Fiction: Half Shaman, 20

The Last Thylacine, Thyal’s Totem

AZ, Ship to Shaman

I’m at the end of my tether. “What is the fucking thing you want to know?” I snap.

Simmon half-rises. The warriors rise with him. Their blades now wink and shine.

Mongoose backs right up close to me. “Hold onto me somewhere,” he mutters. I grasp his belt where it snugs his lower back.

“What’s the thing you most want to know?” I say again. I hear myself being strident.

Crow answers me. “Something big happened on Earth, maybe to Earth in the years before our people left. The Ark-Ship’s journey was meant to last seventy thousand years. It was made a generation-ship. The Earth-born are right about that.”

Simmon calms. Perhaps in response to hearing that he is believed to be right about something. He settles. “Start me off?” he says.

Crow again. “The Ark-Ship arrived in its orbit around Lotor a very short time after leaving Earth. The settlers’ stories agree that an emergency in the Ark-Ship began almost immediately, a struggle within the Ark-Ship’s communication system. The only supposition that makes any sense, some say, is a struggle between the ship’s computer and an entity that had secreted itself onboard.

 “Ten percent of prospective settlers were bundled into ten shuttles and sent down to Lotor’s surface. Individuals were picked randomly, torn from their families, and arrived very confused. They had to begin to save themselves from Lotor right away. You can imagine why the stories from that time lack detail,” Crow says to the rest of us.

She takes a breath and tells the rest. “The Ark-Ship carried thousands of living, breathing, aware people but there has never been any news other than toward the end of Soowei’s life, when the ship promised her that it would return to fetch its people off-loaded onto Lotor. Then it left the Procyon System to go regenerate somewhere without disturbance.” 

Simmon laughs, albeit shakily. “Let me let me let me try some math now,” he says. “Have I have I have I still got my math in me?”

No one interrupts. Half of what Crow just told is new to me. I look around. Loads of people look distracted, suggesting that we are all trying to piece the new information into the story we have all known since childhood. We will need Crow to tell us what is known of Soowei’s last days.

“The Ship of Fools gets waved,” Simmon says. “We’ll say that’s Earth Year Twenty. There’s quite a number that have gone before us, because the EMBers are not stupid, they don’t get involved except in a proven technology.”

He wears such a crafty expression that I set Soowei’s story aside and concentrate on Simmon’s. I catch Earth Year Twenty. The rest makes no sense.

He continues. “But when we arrive on Lotor, it is as if we are the first. Except that the ship we wake up in is a rusted piece of junk that obviously has not moved for a hundred years. We EMBers do our dashing around and get data-waved back to Earth. I learn the hard way that a data-waved brain returns to its original state. Meaning, no information from here went back to Earth that way. I was still a fool and signed up for a second experiment.”

“Where were you in Earth Year Minus Fifty?” I say, ignoring everything else. We don’t have the time.

“Ha ha ha,” Simmon says. “It’s the fucking Little Shaman. Well-studied in math. What else did they teach her? Fucking shamans. I was a fool to trust them.”

“You owe me for all the worrying I’m doing,” I say. A preposterous piece of reasoning, I see from the raised eyebrows around me. I have to control myself not to laugh at Mongoose’s crestfallen expression. He does try to save me from having to worry. I squeeze his hand. “Well?” I demand of Simmon.

“I wasn’t born yet,” he says.

“You would’ve studied about those times at school,” I say.

He laughs again, a rickety rackety chuckle. “You’re asking me about the data-waving monster himself.”

He appears to try to explain data-waving by waving his arms around. I’m nearly sick imagining how, with every move, with every rattling sound, he’s not just coming apart but spreading his illness around.

“A few changes on Earth after his arrival, I can tell you,” he says. “Bad for me is that Lotor bled the info right out of my brain as well as every other Earth-born brain wandering into her clutches.”

“I’ll tell you how it works, Jeb. Just you.” He leans forward. “A thousand thousand Earth Years ago Lotor lost her engineer. I like to imagine that he escaped the bitch. Leaving her in orbit around Procyon B, he took her bio-engine capability and waltzed around the galaxy for a good while before settling. Somewhere out of sight but never out of Lotor’s mind.”

He stops. Sways forward. I suspect him to be gathering the last of his mad strength to lunge forward. I pull at Mongoose to move us backward. Puma tenses.

Simmon giggles. “You have two hundred Earth Years missing from your precious lore, Crow. Earth Year One, the idiots at Procyon Products do a deal with the government of the day. They data-wave a shipload of Life Lottery winners to Lotor. And Lotor, when she smells the bio-silver on them, takes them all within. From that point she knows her engineer is on Earth.”

Uncle Puma says nothing. Red-tail is silent. Can I trust them to see what’s coming?

“When Lotor gets round to me, I promise her the fucking Ark-Ship so she can fetch her engineer. But I promise her before I know that the ship is away regenerating. So I’m in a fix. Then I discover that Lotor intends me to drive the ship. I am not a shaman or engineer. So I am in a worse fix. None of the shamans I bring to Lotor are who she wants. The Ship returns from its regeneration jaunt and I discover the hereditary crewing system. Things get worse and worse for me and Lotor starts searching for the hereditary captain herself. Before too long the settlers have only the one remaining shaman.”

He looks up, glares into me.

Well-water, we call the color of his eyes.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

A blue glow pierces me. Simmon falls away or I fall back. A guillotine cleaves me front from rear, side from side. I expect pain. There’s no pain. I expect to see blood, a lot of it. There’s no blood.

Then there is pain. My arm burns. It’s on fire. My arm, my red-hot arm falls off. No, it only flops about because my nerves scream, twist, twangle. The amulet burns.

I choke. “The ship, it signals!” I manage not to shout.

Mongoose helps me to fall down gently. He shoves the edge of his hand between my teeth. “For the pain,” he says, kneeling beside me. Pain cringes and curdles and claws invisible pieces out of me. Mongoose doesn’t have to look for Thyal, he’s already with us, crooning. “There now, my pretty. There, there.”

