Content note: suicidal ideation

 

I am a star, falling.

“Awake now?”

My eyes open to words as an unknown face greets me, small with a curious gaze. She parts full lips to bare teeth and I tense. A threat? No. A smile. I stare back.

“I didn’t think you’d ever awaken,” the girl says. “But Nanya said if I kept feeding you the broth….” I look to a wooden bowl of murky liquid, realizing this is the taste on my lips. I run my tongue over the salty film. Taste. That is new. I try to move, but this unfamiliar body, this stringing together of flesh, nerve, and sinew, cries out, everywhere. I bite my teeth against it. Pain. That is also new. I decide I do not like it.

“Don’t!” The girl eases me back down with a firm but gentle hand. “You must heal. It’s a blessing you’re alive. You were near dead when our hunters found you in the forest, the night fire fell from the sky. You were almost lost in all that smoke and flame.”

I listen, remembering only the fall, the darkness, and then now. I look back at the girl, taking in her sleight build, the thrumming pulse at her neck and the perspiration rising on her earth-brown skin. Meeting her eyes again I search for a spark of the divine. But there is…nothing.

She is not a god.

The realization strikes me. For the first time, I take in my surroundings. I am lying on a mat of straw in a small dwelling—ochre mud splintered with cracks and covered by a thatch of faded gold straw. The scent of dried earth is heavy, and I watch motes of dust dance within a shaft of sunlight. This is not a god’s house or even a god’s temple.

“You are mortal.” The girl frowns. She cannot hear me. I speak her tongue as easily as I understand it. But my words are a whisper, for I am lost within their meaning.

I dwell now among mortals. And the hunger in my belly, the weakness of my limbs, the weariness in my breath, can only mean one thing. I am now mortal as well.

I shudder as new emotions threaten to unhinge me. This is sadness I will learn later. And the water seeping from eyes, are tears.

I am a blade.

I remember now.

I was forged in the hands of a deity—Raka, the Hidden One—made as a weapon to be wielded in a war of immortals. For my maker, I have spilled seas of divine blood across the celestial realm and knew purpose.

Until her.

Kal. Mistress of Battle. Her face burns in my thoughts—that skin like blood, hair like serpents of the Abyss and eyes as fathomless as burned-out stars. She stands foremost among Raka’s enemies—a being born in the fires of destruction that swept away the old gods, and well-suited for this holy war. How eager I was when my maker sent me against her. How worthy a foe I thought she would be.

I was a fool.

Kal defeated me, humiliated me, broke me, and left me shorn from my maker. She robbed me of form, reshaped me, and poured me into this mortal vessel. Then she sealed it shut with her magics and flung me from the gods’ realm—here.

Now I am adrift. Lost.

In the first days of my imposed mortality I am gripped with despair. I whisper fervent prayers to my maker, Raka. At night I dream of him descending in majestic terror from the gods’ realm, his fleshy wings unfurling to blot out the sun. Then he wraps me within his tendrils, clutching me to the warmth of his carapace, and we soar from this place, soar away to the celestial heavens, to his vast temple of shadows where I lay devoted at his feet, exulting in his divine touch. Sometimes it feels so real. Then I awaken, to the cruelty of this existence. It is maddening.

I toy with the idea of ending this limited life, to cut into this frail flesh and let its fluid ebb and drip from my fingertips, sever this curse Kal has placed upon me. Then I can return to the Great Essence from which all came.

But I find I lack conviction.

The clarity I once knew is now clouded with mortal doubt. What if I become lost in the Abyss, prey for the demons that dwell there? What if I am condemned to wander in eternal nothingness? Or what if in the end, my maker gave me no soul? And beyond this life, only oblivion awaits. The thought frightens me, as it has never before. And I am shamed.

So I bide my time for deliverance. There is no place in all of the Creations where Kal could hide me, not from Raka. And when he finds me and restores me to my rightful place at his side, severe and unforgiving will be my vengeance. I cling to this. It is my faith, the chalice from which I drink, my new purpose.

