Brivah

Crack!

I stepped on a tiny twig as I trudged through the crops of mature yellow corn, clutched by its long thin husks whose blades brushed past and tickled my elbow. The meadow was particularly windy today, offering a nice resuscitation from the nauseating heatstroke, which was cursed upon me by the scorching sun above us.

"We have a lot of work pending. The sacred ceremony is in two days, so we must chop these down soon."

My father would venture into these verdant fields every day, establishing the notion suggested by my mother that his true home is the crop field, lest he would spend some of his days in his thatched roofed house too. He was an old, thin man with skin as brown as the wild nuts of the Corata village and eyes which shone like the pearls of the eastern shores glinting at every laugh. He scuttled through the field in his pale brown breechclout and the new crimson leather tunic he got as a bounty from landlord Koraht for all the extra hours he spent on the farms.

"Why did you bring me and not Burim? Is he sick?" I asked, as I followed my father behind him.

"No, but you are a man now. You need to learn about harvesting soon, Sammi. I won't be able to feed your mother and your sisters when I get old. And, I would hardly be able to walk, let alone run around with a sickle, cutting crops under the hot sun." He raised the sickle in his hand and pointed at a big old tree to the right. "Er, there's some shade. We rest there for now."

I towed the harvest cart full of ripe corn, making my way through the dense, tall corn grasses as we arrived at the heavenly abode of the brisk shade.

"Do you know why we worship Brivah after the harvest?" My father asked as he tapped the dusty soil beside him.

"She is the Goddess of Harvest?" I answered dubiously as I rested myself to his right.

"Yes, every bite of food is a blessing of kindness from Her." He pulled out an old bronze coin on which was etched a seal of an ancient sword, poorly mimicked, however, by the craftsman who forged it.

"This coin", he said, "holds the sword of the Great Brivah. In ancient times, men lived at the mercy of wild animals who could kill them anytime. The Land would be cursed by terrible weather and the lives by starvation. God of Storms, Teshim, would wreak havoc against the Land every now and then. Land then summoned Brivah to fight against Teshim, who now waged war against Her."

"Who won?" I asked inquisitively as I peered at the engraving on the metal chip in his hand.

"Brivah defeated Teshim, but when She was about to execute Him, Teshim's brother Rain intervened and begged to stop her. They wove an accord that Rain would bestow his blessed gifts upon the Land every year if He wanted Teshim to live on. We worship Brivah for Her benevolence that She spared Teshim, but She also managed to ingeniously fabricate an agreement, fostering an eternity of harvests for men with the gift of Rain."

He looked over his shoulder at my long, youthful face, greased with dirt. "The new kingdoms of those redcoats will ask you to convert and accept their cross as your heritage. Even if they put a blade on your neck, you don't let go of the culture you're born with. If you give in, they'll make you their cattle, a slave. They'll try to tear your belief and stick a mark of their Christ on your head, they'll strip you of your language and nail their languages to your tongue, but you don't give in. You fight!"

He pulled my arm and unfolded my fist, setting the coin down with his old, wrinkled hands.

"My father passed this down to me on my first harvest. You keep this safe with you, and it'll return the favour."

I looked at the engraving; the sword that once had slain the Gods was now but a tale to tell. "Lhaje Merjahn", I smiled at him while pinning it to the chain hanging on my neck.

"Lhaje Merjahn." He patted my slouched shoulders as we gazed at the sun turning amber ahead of dusk.

We loaded all the harvest onto the cart and started walking back. The night was setting its dark reign on the sky, much like those redcoats who had already laid their outposts along the eastern lines of the village. Old men talked of them as the devils who were here to rob us of our silver and our animals. Fear would envelop the hearts of women who'd tiptoe to their homes post sunset lest the white men would rob them of their pride, let alone their firewood or the gold. While men kneeled and implored the Gods for their safety, the invaders took a hundred steps with each passing midnight at the behest of their generals who only reckoned us as the filth of this Land. A shepherd would tell his friend that he saw troops march west as he walked his flock on top of the hill, while a thief would narrate the horrors of the torture at the hands of their soldiers. The hearsay marched across the village faster than the soldiers, woe betide anyone discovered by the white men, or the British, as they called themselves.

