The Flame of Destiny

Taymur, the young hunter of the Tanisha giddily rode his horse next to Bhaltu and looked at the peculiar girl with the dark blue eyes that sat on his big brother’s lap. He was lost for words, wanting to ask too many things. Let’s start slowly, he figured. “My name is Taymur, what’s your name?”

She smiled but didn’t answer.

Does she understand me? He tried again, this time speaking very slowly and using elaborate gestures. Swinging wildly with his arms, his horse stepped into a rut, almost throwing him off. He barely managed to hold on and for a while he dangled helplessly beside his horse.

The princess giggled and Taymur turned bright red. To his surprise she answered slowly but clearly, “my…. name…. Samira.”

Taymur grinned broadly. Before that, he wasn’t even sure she could speak at all. “Are you a princess?” he asked, “a malika.” Samira eyed him quizzically. “Your skin is so white, you must be a princess.”

He tried to ask in different ways but she didn’t seem to understand anything he said. All she could do was smile at the strange boy who was making strange faces and using increasingly exaggerated gestures. She continued to smile so he kept going until his brother said, “come on Tamo-kun, keep an eye on the road and leave her alone.”

Samira spoke the Greek dialect of Ligeia and Diokles had taught her the classic tongue of Homer. At market days in Lower Ligeia, she loved to go to the horse traders and many of them spoke a Sarmatian dialect and picked up some of their language. Some Sarmatian words also found their way into Ligeian and that’s how she recognized words for horses and tents. But the Tanisha often used other words and pronounced the vowels more sparingly, as if to save effort. It all was very confusing for her at first, and the best she could do was to smile at the people that had so gallantly saved her.

Eager to learn she picked up new words quickly. At the end of the second day, she finally answered Taymur’s most pressing question. “No, I’m not a princess,” she told the nomad boy with a giggle.

Taymur’s chestnut eyes betrayed his disappointment but then he smiled, “you can still become one,” he said confidently. “I’ll keep calling you malika.” Her pale skin had already regained some of its natural tan, but not nearly enough to hide her blush.

When they arrived at the Tanisha winter camp a few days later, Bhaltu immediately brought her to the smallest of all the yurts on the outskirts of the camp where a woman was mixing herbs. She had a weathered face that frowned permanently and made her look older than her years but also testified to profound wisdom. Nearby, a little girl crawled about in a sunny spot on the soft grass.

Bhaltu handed the woman some pheasants and marmots that they had caught.

“Is this all?” she asked defiantly.

“The hunting spirits were not favorable,” he replied apologetically.

“Who’s the girl?” she said eying Samira skeptically.

“Her name is Samira,” said Bhaltu and lifted her off the horse, “I thought she could stay with you for a while, she’s old enough to help.”

Samira tried to hold on to Bhaltu but he gently pushed her forward. “Don’t worry,” Bhaltu whispered, “Yahsi is really nice. She had a daughter your age.”

The woman walked up to Samira and stroked through her hair. “Dear child, where are your parents? Where are mum and dad?”

Samira understood the question but even if she could find the words, she couldn’t tell her about the Underdeep and how she had to leave her parents. Just thinking about it made her cry. She fought back her tears and remained stubbornly silent.

“She’s still learning our language,” said Bhaltu apologetically. “She must be from a distant tribe. You know,” he grinned, “Tamo-kun calls her malika because of her white skin.”

“You can stay with me,” said Yahsi sternly, “for as long as needed but I have no use for princesses. You’ll need to help me with my chores.”

“Thank you, mam,” replied Samira haltingly, “I’ll do my best.”

The first night was the hardest. Yahsi was quietly snoring and her young daughter Nehir grunted now and then, but Samira couldn’t sleep. She tried to think about her parents in Ligeia, about Bhaltu’s big horse and other nice things, but every time she closed her eyes, the terrible Gulla grabbed her and dragged her away. She expected the mean creatures to burst into the yurt at any moment. She was so scared she couldn’t breathe. She wanted to scream, but didn’t dare make a sound. They’ll find me if I scream she thought, or Yahsi will send me away, she doesn’t even like me.

When she ran out of tears, she still couldn’t sleep. But then she heard a soft, squeaky voice. “There you are, I looked all over the camp.”

“Spark!” Samira whispered, “I thought you had abandoned me.”

“Of course not, I’ll stay with you as long as you need me. I told you so.”

“Oh, Spark, I’m so happy to see you.”

