The Flame of Destiny

The days grew shorter and the cold winds from the north brought rain and sleet. Grim faces accompanied the fall weather. The clan had lost five horses to the wolves and had none to spare. Yet, as Samira knew all too well, it was time to prepare the annual trek south. Surhab would never postpone it.

“Tomorrow is a great feast,” said Taymur, the sun shone on his face but it did little to make the cold northerly wind less biting, “Bhaltu says, this is the most important celebration of the year.”

The older women of the tribe got up early the next day and prepared their fermented concoction of fresh mare’s milk and strong spices. The exact recipe was only known to the elder women but it was rumored to contain a drop of human blood and a large bushel of the herbs that soothe pain of body and mind.

“This is the fall feast to honor our ancestors,” explained Yahsi. “Our common blood from the past is what makes us a clan. Sharing food and drink, is what keeps the clan together. These elements form the very essence of the clan and we celebrate it in the fall, when night and day are in balance.”

Samira ran down to the center of the camp and joined the other children who formed a line behind Irina. She was Surhab’s first wife and a stout woman, yet she barely managed to carry the large kettle full of the warm treat. Yet she wouldn’t give up the privilege of carrying it for all the gold in the world, this was her moment of glory. As the wife of the clan elder, she had the honor of making the rounds.

She put the kettle down by her brother’s yurt that was close to the center of the camp. She wiped the sweat from her weathered face, the many golden bracelets on her wrists clattered gently together. Life on the steppes was tough and Irina was in the prime of her life, but city dwellers would mistake her for a wrinkly grandmother.

“Shhh!” said Irina. The string of children following her was a little too noisy for her liking. She understood that they were eager to get some of the sweet, slightly fermented treat, but they shouldn’t forget the essence of the ritual. This was a ceremony to honor previous generations. The ancestors of the Tanisha, heroes and warriors whose names she could recite as far back as twenty generations.

At the very back of the line walked Samira. Although everyone had come to like her cheery helpfulness, she was an outsider. That was clear from her fine features and copper tan. She used to be a captive from the Underdeep, an exile from Ligeia, but the others didn’t care about that. Even Bhaltu, the great hunter with his bright, gentle eyes and generous laugh liked her. Her deepest hope was that one day she would fully belong and become a huntress of the Tanisha.

She laughed happily with the small children who drank the sweet milk so eagerly that they spilled it on their rabbit fur jackets. Even Irina’s stern face softened for a moment as she watched the youthful joy.

The procession continued. With a sigh, Irina lifted the kettle and walked to the next yurt. It went on and on. There was eager drinking at every yurt, and the string of children got smaller each time a bunch remained behind at their parents’ yurt.

Now it was Yahsi’s turn at last. Her little yurt stood at the very edge of the camp. She was not a huntress but certainly deserved a large portion of the tasty stuff, thought Samira. Didn’t Yahsi make sure that people and horses stayed healthy? She had herbal drinks for every ailment and spiced up the food. She protected the clan from demons and other underworldly creatures. Every morning she was the first to wake up and chase away the dark spirits of the night. She deserved a double portion!

Then something strange happened. Samira froze, it felt like someone had kicked her in her stomach. Irina simply skipped Yahsi’s yurt and walked back to the center of the camp.

Samira didn’t understand what had just happened and her thoughts ran wild. It wasn’t an innocent mistake or a small jibe; the way the other clan members gazed at her with pity and then resolutely turned their backs was unmistakable.

Yahsi had explained her that the essence of the clan was the sharing of food. Were they no longer part of the clan? But how could Irina abandon the herb master and healer on the eve of the great trek to the south?

Taymur gently put his arm on her shoulder. “Samira, I…”

“Don’t touch me,” she snapped and ran off, verging on bursting out in tears. She stopped before Yahsi’s yurt but was afraid to go in. What could she say to her? How could she comfort her step-mother? Did she want to see the girl that lost their best horse?

The soft crying of little Nehir compelled her to enter. The small girl sat on Yahsi’s lap. The old woman was as pale as a ghost. “There’s no point in arguing with Irina,” she warned, trying to sound confident as ever, “these are ancient traditions. I’m too weak and with one horse for us both, I’ll delay the clan on the long trek to winter camp.”

