The Flame of Destiny

It’s not fair,” whined Taymur, “I’m nine already, I’m a hunter. Why couldn’t I go to the Gathering?”

The camp was eerily quiet, most of the adults and the older children had left for the large meeting of tribes in the central steppes to the south.

Samira had heard the stories of these immense festivals of song and dance. There were wrestling and archery competitions and a lot of rowdy drinking. It sounded epic, but still, she was glad to stay behind. She felt at home among the Tanisha, yet she still was a stranger among other tribesmen. She was sad that Bhaltu had left but Taymur was still around and free from chores imposed by his older brother. There was so much to discover. “Don’t worry,” she said merrily, “there are plenty of fun things we can do here.”

For a few days, they had good fun. As most of the adults were gone, there was no hunting and only a few horses to watch over. The men and women who stayed behind repaired their clothes, worked on the yurts, and did other quiet work in or near the camp. Without rowdy hunters and a stern clan elder, life was slower and they took their time to talk to the children.

Samira enjoyed the extra attention, but Taymur didn’t like it. “There’s nothing to do here,” he said while Samira watched aunt Azra repair a saddle.

A little later, Samira helped Yahsi make cheese. “I’m bored,” complained Taymur as Samira was stirring warm milk in a large cauldron.

It went on like this for a while until Samira had enough of it. “We can go to the Temel,” she suggested, “Bhaltu said they have moved upstream and are closer and easy to find. We just have to follow the river.”

The rowdy Temel were a diverse bunch, according to Surhab, who had no love for them, their clan had no traditions and was cobbled together a few generations back from runaway men and kidnapped women from different clans. Even so, they spoke the same language and belonged to the same tribe, and were thus supposed to be friends most of the time. At least they understood each other’s customs.

Despite their humble origins, the Temel clan had grown much bigger than the Tanisha. Compared to the clans on the great plains further south, that meant nothing. The nomads of the central steppes looked down on the clans of the forest steppes with disdain. As hunters, they were just one rung above horse thieves and robbers.

Samira and Taymur didn’t care about steppe politics. They looked forward to the company of boys and girls of their age. Sure, the Temel were a little rough, they’d found that out in an unpleasant way a few weeks ago, but where else could they go to have fun? There were only small children and old people in their camp.

When they rode into the Temel camp, a raucous gang of teens with some smaller children in tow walked towards them. “Look,” said a taller girl with a mean smile, “there’s that weird girl from Surhab’s clan. You have some nerve to come back.”

The others joined and soon Samira was surrounded by mocking children. She had feared this would happen and had a plan. “Greetings,” she offered with a forced cheerfulness, “I brought gifts.”

She handed the children some small trinkets that she had painstakingly fashioned from softwood. The younger kids giggled happily but the older boys weren’t impressed.

“What are we supposed to do with these infantile toys,” said one.

“You’re a mudeater!” teased another. “Why don’t you crawl back into your shit-cave,” said a boy.

Samira tried to stand up to the bullies as long as she could. But the more they jeered and hooted, they more they began to resemble the monstrous Gulla. “Why have we come here?” she wondered, on the verge of tears. “It was a big mistake?”

“Stop!” shouted Taymur, “she’s my sister. Leave her alone!”

“Who’s going to stop us,” said a big boy menacingly, “you?” They laughed. “This time, your older brother isn’t here to protect you. There’s nothing you can do.” To reinforce his point, he grabbed Samira’s hair and pulled the poor girl to the ground where she remained, helpless and sniveling, still beset by powerful memories of man-eating Gulla

This was too much for Taymur. In a furious rage, he stormed forward and pushed the boy back with all his might.

But the bully was a few years older and much bigger. He easily stopped him and grasped his arm.

Taymur defended himself with all his might. He slashed with his arms and screamed like a wild wolf. Samira got up and looked at Taymur with amazement. She had never seen him so angry.

It was to no avail, the bully was too strong. Soon Taymur lay helpless on his back. The bully, reveling in triumph, pushed Taymur’s head into the mud, then callously tore the sash from his waist, holding it aloft in triumph.