With them sheltering me, I concentrate on not gnashing down on Mongoose’s hand. The Ship sends me fifteen elements. AZ. I gasp as more elements claw through me. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash.

“Eider.” I splutter through spit, past Mongoose’s hand.

Eider, I recognize her smell, folds my fingers around her pencil. I make the marks. I don’t feel where. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash. Representing the Great Meridian, I have time to remember. The ship knows we journey along it?

A hot needle-tip punches a dot on the inside of my eyelid.

I scream. “My eyes!” Three dots. Red-hot cools to bright blue. A tattoo? I want to rub my eyes, rub the pain away.

Thyal catches both my hands in his one. “There, now. There, now.” Mongoose’s tears splatter on my face. I want to laugh. My strong brave Mongoose cries when I hurt. The blue line pulses and lengthens. Someone near me groans.

I hear a mug of tea slopped. Feel a wet cloth being laid over my eyes. Blessed coolth. I sigh. “That’s good, very good.” I don’t know if they hear. Three sets of veins angle up from a main artery. My mouth shapes words. “It’s a leaf.” Dark spots form on a lower edge, like drops of dew. Or beads. The ship floods me with fear. “Bad beads. Keep away,” I mumble. “The ship says.”

It shows me good places in the city, with good people. There is a couple with two children who are working a food garden. Five girls care for a vine-covered patio. Eleven men, all shapes and ages and sizes live in a set of higgledy-piggledy block-like rooms, ladders connecting them with every roof a garden. The ship tells me to fetch all these people. 

A rose-tinted tower sits in the armpit of the main thoroughfare and the vein nearest the Field of Dreams. The food is there, in the walls. Squiggles, that are the mountains that are our destination, blossom at the end of the bisecting straight-as-an-arrow thoroughfare.

With round Greek script punched out pointillist style into my eyes, my poor eyes, the ship orders three signals to be sung. It sets the days. I must not miss them. Gravitational forces rule it.

The blue fades from me. I am so tired that I fall through rock and earth straight into a den. An animal with a long, tawny, striped back jumps in after me. Thyal, I think fuzzily. His heavy soft paws heal my eyes. I rest.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 19

Totem Image for Grey wolf, Canis lupus, single mammal on snow, by Emi

The Village Square

Vulture and Eider set the stretcher down on a room-sized carpet of blankets and bedrolls and help free me from the stretcher cover. The ground appears to be a hard clay surface, I discover by poking between the blankets. 

Mongoose and Wren sweep meat-eating sand to the edges of the clay. 

Eider settles herself near the solar-powered cauldron. It sits on four batteries that also serve as little legs and that, for traveling, unscrew from the base of the pan. Whoever carries the cauldron also has the responsibility for the battery pack, in a rack above the cauldron on their back, to make sure it is recharged during the day. 

“Bring me your mugs. Bring me your water,” Eider sings. Plenty of takers see the cauldron half-filled from mugs of water, with the emptied mugs surrounding the cauldron waiting to be refilled. “Mongoose, you’ll share with Jeb?”

Mongoose grins up from his work; rolls his eyes. 

Vulture, rolling her eyes, says, “Yes all right. Understood it is. You see his drinking mug and water-skin, Jeb?” 

I fetch both. It’s good to be on my feet, even if I’m walking on blankets and skirting people trying to sleep. Standing near Vulture, I stretch and bend. 

I hear people murmuring and talking; and the soughing wind. The wind carries in it only the inert and lightest of the sand grains. Jackal sings. He and the Death Squad herding Simmon have still a hundred or more meters to come.

Simmon stops often, I see. Red-tail prods him forward gently, using a padded stick.

“What is this place?” I ask.

Vulture settles by Eider. “A Moeran landing pad. Used afterward as a village square with a little town built around it. Their Squares have outlasted their people by hundreds of years.”

Puma joins us. “The Moerans were certainly gone by the time our settlers arrived. Several of their Squares were incorporated in our towns. So what’s happening with the Earth-born?”

I notice how no one now refers to Simmon by his name or by the totem he was assigned. Shortest career in history as a Grey Wolf that will be. Yet I can’t fault Thyal for his choice. Everyone has good in them and Simmon’s good harbors in the Grey Wolf totem. 

“Red-tail has taken charge, she said to tell you,” Vulture says.

“It’s not a question of war,” Puma says. “Girl questions! Don’t do that again, Jeb!” 

He complains, is derogatory, and threatens me in one breath.

Mongoose lays down his whisk so that the tainted end lies in the sand. He takes a position between Puma and me, his shoulder protectively in front of mine. Vulture grins. 

Eider sprinkles dried herbs onto the boiling water. “She knows the Void, Red-tail said. She asks if you do?” Eider’s tone, usually warm when she speaks to or about Puma, is frosty. “The girl had to use something to get action. It mightn’t be war but it certainly is pestilence.”

Vulture interrupts Puma’s attempt to answer. “With the Earth-born loose in the troop, you could’ve lost half of us and I doubt we’ll fill the shuttle as it is. Can’t afford to lose anyone.”

 “Girls rule,” Mongoose says.

Even Puma laughs. Eider shakes her head. “You look after that Mongoose, Jeb. He’s the joker none of us can miss.”

Jackal’s howled warning pulls us back to the present. 

“A campfire,” Simmon says. “Or what passes for one?” He rubs his hands and holds them as if to a fire. Though particles of skin sparkle and float on the breeze, Jackal and Axel allow him to approach. Am I the only one who knows the significance of those skin sparkles?

“Stop there,” Red-tail says. Simmon sinks down onto a bedroll someone isn’t going to want to use ever again. The squad stands beside and behind, while Crow alone sits down between Puma and Simmon.

Puma refills his mug and passing it across, has Jackal set it in front of Simmon. “Nothing like a cup of tea,” Simmon says. With the attention on Simmon, Mongoose sits down by me.

“A while ago we were talking about totems?” Simmon says.