Yahsi, who had seen the death of a husband and a daughter, who had survived hunger and war, started to cry.

More than what she had said, her tears of desperation frightened Samira. “Please don’t cry,” she said fighting back her own tears.

[Picture Yahsi]

“I’ll give you to Surhab,” said the old woman, “he can provide what I can’t. You deserve a better life…I just pray he’ll also takes Nehir.”

“No you won’t,” snapped Samira. “We belong together. I won’t abandon my family, not again.”

“You must,” said Yahsi, “you’re young. You can stay in the clan and find your place eventually. Isn’t that what you want?”

Tears streamed down her cheeks. “No,” she sobbed, “that’s not what I want. I want to be with you. I caused this misery in the first place.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” said Yahsi gently. “It’s not your fault and I have forgiven you,” she attempted a smile. “Without you I would have given up a long time ago.”

These kind words, the first in weeks emanating from Yahsi, felt like a ray of sun breaking through the clouds. It gave her a new energy, a new hope. “And you’re not giving up now either,” she said with the simple certainty of a child, “because I’m coming with you!”

Yahsi looked into the girl’s eyes and nodded. “You’re right,” she sighed and took her and Nehir in a tender embrace. “It seems that we’re destined to be a family of sorts and with the help of the sky spirits, we’ll get through this or perish together.”

When the clan was ready to break camp and move south, Yahsi had made up her mind and decided to travel north. “We can’t make it to the southern hills with one old horse,” she said, “and the plains are unlivable in winter. But in the forest to the north, we have a chance. We can hunt and there’s wood to make fire and branches to build a shelter. We’ll be warm and safe.”

Samira nodded. It must be possible, didn’t the forest people survive there too?

Yahsi wrapped little Nehir in three blankets and climbed into her rattling old cart. With Samira to encourage her, the old faithful Serpil bravely pulled and the cart slowly creaked forward.

Just then Taymur ran up to them.

“Please Samira,” he said handing over his precious small bow and a quiver full of arrows, “take this, so you can hunt.”

Samira eagerly accepted the gift, she knew how much it meant to Taymur. “Thank you, my brother, I won’t forget.” She finally had a bow that wasn’t too heavy for her, perhaps she could learn to hunt small animals.

“Please don’t go! Stay with us,” he begged. “You don’t have to go with Yahsi, there’s space in our yurt.”

“You know Surhab won’t allow it,” she said, “besides, I belong with her.”

Bhaltu came over and lifted Samira in the air as he always did. She giggled and hugged him. Then he looked at her very seriously. “You’re strong and you’ll survive! You must survive! We’ll see you in spring.” With his bright eyes and handsome smile, she had to believe him.

As they rode away she could still see Taymur looking at them from the top of Satanaya’s belly until he disappeared out of view.

They crossed the river and passed a small strip of vegetation before entering an open treeless plain. More than a hundred miles lay between them and their destination. “The forest to the northwest is further away, but warmer and more pleasant than the pine forest to the northeast or the smaller woods nearby,” said Yahsi, “I know a place with hills and tall trees to protect us from the coldest winds.”

Samira felt tiny and vulnerable on the vast open grasslands. At first, they moved quickly on the dried grass, but after a while the ground became marshy and their cart frequently got stuck in the mud. Patches of thick vegetation blocked their way, yet did nothing to stop the ice-cold wind. Whole areas that were fine grazeland in summer were flooded and turned into impassable swampland. Few animals inhabited this desolate place and there was no game for hunting.

Yahsi didn’t say much those days as she was full of worries for their survival in the cold. So many things could go wrong. Samira interpreted her silence as anger and feared that despite her earlier words, the woman had not fully forgiven her yet. They marched on for days on end in total silence.

One evening it started to snow and the next morning, the world was covered by a thick white blanket.

This only increased their silence and isolation. As Samira struggled through the snow, she felt tiny in the vast landscape.

That night she was so tired she could barely eat.

