Kurukhan

There weren't always dragons in the Valley. Or on our island. Life was safer back then. Calmer. But that was then and this is now. So, if the gods ask for blood, then blood is what they shall have.

- Chieftain Tarabaack

THE OUTLANDER

Perseus takes a rapacious breath of air as he wakes up soaked and wet. Hands and knees touching wet sand, he coughs out what feels like a cup of water from his lungs as he feels strong waves pushing and pulling against him, attempting to drag him out to the deep ocean. Exhausted and dizzy, he crawls forward, away from the ocean and toward the shore. Once there, he lays on his back and stares up at the night sky: no stars. No clouds. No moon. The sky and the ocean indistinguishable, a never-ending sea of black. His hearing muffled from water trapped in his ears, he helps himself up, his hands touching his knees, and attempts to shake the water out. He stops when he notices the destruction ahead of him: the jet caught up in a sapphire-blue flame as it slowly sinks into the ocean.

Francis, Percy thinks as his chest tightens, remembering talking with his ex on the jet. They spoke about the documentary Francis was going to shoot. Then, the turbulence started, the engine lost power, and the jet plummeted straight down before Perseus lost consciousness from the g-force. Francis, Percy thinks as he stares at the crash. I have to save Francis.

Despite his exhaustion, Percy stands and rushes into the water, soon swimming toward the plane as he searches for any sign of Francis. When a wave comes his way, Percy dives under, avoiding most of the strong impact as he carries forward with powerful and purposeful strokes. In need of a breath of air, he rises to the surface and dives again when a wave stronger and larger than the last heads his way. The current forces him five feet down. And Perseus rushes to the surface, taking a breath of air before another wave sends him back down. No, Percy thinks, refusing to give up as he swims for the surface. No, no, no. The waves refuse to let him anywhere near the plane. Whenever he reaches the surface, another wave sends him back down. Again and again and again. Only when Percy’s strength fatigues does he stop swimming and allow the waves to send him back to the shore.

Lying on his back, he helps himself to his hands and knees as he coughs out water from his lungs again before he catches his breath. “Francis,” he whispers as he looks back at the sinking jet, the blue flame growing weaker and weaker the deeper the plane sinks. Ready to try again and swim back to the plane, he stops when he hears hushed voices not too far from him, their language one he’s never heard before, which sounds like a cross between Portuguese, Italian, Spanish, Latin, and something new. Gazing up, he sees six men twice his size wearing nothing but a thin piece of tan fabric that covers their crotch. Skin tan, hair shaved, muscles prominent, with lashes covering them from head to toe, three of them hold torches and the other three carry a log almost the size of Percy. Behind the men lies a dense jungle with trees that almost touch the summit of a close and tall hill that contains a great red blaze, the distant sound of drums and singing faintly heard from this distance.

Unsure of what the men’s intentions are, Perseus remains crouched and still. “Hache no ta dieka,” he hears one of the men say in a rough and coarse voice. The men soon exchanging a confused glance before one of them, and the tallest looks at the summit and nods. His nod prompts a man with a rope tied around his waist to approach Perseus as he unfastens the rope.

“Hey,” Percy warns as he backs up and puts his hands up, signaling he doesn’t want any confrontation. “No trouble,” he says, still backing up, the ocean now up to his knees. “No fight. Please.”

The man doesn’t stop. He twirls the rope and hurls it toward Percy. Percy dodges and sprints to his left, heading back to the shore and putting as much distance between him and the men. Glimpsing behind him, he notices three men right on his tail, quickly catching up as they unfasten their rope around their waist and twirl it above their head, ready to hurl it at Percy. Gaze back in front of him, Percy starts to run in zigzags, dodging one, two, and—

The third rope wraps around his neck and pulls, forcing Percy to gag and fall and crash onto his glutes. The second he’s on the sand is the second the man who captured him grabs him by the back of the neck and pushes his face to the sand. “No che muessa!” he orders in his tongue before the other two men push him off and say, “Calme. Calme!” Percy’s attacker groans and mutters some words under his breath before he walks away. Then, the two remaining men proceed to tie Percy’s wrists and legs as the three men with the logs arrive. They leave two of the logs on the shore before tying Perseus to one of the logs, one man carrying one end, the other man carrying the other. Percy notices the leader of the group exchanging a few words with the man who attacked him, both men glancing at Perseus. What are they going to do? Perseus wonders before the leader sighs, approaches him, and punches him in the face, knocking him out cold…