 I narrow my mind’s eye. Simmon is well enough still that he can plot his way to his desired outcome? Maybe I can shift his thinking. I sing, if a bit shakily: 

“The Grey Wolf frees himself from time-worn traditions 

and stultifying townships. As the pathfinder, he strides 

through the land and leads us to new knowledges 

and new ways to be.” 

“I wanted to say that I don’t need a totem? But thanks anyway. Kindly meant, I’m sure,” Simmon says. “I’m of the scientific times on Earth.”

Kindly meant! I refuse to feel mortified. Reminding him is the important part. Simmon would have had enough input from Thyal to know exactly how he can apply the Grey Wolf totem to his situation.   

 “When you approached me to join the troop, you and I calculated that you arrived on Lotor maybe a hundred and fifty Earth years after our settler ancestors did?” Uncle Puma says. “Those scientific times?”

“On Earth I’d be at the end of my middle years,” Simmon says. He ignores both Uncle Puma and the blunted prodders left and right. He shuffles forward on his sit-bones. 

“Stay where you are,” Uncle Puma says. 

“I need to get that young shaman and be on my way. I told you that.” 

Uncle Puma lifts his voice a little to let everybody hear. “The Earth-born offered us safe passage through the city in exchange for Jeb?” 

Nobody comments, all are spellbound. Simmon has found where I’m sitting among the crowd, probably because I sang his totem, and holds me with his stare boring into me. 

I thought his eyes wouldn’t be seeing all that much anymore. I shudder. “Don’t let him touch you, anybody. All the bits coming off him are Lotor taking him.”

“Mongoose,” I whisper. “I’m getting up. I might need to run.” 

Mongoose pulls my face close to his. “Don’t you look at him, he’s a snake.” He gets up with me and steps in front of me. “Why have we still got this dead Earth-born thing?” he asks Uncle Puma. “No running, Jeb,” he says. “Round and round the square. Tripping. Lotor’s reach is long.”

“Letting yourself be caught in the Earth-born’s stare gives him the strength for what he intends,” Crow says, adding to Mongoose’s meaning. 

“Tell me Jeb is going to live longer than me,” Mongoose says. 

“Together you will go to the end of your time,” she says. Crow is the keeper of laws, lore and prophecies.

“Fucking prophecies,” Mongoose says. “Could be right now.” 

Simmon rises too, smoothly, and in one fell pace crosses half the distance between us despite the prodders. Despite that Red-tail’s now naked blade threatens him enough that blood trickles down his side. Simmon flaps his hand toward Mongoose. “I don’t need you, Sulky.”

“You don’t get anybody, Earth-born,” Uncle Puma says. 

I resent that Uncle Puma stays seated. 

Simmon stops. With a lazy arm he sweeps the prodders aside. “I don’t see why you’d want to keep Jeb when she’s as Earth-born as I am?”

Uncle Puma laughs. “You think Jeb’s mother, because she was an Earth-born geneticist, bred a one-hundred-percenter? Sit down when I’m talking to you.”

For a wonder, Simmon subsides back onto the bedroll. “Why wouldn’t she?” he says. “Couple of test tubes and a pipette get you a long way.” 

“Jeb’s mother loved Jeb’s father,” Uncle Puma says. “Jeb’s mother choose a totem and she bred herself a one hundred percent settler daughter.”

Simmon bites on the bait. “Not possible.” 

“I thought that too when I came to their house to be implanted with the amulet. Jeb will recall my upset, I think.”

Simmon does not look at me for confirmation. He will not be distracted. “How?” he says. 

“Suddenly you trust my science?” Uncle Puma says. 

Simmon tries to puzzle it out but he probably is too far gone for Uncle Puma’s word games. 

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Uncle Puma says getting his fingers ready for counting on.

“Take the nucleus out of a female egg with Jeb’s mother obviously taking one of her own eggs.

“Take two female spermatozoa from the male, Jeb’s father.

“Zip them together, however that’s done.

“Implant Jeb’s settler father’s chromosomal material into the female egg.

“Implant the package into a uterus. Jeb’s mother’s own uterus again. Hey presto, a one-hundred-percent settler baby girl, as required, with all her genes her father’s.”

“She isn’t big enough,” Simmon says.  “She should’ve been taller than you.” 

“I don’t know,” Uncle Puma says. “Jeb’s mother was a smart lady. Maybe she prevented that somehow.”

“Why not her sons?” Simmon said. 

“I don’t know. Jeb, do you?”

I shake my head. I’m still it working out. The explanation I’d missed through being too young at the time, to understand. 

Just when I’m looking at him to check his progress, Simmon seems to sag inside his clothing. That will be a slab of flesh that’s loosened itself. It’ll start leaking out in a minute. I see it in my mind’s eye. It’ll resemble the meat-eating sand. 

“Uncle, please!” I beg him, swallowing down stinging acid. My stomach can’t cope; it’s pushing up my fears for me to vomit them out. Uncle Puma saw parts of what I witnessed of my mother’s death. 

Finally he nods.

“However,” Crow says. “The Earth-born can’t die until he tells us what he knows.” 

Fiction: Half Shaman, 14

The Automatic Transponder

By the time I climb up onto the new mushroom-shaped platform, about twice the diameter of the previous one, Ant has organized a couple of people to stand by at the top. One of them smiles gently. One of them smiles fiercely. The gentle one is big, older than us. A twin, all the way to his smile, stands behind him. “Lithe and Limber we are, Shaman.”

The fierce one is as young as Ant and Mongoose and me. They help me to my feet, gentle and fierce, and I walk toward the center of the platform. About a dozen and a half—I count quickly—quite a lot more than the four more people that Ant said there would be are camped around a central depression.

The fierce one and the gentle one release my arms and I, feeling hemmed in by being suddenly among so many, make for that space.

Set foot on it. A knife hacks into my arm! “Aa-eeehhh!” My arm screams. Knife blade worries at my bone. Pain! Pain! I scream. Jerk back. Too late. I fall.

Men, women, boys, friends surround me. They reach for me. Hold me. Shout. I see their mouths move. There’s pandemonium in slow motion. I do not hear. Pain only is talking and I didn’t even sing for it.