The next day was much the same and they walked for hours on the desolate white plain. All she heard was the slushing of her boots and the angry howling of the ice-cold wind.

Then she heard another sound, a sound that chilled her to the bone. A sound that she had heard in her nightmares time and time again ever since the fateful night she lost Bayram. It was the faint howling of a pack of wolves.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

Yahsi stopped walking and pricked up her ears. “Wolves,” she growled. “Damn. There’s no place to hide in this forsaken place.”

“Can’t we make fire and scare them off?”

“Look around! There’s no dry timber for miles. We’re doomed.”

The usually poised Yahsi stood frozen in the snowy plain. She mumbled vague answers to every suggestion Samira offered. This terrified the girl even more than the howling wolves that were getting closer with every passing second. Even Nehir knew something was wrong and the child started to cry.

This brought Yahsi back to the present. She pointed to a small speck of green on a slope in the distance, “let’s go up that hill and climb into a tree. Then we’ll scare the wolves away with our arrows.”

Samira had a hard time picturing Yahsi climbing a tree but there were no better ideas. They spurred Serpil on and trotted as quickly as they could towards the knoll.

In the deep, soft snow, their progress was slow while the wolves closed in fast, their howls growing louder with every passing minute. The sound seemed to come from all directions and Samira expected to be assaulted by a wolf at any moment.

Yahsi pulled little Nehir with her on the horse and beckoned Samira to join her. Then she cut the cart loose. They left all their belongings behind to move faster.

It bought them some time, but not nearly enough.

They were more than five hundred paces from the hill when they saw the wolves for the first time.

Samira thought about the time she was chased by the three-headed killer dog. These wolves were no less terrifying. A pack of twelve dark gray monsters ran towards them at a frightening speed. She could hear their growls and snorts.

“Go on with Nehir,” shouted Yahsi in desperation, “Get her to safety. I’ll stop those monsters.”

“No, please come with me,” cried Samira, “I can’t leave you behind.”

“Go child,” insisted Yahsi. She jumped from the horse and grabbed a spear to fight off the wolves. “Save her, don’t worry about an old woman.”

“But what will I do without you?”

“Continue northwest and join one of the forest tribes, they’ll adopt two young, healthy girls. Go now! And don’t look back.”

Samira took Nehir in her arms and spurred Serpil onwards to the knoll. Behind her Yahsi was waiting for the wolves. She planted the spear in the snow and grabbed her bow.

Samira wept and wanted to stay. But she had to bring Nehir to safety. She urged Serpil on as fast as the old horse could carry them.

They made it to a large tree on the hill. Standing on Serpil’s back she pushed little Nehir on a thick branch. She fastened the toddler with her saddle blanket so the girl wouldn’t fall off. “Don’t move,” she said, “I’ll be back.”

She looked down from the hill towards the place she had left Yahsi. The woman frantically waved the spear around to keep growling wolves at bay. One wolf lay dead with an arrow in his side and was being devoured by his own kin but the other big hungry creatures still surrounded Yahsi who limped and struggled to find her balance. A wolf had bitten into her ankle. She lashed out with the spear whenever the animals came near, but every strike was weaker than the previous. Her strength slowly dissipated and the hungry pack gradually narrowed their encirclement.

They’re hunting her like an animal, Samira thought. She held a dead branch in her hands and wished she could chase the wolves away with fire. But the flints were stored in the abandoned cart, and besides, it would take too long to kindle sufficient fire for scaring away this pack of ravenous wolves.

Samira closed her eyes. She recalled an episode with her old mentor Diokles. Barely six years old, she had accompanied him to the top of Mount Kazbek and after gazing at the eternal flame for a long time, Diokles turned to her, ‘Have I ever told you the story of how mankind discovered fire?’

‘No, please tell me,’ she asked although she had heard the story many times before.

’You should listen; it is the story of your ancestors, the Great Hunters. They hunted on the grasslands since the creation of the world. But things were not going well for them. It was the time of the Long Winter when for a thousand years the sun did not return and the lands became cold in the eternal twilight. They had not yet discovered the craft of making fire and no matter how many layers of fur they wore, the Great Hunters were always cold. Their feet were cold, their hands were cold, their noses were cold and even their hearts grew cold. There were fewer and fewer animals to hunt.

