No sooner have I plucked my weapons from my kill than they are knocked from my grasp, the
ileyenta'wok reflexes making a mockery of my stab at life. It knows I have expended my supply of venom, and this knowledge gives it the confidence to leap at me.
I exhale sharply as my back is thrown against a nearby tree, the difficulty of recovering my breath exacerbated by the knowledge that my life will soon be over. I stare into the full eyes of my killer, refusing to surrender to the fear they elicit. In a desperate attempt to break free of the predator's grip, I spit in its eyes, hoping that this will buy me enough time to escape.
Alas, the creature is too quick for that, and I click softly as I watch it flinch to one side. The maneuver eerily resembles that which I pulled on the
svaita not five minutes ago.
I close my eyes and ears, knowing that the golden eyes of death will be the last thing I see in this world. Having made peace with my impending doom, I send out one final prayer to my God. There is yet a chance that he cares for me, and if this be true, I promise myself that I shall dedicate the remainder of my life to his service.
A moment passes, and I find myself still alive.
Then, voices. Above me, in the trees. They sound triumphant, as if God himself has been vanquished. Curious, I open my eyes and ears, looking for the sign of their rejoicing.
I have to look only for a moment, as the answer quite literally stares me in the face. Those golden eyes, which I was sure would be my last visual imprint, now stare back at me with empty apathy. A well-aimed spear through its temple shows me why I still live. Now, I look to the trees, watching as the
ileyenta'wok mate is butchered for good measure. Instinctively, I join in the celebration, whooping and whistling in happiness and in gratitude.
_
chemewen'non!_ I cry, my speech garnering the attention of those above me. _
nu, cheme'ha omenuetilin, siol lanjemeikada'ha tuetu arevavi, u tenaetuwen unon!_
This is met with the usual enthusiasm. One, probably the party leader, calls back: _
wome'ha eku!_
But something nags at the back of my mind, something sensed like the onset of illness in another. There is something wrong with this tribe, as if they are not entirely as one. Perhaps I am exaggerating some minute flaw, yet still I feel the force of curiosity push me to ask.
_
unemese sha hok ta naseinva di tohipa tsevalnos._ My solemn tone ends their good mood as quickly as if I'd thrown something at them. Yet the looks on their faces tell me that I am not wrong.
The party leader, whom I am now certain is such by his demeanor, invites me onto his level. I accept gratefully. He suggests that I come with him back to the place of his village, an offer I accept with equal gratitude. While we stride along the lengths of branches, occasionally leaping to clear a space between, the generous tavan begins to speak. He tells me of his tribe's woes, and I, in turn, listen.
A very long time ago, the tavan race was threatened with extinction. The skies bore the weight of a hundred mountains, which descended ever closer to our tiny world. Many tribes believed it to be Omenuetilin's will that we die, for he made no move to stop the mountains' fall. Each day, our demise became more certain, and some tribes chose death rather than face what God had in store for them.
But there were a few amongst the despairing who rejected these ideas, instead thinking that the cause of this phenomenon was merely unknown to Omenuetilin. These few gathered and formed their own tribe, one determined to stop the mountains' fall and save our kind.
For months, they put their best scientists' heads together, to figure out what was really threatening us so. Though their final result has been lost over the centuries, it is certain that they discovered the answer, for our race lives on in God's spite.
Then, it is said, a day before the mountains were believed to wipe the life from our world's face, this ancient tribe gathered at the lip of a crater, their eyes white with knowledge. That was the day that they knew, or thought they knew, that their own beliefs carried more weight than God's, and this knowledge saved our species. For the divine power of God was not his own, not for that fateful day. It became the property of that tribe, and so it was used to turn back the mountains and save the planet from sure destruction.
Whether it was or was not the will of God that our species' light be extinguished, no one knows.
What we do know, however, is that our tribe, descendants of the ancient ones, has ne'er been able yet to offer honest praise or prayer to our God without some retribution. And worse, each new Prophet of the Sea whom we name dies soon thereafter, the prey of some horrible illness. It is this that has once again happened: he who would devote his life to Omenuetilin's service has died, and we fear for the protection of our tribe.
For we dare not neglect our God's worship, and yet, our praise goes strangely unnoticed.... It is as if he has forsaken us.
As the party leader's story ends, I notice that we have arrived at his village, a collection of simple huts arranged around the trunks of trees a few decimeters in the air. I am invited to light the evening fire, which I know to be an invitation to join them. I accept, and my new tribemates and I sit around it solemnly, they examining me cautiously while I digest what I have heard.
I wonder now if my rescue was, in fact, not an act of God, but rather, only the will of Fate. The feeling of being forsaken seems to match my current state eerily closely.
Perhaps my promise to Omenuetilin was a mistake. If what they say is true, and descendants of the ancients are cursed from birth, I wouldn't want to find myself one of them through death. Yet, if I am not as abandoned as it seems, neglecting this vow would spell death just as surely.
I request to speak to the Deep Ocean Prophet the next day. He may be able to help me in my decision. But for now, as the stars begin to emerge from the Sun's cloak, I must rest. For a brief moment, I remember something that would, just maybe, explain the events of the day:
"A god may have authority, and tree-dwellers may have protection, but neither has what I have: Freedom, Kidanlera. Freedom from responsibility. Freedom from punishment."
Then, just as quickly, those words are gone, to be replaced simply with a desire to meet with this creature again.
I say my ritual farewells to my tribemates, thanking each in turn for taking me in. Then, feeling Sleep's first advance upon me, I leave, to find a suitable tree to lie down on.