Until then, I must learn to endure mortality, bound within this prison without walls.

I have spent an existence taking whatever form I desire—the thrice-horned titan wielding a mace that smites mountains to dust; the ever-hungry swarm that are many yet one, with endless devouring mouths; beings so terrible that even gods have wept and hidden their faces. Now I am this small and weak thing of flesh, blood, and fragile bone. My belly must be filled. My bladder and bowels emptied. I sweat, I stink, I require rest.

My teacher is the girl I met upon awakening. Her name is Akili.

She thinks us the same age, some fourteen turns of this world. In truth I do not know. Time is meaningless in the gods’ realm. I have existed for perhaps no more than one of her seasons—or thousands of millions. I am left in her care. She feeds me, scrubs and bathes me, untangles my hair and braids it in thick coils like her own. I watch and learn, regaining my vigor as the days grind on.

Most of all Akili talks.

This mortal delights in speech. I am struck by how much. Akili tells me of her village and its people: farmers and hunters, far from any cities or kingdoms. She is one of three daughters, her mother taken by a failed childbirth. She speaks of the land they live in: a place of green savannahs and forests. I say little in return. She takes this to mean I cannot remember my past. It is best she believes so.

“Do you still not know your name?” she asks one day.

I shake my head. In truth, my maker never gave me one.

“Then we’ll call you Okono. The girl who was lost until she found her way home.”

Akili brings others to meet me—friends, villagers. The hunters who found me say I was curled into a ball like a mortal infant, while all around me the fire raged. The gods, they claim, must have protected me. I sup on their naiveté, like gristle between my teeth. The one person the girl does not bring is Nanya, their priestess, shaman, medicine maker, and wise woman—who provided the herbs that nursed me and the salve for my burns. Akili says for such kindness I owe a debt. Thus far, however, this priestess has not come to collect.

Raka is not the only one I dream of. The Mistress of Battle stalks my nights. And there, we play out our fateful clash again and again in some tormented purgatory.

Kal reclines within her temple, atop a throne of ashen bones, her face swathed in blood and veiled by black tresses that hiss and writhe. She watches my approach with unblinking eyes. I wonder if she is pleased with the form I have taken. It is of my own fashioning—an armored being sleek and swift, of sharp talons and ridges, of densely packed fibrous muscle, of needle teeth that drip poison and jaws that crush. But there is nothing to discern in Kal’s gaze, only a fire that burns cold.

When she rises, each of her six outstretched arms holds a weapon—blade, knife, axe, flail, mace, and spear. Then she is suddenly towering before me, her armor black as the Abyss, her shadow turning the eternal night of her realm into a second more suffocating darkness. She lashes out to bring me a swift end. Foolish, I think, and am disappointed. I had hoped for a worthy foe. I shift on spindly but strong legs, bringing my arms to bear—two appendages that end in curved sabers of bone—and seek her heart. This will be quick work.

But Kal is faster even than I anticipate. I am met by a fury, six divine weapons twirling and cutting as one, so swift they are a blur. I defend against her attack, but she presses me, her body spinning and balancing in an erratic and beautiful dance. She swings in a wide arc with the axe, and I am forced back, catching air in outstretched wings of taut skin to put distance between us.

I run forward, leaping with sword arms extended, determined to make this clash our last. But Kal does not meet me in battle. Instead she utters a word—and reality slows.

I hover in air that may well be made of stone, caught in her magics. I struggle. Squirm. Fight. But I am trapped. I do not understand. I have cut and pushed through gods’ magic before, as easy as weak strings. But this one holds me fast. 

She takes her time, sauntering towards me. With one swing of her mace she shatters the blades of my arms like glass. Her whipping flail wraps about me, and I am snatched forward, gripped in the goddess’s piercing embrace. Her sword hacks away at my armor until it is rendered to pieces, and I am left stripped and naked. Those jade eyes look upon me with disdain.