At last, they decided to leave their homelands and start a long trek towards the sun, the great fireball in the sky. After a few weeks they stopped. Their way was blocked by these giant mountains. Instead of warmth, they found more cold on the high slopes. They were weak and hungry and colder than ever. Yet, they had to move on and they rode into the mountains. They left their horses behind and continued on foot until they almost collapsed from pure exhaustion.’

Diokles paused and looked at Samira. He waved his hand around and said solemnly, ‘on this mountaintop, at this very place, the Great Hunters halted. With their last strength, they crawled into the cave. The eternal flame was burning brightly, brighter than it had ever burnt before and brighter than it ever will until the end of days, so it is told. They had never seen fire. Some were afraid but more were curious and approached the flames. As the Great Hunters basked in the warmth of the eternal fire they heard a loud voice: Behold, the eternal flame. This fire is made of the same essence as your soul, the soul of the Great Hunters. Harness the fire and you can live and prosper even in the Long Winter. They learned how to use the fire and were no longer afraid of the cold. They went back to their homeland and brought the fire with them.’

‘What happened next,’ asked Samira eagerly, the flames of the eternal fire reflecting in her deep blue eyes.

’With the skill of fire, they never suffered the cold anymore and thrived, even during the coldest nights of the Long Winter. And when the Long Winter ended, the tribes multiplied, some of the Great Hunters left the plains. They went West and South and East and everywhere they went, they were hailed as Kings and founded great dynasties.”

‘Our soul is fire? What did you mean? Does it really burn like fire inside us?’

‘As I told you, Samira of the fire, your soul is of the same essence, but it’s a different manifestation. Just like a frozen pond and a cascading waterfall are of the same essence.’

The memory faded and Samira was back in the present facing the very real threat of wolves. Below her Yahsi was fighting for her life. Samira loved Yahsi and she would do everything in her power to save her. But there was nothing she could do. Deep inside, her soul was burning with terrible sorrow and pain. The words of Diokles had never felt more real than at this very moment.

She looked at the branch in her hands. Could she do it? Could she ignite it with the fire from her soul? She willed it with the anger for the wolves that had taken away Bayram and were ready to kill Yahsi. She willed it with her love for the woman that had been like a mother and done so much for her.

Small sparks appeared around the branch. Flames began to lick the wood. A fire spread and white smoke appeared. The flames spread like hungry wolves until the branch burned brightly.

She didn’t drop the branch. Samira wasn’t afraid of fire, she relished its warmth and the power. Instead, she lit a thicker branch, then jumped back on the horse and galloped towards Yahsi. Brandishing the burning and fiercely smoking branches, she charged at the wolves.

The wolves growled and retreated. They weren’t fast enough to Samira’s liking. She lurched forward from the saddle and lashed out, hitting one on its furry back. There was a sizzle and the smell of burning fur. The wolf howled and scurried away.

When the other wolves regrouped, she jumped from the horse to the cart, took a woolen blanket, wrapped it around a stick, and lit it. First there was just smoke but then the flames shot up with a hissing sound. Samira waved the burning cloth, lashing at the wolves that didn’t move fast enough.

The wolves wavered, they didn’t want their winter fur to burn for a bony old woman and a scrawny girl. The big wolf howled and turned around leading the pack away. Within minutes they had become tiny dots on the horizon, in search of other prey.

Samira ran to Yahsi. You’re badly hurt,” she said.

“I told you to leave,” the woman groaned.

“I don’t always do as told,” said Samira and smiled.

“I know,” relented Yahsi, “and for once, I’ll be grateful.”

She helped Yahsi on the cart and they rode towards the hill to pick up Nehir.

Samira made a big fire with the wood that was scattered about while Yahsi looked at her ankle. There was a deep cut and risk of infection. She knew a lot about healing herbs and treating wounds, but was low on supplies and it would be difficult to find fresh ones this late in the season.

“We have to move on as soon as possible,” said Yahsi, “we can shelter in the woods and find more herbs there.”