The Makers

Mother Rekka forbade me from exploring Sky-Fish Aye Och's sacred ruins, the Tomb of The Makers, on the mountain peak. Not that Mother Rekka can keep me from my destiny.

Mother Rekka, stingy with any kid plucking sticky fingers for a second helping from the communal bowls here at Beach Orphanage. Quick with a thwack with her walking stick for late risers. Somehow always present to catch you playing hooky from school or rolling the bone-die with the older village striplings.

Mother Rekka, black eyes, gnarled face, hawk nose, She's always harder on me than everybody else. Nobody else gets dish duty for a week for staying out late or forced to an early bedtime for playing knuckles.

It's not fair. No one else helps Rekka like I do. I milk goats, gather eggs, cook meals, clean diapers— I never complain. And yet, I love my life. Which is why I deserve some slack!

I think being mean takes a toll on her. Sometimes after bedtime, you can see her standing at the window, looking at nightfall, and her eyes look sharp and lonely as lightning, far away.

She tries to hide it, too, as if she's too strong to hurt. Constantly shifting from hip to hip when she holds the newborns, trying to sneakily rest her creaky knee. Or in the way she combs her hair off-part before sunrise while the kids are asleep, trying to hide white roots. My cheeks felt hot. It's embarrassing; just be old already. It's not a secret.

I know she has feelings, too. One night last winter, I went to her bedroom to ask for blankets during her nightly prayers— the prayers go on forever, so sometimes kids get fussy, and it's my job to help them. She didn't answer the knock, so I stuck my head in. I saw her curled up in bed, swaddled in her blankets, holding the big heart-shaped locket she always wears around her neck like a baby holding a mama's finger. The papery crevices in her face were a little wet. I knew she was crying. Sometimes I remember her all swaddled up whenever I get too angry with her.

Although, Rekka is a usual grump most of the time. Rekka can't feel anything in front of the kids— even when I drop her "mother" title to get a rise from her, she shows the same rocky face. "I'm not quite your mother, no." she'd scoff.

Anyways. Now that I'm older (almost thirteen!) I'm ready to become an adventurer to see the world and search the ruins for resources, just like my dad, the sole village scavenger-- according to the stories and pictures about my father Rekka shared with me.

We share the maker's blood and their latent powers-- Fission Witchcraft. Perhaps Aye-Och and the makers left us a tome sharing their sacred witchings for our survival.

Besides, I'll do anything to free myself before I'm forced to leave Beach Orphanage. Any longer, and Mother will place me in a home— either way, the thought of living with a stranger gives me shivers.

I know Mother Rekka forbade me from Aye Och’s ruins. There is nothing but death and ghosts and rancorous fission-soaked beasts from Aye Och up there, she always chides. The parents of her village friends whisper about me behind closed hands, blasphemous little girl. May Aye Och take her. But no one can stop me. Tomorrow night I’ll cook up breakfast, leave it in the mess hall so no one will miss me, and sneak out after Mother Rekka’s prayers when she’s sleeping.

***

I push the front door into the hinge, so it doesn't squeak, back down the seven plank stairs light as a feather, and slip through the loose pine slat of the fence just like I practiced doing all week. I hold my breath, peeking between the fence slats. I hear squeaking from the orphanage, but the lights remain off. Good enough. I exhale. Free.

I scan the forest horizon. Tall pines stretch shadows like fingers in the moonlight and the mountain's peak glimmers like a worn coin in a wishing well. I have goose pimples-- giddy, unwell.

Perhaps I will be a village hero once I can cast Ignition Spell. I can't help but grin, even in the dark. Flipping open my carving knife, I begin traipsing through the bush with my pillowcase for a sack and an oil lamp. Choosing to stay hidden from any prying eyes, I trek the mountainside by only the light of the moon, hearing only the dueling howls of two creatures beyond.

***

In the shale mountainside gapes the mouth of Aye Och's ruins, slate gray mouth black and gaping. Above it hangs the great yellow sign, reading, "E.O.C." Aye Och. The great ancestral tomb. I light my oil lamp, throwing light inside. I steady myself with a deep breath, taking cautious steps into the cavern's mouth down the stairway.

Another step. Another step. My body is shaking like I'm freezing cold, although it's only cellar-cool. Adrenaline. The stairs snake long walls like an intestine in a monster’s belly.

A flash; I jump back.

Two hefty iron doors reflect light back. Catching my breath, I step forward to open the doors. Suddenly, as if the ruins read my mind, the doors slide open. I hear a hiss inside. I leap back, readying my carving knife for whatever beast lurks within. No monster— just a glow inside the room.

I poke inside cautiously. Circular numbered glass buttons glow within the wall— magic runes. I try to pull them off, but they’re carved into the box. One button reads, DOOR CLOSED. Attempting to pull the button off, I accidentally force my finger into it, pressing the button into the wall. A chime rings, giving me a heart attack. The doors slide closed. Another button, DOOR OPEN, glows on the left. I press it. The door slides open.