Taymur was deeply humiliated and close to crying.

“Give that back,” shrieked Samira who knew how important the sash was for a boy.

“Please hand it to me,” begged Taymur.

The boy ignored them, the game wasn’t finished for him. He sauntered to the tall wooden pole in the center of the camp and threw the sash as high as he could.

“No!” shouted Taymur, “please stop.”

The pole was made from a long fir tree and over twenty feet high. All branches had been cut off and it was smooth and slender.

After a few tries, the sash landed on its top. “You can have it now,” sniggered the bully. “If you can fly.”

They all laughed and hooted, except for Taymur. He tried to climb the slender, smooth pole, but couldn’t get very high. There was nowhere to hold on to. They laughed and jeered as he fell back.

To Samira, it looked like he didn’t even try. Without his sash, the boy felt powerless. Samira needed to help him and she climbed the pole herself. She manage to get a little higher, but slid back before she was halfway. On her third attempt, she almost reached the top. She stretched out her hand to grab Taymur’s sash. But as she stretched, her grip slackened just a little. “No!” she cursed as she slowly slid back down the slippery pole. She fell to the ground and brought the Temel youths tremendous joy. “Mudeater can’t fly,” they taunted and Samira hid her face in humiliation.

Before long, the cruel gang lost interest and departed for new mischief. Burdened by humiliation, Taymur sat on the ground and stared miserably into the distance.

“Psst,” Samira whispered to Spark, who she often carried in a pouch, “I need your help. Can you fly…”

“I know what you want to ask and the answer is no,” said Spark stubbornly

“Please,” begged Samira, “you’re the only one that can do it.”

“Oh come on, don’t be dramatic. You can ask one of the adults.”

“If we do that,” said Samira pleading, “they will all make fun of us. The Temel will never be our friends.”

“Do you really want to be friends with this gang of thugs,” replied Spark incredulously. “It’s the worst idea ever.”

Samira had bravely held back her tears for all this time but finally broke. They streamed down her cheeks. “Please,” she pleaded, “I’m always the outsider, the weird one. I want to be like a normal kid. I want to have friends. Even Taymur will hate me now. It was my idea to come here.” She looked at Spark with big sad eyes. “Please…”

“Oh all right,” said Spark, “I’ll get you the sash, but stop looking at me like that or my heart will break.”

A little while later, Samira triumphantly held up the sash and called out to Taymur loud enough so that the other kids could also hear, “here’s your sash. Not bad for a mudeater heh!”

Taymur happily grabbed it and tied it around his waist. “Thank you,” he said.

The Temel gang strolled back to the couple. They didn’t seem particularly impressed.

“I want to see you do that again,” hissed the girl with the mean smile.

“Why not try it yourself?” Samira replied undauntedly.

The big boy took a step closer and glared at her, then shifted to Taymur. They both held their ground and looked back without blinking.

With a smile, the boy reached out his palm to Samira, “friends?” he asked.

Samira took his hand eagerly. “Yes,” she said.

“Not bad for a mudeater indeed,” said the boy and looked up to the top of the pole.

“Come on,” said another boy merrily, “my uncle is going to butcher a live deer. Let’s go and see.”

“Yea,” said the boy, “nothing beats the taste of a fresh beating heart.”

They all ran to the other side of the camp. Taymur was with them, desperate to prove himself.

In the week that followed, Samira and Taymur spent whole days with the Temel children. There was hardly any supervision from the adults in their camp and they did whatever they wanted.

One day they pursued a group of wild horses. When they had jubilantly caught a few and brought them into camp, they were met by angry grown-ups which grabbed the oldest boy and gave him a severe beating, but he didn’t seem to mind. “Apparently the horses weren’t wild after all,” he said coolly when he returned, “they were from another clan...”

They all laughed but then had to bring back the horses to prevent a clan war. To make up for their humiliation, they took a few hares that were caught in the other clan’s traps. They ate the animals on the spot and didn’t even bother to hide their tracks.

