Bitter Oath (New Atlantis)

Prologue

Autumn 1770, Prairies of Saskatchewan, CANADA

The ancient man leaned in to draw a burning stick from the fire, to light his pipe. It was not a peace pipe, nor was it any other ceremonial ritual he followed, but simply a lifetime habit his masters had always reluctantly condoned. After all, he was not one of the Obijwe. He was a Pani slave who had been with this people since he was a youth found wandering half crazed with thirst in the plains.

Sky Eyes they had called him. He had learned their dialect, worked hard, and made a place for himself, for longer than any man living could remember. Some called him one of the great Miigis, or Radiant Ones, come back to teach them. But Sky Eyes had never tried to teach them. He had made it his Quest, instead, to learn from the people everything they would teach him.

Tonight, under the bright, full moon, Sky Eyes was ready to ask his last question.

‘Has this land we rest on now always been lifeless?’

The elders of the tribe and the Midew, the Medicine Woman, exchanged looks. The land he spoke of was lifeless, unlike the rest of the arid plains that held a multitude of life, even in the drought – for eyes that could see. But this place was dead, and they would move through it quickly, setting watchers through the night to warn of ghosts who might claim them while they slept. It was a place they would never speak of.

But on this night, the ancient Pani, who might be a Miigis, asked the forbidden question. While the moon was full and he smoked the sacred smoke, he told them that they must leave him here in the morning when they left. This would be his last question. The question of a dying man.

The ancient crone was the Midew for their tribe and the keeper of the sacred truths. Her breasts sagged down below the waist band of her skirt, and her face was so wrinkled her eyes could barely be seen. She held up her gnarled hand and motioned for silence.

‘Ancient Questioner we will give you your last answer…

‘Long ago, when our ancestors, at the warning of the Miigis, came to this land from the direction of the rising sun, this place was rich and green. All manner of plant life grew here, and creatures roamed it, both large and small. Beneath the soil, huge worms seethed. And though the Midew of that first tribe called them sacred, and warned against it, the people ate the worms and found them good. Soon this place had no worms left, and the people moved on. When they returned the following season, this place was as it is now – Lifeless.’

‘Were the great worms found elsewhere?’ Sky Eyes asked, brushing back his long, white hair, his rheumy eyes alive with interest.

‘No, the great worms were never found again. Although our people came upon a white man, some seasons ago, who showed the people drawings of a great worm that matched the old stories. It was as long as two men’s feet, one placed in front of the other, as thick as a finger, and as white as ash. The land where he found it was said to be lush and green in the midst of the dry.’ The Midew spoke with the skill of a story teller, wrapping her audience of the twenty adults sitting around the fire, in the magic of her words. Every dark eye was trained on her, every mouth agape.

‘Did this white man have a name?’ The ancient’s voice wobbled with excitement. His pipe sat on his knee, unused.

‘A strange name, as all white men bear. Moolgraaff, Ser Moolgraaff.’ There was a soft gasp of awe from the people.

The people knew of white men. They had come in contact with them briefly, on their travels, and had heard many stories from the other tribes of their kin. But these white men were still an oddity, still a curiosity to be watched with caution. The Spirits warned against them, and the Spirits were never wrong.

‘How long after I came to you, did this man with his drawings come?’

The wise woman wrinkled her already wrinkled brow, as she thought. ‘I was a grown woman, already wise in the Mide. The Midew of the people who saw the drawings said it had been the season before our Gathering. You were an old man, even then, Sky Eyes.’

The crone’s lips peeled back to reveal a toothless grin. Her youth compared to his was always a joke between them. He had known her as a baby, and watched her grow. She had treated him like a pet, and he had sought her out for the wisdom she would dribble out to him, as it was passed to her. This Midew had always been proud of what she knew, and always been reckless in sharing the secrets of the Mide with him.

But why not? He was like a still dark pool that took what was offered, and never gave back. Her secrets were safe with the ancient one, who would soon die in this lifeless place.

She would miss him.

In the morning, the tribe gathered their possessions, finding a special place for the gifts Sky Eyes had given them of his goods. Then they rode away, with their back to the rising sun. One naked girl child dawdled behind, her big, brown eyes sad. This would be the Midew in years to come, and he had been her pet, just as he had been the crone’s pet.

She held her small, brown hand out to him, fist closed tight. He reached out his own shaking arm toward her, palm up and open. She dropped a precious cowrie shell into his hand.

‘May the Great Spirit ease your way,’ she whispered to him, drawing her hand back quickly, and turning to go.

‘May the Great Spirit guide you, little one,’ he called to her retreating figure, his old voice raspy with emotion.

None of the tribe he had lived with for a lifetime turned back to see him one last time. It was their way. He was gone from them now, as surely as he would be by the time the sun was set. His life had been a long and comfortable one, for a slave. They had been good to him. But the old must die, and it was this old man’s time.

From his medicine pouch around his neck, the Ancient drew a palm sized object. He was impatient to be gone. Waiting for the people to be out of sight was a waste, as none would turn to him again. His gnarled and arthritic fingers moved with confidence over the object. In seconds, the morning was made brighter by a showering fall of sparkling lights. The soft hum did not travel far enough to draw the attention of the departing tribe.

But the child who had lost her old pet could not keep to the ritual. She cast a hasty, parting glance behind her, and saw the Ancient hobble into the shower of light. She blinked several times to clear her vision. But when she looked again, there was no sparkling light, nor was there an old man.

He was gone.

He truly was a Miigis.