Perseus awakens to the frantic beat of at least two dozen drums, to the chanting of unrecognizable and barbaric hymns, to the rise and fall of loud and colossal waves, to the clash of steel and iron, and to the lustful moans of men and women. Senses dazed, his hearing comes and goes when it pleases. When it arrives, it tunes to a different sound. Drums. Chanting. Waves. Moans. Drums. Chanting. Waves. Moans.

Vision slowly returning, he’s reminded that his hands and legs are bound to a log carried by two bald men twice his size wearing nothing but a thin piece of tan fabric that covers their crotch. Where are the other four men? he wonders as he’s carried up a hill through a narrow path as the men chant alongside the beat of the drums, the rhythm merciless and deadly.

When they near the summit, the beat of the drums gets louder to a deafening degree, forcing the beat of Percy’s heart to match its tempo. Ba-thump, ba-thump, ba-thump. Fearing that he’s going to be killed or tortured, Percy tries to wiggle his way out of his binds. One of the men carrying the log groans and smacks him. “No,” is all he says before carrying forward. Percy complies, waiting for a better chance to try and break free.

At the top of the stadium-size hill that oversees the black ocean and rests under the starless night sky, Perseus gasps as he’s guided across a tribe that engages in life’s most basic desires: sex, violence, dance, and song. At the center of the summit, he notices a large blazing firepit that acts as the heart of the tribe. As Percy’s carried toward the heart, he sees two circles filled with tribe members surrounding the blaze. The farthest circle closest to the edge of the hill has men and women, all with tan skin and long and luscious black hair—their bodies fit and toned like a hunter and a fighter that’s never gone a day without a battle, engaging in various love-making acts. He sees women kissing women, women riding men, and men mounting men. Percy quickly turns away from such a sight, shocked at how easily they display their sexuality before noticing more acts.

As he’s guided toward the second circle near the center of the summit, he comes across another sight: musicians. He sees drummers, singers, and dancers, each losing themselves to the harmony and moving their bodies as they close their eyes. Beside the blazing fire resides a wooden stage where two men engage in a fight to the death with a spear and shield. Clash looking like it’s near the end, the smaller man, bleeding and panting, falls to his knees before he looks at the three figures sitting by the heart of the tribe: a man and two women dressed differently than all the others.

The leaders, Perseus guesses. The chieftains. The chieftains, like the rest of their people, have black hair but it’s longer than all the rest, reaching past their waist. The symbol of their power and status, Percy deduces. The chieftains sit with their legs crossed, their posture erect. Each has ear gauges made of silver, while the rest of the tribe have ear gauges made of copper. The male chieftain is built like a bull and has a belly like that of a powerlifter, a bubble gut. Unlike the rest of the tribe, who look as if they are in their twenties, the male chieftain looks as if he is in his fifties. He wears a leather fabric that covers his crotch and a lavish hat made from feathers. The woman sitting to the left of him shares a build similar to that of the male, strong and large with thighs that look powerful enough to crush a man’s skull. The woman to the right of him doesn’t share that same physique. She’s small and petite with a fit body more toned and defined than the rest of the tribe. Both female chieftains wear dark-blue leather tops that expose much of their neck and belly and shorts that reveal much of their thighs and hips, the leather gleaming bright as the blaze shines its light on it.

As the warrior on stage remains on his knees, looking at the three chieftains, the chieftains exchange a few words as Percy’s carried closer and closer to them. When the bald men carrying Perseus arrive by the stage, they set him down to his knees, free him of his binds, and crouch next to him, their heads lowered. Perseus doesn’t lower his head. He stares past the stage, past the two warriors, and notices the smallest chieftain staring back at him as she raises an eyebrow. When the male chieftain says a few words to her, she looks away, talks to the male chieftain, and finally nods at the warrior standing over the other man on his hands and knees. With that signal, the victor plunges his spear into the smaller man’s chest, staring straight into his eyes.