I scroll down the buttons. The bottom button glows with a black B. The only letter. An important rune? I take another deep breath to keep calm and click B. The floor shakes— I feel nauseous— I'm weightless, waking the anger of the Aye Och! No, that isn't it. I realize that the sensation comes from the dropping down, slowly. Deeper.

***

The room slows its descent as another chime rings. The doors open to another black room-- the chime echoes. The room must be massive if sound reverberates like a canyon.

I raise my lantern, realizing the room extends long like the gray hallway. I take wavering steps and gasp at what I see.

A dozen jaundiced man-sized flies with anteater snouts and tar bodes flank from all around. I dance ahead and slash at one, breaking its skin, crouching into a fighting stance.

I pause. No, I didn't slash skin. The misty panes of their eyes refract the image of my face. I am staring at masks attached to great gleaming suits in glass cases. War garb? Skins of ancient enemies mounted as trophies?

Beside the strange garments hung gear-- gloves, boots, knives, matches, flint, metal wool, and strange, bulgy, yellow shiny envelopes containing paintings of rice and soups.

I was aware that I was robbing hallowed graves. Will Aye Och curse me for my curiosity? Regardless, these belonged to our forefathers. They belong to me. I started tossing strange goods into my backpack before realizing that a pillow sack was clearly too small.

Do I pause here and return tomorrow? The knob of another door shimmers in the oily light. I press forward.

***

The door glides open with unnatural smoothness. Stillness. I can tell that this room rests ancestral souls. I offer a quick prayer to Aye Och and step in.

Some twenty beds and bedside tables row the room, some lumpy, others empty. I don't need to look closely to see skeletal remains in some of the beds.

One wall splays an immense portrait of black figures, primitive in design. I recognize the shapes from church artwork, the egg-shaped form of the great black sky-fish, Aye Och, and the many stick-men with bowed heads. I nod reverently.

One bedside table rests a black L-shaped object, cool to the touch, with a grip on it much like my knife's grip. A broken blade? I search the desk and glows, looking for the broken tip of a sword or dagger. Nothing. I stash it in my case.

I realize— some of these beds are empty. A chill. The dead walk. I back away, slowly, walk turning into a sprint.

***

I work the buttons of the moving room, realizing that the numbers correspond to floors. I get back to the top-level, and I sprint out, huffing— I'm almost out—!

Illuminating the entranceway stretched a menacing silhouette lit from the cavern entrance. My eye follows the shape.

It is a four-legged creature, taller than me even on all-fours. A howl. A two-headed direwolf. Mother Rekka's words return to me: There is nothing but death and beasts up here. The creature stalks forward— I have nowhere to turn. I get the quaking adrenaline chills, lungs burning, hands tremoring so bad I drop my knife. I keep my eyes glued to the beast, and reach for my knife, slowly.

Like the flicker of the lamp, it lunges. I swing my lamp in desperation, cracking the beast on the snout.

Oil splashes out in a gossamer spray, and the beast radiates brightly, fur catching fire. It bellows, charging back to the mountainside. I dash unevenly from the ruins, sandpaper stickiness in my mouth and throat. I can hear the beast behind me, rolling to extinguish the flame.

I hear it closing in on me— I trip. My pillow sack flies away. I curl up. Doomed. I hear the scampering of paws close.

Suddenly a clatter punctures the night like pots clanging together. I turn to see Mother Rekka, holding the l-shaped sword with a straight arm pointed at the beast. Witchcraft!

The beast continues to charge her down, maw clutching Mother Rekka's body, and the two roll-off down a long ravine beyond my eyesight. More clatter. Then silence. And then a call.

"Hurry to me!"

***

There Mother Rekka lay, beast fell, immobile by her side. I quickly limp to Mother Rekka’s body. Wet and sticky with blood.

“I knew when I found your bed empty you would be here. My little adventurer.”

Her lips turn upwards into a rare smile.

“There is little time, dear.”

Mother Rekka gasps piercingly. I can hardly see her face in the dark, harsh features now soft, although pained.

She tugs at the gold spool of her locket out from her undershirt, fingers slowly undoing the locket clasp.

She shushes me. Wipe your tears.

I didn't realize I was crying. I can hardly see Mother.

Her eyes fog. She blindly forces the open locket into my palm.

I glance within to see a worn, paper image I do not understand— my father-- and much younger Mother Rekka.

"Granddaughter, I do not have time. I pass with you, my love."

She coughs.

"My great-great-grandparents ascended from that bunker. There is nothing left from the ancients— nothing but death."

She shakes the black, L-shaped object nearby.

“Instruments of Pain. Leave them behind, in the past. Serve the living, as your father and I have tried. You are a maker-- you will make life.”

"Search out other resources and other villages; I know you will. But never leave behind those at Beach— you must tend them, be their mother. Only you can do it."

I feel my lips tremble. My whole body trembles.

“I t-thought you hated me, Mother.”

Her blue lips pull into a rare grin.

"No. Never. I expect much from you. I love you. I always will."

I cradled Mother’s head near my heart, like a child.