* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Three days. Three days seemed to drag on forever. It wasn’t necessarily a negative, but it highlighted to N’maro how different life was here, down on the planet’s surface, especially compared to the pod. Out here, on Matar, in the dry heat of the Sobaki, it was especially true. In the pod, you don’t feel much, but here you were constantly reminded. The heat, the never-ending dust, the smell of the settlement. The pod de-sensetises, and clan Makari’s village was an overload of sensations.
Which again, is not to say it was unpleasant. Just strange. Other capsuleers couldn’t bear it, N’maro on the other hand revelled in it. Walking out of his tent, N’maro felt the full force of the life energy that only an out-of-pod capsuleer feels. The smell of cooking filled the hot air, and the morning sun beat down on the remote village in the rocky outlands of his ancestral home. Despite the disorientating effect of it all, N’maro smiled, stepping out and taking it all in as he stretches and yawns.
“Heh, if I slept in this long, Old Mother would have my fucking skin on the hall before breakfast.”
N’maro turned to the voice, grinning a little as he caught sight of his cousin leaning against his dwelling. “Maybe if you slept longer you might last more than a few minutes at the bar after work, Tiek.”
They both laughed and grinned as they walked over to each other and embraced. Tiek’bahtek, a skinny, lithe little guy, shaved bald but sharing N’maro’s steel-blue eyes, and had a personality that radiated an earthy warmth. It had been some time since he and N’maro had seen each other, and so they held each other for some time before moving back. Hand on his shoulder, N’maro grinned broadly. “So... it’s been some time”
Tiek simply slapped the side of N’maro’s head and smiled warmly. “Quit gardening your sentiment and come on, you’re back home now, which means you have a schedule to keep.”
N’maro rubbed the side of his head and chuckled “Yeah, like I could forget. You going to stick around for this?”
Tiek grinned and put his arm round N’maro as they set off. “T’see you get your ass kicked? I’d book weeks off work for that.” He said with a knowing look, following him down into the settlement.
The Toba Crater, a rugged indent in the sand-worn rocks of the northern Sobaki a stone’s throw from the ore-rich hills and the valleys below them. It was in this little hollow in Matar’s surface that Clan Makari made their home of Tobayen before the dark days, and where they had rebuilt themselves centuries after. About a mile across, roughly eight-hundred call it home at any one time, the number rising and falling as groups, friends and family make long treks across the harsh wasteland beyond in the Vherokior tradition, to work in the deep mines, searching for new prospecting sites, bringing business from other settlements, and herding what livestock they can. Many of these people are recent arrivals, coming in on the wave of a resurgent Minmatar identity. A mix of prefabs and more traditional yurts, it’s centred around the Clan Hall, the only stone structure in the settlement, and the freshwater well tapping into the river beneath. The crater shelters them from harsh winds in winter and keeps cool in summer. The road in and out winds through the rough rocks to the hall and the clan’s precious water source.
The two men walked down this road briskly, but not without some delay. N’maro wasn’t a regular sight here, but he was well known. Not a hero, just out of the ordinary, not quite fitting the picture. He didn’t immediately look out of the ordinary, wearing his maroon vest, baggy olive-green work trousers and boots, but on inspection he plainly stood out, especially among the mining folk of his homeland. Everybody else had the signs of planet-life wear on their clothes. Not dirt in all cases, not bad clothing, the clan was not at all struggling for money. But N’maro’s attire, even after three days looked fresh of the shelves. That kind of synthetic sheen that typified capsuleers. It made him obvious from a mile away. They stopped many times, mostly just to greet friends, other times to give due respect to the clan elders that came by.
N’maro had just finished virtually pulling Tiek away from a tall, rather attractive woman before he caught sight of the Clan Hall. Old Mother, the matriarch herself waiting impatiently atop the steps that led up to it, tapping her cane impatiently as if marching them both in time. She was magnificent still, not to mention ever more intimidating. Pursing her lips she waited patiently, her grey hair tied up in her trademark forearm-thick plait. It swayed in the wind, along with her elaborately embroidered shawl, signifying her position as the presiding matriarch. Both men fall silent as young boys in trouble as they make their way up the steps under Old Mother’s steely gaze. Stopping short, N’maro steps forward and, places his hand on his heart and bows.
“By the light of stars, by voice of those who came before, I am shown the way.” The traditional greeting is met with a long silence. He looks up cautiously. She’s still looking at him with that same unimpressed gaze.
“You’re too thin.” Her dry, gravelly voice cuts through the air. Another long pause as N’maro carefully considers a response.
“Should I be more... fat?” He asks, a question which he immediately regretted as that ubiquitous cane made contact with his shin. He bites his tongue, resisting the urge to curse and step back.
“And you’re still just as impertinent!” She turns and walks towards the entrance to the hall. “Total lack of respect...” she turns “Don’t just stand there, follow. If I wanted you to not walk I would have used the heavy end.”
N’maro rubbed his shin quickly, turning back to see Tiek trying very hard not to jibe, but failing to conceal a satisfied grin. “After you, cousin.” N’maro said sarcastically, rolling his eyes. Tiek couldn’t help but chuckle as they followed the matriarch through the wooden arch into the hall.