When the loser falls, the smallest chieftain stands up, walks onto the stage, holds a hand over her head, and with a powerful voice, commands the ceremony to stop. The music ends with one last beat of the drum. And the moans die along with it as Percy glances behind him, noticing the tribe members standing and huddling close, clothed or naked. A silence follows—nothing is heard but the waves as the smallest chieftain stares at the winner. The victor, a man with a round face and the build of a body lifter, plants his bloody spear onto the wooden stage before kneeling beside the chieftain. Strapped to his waist is a leather strap that contains a leather holster carrying a knife. The man unsheathes the stone blade and offers it to the chieftain. “Hatu, hatu!” he begins in his tongue, his voice loud for all to hear. “Maté a dieka! Le dio, etoy arme me las!”

The chieftain accepts the dagger, turns her back away from her tribe, and faces the two other chieftains as she presents the stone blade to them. They nod. And she faces her tribe again and holds the dagger in the air. “Maté!” she cries out. “O’ bien ra le maté! Ah?”

The tribe responds as one. “Maté!”

"Le dio!” She points the stone dagger at the winner. “Diche arm eke quira le dio! Ah?”

“Le dio!” The tribe answers. “Le dio!”

“Hatu!” She holds the blade inches away from her palm, eyes scanning each member of her tribe. “Etoy rita pa dieka, y hatu me hatu! Ah?”

“Hatu me hatu!” The tribe roars. “Hatu me hatu!”

“Hatu!” With a swift movement, she slices her palm open and watches the dark blood ooze out before smothering her face and her neck red. Finished, she does the same to the victor, painting his neck, chest, and face with blood as the tribe begins a new chant: slow, quiet, each man and woman huddling even closer together and shrugging their shoulders as if shaking away a demon off their back. “Hatu me la,” Percy hears them chant as one as he grows uneasy, unsure what this chant will lead up to. “Hatu me la, hatu me la, hatu me la.”

Chant continuing, Percy notices the smallest chieftain gaze at the other end of the summit where he had been carried from as if she is expecting someone or something to show up. She squints her eyes and takes in a deep breath as the tribe divides into two halves, west and east, leaving a clear pathway that leads to the stage. The bald men still crouched next to Perseus take his arm and move him aside from the stage before making him kneel. Percy hears the chant growing louder and faster before drums enter the song, their pace syncing to the melody.

Heart ready to burst, unsure what the hell’s going on, Perseus can’t help but gaze at the other end of the summit, fearful of what will approach as the chant grows faster and stronger. “Hatu me la, hatu me la, hatu me la!” What began as a somewhat calming hymn has now turned into a ballad of aggression as Percy notices each tribe member shrugging their shoulders faster and faster, looking as if they are having a seizure. “Hatu me la, hatu me la!” He wants out. Percy wants out of this. He should run now, he’s no longer bound by rope, but fear prevents him from doing anything but breathing. “Hatu me la, hatu me la, hatu me la! Ha—”

The chanting stops, and an eerie silence takes hold as all eyes gaze toward the end of the summit. Percy feels an ice-cold breeze graze his skin. He does his best to keep his breathing calm. But when he hears an inhumane and hellish shriek take hold of the night from a great distance from within the jungle, his breathing intensifies. Glancing behind him, he notices the small chieftain is holding a small wooden bowl that contains some sort of blue tonic. She approaches the victor and serves him the drink before stepping aside and sitting back down next to the other two chieftains.

The victor squints from the taste of the tonic before falling to his knees and panting. He groans and then he screams: his hazel-colored eyes suddenly turning sapphire blue, his veins becoming black and clear as he continues to scream, his gaze fixated upward at the starless night sky. When his screaming stops, he rises and takes hold of his spear. As soon as he stands, the tribe, even the chieftains, kneel and stare at the other end of the summit. Skin drenched in sweat from the battle he just fought, Percy notices the sweat on the victor’s skin begin to fade as he closes his eyes and takes in a deep breath.