“I’ll sing a lullaby,” said the fairy and started singing softly about the happy and carefree magical world of the Peri. Samira didn’t understand the words, but she could feel the magic. Moments later she was asleep and dreamed of happier times.

The clan was used to adopt orphans and runaways with tragic stories, so Yahsi knew just what to do. She didn’t give Samira any time to think about the past. Samira fetched water, tended Yahsi’s only horse, an old gray mare, searched for edible plants and herbs, gathered firewood, mended clothes and helped prepare the food. She also took care of little Nehir, fed her and played with the toddler.

When she wasn’t helping Yahsi, she hung around with Taymur and the other kids. They played rough games that involved running, wrestling, splashing in a stream and rolling through the mud. They practiced with small bows that they constructed themselves. In the evenings they played with dolls and carved wooden horses besides the campfire.

On the very first morning, Yahsi cut the bottom part of Samira’s silk dress in half lengthwise. “Stop,” Samira shouted in alarm. But Yahsi was adamant. Ignoring the sobbing girl, she sewed the two halves together separately and tied them around Samira’s ankles from below. “Here, now you have trousers. You’re Tanisha, not a princess, this is what you’ll need for horse riding.”

As soon as she heard the word ‘riding,’ she stopped sobbing and dried up her tears with her sleeves. From then on, she rode Yahsi’s old mare almost every day. The silk of her dress was surprisingly durable and the wide purple trousers flapped wildly as Samira galloped, making her look like she was on fire.

[Picture Samira]

The dark and terrible memories from the Underdeep never went away but they faded to the background. Her new life was busy and exciting. She was so relieved to be free from the Dark Cult that she couldn’t hide her joy. She was ever merry and helpful and brought happiness to the clan. She helped where she could and learned when she couldn’t. The other children loved her clapping songs and little dances and her stories about heroes and gods and in turn they helped her master their language. She quickly regained her strength and her pale skin turned to a light copper, more tanned even than the light skin of the Tanisha, but this didn’t stop Taymur from calling her princess!

Bhaltu was always friendly and visited her every day when he was back from the hunt. This was the high point of her day. The ever cheerful and casually handsome hunter was her savior and her hero. She clung to his every word. It was Bhaltu who first showed her how to ride a horse and he also explained her how to wield a bow. One day, she tried using his bow but no matter how hard she pulled, she could barely bend it.

When she started mimicking Bhaltu’s way of speaking it was too much for Taymur. “Hey malika,” he said, “it was I that found you, not Bhaltu.”

“Of course,” replied Samira, “little brother, I’ll always be your friend.” She distracted him with her smile before grabbing the hump of cheese that he was holding from his hands and running away. “But you’ll have to catch me first.”

Not everyone was happy with the newcomer. Surhab, the gruff clan leader, was ever concerned. The Tanisha had to prepare for the long seasonal trek north and they depended on the proceeds of the spring hunt. But the hunters hadn’t brought back nearly as much food as needed, all they produced was an extra mouth to feed! He feared that Yahsi, Nehir, and Samira, who shared one old horse among them, would delay the clan on their journey, a journey that would commence soon.

And indeed, a few days later, a warm wind blew across the valley, bringing with it the scent of spring flowers. It was as if this was the signal the clan had been waiting for. Supplies were gathered, carts were repaired, and yurts were emptied. Traps and fences were dismantled and the elders baked buckets full of flatbread which they dried and packed. The camp was bustling with activity for it was time to prepare for their epic trek north. The clan would go to their summer camp, far away on the northern steppes, close to the endless pine forest, a place of surreal beauty and terrifying stories.

Yahsi and Samira were so busy preparing that she barely had time to play with the other children. The last day came earlier than expected. The tents were disassembled and by nightfall, a bonfire was made from all the wood that they couldn’t take with them. There was singing and dancing.

Bhaltu spoke confidently about the trek, but not everyone shared his optimism. The hunt had been meager and strange rumors of trouble in the northern forests abounded. “Wolves roam the woods like never before, I heard it from a fur trader,” Surhab said ominously.

“Don’t worry old man,” said Bhaltu, “we’re Tanisha and killers of Gulla.” His fellow clan members hooted loudly as he spoke these words. “We’re not afraid of a few wolves!”

Despite the heat and coziness of the fire, Samira slept poorly under the open sky. With every drunken shout she got up and anxiously looked around to see if there were no Gulla gnawing at her feet. She was nervous about the big trek. Yahsi barely said anything, but she could tell from the woman’s weary eyes and grim temper that it was going to be a long and difficult journey.