“Dis di wanh him send gainst mi? A likkle golem?” Her godstongue slices across my thoughts, cutting as cruelly as her blade. I am brought closer, until her gaze bores into mine. In those jade depths lurk the fires of war and destruction: the mayhem and death, the glory and horror.

Kal whispers new words. I feel the sense of something being cut—a severing that strikes at the heart of me, leaving a strange emptiness. And I can no longer feel my maker. Raka’s presence, always with me, is now…gone. I panic, struggling to break free. But I find I can no longer keep my form. I collapse into an amorphous mass without shape or structure. Without purpose.

The goddess smiles at my feebleness, my nothingness, showing ivory teeth like tusks. Then with a cruel laugh, she casts me away and I am sent plummeting into emptiness. I hurtle through the void, a speck adrift in the maelstrom of eternity, lost. Soon I am burning, a star streaking from the heavens, and below—

I always awake then, to find myself yet in this mortal body, bathed in its sweat, chest heaving, and hands clutching futilely at air. But I am not falling. Or burning. Yet, I am still in exile. There is no sleep to come after these dreams. And I lie staring into the dark until the dawn.

In time I am strong enough to walk, and I learn to both feed and bathe myself. Akili helps me outside, where I sit for long periods to look out upon the village. The mortals here go about their tasks—women with clay jugs upon their heads and farming tools slung over their backs; men with bows and hunting spears; herders who tend to flocks of goats, fowl, and cattle. They are busied with their brief existence, as if in the greater scheme of things, they matter. I am puzzled, but decide it is amusing and return each day to watch.

“Nanya wants to meet you,” Akili says one morning, bringing food to the small dwelling the village has gifted me, now that I have better healed. My stomach rumbles as I stare at the plate. I have learned that taste is variable. And these fleshy pieces of red-seeded fruit are especially pleasurable.

“To collect her debt?” I ask, chewing noisily. Akili laughs, putting a hand to my lips, chiding me to close my mouth when eating. Some things, I forget.

“I don’t know. Come. We’ll find out.”

I finish eating, bathing, and dressing. I wrap myself in a sepia cloth of tangled patterns, fit snug and extending to my knees the way Akili has taught me. As we walk across the village, people call out, asking after my health. Along the way a group of children surround me, singing some playful song. I am lost between them, fascinated by their small bodies. Akili laughs as she pulls me forward, and hand in hand we walk to Nanya’s home. It is larger than most, with circular mud walls etched in white symbols. Akili begs for entrance and a gruff voice answers.

“Nanya can be as rough as a bush boar’s backside,” she warns. “But it’s all show.”

We step inside and I am struck by the strong scent of sweet spice and burning herbs. There are small soapstone statues about, depicting a woman with six arms. My heart quickens. Kal? No. I will myself calm. This face is more serene. And she holds strands of thread, not swords.

“You have found the goddess.”

I look up to find Nanya staring at me. She is as Akili described, with wrinkled mahogany skin and thin coils of white hair that cover her scalp like a cap. Her face is as stern as her speech, though not at all menacing. Yet the intensity of her glare is unnerving. She sits at a large contraption, made up of lengths of wood that surround her on all sides—like a rectangular cage. One set of colorful fibers drape a section of the contraption’s frame, while she continuously moves a second set of fibers under and over a bar on her lap, feeding into a richly patterned cloth.

Nanya nods to the statue. “Lilia, Goddess of the Loom. Matron of our village.”

I shake my head. I have never heard the name. The immortals are great in number, some so small in significance the mightier like my maker pay them little mind. I should have expected this simple village would have so simple a deity.

“Do you have a name?” Nanya asks.

“Okono,” I answer.

She arcs a questioning eyebrow at Akili.

“She doesn’t remember her own.”

The old woman says nothing, looking back to me. “Akili says you are well now.”

“And I owe you a debt,” I finish.