Percy’s gaze returns to the other end of the summit. He doesn’t hear anything out of the ordinary: waves crashing against the shore, the blaze crackling next to him. Only when about ten seconds pass is he able to make out the faintest of noises: the hushed rustling of trees and vines as if an animal is blazing past one end of the island to the other in a matter of seconds. Two seconds pass, and Perseus is able to hear more sounds: a creature breathing rapaciously, as if its throat is caught with phlegm. Three seconds pass, and he hears the creature snarl and growl, its silent footsteps quickly ascending the hill before it…

Stands at the other end of the summit and releases another hellish shriek. What is that? Percy thinks, both petrified yet somehow sorry for the creature as he stares at it: a woman whose pale skin is covered with a deep coat of dirt and debris. Veins and eyes coal-black, she snarls again, revealing sharp canines that look capable of tearing a man to shreds, and Percy notices a long and red tongue, forked like a snake, licking her lips and her cheeks. No nose—two narrow black openings replace it instead. She gazes at the victor and no one else as maggots escape her torn scalp. Naked and slim, her breasts are slashed off, and dark and rotting flesh covers her chest instead, her reproductive organ pale and blank. Armed with long claws, she clashes them together, and with superhuman speed, she lunges at the victor, claws ready to sink into his chest.

She misses, for just as quickly, the victor steps aside and dodges the attack, countering with a slash of his spear. Their speed is unlike anything Percy’s ever seen, and he’s barely able to make out their movements. He notices the victor yell as he comes in with a thrust of his spear, but the creature dodges by swaying to the left as she grabs hold of the spear and pulls, disarming him.

At a clear disadvantage, the victor summersaults backward, distancing himself from the creature before he unsheathes a blade attached to the side of his hip and inhales, holding the weapon with an underhand grip. He waits. And waits. His gaze fixated on the black and lifeless eyes of the creature. No, Percy thinks as he studies the creature more closely. Not lifeless. As he looks past the surface, past the snarling and panting of the creature, Percy notices something more: sadness. She’s a victim, Percy thinks as he frowns, staring at her slashed breasts and torn scalp. This was done to her. His gaze falls on the victor. And he knows this, Percy thinks as he notices the slightest frown on the victor’s face. “Pura tad libertas,” he hears the victor whisper to the creature.

Snarling, the creature lunges at him, but the victor rolls out of the way and swings his dagger vertically, leaving behind a slash on the back of her knee as he releases a fearsome shout. Wounded, the creature lets out a painful screech as black blood pours out the back of her knee. Seizing the moment, the victor rushes toward his fallen spear. Grabbing it, the creature lunges at him, and the victor turns around at the last second and runs the spear straight through her abdomen, impaling her from gut to back as she lets out one final shriek. “Rescanse,” the victor tells the creature as his protruding and black veins start to fade and as the sapphire-blue glow from his eyes slowly returns to his normal eye color, hazel. “Rescanse,” he repeats. When she stops moving, he withdraws the spear, tosses it aside, and with gentle arms, carries her body near the great blaze and sets her down near the three chieftains.

The smallest chieftain, holding the stone dagger she was given by the victor, offers it back to him as she tells him, “Bom trabor, Badeera.” The victor whose name must be Badeera accepts the blade and gives a faint smile as he says, “Obri, Naeva.” Badeera kneels beside the slain creature and whispers a prayer in his tongue. Finished, he holds the stone dagger over his head and then plunges it down below the creature’s sternum and cuts vertically, opening her chest. Dissection completed, he puts away the dagger and sinks one hand into the open gap he made in her chest, searching for what Percy guesses to be her heart. When he finds it, he pulls out a sapphire-blue heart covered in black blood, stands, holds it in the air, and addresses his tribe. “Hatu!”

“Hatu! Hatu!” his brothers and sisters respond in unison.

Badeera faces the three chieftains and awaits their response. They nod. And with a deep breath, he approaches the blazing fire, tosses the heart into the flame, and stands back.

In an instant, the red inferno suddenly transforms into a bright blue, its heat like a thousand suns as the flame shoots up into the air, as if it is reaching for the heavens. Light too bright, Perseus shields his eyes from the blue flame as he uses his peripheral vision to watch the flame soar higher and higher into the sky, turning night into day. After ten seconds pass, Percy hears a thunderous clap.