"What's that?" I pointed at the smoke clouding up behind the dense barricade of trees that hemmed the village from the west. As we drew nigh, I could behold a mild golden glow fringing from the edges of the boughs.

"Is it some ritual?" I asked while my father gasped at the sight of what could possibly be but fire.

"It can't be." He stared wide-eyed and began walking faster. I could hear the screams from afar, wailing mothers and their children, rustling of wood and the neighs of the horses closing in. We wanted to believe it wasn't them. It couldn't be. Three nights back, I heard women laud the chieftain for his rendezvous with a British general to establish trade, thus making us allies. I knew they spoke a different language but didn't expect it to be treachery. We scuttled through the woods, heading toward our home while I struggled to pull the cart through the dense thicket of trees.

Running through the woods and closing in, I could sense blood burning down to ashes of imperialism and the fire spreading through the village amidst the commotion of grief and battle. I wanted to see my mother. I knew if I'd run for a few more moments, dash left and knock at the old wooden door, she'd open it, grumbling about how it was so late and the stew was getting cold. It could just be some thieves, a new carnival, or the harmless goblins the lores talked of. But all those thoughts burned away when we saw the troopers in red outside the house, exiting from the same wooden door.

I saw my mother being dragged by one of them, wailing loud enough to deafen the Gods in heaven. She turned toward me as I yelled, "Mother!" while pushing the cart aside and leaping. "Sammi" she screamed while the Englishman slit her throat, confining her last words to be my name. "No!" I cried as I ran toward her while Father raised his sickle and dashed at them. As I held my mother, all I could see was her face drenched in the blood that I was born from. I looked to my right, where my little sisters lay down, slaughtered, covered in blood. I couldn't move. My fingers trembled as I stared at the soldier with the eyes of wrath.

Another Englishman in a suit commanded the soldier, who then stabbed father with the knife fixed to the muzzle of his musket.

"Run!" he screamed as he fell to the Earth. He grovelled on the ground, his face besmeared with dust and his voice cracking. "Can't you hear me? Go! Do not stay. Live for us!" He squalled as the soldier stabbed him again.

I froze. My eyes were soaked with tears as I cried, "How can I leave?!" How could I leave my family like that? How could I leave him? I wanted to move my body. I needed to release all the strength within me. The boy who used to fight with the thugs in the marketplace beating them to a pulp. I was that boy. I had to save him.

"IT IS MY LAST WISH!"

Another stab.

I couldn't feel my limbs. I couldn't move my lips. My ears were deafened, and my eyes blacked out as I saw the backdrop move past. I looked behind at my father, who covered his mouth and shrieked while the blades tore through his tunic over and over. I ran as fast as I could. My tears fell behind me, like my father, mother and little sisters. I could hear the soldier screaming at me while cocking his gun as I leapt into the darkness of the wild bushes.

I couldn't feel my legs as I ran, hearing loud shots behind me. The dark woods ahead of me, the glow of burning blood behind, and here I was amidst both, demented with the choice of going either side. Should I have died with my family while fighting for them or honoured their sacrifice with my escape?

I did not know.

I wouldn't ever know.

All my visions could project before me were the gruesome images of the faces of my kin, murdered in cold blood, the colour of their coats. I lay down on the thorny grass, looking up at the rustling leaves of the high trees while the stench of genocide pervaded the cool air of the woods, briefing the wilderness of the new rulers of this Land. This world wasn't a quaint place anymore: it was a battlefield where the innocent lay buried as deep into the soil as the greed and hate of the white-skins, who then wandered around murdering every virtuous soul in the most gruesome manner possible, deeming the victims to be barbaric and wild. All I felt was rage and grief, but the most potent emotion was disgust toward myself for being such a weak and powerless piece of dirt who couldn't even protect his sisters.