But it all reminds me. I sob. Yes. There’s a patterning in the pain. I clench my jaw. Be quiet. Use your senses. The stabbing repeats stab, stab, stab.

I gasp. “Signal,” I press out between my teeth.

I see Lithe, his face near mine on the glassy ground. “There’s letters! I gasp. Sob. Scream into him. “There’s a signal!”

Lithe shouts behind him. His twin pulls someone forward. “A signal. Ready to write?”

I blurt dashes and dots into the dark between Lithe and me, and the other inking her arm writing them there. Each of the elements—is what the Head Shaman called them—draws a blade down a screaming nerve or stabs me to my arm bone. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dash dot, dot dot dot dot, dot dot.

It seems finished. I start to relax.I gasp.More ….”

Knowing what’s coming I swallow my screams. Just gasp. Sob, maybe. Dash dash dash dash dash, dot dash dot dot, dot dash, dash dash.

Slightly different than the first sequence.

At the end I feel broken inside. Though there’s no blood. No torn skin. No wounds except for my pride again. I’d hoped to be a normal person. My hopes, gone again. A spectacle I will be.

“Ha!” Simmon says. “She’s a sensitive? It’s probably the transponder niggling her.”

“And you know that how?” Uncle says. He sounds dangerous.

I want to crawl away. Hide.

Ant steps in the way of all the interested onlookers. Mongoose lets me cry on him for a minute. They both help me to sit up, crossed legs. Ant stays on his feet. His leg is a tree I lean against. Mongoose sits half in front of me, my knee against his back. I cradle my poor left arm. It throbs, so sore still. Mongoose gives me the corner of a sarong-wrap to blow my nose. 

Simmon chuckles. “This platform was made by glassing, meaning a starship fused the sand into a landing pad before touchdown. I believe the girl was hit by the automatic transponder cached in the pad’s center. Lotor, because she will always be hungry for alien machinery, wears away at the foundations. Hence the undercutting.”

“Why?” Uncle says. 

Simmon doesn’t hear or he ignores Uncle. “I’m amazed that the transponder still works. It signals the geo co-ordinates out into near-space where any arriving spacecraft can read them, and organize their touch-down accordingly. My mates and I dropped dozens all over the planet just after we arrived. This one will be one of the fixed points along the Great Parallel.”

Uncle snarls. “Give us the scientific detail.”

That gets Simmon’s attention. He stares round the circle.

“Scientific detail,” he repeats as if he doesn’t believe the Earth-born know anything about science. He proceeds to tell us in simplified ship-speak. “Tells us where we are on the planet’s surface. Zero Phi stands for Zero Latitude, another word for the Equator.”

“An equator is an equalizer?” Limber says. Rumble from a couple of other people wanting to know, too.

Simmon smiles like he is vindicated. Like he knew we’d not cope with science.

I feel he belittles us with his attitude. “In Shaman School we had a ball on a stand to look at, with a map of the Continent and the Ocean painted on it.” I tremble with all their stares on me.

Mongoose squeezes my hand. I continue. “Over the top of land and sea were lines that help us navigate, which are imaginary out in the field. The way Simmon tells it, all along the widest part of Lotor runs an imaginary line called an equator. The signal names it Zero Phi. Simmon calls it an abbreviation.” I snort. “With fifteen elements? That’s double the ship’s call sign.”

“You learned your lessons well, Little Shaman,” Simmon says.

Now I’m furious. I rise to my feet.

Straightaway all around me there’s a physical shifting that I ignore. I trust Mongoose and I trust Ant. “Who isn’t little compared to you? A long end of rope to hang yourself with, my father would’ve called you.”

A couple of people snort, possibly recognizing the saying from their own fathers. I bite my lips to stop there. Before I tell my people what he is, he’s got to be made to tell us why he follows us.

“How can she be a shaman with all that screaming and crying?” someone says.

I don’t know his voice.

“She has a hurt we can’t see. Are we fools to continue with her when it is a matter of life and death? Will she even live long enough herself?”

Ant laughs. “Listen to the Jackdaw! If somebody gave me in my childhood that totem to learn from, do you think I wouldn’t have earned another by now? You think it isn’t a matter of life and death to her? Do you even know what she had to do to join us?”

I sit down and tune out.

Ant starts to tell how I escaped before he and Mongoose could rescue me.

I plan what I will say next.

When Ant is finished, I kneel up to get a little height. “Yes. I cried and I screamed. You all heard me,” I say. I stop. I’m telling them what they already know.

Mongoose squeezes my hand again. He gets me out of my nerves.

I plan what else to say. “First the Ark-Ship talks into me. Then, apparently, an Earthborn gadget talks into me. They both have signals with many elements that have got to fit into the little amulet in me.” I massage my arm where the amulet still throbs.

“It feels like I get burnt, stung, stabbed and cut all at the same time. My nerves scream at me. I scream at you. But look, no wounds.” I bare my arm and show them my harpy eagle tattoo. “No blood. I’ll probably get used to it. Maybe even to the point of not screaming, so I don’t frighten people.” I look at Jackdaw. “And maybe—I won’t know till I ask—the Ark-Ship can fix its signal so it doesn’t hurt me.”

The fierce one who greeted me springs forward and slides to me on his knees. “I’ll gladly help with the singing for that, Shaman Jeb. I’m Meerkat, forever honored that you sang my totem to discover the ship.”

Someone in the people-shadows sneered. “Pff. Meerkats. Always the song and dance.”

“Thanks, Meerkat,” I say. I take a deep breath. Might as well get it all out. “I am only half the Shaman you need. But I… I thought I’d come along because I worked out how to talk to the Ark-Ship and …”

Simmon cuts in at that point. “You heard her, she’s only half the Shaman you need. But Lotor … Lotor needs all of her. I followed you to offer you a whole job, Jeb.”

His interruption is so preposterous that I am not the only one with my mouth hanging open. The only sound is the soughing of sand in the wind scouring at the base of the platform. Both Mongoose and Ant also rise, and move nearer. They squeeze me between them.