When Samira returned home after dark one day and quietly sneaked into her tent, Yahsi snapped at her. “This has to stop, you can’t go to these savage Temel anymore. You’re still a child and you neglect all your chores.”

The next day Samira sneaked out again, before dawn. She took Bayram and didn’t even wait for Taymur. He’ll come later, she thought.

The Temel children set out early this time. They had a big plan. “We’re going to spy on the forest people,” said the big boy mischievously.

Samira shivered. Taymur had told her about the strange Ugrian folk living deep in the dense pine forests. They were long-haired, skinny people that spoke a strange language and wielded dark powers.

She didn’t get a chance to express her doubts and had to hurry to keep up with the group.

They journeyed deep into the forest, following small trails that were barely visible. She had never ventured this far in the great pine tree forest and wouldn’t find the way back on her own. After two hours they hid the horses. “Good boy,” whispered Samira to Bayram as she tied the stallion to a tree, “wait for me, it won’t be long.”

The gang sneaked up to a small village of the forest people. From behind thick vegetation, they watched the villagers. It was the first time that Samira came close to these mysterious folk. She shivered when she heard their footsteps and voices. The kids whispered and pointed excitedly at a villager from their hiding place, but she could see from their jittery gestures they were just as scared.

She strained her neck to catch a glimpse of the Ugrian. Her blood froze. What she saw was not a man but a demon! It had a skin of blue and green, large fangs and a mouth covered in blood. It was just like the other kids had told her, these were monsters!

It came closer and some of the others started to retreat in panic. ‘Trust your own perception,’ Diokles had told her once, ‘and most of your fear will disappear like shadows from the light.’ She forced herself to look at the demon thing again.

She saw eyes that looked human. There were human feet attached to its legs. The fangs were actually painted sticks and the skin was a colored robe. This was just an act!

Still, her hands shook from the tension.

“Hey, new girl,” whispered the large boy, “see that wooden shack? That’s the home of their witch.”

“That one,” asked Samira pointing at a hut where garlands with feathers and bones hung down from the roof.

The Temel kids shuddered as they followed her finger. A wave of fear overcame them but Samira took no notice. The boy continued unperturbed. “Yes, that’s the one… go in and get us something. Something nice.”

“Me?”

“Yes, of course. You’re new, no?” he replied as if he was stating the obvious, “if you want to hang around with us you’ll have to steal something from the witch. That’s our rule, it’s always been like that.” The others nodded.

Samira wasn’t really scared of being eaten or killed by a demon, she had survived the Underdeep. But stealing was bad. Yahsi would be very upset if she ever found out.

“It’s a joke, right?”

The boy shook his head. “Hurry now,” he said impatiently, “the witch isn’t home… I think.”

“All right,” she said, ignoring her heart that was beating so fast it felt like her chest would burst, then sneaked to the village, hiding in the bush as long as she could before darting quickly to the hut across a small clearing.

The inside of the hut was like nothing she had ever seen before. Feathered animal skulls, small wooden statues of men and women with grotesquely sized breasts and thighs. Strings of beads and even a human skull hung down from thin wires. Samira could barely suppress a scream at the sight.

She cleared her mind and closed her eyes. She conjured the calming voice of her old master, ‘there’s nothing magical in these objects,’ he had said when they had entered the temple of Artemis back in Ligeia with its weird and twisting statues, ‘it’s only through us humans that these objects obtain the power to connect us to the gods.’

“These are just dead things,” she whispered for her own reassurance. She opened her eyes and quickly grabbed the small wooden statue of a woman with the large breasts. It was the only object that made some sense to her.

[Picture Shaman hut]

Just as she was about to head for the exit she heard someone approach the hut. She quickly withdrew to a corner where she found a pile of dilapidated blankets and pulled them over her.

A woman entered the hut and rummaged through her stuff. Samira held her breath. The old hag was walking over to the rags. Just as she was about to sit down on Samira’s hiding place, a male voice called out from the village. The woman quickly left the hut to greet the man, leaving Samira behind still trembling with fear.

