By the Silver Stream and the Dying Flame

Richard A. Bahadoor

My masked kin danced around the flame, under the pale moon of a winter night. Each of their steps were breathing life into the beasts and gods of the disguises they wore: A bear, in mighty postures, threatening those that lurked too near; a maiden hawk, in gentle flight across the heavens, watching deeds good and ill.

At the call of a bass horn, the dancing paused mid step. All eyes drifted to the stage. A mighty ball of fire exploded, and two forms appeared from the mist and smoke. A young woman hung her head, her body painted blue in honour of Ilya, Goddess of Water. My cousin, his shoulders drawn back and his chin held high, was painted in red and yellow flames: He would portray Gnoss, Lord of Fire. Their languid dance paused in dramatic postures, as Gnoss attempted to seduce Ilya. It was a divine love that had never been reciprocated. All seemed to believed that our sympathetic rituals would bring Gnoss' warmth back to our lands. However, I could not claim that I had seen signs of gods or spirits in my days.

The dancing below resumed, intensifying in fervor, when a bundled child ran clumsily into my knee. I placed my hands upon his shoulders, and knelt. His fingers struggled, through thick gloves, to set his fur rimmed bear cub mask right; his eyes were out of line with the carved sockets. My wolfish muzzle pointed at his chin.

"Kylan, if one cannot see, then one should perhaps not make such haste."

With a gentle tug at the cub's chin I set his mask right. His tongue flicked out at me through the hickory mouth, and he raced off again. My sister's son had been too young for the wars that the Unhumans had brought to cripple the stride in his step. I too had once known such carefree days, but now, even on this sacred night, us few men of meager arms wore swords at our hips.

Ilya, I pray such strife never reaches his heart.

Cupping my hands, I carefully collected the snow, the frozen body of Ilya, before starting for the bonfire. My steps would not lift in dance that night. The pious clan, dancing, prostrating, singing, and waving their torches madly, was a blur to my eyes.

Looking south and east to the starlit horizon, beyond pyre and farms, my body trembled and my stomach tightened. Word had it that the blasphemous army of Unhumans had advanced farther inland than expected, before the season of cold had broke the autumn's resolve. A tribe of our nomadic cousins had disappeared, and we knew the cursed Gnomes and their cohorts well enough to suspect the worst: Our distant kin were now either digging metal from the earth's womb or the resting in that womb, awaiting the Sheppard's call. The defilers could be here soon; we had feared they would have arrived days ago, but we clung to our home all the same.

Orange and red incense wafted into my nose. The heat seared my skin. The gods, on the teetering wooden stage, cast down their shadows across the barren snow. As I knelt before the holy blaze the howls of my inspired kin flooded my ears. I quietly pleaded, "Lord Gnoss, if you are here to hear, I offer the body of She whom You long for, and beg that You bring Your fire and light back to our frozen lands, to warm our fields and homes."

It was hypocrisy, perhaps. My desperate words lacked faith. Our cries had gone unheard or ignored since a time before I was born. Since gentle Ilya had supposedly grown furious and swept the foul Unhumans into the sea, during the days of my father's youth.

My prayer was broken by a scream. It was not of fervor. It was of terror. The single cry grew to a chorus. All eyes shot to the watchtower of timbers at our backs, that dwarfed the short wood steads about it. The watcher barked, his voice trembled. All heads twisted to the south and east horizon. The the long warning torches of our perimeter guards in the distance converged on us. I cast my mask aside. I ran from the bonfire with my looking glass drawn and put its gaze on the distant planes.

Through the long shaft I saw a drop of moonlight reflecting off steel. The single drop grew to a solid stream of silver, cutting across the horizon. The lights of our guards fell one by one.

The people, having forgotten the festival, scattered like autumn leaves in a storm, and left trampled masks in their wake. Others grew more passionate in their prayers.

My brothers, armed, encircled me, stealing glances at our panicked kin. Mathias, my sister's husband, a man older than I, who had seen as much blood spilled, raised his brows with anticipation.

"Margan?" he asked.

My jaw locked tight. My eyes darted about, searching for answers that were not there. If we fled we would lose all we had, and many would fall to the winter's cold. If we stood, many more would fall on cruel blades. I looked to the cub crying in my sister's arms, as she rocked him before Gnoss' flame. Was freedom more important than the lives of our loved ones?

I turned to the twelve silent swordsmen, whose eyes were longing for guidance, and my dry voice fought to be firm.

"I know well you would give your life, and all that you have for those you hold dear," I spoke with some authority.

They roared in unanimous agreement, their blades thrusting to the starlit sky.

I shut my eyes tight for long moments, before they opened to take in each man, young and old, in turn.

"Then, this night you must give up your pride, your love of the land." My voice started to crack. "Sheath your swords and accept the shackles that will be clasped about our necks."

The roars of proud men fell mute, but not a blade was sheathed.

I waved my clenched fist across our humble village.

"This will not survive if we protest. Our loved ones will fall."

My eyes, now glazed in salty water.

A blond haired man, with the first signs of stubble on his smooth cherubic features, took a timid step forth.

"Can we not just leave?"

"Would you risk more than we who are charged with safeguarding our kin? This winter is too harsh for the elders and young."

"And who shall watch over them when we are gone?" another voice chimed in to be answer by another still.

"The Gods."

I wanted to curse those gods. I bit back the bitter laughter that filled my chest, and instead nodded my approval. I saluted the cub and nodded curtly to my young sister, before turning my back to my home and making my way for the stream of silver. The hissing swords sliding into their sheaths were followed by the heavy steps of my kinsmen across the snow. We abandoned our freedom for the love of kith and kin, leaving for a place from which we would not return.