Small protective moves, but I see people taking notice. There’s a murmuring to and fro. I know so few of these people, I can’t see who thinks what. Are there really people here who think I should take Simmon’s offer?

“Thyal?” Uncle says. “You have some words on this?”

I don’t believe it. Uncle is one of them? But he came to fetch me!

An old man with just one whole arm rises from the group seated to Uncle’s left and seats himself between Uncle and me.

“I am Thyal, Shaman Jeb,” he says, nodding at me. “Forever studying the Thylacine totem. I assign totems in this troop, and teach their recipients the way to carry themselves as Totems.”

He lifts the stump of his arm. “Ihave no amulet. I’m a one-armed Shaman useless for what you’ll be good at. Together we are well-suited to the task.” 

Oh. I break out in smiles from the relief. “I’d like that.” Thyal has put my worries to rest on a couple of counts.

“Jeb, these people live in the past.” Simmon says. “How many have they lost due to that fatal flaw? You don’t want to be among them when Lotor starts to take an interest in nomads now that she has finished with the towns. If we leave now, I can have you in the laboratories by daylight. New set of friends. People who’ll appreciate you for being of your mother’s line.”

I want to be scathing. Why would I listen to him? But … how does he know about my mother? What does he know about her? What does he mean, the laboratories? I clench my hands together in my lap. I don’t want eye contact with Simmon and I stare beyond him to the back of the crowd.

Out there where a raised hand waves to and fro. A woman there is trying to get my attention? She’s got it.

She pulls her black hair, plaited in one long braid, forward over her shoulder. A red ribbon is threaded through. She points my gaze to another woman, nearer to Uncle and Thyal, dressed all in black. Then she points out two men standing quite near to Mongoose. All have their hands resting on killing knives worn cross-wise in their sauger-hide belts.

I understand that she heads the guard squad and is showing me them at the ready. I smile a little.

The woman winks.

“Earthborn laboratories tend to be underground,” Thyal says, confirming my suspicions about Simmon’s offer. “The wisdom for that, it is said, are Lotor’s frequent re-arrangements of her landscapes.”

“You’ve got that right, old man,” Simmon says. “The very reason you’ve just lost seventeen shamans. The remaining Shaman School has fallen, I’m told. Have you noticed how often Lotor re-arranges its surface when the shamans are near to solving the problem of reaching the Ark-Ship?” He laughs. “What do you say to the fact that you’re the only one of your kind remaining, Jeb?”

He gets up. He stands swaying from side to side. He could be drunk or he could be trying to hypnotize me. Won’t do him any good. I’m not susceptible.

“A pretty packet of news that lit a fire cracker under me,” he says in a dreamy tone. “Wherefrom will you learn the rest of your tricks now? It’s clearly useless even thinking about it. Better to say goodbye. We won’t have far to go because Lotor will open a door anywhere.” All short statements delivered in that same dreamy tone, timed to coincide with the swaying.

“Don’t even joke about it,” Uncle says.

“I was joking?” Simmon says. He looks at me and takes in my awareness of his strategy. “Oops,” he says. “Of course I was joking. Though I do believe that about the Shaman Schools. And I believe this puma already knew it too. That must be why you and your buddies came to fetch her? You went away without her, what was that about?”

He describes Uncle with the puma-totem. Did he hear us talking? I don’t at that moment recall when Mongoose and Ant and I discussed the chieftainship. Whether Simmon had already caught up with us and we didn’t hear him.

Simmon scratches his forearm. Quite a large flake of skin springs loose and falls to the platform, from where the breeze picks it up. Uncle sees it too. He sees that I watch him track the flake over the side and away.

He remembers what I remember. But he shakes his head. It’s too soon, he mouths.

I hope he means it is too soon to tell anyone about Simmon’s affliction because Simmon hasn’t yet said why Lotor wants me.

Mongoose strokes my arm to stroke my worries gone. “The bastard will get what’s coming to him.”

I’m afraid. Simmon suffers from the Earthborn disease. Whoever touches him will die, the settler-born the quicker. My father died not long after he lay down with my sick mother. How many will Simmon try to take with him?

Fiction: Half Shaman, 12

Note to readers from the beginning: After some editing, I discovered that the Earth-born Thayne’s name was too similar to that of another, more important character. One of them had to be changed. So, he that was Thayne is now Simmon.

What I Know

“We’ve done five kilometers,” Ant says from behind. “More than a third of the stage.”

I guess he is trying to be encouraging.

“But we will need to speed up,” Uncle says.

Straightaway I’m even more conscious of my feet. Raspy snail teeth are grazing over them. No! It’s the carnivorous sand! I almost stumble at the feeling of my foot-coverings worn through.

I swallow a sob of fear. “I need two … two … squares of cloth, bandanna-sized, folded arm-sling style.” A demand, not even a please or thank you. “Sorry. I … I meant to say please.” I’m almost in tears.

Then I’m ashamed. I did so much yesterday without any childish emotions. I pull my hood up over my head and stump along without looking at the men or my feet. But I feel the sand-creatures advancing over my ankle-bones.

“Use the priest’s cloak,” Uncle says.

I feel faint at the thought. “He lay down on the creep as I left the chapel. He said he was letting me go to make up for all the people he led to their end.” I want to keep in mind that I did what I did. Be strong. None of what I did was handed to me.

“I have the squares ready, Shaman Jeb,” Ant says.

Mongoose stops me with his hand on my elbow. He drops his pack behind me. “Sit on that, Jeb.”

Ant stops too. He kneels to help, sees what I dreaded, Lotor’s liking for the skin of my feet. I catch my lips between my teeth. Ant helps by pulling the new cloths tight around my feet, while I knot them in front. I keep my eyes on my work.

Mongoose and Ant pull me to my feet. Ant scoops up the shredded cloths then helps Mongoose shrug back into his pack. They exchange a meaningful glance while I high-step in place.

I walk on, hiding my face and staring only at the next place to put my feet.

Uncle exclaims. “There! See it?”

“Yes,” Ant says. “The damned planet is re-arranging the landscape as we approach. Changing hard sand to soft sand. It knows us.”