Inside it was dark, the fires had yet to be properly lit. N’maro and Tiek took a moment to let their eyes adjust to the limited light from the candles and small beams of sun coming in through the windows. Beneath one of these beams, on an elaborate cushion, Old Mother sat down with a grimace, helped by one of the younger shamans. Waiting for her to be seated, the two men sat themselves down in front of her, taking a moment to pause respectfully as the woman’s gaze bore into them. She sat beneath the Clan’s most treasured possessions; the banner for their branch of the miner’s union. About eight by ten feet, it was in remarkably good condition, considering it was even older than the matriarch herself. Bright red background, at the centre a hammer bearing the insignia of the Vherokior striking the chains of slavery. Above, the tree of life, its roots encircling the top half of the image. Below in golden words; “Justice and Solidarity – The Breaker of Chains” and at the top, emblazoned proudly “Matari Mineworkers Union – Clan Makari”. Beneath this history-soaked cloth sat Old Mother, Matriarch, tattoos elegantly flowing across her skin, signifying her decades of life, sixty of them as leader of the clan. All in all, an intimidating spectacle.
They stare at each other for a while. A glare from which there was no escape, N’maro wanted to sigh in relief when she finally broke her gaze to nod to one of the female shamans. They bowed their heads, slowly as she began to sing. An old blessing, and one of many rituals that had been the secret of their clan for generations in slavery. An old, sacred song, the shaman sings it slowly, and eventually, silence. The three sat down raise their heads, old mother resting the cane in her lap.
N’maro decides to break the silence first.
“... It’s good to see you well, Matriarch.”
She purses her lips. “It would be better if we saw more of you.”
N’maro pauses, unsure exactly about his choice of words “Well, I need to tell you about-“
“Dont.” The grey-haired woman said forcefully. “I already know what it is. You won’t be staying long.”
“Yes.”
She pauses. Glares. And then completely surprises the both of them. She smiles, a grin. A raspy chuckle escapes her lips. N’maro and Tiek stay deadly silent, not sure what would come next.
“My, it seems the ancestors have a sense of humour! Cruel, but still...” She chuckles a little more. “To think I was blessed with thirteen grandchildren, only to have eight live past their voluval, and only three to live past twenty.”
N’maro looks down, truthfully finding it hard to look Old Mother in the eye. How did she do that? How did she make him always feel like a child.
“And then! Ha! The eldest of my line, heir to leadership of the Makari, tells me he’s only stopping by, then shooting back off off into space chasing demons, danger and any woman who gets you in her grip. Truly, this must be the comedy of the spirits.”
Exasperated already, N’maro tried to intervene. “Old mother there’s still options.”
She snorts in retort. “Ha, your cousins got a taste of the Gallentean fruit and never looked back.”
“My... son.”
The smile vanished, fire flared like the eruption from a volcano in the old woman’s eyes. She bangs the heavy end of the cane on the floor, a sound like a gunshot echoing through the hall.
“Your son...”
She glowers down at him. N’maro stares back, unable to move his gaze. “The son you brought to us, tiny, helpless, raised by us, the son whose mother, your wife, I did not even gaze upon until you and I burned her body and returned her ashes to the land!”
She lowers her voice, but it loses none of its menacing edge. “The son who ran into the wild, even before he was marked, to find his father. The son who has barely talked to either you or I since that day.”
She toys with the cane in her lap. Gradually, her tone has softened, but has the bitter edge of sadness too it. “... Cursed with the wild blood of his mother... and the ridiculous wanderlust of his father. No...”
A long pause before Tiek ventures into the skirmish. “Old Mother, there has to be a solution here. “
“There is.” She looks up, her face regaining its normal austere composure. She looks to N’maro. “You live up to your responsibilities . You stay, you work the mines with your kin, you re-marry and when the day comes that I pass to the spirits, you and your wife take my place.”
N’maro tried and fails to suppress a laugh, a mix of nerves and mental exhaustion. “Eheh... respectfully, Matriarch, I have no intention to re-marry, same as last time we discussed this.”
Her expression does not change. “Why not?” She states matter-of-factly. “I had five husbands, three at the same time. I did not get harder with each marriage.”
N’maro clenches his fists and resists the urge to sigh in frustration. “We also talked about how it’s not the same.”
“Hufft, you talked, I disagreed.”
“I don’t think that-“
“Show me the mark.”
Silence falls upon the row like a wet blanket on fire. Old Mother stares directly into N’maro’s eyes, daring him to speak again. Slowly, defiantly, N’maro raises his right arm and turns it over, showing the underside of his forearm to the room. Old Mother rose solemnly, walking over with grim purpose. Reaching him she pauses a little, leaning on her cane before taking his arm in her free hand, inspecting. It wasn’t prominent what she was looking for, but there, just below the wrist, two hollow black circles, locked together by a smaller circle of red.
“The spirits... cruel but not without humor” she lets his arm go. N’maro simply looks down as he rests his arm beside him. She looks at him, he feels her gaze as clearly as sunlight. “The wedding mark. It remains intact.”
Looking back up, his brow furrowing to a glare, N’maro speaks quietly. “It will always be intact”
Old mother returns the glare. “Hfft. Perhaps I was wrong.” She turns and makes her way back to her place, speaking calmly as she does. “Fifteen years and you still keep her bound to this world after her body is ash.” She takes her seat once again, her and N’maro exchanging vicious glares while Tiek shifts uncomfortably. “Unwilling to let go, unwilling to understand. Fifteen years and you are still the little boy I know. You have not changed.”
N’maro clenches his fists “Neither have you”.
The silence clenches the room again, for what seems like an hour before Old Mother’s dry voice cuts the air. “Go. Leave me to plan for our ruin, boy.”
The conversation was markedly over. A battle that had left nothing but disfigured land in its wake. N’maro and Tiek rise, bow and make their exit, squinting as their eyes re-adjust to the brilliant sun outdoors. Looking forward, walking in silence, they leave Old Mother in that historic monolith in the centre of the crater. They neither heard her sigh, nor saw the single tear roll down her cheek.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Author
Topic: To the Land, We Came - Chapter 1 (Read 2492 times)