Nanya flares a set of generous nostrils. “You owe the goddess. It is she who weaved the pattern that told me to send the hunters into the forest.” I turn to Akili, seeking comprehension.

“The goddess speaks to Nanya,” she explains. “The loom weaves the pattern of things. Every bit of cloth you see, even what you wear, is part of the pattern woven at the goddess’s direction.”

I say nothing. I know something of gods. And to think they sit about weaving patterns for mortals is…nonsensical.

“A disbeliever,” Nanya says, reading my face like one of her patterns. “No matter. You’ll pay your debt as the goddess wills.”

“And what is this payment?”

“You will learn the loom, girl, with me.”

Akili gasps, beaming as if I have just been gifted some treasure. I manage a faint smile, thinking bitterly at what my existence has become. I was once a god’s weapon, a slayer of immortals. Now I am to become a weaver of cloth to some mad old woman and her thread-bearing goddess. I imagine somewhere Kal looks down upon me with cold jade eyes, and laughs.

“You are moving too fast!” Nanya chastises, rapping my knuckles. She returns my glower, beating me beneath that unnerving glare. Turning back, I reach for the heddle pulley carved like a richly plumed bird and rethread it until the carving sits at eye level.

I have been at this for days, more than I care to count. And I am no better. This contraption, this accursed cage, is a confusing bit of wood and thread that refuses to obey my commands. The few patterns I manage are ugly, misshapen, without structure. I yearn for the simplicity of battle—the task for which I was created. Here I am merely clumsy. And this deceptive machine has become my tormentor.

“No, no!” Nanya bellows. “Like this! Here, move away!”

Gladly. I disentangle from the wooden monstrosity as she eases her aged body within and begins. Where I am inelegant she is graceful, her hands and feet moving in rhythm as vertical threads are passed through pulleys and separated while a stick is thrown back and forth to create a rich pattern.

“Just enough tension in the thread and let the weave work through you,” she instructs. “The loom must be mastered, not beaten into submission.”

I scowl, angered at her ease and at the seeming futility of my attempts. Seeing my face, she stops and sighs with a deep weariness.

“You are not yet ready to pay off your debt.”

“Make it something else!” I demand. “I am no use here!”

She does not rise to meet my anger, instead waving dismissively. “Then go. Find some other use of your hands. For now, you are a failure at this.”

I stalk away at the insult, seething. I have failed at yet one more thing—even if I find it meaningless. There is a feeling in me I try to form words for, when one no longer has purpose. Ah yes, worthlessness.

I spend my days now with the women of the village, in the fields. I am no better at this at first than weaving. But the feel of the hoe in my hand is much more like a weapon. And the rending and cutting of earth is reminiscent of battle. I take to it in time and grow used to its monotony.

Often I work alongside Akili. She is not pleased I have abandoned Nanya and my apprenticeship. But she does not reprimand me. She claims the goddess weaves in patterns we cannot understand. If now is not the time for me to learn the loom, then it is simply so. I do not tell her I think I will never again sit at that loom, or that her goddess and priestess are crazed.

The days spent in the fields allow me to form bonds with the other girls and women, who I had previously only known in passing. I learn to sing their songs as they work, moving to their simple yet graceful rhythms. They intrigue me with their talk—of children, their own lives, hopes and dreams. I had thought many of them too yielding to the whims of their men. But hearing them ridicule husbands, or tell stories of authority in their households, I am gaining a new respect. They are strong, protective of each other and their village. With proper training, they would make formidable warriors.

One day as we work, a searing light tears open the sky. As the women scream, I look up to where hands are pointing. Among the clouds is a monstrous, red-striped face—eyes ablaze with fire as a wide mouth opens to reveal a long, green tongue. A machine shaped like a hollow golden beehive follows behind, its interlocking appendages throwing off sparks like fallen stars.