“Not good for Jeb,” Mongoose says. “Uncle old man, you will need to lug the luggage while Ant and I shimmy the shaman.”

The way he grins at his own joke helps me swallow down my embarrassment. I walk my usual fast sprint on the spot while he and Ant tie one of their packs crosswise over the top of the other.

Mongoose takes over Uncle’s pack and they both help Uncle into the double pack’s harness. Uncle jogs into the soft sand. I get that he can’t waste a minute of his strength standing around waiting for Mongoose and Ant to organize me. 

Ant slides the sticks that were used to prop up the screens back at the platform from Uncle’s pack. He and Mongoose help each other loop a rope each from the back of their belts and pass it over their shoulders. They tie the ends to the front of their belts.

“To stop us losing our pants, Shaman Jeb,” Ant says straight-faced to my interest. A side-flung grin tells me he joked.

They each thread an end of one of the sticks through the back of the other’s rope loops. Then thread one through the fronts. Ant has a folded cloth ready to rest over the resulting two-bar seat. They sidle up behind me and take my arms.

“Hup,” Mongoose says.

I am jumped backward onto the sticks so that I’m sitting between Ant and my loon. I study Mongoose’s face. Faint flush along his jawline, faint smile in the corner of his mouth. 

“Best foot forward, brother.” Ant slings his forearm onto Mongoose’s nearest shoulder. “So far the planet doesn’t care who we are.” 

“Don’t feel shy about holding on, Jeb,” Mongoose says.

Ant looks past me, and laughs. “Don’t feel shy about holding on, Shaman Jeb. Or you can lean back against our arms.”

The flushing along Mongoose’s jawline deepens and makes me feel shy, so I don’t lean anywhere. But I find out straightaway that for them to jog and for me not to fall, I do need to hold on. What a problem to get into a tizzy about.

A capital-L Loon is a totem. Mongoose wears a Mongoose tattoo on his arm. They’re both wearing long shirts, Sauger-hide belts. I take a good handful of cloth above their belts. Rest the back of my fingers on the belt. Try not to touch Ant’s side through the cloth.

Uncle is a long way ahead. Well out of hearing. “The next thing you know, brother,” Ant says. “Is that our elders will start cleaving you to the Loon Totem.”

“It’s useless to tease, brother,” Mongoose says. “Jeb and I already discussed it.” He winks at me. Not angry. I feel almost weightless. “I’ll refuse to hear them,” he says.

A long while later Ant says, “Four kilometers more. When we get there, there’ll be ointment. For her feet,” he says over my head.

I do a little vigil. Do such words hurt anybody? I’m a bossy-britches, always wanting to be a part of everything. In a minute the group will double. Later it will be huge. Then what? Can one person be part of everything that goes on in a large group? How good was I ever at ignoring what isn’t my own business?

It doesn’t feel like a vigil when I’m just worrying. What happened to the rest of the shamans? My teachers? The whole Shaman School? I’m too scared to ask. In the three years, I only learned enough to sing the totems and signal the ship.  

Then I worry about Ant and Mongoose having to carry me, for pity’s sake. I never wanted to be that kind of person.

Carrying physically is different to the other sort of carrying. That’s my crow talking, I realize. I feel better.

How can I thank Ant and Mongoose without making them embarrassed? Remember how good it felt back in school when the lesson of the day began with my totem? It’s my crow again, telling me how to be a shaman. It’s what they got me for, isn’t it?

Time will tell. I push back my hood and I clear my throat. Start with the Ant Totem song. “Ants together carry their towns … a stone at the time …

Ant grunts surprise, then joins in with grunts on the strongest words. We make a fine rhythm. “… Ants together carry their country … a heart at the time. … Together we live, singly we die.”

I follow it with the Mongoose Totem.

“Mongoose strides into the unknown, untrammeled by fear …  He fights through unenviable risks to rescue what he holds …”

Slof slof slof is a sound coming through the sand behind us. “You pack animals really get off on the little fucker singing? He’s got such a tinny little voice, you’d think he’s a girl in drag.”

Simmon skips as he passes us to be out of the way of any kick Mongoose might aim at him for his insults.

Mongoose and Ant laugh so hard and so totally out of sync with one another, that they shake the contraption and I almost fall through.

On Simmon’s uplifted arm, I see the nightmare to come.

Real Life: Bush Fire Emergency

Hugh and Nan Nicholson’s rainforest burning

Those of us in my region living in towns feel ourselves fairly safe in this emergency. So far. People from out of town have been evacuated and are staying with us. Others ask us to store their precious goods. I’m hosting four musical instruments and three large containers with photos and documents.

Recharging batteries is another thing we can do for people who no longer have electricity laid on. Whose power lines and generator sheds have been burned. In two cases I heard of today, the fire was stopped only a few meters from the main house.

The bushfire season began early this year. We’ve been burning since September, and the fires are getting worse, if that’s possible. Hotter, faster, and more destructive. In the past, diligent back-burning and fuel reduction in winter reduced your chances of being burnt out in summer. Now there’s hardly time. Winters are shorter and we’ve had less than half the rain we had last year when we already had a third less than in 2017.

It’s possible for a fire-ground to be burnt twice in two months. This despite the traditional view that rain-forest plantings, in contrast to Eucalyptus forest, will protect your property. No such thing now. Fires burn so hot that rainforests don’t stand a chance and they don’t grow back the way eucalyptus trees recover.

How will we live in a forever-blackened landscape?

Catherine Ingram’s article Facing Extinction, about the state of the world and humanity’s chances of surviving, is more a prescription for coping with the grief than a wake up call. It’s too late, she says, to try and save our Nature.

The way my countryside is burning, it certainly feels too late. I’m with Landcare. We plant trees. What if no trees survive either? It’s difficult to plan how to live now, when there’s said to be no future.

Fiction: Half Shaman, 8

The Black Cell

Three guards hustle me into the building. Not up the stairs. They walk me past a bunch of rooms furnished with desks and chairs, offices they look like, that are of the same configuration as the cells upstairs. At the end of the corridor is a door at right angles to where Simmon’s cell is upstairs.