Why? I heard the voice of my mother echo in the silence of this valley of death, the glimpses of my family whirling around in my mind as my tears roared for vengeance. "The walls of fate echo what's done and said." I needed to make them pay for what they did until I'd make them scream for their life and beg for forgiveness with each dying breath as slowly and steadily, my blades would pierce through their hearts. I'd burn them down until their eyes would pop out and melt, and their skin that is now white with pride would turn into ashes dark as night, and their necrosed lips would be as dry as the deserts where they camped, dreaming of sipping their own tears when all they'd taste is their own blood full of filth.

As I gaped into the dark night, drifting into oblivion, I heard the leaves rustle behind me. I sprang up and looked to my right, where I could see a dark figure heading toward me with slow steps. Fear clutched my heart as I held my billhook tightly, only to find Burim emerge from the bushes.

"Oh, Sammi! You're alive, " he cried out, swinging his arms wide and running toward me. I couldn't speak. I didn't know what to say. A meagre sense of relief enveloped me as he held me with tears in his eyes.

"It must've been so hard," he hugged me close to his chest while I felt his heartbeat slow down. He was afraid too, lost, like me. I began to sob in his arms shakingly, smearing his torn tunic with my tears as I wailed loudly. "There are others, too," he said as he clasped my arm as we ventured into the wilderness. The trees looked black, and the wind had died down as the only sound in the woods was the rustle of foliage as we marched forth.

Dozens of us were here. All of those who nearly escaped the bullets of the white men only to find themselves with nothing but their living bodies with scarred skins amidst the darkest of the woods and the darkest of nights. The faces were grief-stricken for someone who had lost their kin and someone who had lost their faith owing to the abominable evil that befell upon us. The women who had been chattering like wild birds until last night had now sealed their lips to dwell in the dolour of losing their sons. Priests in their half-burnt vestments chanted in the nine verses of the devils and asked forgiveness from the Gods, while a little child, now orphaned, had no other language but tears.

"We attack tonight," Burim whispered into my ear as he brandished the dagger in his fist, shivering with fear. The guerrillas were to scheme a revolt with the factions that remained, hoping to either kill as victorious barbarians or die and fly away into the heavens of Valhalla. Their thought, motivated by the idea to avenge, was well excogitated yet reckless, for how our new overlords possessed weapons that could wipe us out in minutes. Thanks to the informants, the only respite was the news about the feast in one of the British camps, due North, where they were to celebrate the butchering of our people with cooked meat and mead. Weapons were collected over the next couple of hours and handed out as the units propped themselves up, uncertain of what else this night might bring forth.

Along with daggers, machetes, tomahawks and arrows, they also managed to smuggle a handful of guns and pellets from the Whites, using their own poison to choke them in this war. The faction chief drew a map on the dry soil demonstrating how the Mojarn River to the west of the camp would offer the apt noise for the arbalists to creep up from behind while the blade-wielding infantry would close in quietly from the south. I enlisted among the infantry, entrusting my life to the knife I held.

The stout chief, Pererra, was once the head of the factions that guarded the family of the village chieftain and their family treasures. He had light brown skin, with arms as broad as the trunk of the woodland trees covered by the leather sleeves of his decorated tunic, eyes as little as his brows, standing on thick-hide moccasins and holding a giant wooden crossbow. Amidst the chaos that spread through the village during the attack, he managed to steal some meat from their manor, hoping to survive on bits of food, lest pellets weren't to maim him while he ran for his life. "Those dung-blooded British may enjoy their last meat," he grunted, "until the witching hour when we strike their peace that was robbed from us."

"What if they have wild monsters?" said one, while another went, "I have heard the white-skins possess wendigo and unheard magic." The delirious villagers, scared of the unknown beings, were motivated yet reluctant to encounter the impending clash with the devils themselves, who claimed to hold the power of Christ.

"I have heard tales of their Lord turning water into wine." exclaimed one as others murmured.