I do not scream like the others. I know that face—Molok, the Scowling One, with one of his weapons in tow. It seems the war between my maker and his siblings still rages. Molok lingers a moment before vanishing. Quite likely he was never truly here, just an imprint from the gods’ plane as he wanders between the ceaseless realms. But it is enough to set all affright with whispered prayers to their weaver goddess. The people of this village are too small, too insignificant, to be swept up in the struggle of immortals. They will never catch the eye of deities who scour the world for warriors to serve as their holy paladins, or be forced into an indentured contract as an undead thrall of some assassin goddess. And I am glad. These women may indeed make great warriors. But it is not what I would want of them. Puzzled at this realization, I put a hand to Akili’s shoulder, seeking to stop her trembling.

I am learning to dance, with two boys who hop from one foot to another. They frolic with me for a moment before spinning away, their red-painted bodies swaying. I fall back into a waiting crowd of girls, who laugh and encourage me.

It is a day of celebration, the changing of the seasons. Drums covered in taut bovine skin and stringed wood instruments are brought from homes. Rich food and intoxicating drink are plentiful. Many villagers wear masks of elaborate design that imaginatively mimic the beasts that roam their lands. I am wrapped in a rich indigo print, my dark skin blemished with flecks of gold while heavy coppery beads circle my neck and wrists. Akili has helped me dress as the girls her age. Part of this ritual involves courtship between the young. Like so much else, this confuses me. I have been told that my sinewy frame and sharp jawline make me handsome rather than pretty and more like a boy—which the other boys of the village appear to find…attractive. Today they whisper as much in my ear and lay gifts of bright colored woven necklaces at my feet.

“Have you never kissed?” Akili asks, as we rest beneath a tree watching a blood orange sun touch fingers of flame to the earth. Around us drums play to rhythmic chants, as fires are lit to welcome the night.

I shake my head, throwing the question back to her.

She laughs. “No, but I’ve been kissed.” A gleam enters her eyes. It is mischievous and strangely enticing. She grabs my hand, jumping up and leading me to the back of a dwelling. Before I can speak she puts a finger to my lips and leans in close.

“One day I may be married to a man, if I wish. And bear children, if I choose. So will you, perhaps the same one. But before that time, we can choose a close-friend. Boys choose boys, girls choose girls. And I choose….” She comes closer, until her body is touching mine, pressed against me, soft and warm. My heart throbs and my palms go damp with sweat. When her lips meet mine I hold my breath, not releasing until she pulls away.

“Did you like that?” she asks.

I nod vigorously, my stomach fluttering with tremors and head gone light. The only touch I’d ever known was Raka’s, that of a master to his creation, his pet. But this…this is different. This I do not know. And I find I want it…I need it.

“Good.” Akili leans in again, smiling. “Now close your eyes, so we don’t look like fish.”

I do as she says, letting my eyelids fall, and allow her to teach me this new lesson.

With farming over, the days of the young are freer. We roam about, venturing onto the wider savannah to staunch our boredom. I am with Akili and a smaller boy, Tebo, a relation by her mother’s sister, searching for fruit, sharing idle chatter and laughter. Akili slips warm fingers into mine and leans over to bite the lobe of my ear gently, flicking the skin with her tongue—a sign of affection among her people. I think it is perhaps the most beautiful thing I have ever felt. In the time since our first kiss, Akili and I have become inseparable. I find myself drawn to her, by a power that is enchanting. My mind wanders to my past life, to encountering the god Ason—the Unblemished, the Magnificent, the Glorious Vision—who nurtured his followers on his beauteous countenance like a drug. When I slew him, plucking out his divine eyes for my maker, Ason had reached out in a mournful death wail to his worshippers in their thousands of millions, across untold worlds. Many died outright or descended into unrelenting grief. But he is as nothing compared to Akili, a flame before the sun. Hers is a beauty beyond the flesh, not god-formed into flawless cosmic symmetry, but more true in all its slight permutations and imperfections. More real. I am so lost in the rapture of gazing upon this mortal girl that I do not see the danger in the brush until we are upon it.

