mist coalesced and turned into the flickering form of … my mother.
“Re help us,” Ringus squeaked.
Her long ebony hair fanned out behind her like wings, and the green and brown pigmentation of her Djimbi skin glowed, the green as bright as fireflies, the brown as ruddy as a lit kiln’s bricks. The bitoo she wore fell in blue luminescent pleats to her feet, shivering as if alive. My heart swelled and pounded painfully in my chest.
She reached a trembling hand out to me, an uncertain smile on her face. “Zarq?”
I dropped the machete and ran into her embrace.
I buried my face against her bosom and wept. She was warm and soft and real, and her arms about me were forgiving and loving both.
Oh, Mother, you who used me so cruelly in your madness, who’d led me to mutilation at the convent and then abandoned me through death, why did I crave your love so?
She lifted my hair from my nape, pressed her lips against my skin.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” she murmured, and her tears ran sweet and warm down my back. “My baby girl, forgive me.”
“Mother,” I wept. I held her tight against me, the curve of her spine welcome and familiar beneath my hands.
“Hush now, child,” she murmured. “You know I love you.”
But I didn’t know such, not after the Sa Gikiro of my ninth year, when my sheltered world in the pottery clan had shattered.
“Mother,” I said, inhaling the soft warmth of her neck, below her left ear, her glossy black hair draped over me like a benediction.
“Listen to me, Zarq.” Her voice became a little sterner, the strong, gentle tone so familiar from my infancy. She held me at
My exhaustion increased a thousandfold with the warm food in my stomach. Ringus placed his empty bowl on the table and nodded at me. Together, we hefted the cauldron’s heavy wooden lid over it.
I was done, free to go.
It was then that she came to me.
I didn’t recognize her at first, understand, so deep was my fatigue. I saw only the benign form she took. A pigeon.
The pigeon flapped across the courtyard, pearly gray in the moonlight. It landed an arm’s span from Ringus and me, cocked its head, and began approaching, walking in a jerky bob, its beady eyes as red and waxy as incarnadine berries.
Closer it came, unafraid. Unnatural.
“What … ?” Ringus said, and a blue mist oozed up from the ground beneath the pigeon, viscous and sulfurous.
Both Ringus and I backed up. Our rumps jarred the butchering table behind us. Without turning or looking away from the pigeon, I fumbled on the table for the machete I’d used to slaughter the renimgar.
“Kwano the One Snake, the First Father, the progenitor and spirit of all kwano everywhere, I bid you begone,” Ringus gasped. He was uttering the Gyin-gyin, the Dragon Temple chant every child, every father, every mother and Holy Warden knows. “I evoke the powers of Ranon ki Cinai, governed by the exalted Emperor Mak Fa-sren.”
The pigeon began swelling. The blue mist rose into the air in a column and began swirling about the bird in a tight spiral. My fingers closed over the machete.
“I evoke the authority of the Omnipotent Dragon,” Ringus breathlessly intoned, eyes bulging, “the One Dragon, the progenitor and spirit of all dragons everywhere.”
The pigeon swelled to the size of a melon. Its feathers stood out like quills; its eyes sank deep into its flesh. Its beak gaped as wide as the mouth of a fish out of water.
“Shut up,” I hissed at Ringus. “You’re making it worse.”
“I evoke the power of Re, holy bull of Clutch Re—”
The obscenely bloated pigeon emitted a strangled squawk and exploded. Shreds of flesh splattered against our shins. Feathers rained down upon us, charred and smoking. The blue, sulfurous mist coalesced and turned into the flickering form of … my mother.
“Re help us,” Ringus squeaked.
Her long ebony hair fanned out behind her like wings, and the green and brown pigmentation of her Djimbi skin glowed, the green as bright as fireflies, the brown as ruddy as a lit kiln’s bricks. The bitoo she wore fell in blue luminescent pleats to her feet, shivering as if alive. My heart swelled and pounded painfully in my chest.
She reached a trembling hand out to me, an uncertain smile on her face. “Zarq?”
I dropped the machete and ran into her embrace.
I buried my face against her bosom and wept. She was warm and soft and real, and her arms about me were forgiving and loving both.
Oh, Mother, you who used me so cruelly in your madness, who’d led me to mutilation at the convent and then abandoned me through death, why did I crave your love so?
She lifted my hair from my nape, pressed her lips against my skin.
“Forgive me, forgive me,” she murmured, and her tears ran sweet and warm down my back. “My baby girl, forgive me.”
“Mother,” I wept. I held her tight against me, the curve of her spine welcome and familiar beneath my hands.
“Hush now, child,” she murmured. “You know I love you.”
But I didn’t know such, not after the Sa Gikiro of my ninth year, when my sheltered world in the pottery clan had shattered.
“Mother,” I said, inhaling the soft warmth of her neck, below her left ear, her glossy black hair draped over me like a benediction.
“Listen to me, Zarq.” Her voice became a little sterner, the strong, gentle tone so familiar from my infancy. She held me at
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