Then, silence. The blue flame, still reaching the heavens, is no longer making any sound. Noticing that the chieftains and the entire tribe stares at the slain creature, Perseus ends up doing the same, waiting for something to happen. Holy shit, Perseus thinks when he hears the faintest groan from the creature. She groans and groans some more, each time sounding a little less like a creature and a little more like a woman as her skin sheds like a snake, as her claws shrink and transform into delicate fingers, and as the open gap on her chest regenerates until…until only a woman who looks no different than the tribe is left: naked, trembling, long black hair covering her breasts as she struggles to stand on her own. Unable to rise, she crawls as she tries to reach the blue inferno. Percy notices the women of the tribe stand, urging and supporting the beauty without saying a word. And the men…the men kneel and cast their eyes away.

Not Percy. In awe, jaw wide open, he stares at the woman as she helps herself up and walks toward the blue flame. But the second she does so is the second she locks eyes with Percy. Gasping, she collapses on her back and begins to scream as if Percy is torturing her, her eyes soon rolling to the back of her head as foam escapes her mouth and her body begins to convulse violently.

No, Percy thinks as his eyes turn red. No, no, no! Wishing to do something to help her, he never gets a chance as he feels the men by his side grab him by the back of the neck and hold his head to the ground. Through his peripheral vision, he notices the small chieftain, Naeva, and the bigger female chieftain rush to the aid of the beauty, trying anything they can to save her. “Que faço!” yells the large female chieftain as Naeva holds the beauty upright, preventing her from choking on her own spit. “Que faço!” the large female chieftain repeats, hysterical. Naeva holds her temple close to the beauty’s and says hushed words in her tongue that Perseus can’t make out. “No,” Naeva whispers a bit more loudly as the beauty’s cries grow quieter and quieter. “No!” Naeva repeats as she shakes her head and as the beauty’s body grows limp.

When the beauty’s life fades, so, too, does the blazing blue inferno with another thunderous clap, the faint red flame replacing it in a flash as a grim silence washes over the tribe. The men beside him let him go and curse in their tongue. Badeera lowers his head and sighs, a hand on his forehead. Naeva continues to hold the beauty’s lifeless body. And after about a few seconds pass, the tribe begins to mutter hushed curses as they stare at Perseus, their gaze looking ready to kill. Oh, no, Percy thinks.

Suddenly, a third thunderous clap sounds off, summoning the blue inferno again, hotter and brighter than ever before as the shock wave knocks Perseus and the entire tribe from their feet and onto the ground. The blue flame begins to take the shape of a slim but long serpent-like beast flying and twirling around the summit. A dragon, Perseus gasps. The beast roars at the heavens, spitting out blue fire. “Uthre deu dieka!” it bellows in a voice that makes the island tremble and the waves grow more violent. “Death is what you ask for!” it repeats in the same tongue, Perseus somehow able to understand the language for a reason he doesn’t understand. “Every child will bleed, every woman will weep, and man will be the last to die!” The being stares down at Perseus. “Him! The Outlander! Give me his eyes!” the being tells the tribe. “Give me his heart! Throw it into the flame, and your people will be spared and forgiven!” With one last roar, the beast dives into the source of the flame, disappearing in an explosion of blue fire that dies down to the red ember it was.

Bracing himself for the tribe’s instant reaction, Perseus jumps to the stage and snatches the spear Badeera used to kill the creature as the tribe and the two chieftains, the large male and female, approach him like a pack of hungry wolves. When they quickly circle him, he swings the spear in circles, yelling, “Stay back!” He swings again, forcing two men to back off. “Back! Now!”

Percy’s only able to hold back two charges before he notices a man behind him charging at him with a raised dagger. Turning around, hoping to impale the man before being impaled, Percy never gets the chance to do so.

A spear impales the man’s heart. A spear used by…

Naeva.

All eyes fall on her as the tribe gasps in horror and as the male chieftain scrunches his eyebrows in anger, the look on his face like a brother who’s been betrayed. He stares at Naeva dead in the eye and huffs like a bull. And Naeva withdraws the spear and stands between him and Perseus as she stares right back, no guilt in her eyes as she puffs out her chest and holds her ground.

And Percy…Percy remains frozen, unsure why this woman would go against her own people for him, unsure why she would take such a drastic action to save him. A stranger. An Outlander.