Is there such a door upstairs as well? I don’t have time to remember because this door is yanked open and I am thrust in. Door slams. I am in the dark.

Pitch dark. Though I see lots of after-perceptions to begin with. The shapes of the men in the enclosure in their opposite colors. Sand-colored, they uncannily resemble Lotor-born melting into a Field of Dreams.

I blink that uncomfortable vision away and in its place see the fencing zig-zagging everywhere. I don’t recall that it was yellow? In its opposite hue it’s a zinging blue. It zig-zags over a face and the diamond shapes within the outlines slowly peel away.

My heart lurches. I know what I’m looking at.

Then I hear the singing. It’s the people in the yard because they sing the Meerkat Totem. Their strong many-voiced singing lifts my spirit.

Charged with surveillance, a meerkat stands sentinel. Charged with caring, a meerkat protects the young. Charged with food gathering, a meerkat leads the foraging. Carrying your family, you carry yourself. Whoever reaches the top, reaches down for the rest.

I hear the whole thing through before I realize they are inserting words. I listen harder. A creeping has begun of something up over my feet.

Charged with surveillance, we will slip away. Charged with caring, slip away from our guards.

The sound is fading because they are moving away, I realize. They’ve been started on their journey. I shift my feet and rub one off with the other. Cockroaches? Wood lice? What else lives in the dark?

Charged with food gathering, we make for the city by the mountains. Carry your family, walk twelve kilometers to the small platform and thirteen more, both into the setting sun. Who reaches the large platform set your face north. Walk twenty-five more.

They will slip away from their guards and make for the Yellow City, fifty kilometers distant and they are telling me the way. Can I walk fifty kilometers?

I’m already walking at a fast clip on the spot in the little area near the door. It’s weird that I don’t feel any insect carapaces crackling under my feet.

No. I know exactly why no crackling. Fear almost has me freezing.

I can’t freeze. Keep walking. Freeze and you will die. I get walking again. I warned my Meerkats to steer away from Lotor’s maw and I am in one myself? Lotor uses a couple of different awful-to-human-people ways to consume us. I snivel. The one in here is called black creep.

It is said that all creatures from off-planet are Lotor’s prey. I’ve never seen any creatures from off-planet other than us, descended from our Ark-Ship’s settlers, and the Earthborn who came as patterns and were reconstituted by the planet. I laugh. How does that make the Earthborn from off-planet?

The sounds I made just then laughing and sniveling, seemed to rise? I laugh some more while I keep walking, mostly on the spot. Almost-echoes from above? How wide, how tall is this cell? I fling out my arms to explore. Ouch! I hit a wall with my fingertips.

I twirl. Yes, my outstretched fingers skim past walls on all three sides, the door I came in through on the fourth. It feels like I am in a chimney.

Still walking, aka lifting my feet and mashing down on the creep, I explore the walls. Every second row is made of squared stones, the length breadth and depth of my forefinger when measured from the outside, knuckle to fingertip.

Ten-cubes, the Shamans call these. The rows between are doubles, two ten-cubes long. Also called bricks, they are just the things to cobble together a little platform to rest on.

I continue exploring, shifting my feet little by little to keep my speed steady. I brush my fingertips up the walls. All building stone is split from the mountains that Lotor extrudes. The Shamans consider them Lotor’s wastes.

I’m searching for missing stones or stones set crookedly. Places where I can get my fingers into, to pull. One unevenly laid cube will give me an in. I ignore the facts I do not have any tools, and that the walls are well made and blank as high as I can reach.

My feet and my legs are always the first to give up. Whenever my big toes don’t make it off the ground, I need to bend over to wipe away the creep by hand. It’s hard to keep up the lifting and setting down while I’m doubled over. No idea of the time outside, and why would I care? How many kilometers have I already walked in here?

For a change I sweep my hands down the wall, stopping short of the ground. Having Lotor’s hungry sand as close as the soles of my feet is near enough.

Wait.

My fingers brush a bump.

A couple of ten-cubes stick out down there. There’s a rim a fingernail-width deep, two cubes wide. Two cubes further, another such interruption. And another two cubes further, that same row again. That makes three of these strange configurations because they can’t have been accidental?

How high are they?

Five ten-cubes and they finish a single cube’s height above the level of the sand. I let myself get excited. The picture I’m getting is of vertical bars with the cubes between them sticking out, as if they were fitted in after the original build.

All kinds of knowledge cascade through me, the walls aren’t high because they were built to be a prison cell? I bet there are similar sets of columns-and-gaps in the adjacent, and the opposite walls. My knees hit my chest every step I take. Thud. Thud. I’ll be black and blue if I live that long.

I brush the stones with my fingertips, feeling for the irregularities introduced when the gaps were filled. Yes. I grin just for me. Here and here. Leaning into the nearest corner, I un-crick my back in stages because I must not forget to step. Can I rest my two feet on the nearest ledges set as they are at right angles, minuscule though they are? I’ll do anything for a little break from the walking action.

I’m in an evaporation tower that has its air-intake grates bricked in. Not a prison cell at all. Will it help, this knowing? It must. Each of the intake sections has twenty cubes, sixty per grate … I picture the intake vents made to look like grates in a house I once knew. Three grates making one hundred eighty cubes.

My feet keep slipping down. The creep is winning. The height of the evaporation tower will be equivalent to three floors including the ground. It was made by Ark-Ship settlers. There will be no getting through the walls. No getting through the ground floor air intakes low to the ground with their three-slotted structure.

The height of the house in this case is two floors. I know that from seeing it from the outside. The ground floor walls have two interlocking skins of bricks to carry the weight of the second floor. The upper rooms are walled with a single skin of stones to lighten the load.

With one hundred and eighty stones I can make myself a little floor and try to live forever on no food and no water–because the guards won’t feed me in here–or …

Fiction: Half Shaman, 7

7: The Narrow Yard

Where I lay crying and laughing. Nobody comes near me and I don’t, don’t care. The Ark Ship talked to me! I feel so … unbounded! I can do anything. And I am still me still the Harpy.