The beast is massive, several tons of muscle atop four powerful legs. A thick plate covers its back with rounded nubs and sharp ridges, as two bony protrusions jut from its snout. It is making a meal of the succulent stalks of the savannah. And we have interrupted it. At sight of us the beast grows agitated, emitting short roaring bursts. Its three-toed feet tear at the ground, sending up tufts of earth. On either side of its head, black pupils narrow, taking our measure.

I am doing the same. The power I once held is gone. But I am still a being bred for battle. I search for weak points, making note of penetrable places on its armored hide. When the beast finally charges, I push Akili and Tebo behind me, pulling a knife. It was only meant for cutting fruit, but it is sharp enough. My hand hurls the blade, sending it straight for its mark. There is a high-pitched screeching as the beast abruptly brakes, the knife buried deep into one eye.

Akili screams. She is staring at me. I expect gratitude, even admiration. But to my surprise there is only horror. Before I can understand, there is a bellowing roar. I look up to find the beast charging again, nearly upon us. Just as it reaches it turns and swings its tail. I pull Akili away so that it misses us. But Tebo is not so fortunate. The thick appendage clips him, sending his small body flying. Satisfied, the beast gallops away, moaning its pain.

Akili cries as we spy Tebo, not moving and covered in blood. A white bone juts from one of his gangly legs. We pick him up and run all the way back to the village. When we arrive others come rushing forward. Tebo is taken to Nanya, who doesn’t allow us inside. I stand there with Akili. Her face is smeared with tears.

“Why did you do that?” she asks, turning on me hotly.

I shake my head, not understanding.

“Attack the Makambo! You hurt it with your knife!”

“But it would have trampled us.”

Akili shakes her head. “No! Makambo are all show! As long as we held our ground it wouldn’t have hurt us! It would have turned and fled! That’s what they do!”

I am stunned. I open my mouth to speak but she cuts me off.

“Now Tebo is hurt! And look at you.” Her eyes take my measure, much like the Makambo. “You don’t even shed a tear! What are you? Don’t you feel?”

With that she storms away, leaving me to my silence.

Tebo survives his ordeal. I go to see him, filled with guilt. He accepts my apologies. Akili who sits with him says nothing. She does not even look at me. I leave them and walk out into the village, consumed by emotions—sadness, anger, confusion. It is too much. How do mortals deal with so many at once? I am not certain why, but I arrive at Nanya’s house. When I ask for entrance she grants it. I find her, as usual, at the loom.

“Your shadow hasn’t darkened my home for some time.”

“What happened to Tebo was my fault,” I blurt out, finding solace in the confession. “The Makambo. I attacked it.”

She shrugs, as if I have told her nothing she did not know. “Saw a big beast and pulled out your knife. Didn’t think there was another way? Only know how to beat a thing into submission?”

I think of the look of horror on Akili’s face. I’ve never known there were other ways. My eyes wander to the loom, that monstrosity that I had tried—and failed—to make yield to my hands.

“I want to learn again,” I say, hardly believing my words.

The old woman turns, catching me in that unnerving glare. But she does not object. Rising, she moves to her usual place. I walk up to the loom and with a deep breath, lower myself into its waiting confines.

“When you first sat here you were a tangled pattern,” Nanya said. “Unyielding and stubborn. Perhaps time has loosened your knots and will allow the goddess to guide your hands.”

I close my eyes, roaming through my experiences—farming among the women, the revelry of festival, the tingling of Akili’s kisses. As I do so, my hands begin to move. I am pulling thread, separating and passing it through the bird-headed pulleys, using my feet alternately to operate them while I hold and batten down the fabric with a wooden stick. I fall into a steady rhythm, and all concept of time vanishes as I work. I do not know how long I sit there, but it is Nanya who brings me back.

“It seems you are finally ready to learn,” she says.