She gathered her courage and slipped out through the back. As she arrived back at the hideout in the bush, she saw that the other children had disappeared. She tried to remember the way back and walked alone. She ran quickly, she had to catch up with the others, she didn’t trust them to wait for her at the horses.

After a while she found the place where they had hidden their horses. To her relief, the other kids were still hanging around. They looked surprised as if they had expected the witch to have eaten her or something, but seemed genuinely happy when they saw her. Samira showed the statue, making them laugh and cheer boisterously. They danced around her then lifted her on their shoulders. For the rest of the day, she was their hero and had to retell the story of the witch over and over. She enjoyed it and added extra details with each telling, this only made her story more believable to them.

It was a lot of fun and before she realized it, night had fallen. They wanted her to stay for the night but she was afraid to worry Yahsi and rode back to her own camp guided by a pale moon that reflected in the meandering river. When she finally settled on her straw mattress, it was after midnight.

The next day she was rudely woken up by Yahsi, “I’m leaving for a few days with Nehir and I’m taking Serpil,” she said. “Take good care of Bayram, make a fire at night watch out for wolves.”

“Can’t I go with you?” asked Samira.

“I thought you liked to be around the Temel,” snapped the woman. She grabbed Nehir and walked out of the tent without looking back, “you want to act big? Now you’re on your own girl.”

Samira was baffled. She called after Yahsi and promised that she would do her best and take good care of the yurt and Bayram. “I only wanted to have some friends,” she said, “to belong.” But the old woman ignored her.

Samira was deeply ashamed and vowed to make it up to Yahsi. She did her best to take care of Bayram. She cleaned the yurt, washed her clothes and did the other chores that she had ignored for so long. In the evening she kept Bayram with the other horses near the river where the clansmen kept a large fire.

The next day was much the same. Still feeling guilty, she made herself useful and worked hard. But she missed Yahsi and little Nehir.

In the afternoon Taymur walked by. “Are you coming,” he asked, “the Temel will make a bonfire this evening. They’ll sing and dance.”

“No, I can’t,” replied Samira, “I have chores to do.”

“Come on,” he said, “it’ll be fun. You’ll be the star of the evening! You have to tell them the story of the witch. They love it! Yahsi won’t be back for another day.”

She couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse Taymur and let herself be convinced. “Well then,” she said, “but not too long.”

It was great fun with the rowdy Temel. They played around the fire and sang songs. She told the story of the witch again and again and forgot about her chores.

“Now we have to leave,” she said when the sun dropped below the horizon.

“Just a little while longer,” replied Taymur, “you don’t want to miss the music.”

He was right, when she felt the heavy bass from the big drums she couldn’t remain seated. She danced around the fire to the frantic rhythm of Temel percussion and forgot about time.

The children drunk milk that tasted sweet and fresh after dancing. The men drunk kumis, the pungent fermented mare’s milk. She learned to recognize its smell and witnessed the effect it had on them. They became ever wilder and shouted at the top of their lungs. For a while they had fun and the kids enjoyed it.

But then fights broke out. “Here we go,” said a Temel boy merrily, “let the show begin.” They cheered and clapped as two large men kicked and punched each other ferociously.

Samira felt more and more uneasy. “We really have to go!” she insisted.

“We can’t leave in the middle of a brawl,” objected Taymur.

There was always something to see. When the fight was over, the dancing resumed. An entranced shaman spoke about a spectacular vision but before he was done everyone ran to see the next duel that had broken out. This time, someone pulled out a knife.

That night, Samira stumbled into camp very late and very tired. She thoughtlessly tied up Bayram to a fence and slumped into the empty yurt. She felt uneasy, alone in the tent, but was so tired that she fell into a deep sleep at the third breath.

She couldn’t hear the snores of other clan members, the sound of howling wolves didn’t reach her either and even Bayram’s panicked whinnying couldn’t penetrate into her dream world…

Suddenly she stirred and jumped up wide awake. Wolves were too close, she heard their grunts and barks, their claws scratched the yurt. She ran out of the tent in her woolen undergarments and grabbed the small axe they used for chopping wood.