"What kind of magic is that? Our Gods can bring Rain upon them and drench their fireplaces if they may! We'll see if their Christ can turn that into wine," yelled a tall man with his face painted crimson as he chewed on corn. Everyone started laughing. Confusion was inevitable, but the troops were scared, lest some monster would be unleashed upon us perchance amidst the attack.

"Quiet!" commanded Pererra. "We need to march now as the dark hour approaches us. We chant the names of our Gods, and we parade in silence. Remember all the blood you saw. Remember your children being slaughtered at the hands of those inhumans. Feel the rage, the anger and bear it with pride. We're not here to hide like the frail goblins but to soar high like the eagles of the east.

"Lhaje Merjahn!"

"Lhaje Merjahn!" roared the crowd as they raised their weapons and pounded them on the ground. Amidst the tumult of emotions, we began walking, gripping our weapons tight, marching into the last act of the unknown that this night was to unleash upon us.

The night was clouded with the grey overcast as the winds began to blow strongly through the woods. The information was, in fact, accurate, and the camp was in place while the combatants proceeded to skirt it all around, surrounding them in a valley of blood-thirsty blades. Every person's role was decided, and we were to strike methodically. I had not expected the prowess of military intellect from Pererra that I encountered, wondering how he ended up just as a bodyguard and not a martial strategist. I crouched behind a thorny shrub, holding my dagger close to my chest, as we could see a campfire, with redcoats sitting on benches munching on steamed pork whose whiff could be sensed from far away. A few generals were visible, sipping on drinks, lying around stout and drooling and laughing, probably about how easily they could kill us like insects. Several carriages with horses were visible, and a lot of women too. The man beside me, Kasha, held a huge tomahawk half my size. "Don't go in too fast," he said as he patted my back and stared at the feasting whites, murmuring an inaudible chant.

While the firewood popped at the campsite, my eyes zeroed in on a tall man in a redcoat with a woman and a little girl. The woman, dressed in a fur cloak lined with satin, held his arms as their silhouettes were but picturesque against the backdrop of the campfire. He turned to his right, his face more visible, talking to another general who puffed smoke out of his mouth, shaking his hands, while my eyes widened as I stared in shock. What I beheld was the same face that commanded that soldier to kill my father; my memory wasn't lying. I knew of it. How ironic! A man who'd just returned after destroying several families, murdering women and children, was now sipping wine with his beloved wife and daughter. Outrageous! I needed to butcher him with my own bare hands. No, I could kill his family too, in front of his eyes, making him feel the horrors of his actions until I'd torture him to the most agonizing death possible. I felt my blood boil as my veins raged with the blood of the very family he ruthlessly murdered. His smile was nothing but the most detestable sight I had ever laid eyes on, needing to be perished from this Land once and for all. As I began to tremble, Kasha held my arm, "Not now. Hold yourself up and strong. You need to fight with your head, don't let it heat up and burn you apart."

Some troops started to close in as they signalled to each other and coordinated their movements. "The archers must be in position," said Kasha as we waited for our signal. A heartbeat. One moment of silence. I saw a glimpse of my mother massaging my shoulder as my sisters would play with the clay toys that my father bought from the old market. "Do not fight," she'd yell at them as one would fall and run into my arms crying while the other would throw the clay toy away and wail. I felt peace, a moment of memory, easing into my mind as I softened my shoulders and slouched. I started drifting off owing to the exhaustion of the day and the night that brought upon this very moment, slowly closing my eyes... gently, like a smooth breeze blowing over the mountain.

Tap!

"Now's our chance!" Kasha whispered, startling me, as he got up on his feet, ready with his tomahawk. A man in a redcoat fell down, with an arrow stabbed behind his back.

"Lhaje Merjahn!"

The warcry reverberated through the woods as the troops leapt through the bushes with their weapons as we crawled and dashed too. I heard gunshots, unaware whether they were for them or us. Kasha scuttled forward, crouching as he grabbed a soldier by his neck and cut it off. He signalled me to follow him as we took cover behind one of the carriages, waiting for others to kill the remaining gunmen. The archers kept shooting from the branches of the trees surrounding the place while we moved forward, seeking cover unless they'd arm up with their rifles and begin shooting at the melee warriors.