I open my eyes and look down to find a pattern has emerged in the spun cloth. It is simple. But it is not ugly or misshapen. It is…beautiful. The corners of my mouth tug up in a smile. And I begin again.

I sit at the loom each day, learning from the old priestess. I can soon use many of the pulleys at once, and my patterns grow in complexity. She teaches me how to read and interpret their meaning. I find the task oddly soothing—bringing a sense of contentment in my exile. Memories of my battle with Kal seem more like the fragments of forgotten dreams than a past life. I sometimes laugh at what my maker would think were he to see me now: his great and terrible weapon ruined in the service of some minor goddess of threads and weaves. But I no longer expect I shall see him again. I have come to accept that I am done with the gods’ war, and it is finished with me.

I am wrong.

The men arrive at midday during harvest. I look up from where I am swinging a broad curved sickle to shear the heads of crops. They wear hard faces, the kind I have seen before in battle. Their horses are lean and powerful beasts, as grim as their riders. Some of the men are strapped with bows; others hold lances with wide oval-leaf blades. I count near forty, thundering in under a cloud of dust and the beat of hooves. A crowd of curious villagers forms to meet them.

One of the riders in the lead—tall and broad with a chainmail shirt—removes a conical helmet to reveal a face marked with scars. He hands it to a younger man, who holds aloft a banner of a black circle, shrouded in intersecting lines like tendrils. My stomach goes hollow. I know that banner. These men are followers of my maker. They are warriors of Raka, the Hidden.

“Who speaks for this village?” the big man shouts.

Those gathered murmur, unsure of what to say. But a voice soon emerges.

“I speak.” All eyes turn to see Nanya, making her way through the crowd, a simple wrap of brown cloth covering her stooped body and a crooked stick aiding her walk.

The big man eyes her with surprise then laughs. “Why do I not find it surprising that old women rule this dust-ridden place?”

“If it is so displeases you, perhaps you should go,” Nanya replies.

The smile on the man’s face turns dangerous, and he leans down in his saddle.

“Watch your tongue, witch, or I will cut it out and feed it to your dogs.”

My hands grip the sickle tighter. I could be there in moments. But I am no longer a weapon. I release, finding my peace again while I listen.

“We are not here to stay,” the big man shouts for all to hear. “Just passing. We do however require food and water. It can be taken, certainly. But if you give it to us, we can avoid bloodshed—or setting your village ablaze.”

There are gasps of alarm from the villagers. I know this threat is not idle. These men have danger in their eyes, like wolf-jackals at hunt. Nanya raises a hand and all fall quiet.

“There is always another way. Camp away from here, not in our village. We will bring you all you require.”

Their leader runs a hand across a peppered beard in thought then shrugs. “Deliver it by dusk or we’ll have to return, and not be as pleasant.” He makes to go, but the younger man holding the banner leans in, whispering. The big man grunts then turns back. “Oh yes. Along with the food, send us some of your best drink—and your children.”

His pronouncement is met with stillness.

Nanya does not blink, but her words are tight strands. “Drink and food are one matter. But we do not offer away our children like red-striped cattle. What do you want with them?”

The big man shrugs. “For those deemed worthy, there is always room among our ranks—to serve Great Raka, to live and die to storm the ramparts of the Third Heaven. Others may fetch a good price at the slave markets of Mura. They might be trained up as servants or apprentices and find better lives in the more civilized parts of the world—perhaps even across the Shining Sea to the southern continent, in the trading port of Tal Abisi or the mechanical city of Kons.”

“Or sold to be slaughtered in Mura’s fighting pits,” Nanya replies evenly.

The big man shrugs again. “Either way, it will be a better existence than in this”—His eyes roam over the village in disdain—“backwards place. We don’t want all of them. Send us perhaps about a third. Your strongest and fittest. Be happy that we only ask for children. A dried-up bird like you can stay at home.” His men laugh raucously, and he leans down again, a hand sliding idly across a curved sword. “If you delay, we will come back and take them all as tribute to Lord Raka. Do we have an understanding?”