I’m scraped raw from being flung to the ground and skidding over the hard-packed dirt. A gravel rash that I barely notice is set with grains of sand and microscopic fragments of all the lives snuffed by the planet.

A guard reads hysteria in my actions or he knows just what I need. He turns a hose on me that spurts with a mixture of Lotor and Earth water. Lumps-in-a-liquid splatter over me.

All of me stings except the parts where the Lotor-water sticks to me. It seems Lotor is healing me. Does its central management know it’s healing me, or is it regional? As in, does Lotor’s heart know what Lotor’s elbow does? A life time study is Lotor. Soon to be truncated, at least by me. Ha ha ha!

I’m smiling so widely my face hurts. I sit up and smoothe the gel over my arm. Might as well. I look at them that couldn’t rush to my aid. There’s a fence separating us. Some look at the ground, seemingly ashamed that they couldn’t help. Some stare at me. I read a longing in them. Some smile fiercely to help along my joy.

Behind me in my yard are five fauns. In front, standing over by the fence on my side of it, where he is chatting with one of the Earth-born, is the one whom I suspect to be Thayne. He’s the only one in chains. He looks embarrassed.

“What’s your problem?” I inquire. I can’t stop smiling.

He shakes his head like he can’t believe what just happened. “You little fucker,” he says. “You made me a laughing stock. I built you up out here. Made you a real Harpy!”

A change of attitude rustles through the Earth-born. I didn’t see a signal. Men and women come to attention with various small incremental movements. Some look at me and then at Thayne. They seem to measure the distance between us, and move towards him despite the fence in their way.

Some stare fleetingly at the fauns also in the narrow yard. Four of the fauns are youths and the fifth is the man who might be their chief. He is made of frown lines, it seems to me. There’s no movement toward the fauns. No danger is expected from them apparently.

“Nobody I see is laughing,” I say, looking straight at the man on the other side of the fence conversing just now with Thayne. If anyone laughs, apart from me, it will be him. A smile sits waiting at the corners of his mouth. He’s a head shorter than Thayne and seems a few years the elder. He’s a taller than me … who isn’t … and stocky. From where do I remember him?

 “Why the fuck did you sing the Meerkat Totem?” Thayne says.

“What?” His complaint is so unexpected, I laugh; it shoots out of me, a long burbling glissade.

He comes for me, fist raised.

I try to control myself but can’t stop giggling.

He’s furious. “It’s not your totem! Not mine! Not anybody’s here! How will a Meerkat Totem help to get us out of here? The salt-mines, I told you!”

“Touch the Shaman and you’re dead,” says the man by the fence. The rest have gathered near him. There’s a threatening murmur confirming his meaning.

I get that the man by the fence probably sees through my disguise. He might even know me?

I frown at him. This is not a good time to be unmasked. What can I do to prevent it? The Head Shaman often controlled the students with his eternal lessons. The structure pops into my mind ready-made.

“Nevertheless, the Meerkat is the totem of the day,” I say. “Lesson One. Each day we begin with the previous Lesson’s Totem. Yesterday that was the Eagle.” I recall the Eagle Totem’s positive attributes quite well after yesterday’s efforts, though Thayne and I did not sing them.

Interesting that he did not comment or complain then. I don’t believe he knows there’s a difference. Now, among all these people, hearing the totem he professes as his own sung properly, he will be forced to attend, and sing, to keep his disguise. He may still be needed. Alive.

While organizing my thoughts I’m organizing myself. I’ve turned to face the left, where the Earth-born are gathered beyond their fence. Thayne is to my right. The Fauns are to my new left along with a couple of guards flanking the entrance into the building.

I start with the first phrase of the call, “He soars with his great wings …”

All the Earth-born sing and the words roar back at me.  “… reaching across the world …”

Thayne is still silent. I haven’t sung any of the real words yet.

“…far-seeing over fold and forest …”

Now he starts. Yesterday I gave him the words of the Fishing Eagle totem. Today we sing the Spirit Eagle totem.

“… He brings solutions to relieve a soul …”

“Now you dare!” he shouts. “I’m onto you now. I’ll …”

He doesn’t continue because the man at the fence pushes his hand through the wire faster than lightning—wire with slots too small to take a child’s wrist let alone a man’s arm—and grabs hold of Thayne. He pulls him close to the wire and talks to Thayne only.

Thayne, after he’s released, wears a diamond pattern in white on that side of his red face. And he wears a confused expression.

I miss seeing how the man gets his hand back through the wire, but sing the next phrase: “… a spirit and a heart …” Later, I think. Later I’ll think it through. The fence. The man. His hand.

My scholars sing the last phrase. The poor young fauns stare open-mouthed. I gather to my mind the line that the Head Shaman added in. “… The wind of his flight blows through our minds. …”

I suspect it gave the Head Shaman a few more words for a Shaman-to-Ship message. I don’t recall whether we dragged out any of the words to denote the dashes. I just remember the words and what they meant to me. Will they speak to anyone here?

Thayne snorts. The younger fauns sing it starry-eyed. The old faun glowers.

Well, on we go. “Next in the lesson is usually a story containing a homily,” I say. “I’m in difficulty here today. Knowing that many of you may be marched away at any moment, I have two stories that I want to tell you, both equally important to your survival.”

“With respect, Shaman Zjeb,” says the man by the fence. “Guards are getting toe-y. Tell us both as one-liners, if you please.”

The man by the fence knows my name! That abbreviation is how my father called me. What else does he know? To hide my trepidation I glance to where the guards are getting restless. They rock from their heels to toes, heels to toes. Ready to run for me? They’re mumbling. Deciding something. Looking at me, looking at my audience.

The old Faun, he no doubt being within hearing distance, looks even more forbidding.

“Make for the city by the mountains,” I sing.

The guards stop their fidgeting. Singing is all right with them?

“A salt mine is no less than a maw. Waiting in the landscape to slake. The planet’s greatest hunger.”

I manage not to mention the planet’s name but one of the guards gets my meaning and springs for me.