Kasha grabbed another man from behind, pinned him down to the ground and twisted his neck while I searched for the general amidst the chaos. I had to find him. As some Britishers took to guns, our men with daggers got shot down while our crossbowmen kept maiming them from the trees above. Women and children ran toward the carriages while soldiers dashed into their tents, scouring for arms. I ran behind one of the tents, waiting for a soldier to exit it as I gripped my dagger tight, my heart beating faster than ever. An Englishman emerged, and I pushed him to the ground, punching his rifle away. As he grovelled under me, I pulled out my dagger and pressed it against him. He stopped me using his hands and started pushing me to the side while I yelled out loud and kept thrusting harder. My knees sunk into his belly as blood spewed from his mouth, my dagger slowly sinking into his chest as he loosened his grip gradually and gave in to the blade. I could feel my breath burn my nose as I panted atop him, holding the dagger with blood-smeared hands. I shivered there, kneeling on the body of a man I just killed. My hands were now stained forever, and there was no going back. I looked around. Men killed each other with blades, rocks and bullets, and women ran behind the tents and the crates, seeking shelter lest they die amidst men's battle.

I crept up between the tents, where I found a little girl and a woman taking cover beside the linen canvas, shivering. It was them! The general's wife and daughter.

The only thought in my mind was to kill. I raised my blade as the woman started to crawl backwards, whimpering and crying out in her language. I ran toward her and threw my knife at her as she jumped, maiming her shin so she couldn't get up. To my left, her daughter wailed loudly, calling for her mother as I gripped her tiny neck and pinned her to the ground. The mother shrieked, trying to slither toward me as I grabbed a rock beside me and lifted it up. The little girl cried out, her mouth wide open, two of her teeth absent, while tears rolled down her milk-white cheeks. I heard her mother wail loud while I clenched the rock tighter, staring at the girl's tear-stricken visage. I pressed my eyes shut. A pause. I saw my sister under me, spreading her arms wide, crying and asking me to pick her up. Her bright eyes shone while I held her tight, wiping tears off her face and hugging her. She called me brother as she snuggled into my arms, rolling into a little bear, giving in to the warm embrace. I opened my eyes and stared into the eyes of the scared girl while my arm was raised with the hard rock in my fists. Thud! I smashed the stone to the ground as she panted and looked at me, trembling with fear. Getting up, I let go of her neck and ran to her mother, pushed her to the ground and pinned her down while unsheathing the knife from her stabbed flesh. I looked into her eyes and saw the same misery I saw in my mother's eyes hours ago. I pushed her aside and ran away, with the girl clinging to her mother's arms behind me. I felt tears run down my cheek as I turned around only to see a glimpse of the woman staring at me with eyes of emotions unknown, enveloping her daughter in a tight grip as they ran toward a carriage.

I dashed to the front where the bodies of men lay, struck with an arrow or stabbed with a sword, the blood drying on their red tunics as men fought ahead of me, slicing and piercing each other's skins. Gunshots, warcry, hurting men, crying children; this was the song of the battle, amidst which I stood, with blood on my hands.

I looked to my left and froze as I saw the general, inanimate on the ground, with a hole in his head that oozed out blood and brains with his eyes wide open and teeth painted red. I knelt beside him as his lifeless corpse lay there, sinking into the dirt and filth he once reckoned us to be. I raised my dagger, screamed out as my eyes flared with fury, and pushed it through his chest, gushing blood out of his heart as I started to sob. A coin fell down from my tunic, with an engraving of a sword. I picked it up, greased with blood, raising it above my face and stuck it to the centre of my forehead as I cried out loud, my voice screeching, looking up at the dark clouds, screaming to the heavens, where Brivah looked down at us, with Rain beginning its shower onto the Land, washing off the rivers of blood with its holy water. All that remained was the rumbling of the downpour.