Keeping the Fire: Embraced by the Roots, Part 2

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[Continued from entry 42]

“To do what must be done, replied the Djaught." His blade was drawn before him, and its edge gleamed in the light of the torches outside the tent. Polena recoiled and retreated to the back of the tent, upsetting her writing prop and spilling ink onto her bedding. Her hand fumbled for Coralm’s sword but she realized that she had no idea where she had left it after a few days of her obsession.

“Djaught Mehethe, by order of the People I demand that you come no further to my tent.” He was unmoved by that, which was little surprise.

“Polena, Poet of the Hin-hani, I speak now as Djaught Mehethe of Fiedjan. I find you to be ridden by a spirit unwelcome on your shoulder and forbidden by the kinder Winds of Ness. You are called upon by my authority to seek out the Curator Ibe and seek his council for eviction of the spirit,” Polena had still not found the sword. She remembered leaving it near the door-flap of her tent, but it was simply gone. Had she been so distracted that they had stolen it away from her? The Djaught took a knee now, coming into the door flap of her small tent. He spoke more quietly, though his voice had not lost any of its authority.

“If you do not submit to the Curator Ibe, I will have you put into the tomb and sealed within until such time as the spirit has left you. How say you?”

“Mehethe, you don’t know what you are saying! You can’t seal me in there you have no right. You have no reason either! I am here to help you, I can help you!” She couldn’t think of what else to say, the words rushed out of her mouth with such speed she could hardly understand them before they were said. It was not like her to be this flustered, this scared. That realization only made the feeling of unbidden acceleration all the worse. Mehethe reached out to her and she batted his hand away hard. Though he seemed surprised by the strike, perhaps more by its aim and skill than that it had happened, he grasped again and took her arm in an iron grip.

“Polena,” he whispered harshly, “You are leaving me no choice in the matter. Be reasonable.”

“What do you expect of me?” She replied, her voice shaking, “I will not submit to the ministrations of some slave-master god, some servant of a bloody handed king, some thug like your curator. Mehethe, don’t you understand? You can’t see…” It was like whatever she wished to say the words came out differently. Polena’s gaze was fixed on Mehethe’s sword. It was an old weapon of dark iron, an heirloom blade perhaps hundreds of years old, its sharp edge polished to a mirror, its dull edge covered with runes as fine and deep as an ornamental wood cut.

“I do understand Polena. I am a Djaught first, however. My men will not tolerate a spirit among our camp. Thus I will see it evicted, or I will see its host disposed of. It is you who does not understand. You have given me no other path. He pulled her hard from the tent. She struck him across the face, her blow strong enough that it sent him reeling but he was on her again immediately, this time from behind as she tried to make an escape. The rage she felt as he bore her across the camp rushed out of her like a dream, when emotions are too great for words and they come out in moans and wails. She fought till she broke fingers on her left hand, struggled until blows knocked the wind out of her, screamed until a hand around her throat shut off the air from her voice. But no blade came, no executioner’s blow.

Mehethe bore her fighting and screaming across the camp and brought her to the pit into the Barrow. They had rounded it out and placed a cover of wood. In the dark of night the torches ruined her eye sight, and not seeing the bottom. It was only a fathom, but from here it looked a drop of ten thousand feet, a drop so deep that its depth was meaningless. And he tossed her into it. Her arms flailed. Hands failed to catch. Feet knew not how to land. The back took the blow. There was no air left in her to fight anymore. She choked and spit, tried to look up at the retreating light. The last thing she saw was the square trap door being slid over the covering. It took away the torch light with it.

Knowing she was trapped drained the rage from her all at once, like breaking a hole in a vessel of water, it simply slipped away. The emptiness that filled her afterwards was a hollow feeling made of equal parts confusion and violation. She lay embraced only by the roots that reached gently through cracks in the tile of the tomb. When she had enough air to speak she recited the People’s prayer like she was begging.

“Let me be not one, but part of the one.”

Somewhere in the darkness she felt she heard a reply.

“I will not let go.”

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