The wolves had surrounded Bayram and the poor stallion was bleeding from his hind leg. He resisted bravely, jumping and kicking but Samira could see that he had no chance against these cruel predators and was weakened with the loss of blood.

She charged at the monsters, screaming and yelling, waving wildly with the axe. The wolves just looked at her with annoyed indifference and growled in her direction. They weren’t going to let a small girl ruin their supper.

She froze as two large wolves emerged from the pack and moved towards her, advancing slowly as if checking her out. Samira backed away but they followed her, baring their razor-sharp teeth.

When they came closer, she lashed out with the axe at the largest one. It recoiled just enough to avoid her axe but otherwise showed no sign of fear. Another one left the pack near Bayram and joined its companions threatening Samira, blocking any hope of escape. She retreated until she had her back to a tree and couldn’t escape. She swung again, aiming for the smaller wolf, exposing herself to the other creatures.

She knew these vicious creatures could kill her with one bite in the throat. And that was exactly where one of them was aiming for. She raised her scrawny arms in a futile gesture of protection as the beast jumped at her with tremendous ferocity.

It didn’t hit her, instead it rolled on the ground reeling from a terrible pain. A long arrow stuck from its side.

More arrows flew through the air. Another wolf dropped down. There was angry shouting and hooting from the camp.

Azra emerged from the dark, “are you all right little cousin?” she asked, patting her on the shoulder.

Samira nodded, her entire body shaking uncontrollably.

Azra took a look at the horse and saw the wound. “He can’t be saved,” she sighed. “Why didn’t you take him to the others, we had a fire going?”

“Yahsi can heal him,” sobbed Samira, “she must. She knows about herbs and stuff.”

Azra shook her head and took Samira in her arms. “My little darling, I’m so sorry for you, but nobody can save him.”

Samira remained close to Bayram for the rest of the night and the next day, treating the old stallion with tenderness and compassion. Taymur tried to console her but Samira couldn’t stop crying, “what have I done? Poor Bayram, how can I have been so stupid. How will we make the trek south with a wounded horse? I’ve ruined everything.”

Late that afternoon, Yahsi finally returned. She had already heard the news from Azra and when she approached Samira, she was furious. Samira bowed her head, and was prepared for a loud scolding.

To her surprise, Yahsi didn’t slap her or even yell at her. She barely looked at the horse and Samira’s clumsy treatment of the wound. Instead, she handed the girl a knife and said with a soft voice that was cold as ice, “he’ll never walk again. Show him mercy and release him out of his misery.”

Samira looked at Yahsi in astonishment, “please, I can’t.”

“Girl,” said Yahsi gravely, “on the steppes you’ve got to face the consequences of your actions. You’ll either do this or you’re no longer with the clan. Cut his throat quickly and cleanly without hesitation. That’s best for him, it’s an act of mercy.”

Samira took the knife and looked into Bayram’s big eyes. The horse whined softly and she could see the terrible pain. She knew Yahsi was right. She could remove his pain and end his misery. But she also knew that she could not remove her own pain for the loss of a friend, it would stay with her forever. Was there really nothing she could do? Born of the fire, knowledgeable about herbs there must be something she could do. She prayed and hummed a song. She caressed Bayram’s snout but it was no avail. She saw in the eyes of the animal that his pain only increased.

“No hesitation,” she whispered to herself and did what she had to do. It was a lesson she would never forget.

Samira grieved deeply over the loss of the loyal steed. Tears came to her eyes whenever she saw the unused saddle. She missed him when she carried the heavy water buckets to the yurt.

Too late she had realized what her duty was, and whose respect she really needed. She didn’t go back to the Temel and worked tirelessly to make amends to Yahsi and the clan.

But as hard as she tried, Yahsi barely looked at her. She hadn’t seen the woman smile in weeks. Even Bhaltu’s tales of joy and wonder that he brought back from the Gathering couldn’t produce a smile on her lips. Their existence on the steppes was fragile and Samira was afraid that her mistake had tipped the balance and she had no more medallions to sell.