Nanya is quiet. She sets that unnerving glare upon the man, and for a moment he shifts uncomfortably. A heavy silence descends until a voice breaks the quiet.

“I will go,” a voice says, stepping forward. I recognize him. An older boy named Bani. A herder of four-horned sheep. His father cries out in dismay, but he takes hold of the older man, speaking in hushed soothing tones. Another boy steps forward and says the same. Then a girl.

The big man laughs. “That’s the spirit. Take your time to decide. Just arrive with the food, and all else. Don’t look so glum. We are doing you a favor. Next harvest, there will be less mouths to feed.” With a turn he spurs his horse to a gallop, taking his small army with him like a retreating storm.

At their departure the village is a place of emotions and uproar. Mothers and fathers run to gather weapons: hunter’s knives and spears. Others try in vain to hold them back, but they are lost to their anger and fear. It is Nanya who finally stands in their path, planting herself like a barrier.

“Be wise,” she warns levelly as they mass. “You run to a battle you cannot win.” I listen, knowing she speaks truth. Those soldiers could cut down these farmers and hunters with arrows alone.

More than a few shout back. That they cannot allow this to happen. For the honor of their families and their village. For the love of their children.

Nanya returns their wails with a snort. “And when you fall to their blades what shall we do with your honor? When they return for their vengeance, will that protect us? Will it protect those children that remain?”

There is no answer now, only anguished looks.

“Put down your weapons,” Nanya whispers. “If you must feel sorrow, it should be for the brave children who will save us all. The weave is woven.” With that she turns to go, leaving pain and despair in her wake.

I stand watching as children clasp at each other in consolation. A growing circle of bodies forms, pressed together: hugging, crying, giving strength, and wiping away tears. I linger on its outskirts, with weeping parents who stand now like ghosts, their weapons hung impotent at their sides. I yearn to join these children, to link in this bond that so sustains them, but I don’t know how. In their midst I spy Akili. Our eyes meet, and she disentangles to walk towards me.

For a moment we stand there, gazing at each other in silence. Then she pronounces, “I’m going.” They are some of the first words she has spoken to me in a long time, and it makes my heart both speed and falter. “The older ones among us have decided that we will go, to spare the youngest—like Tebo.” I stare at her, struggling to understand such a choice. She reaches a hand to me, touching my shoulder gently. I realize I am trembling. I watch as she turns, walking back to the circle who have now begun to sing, a keening moan that grows with strength.

Turning I stumble away, my steps becoming a run. I arrive at Nanya’s home, entering without asking consent. I find the old woman at the loom, weaving as always.

“This can’t be permitted!” I declare.

She never stops her work. “Do you doubt the sincerity of those men? Do you think they will break and run like little bush-hares if we rattle hunting spears at them?”

I shake my head, frustrated that I must agree. Raka teaches these men his ruthlessness; they worship it. What you do not have, you take. There is no greater force than fear. Mercy is for the weak, who deserve none.

“If we meet them with force, they will raze this village,” she says. “They will slaughter every man, every woman and child, wiping us away as if we never were.”

“It is not right!” I am unable to hold back my anger. I cast my eyes to the small statue of Lilia. “What good is this goddess, this matron of weaves, if she cannot even protect those who revere her?”

Nanya looks up with eyes like flat stones. “It is not her way.”

There are no more words to be had. I stumble from her home, rage building inside me as I stand watching this village that I have come to call home, and its people I have come to care for. They may survive what is to come, but it will scar them, leaving a wound as sharp as any blade. Yet what choice have they been given? To meet these soldiers of Raka in battle they would have to be made over as something cruel, something cold and hard. I have been that, and I no longer wish that upon them. I know then what I must do.

It is well before dusk when I set out. I follow the galloping tracks, an easy trail left by confident men. It is a good walk, but I finally spy them in the distance. They are camped, tents pitched and horses tethered. At seeing me they turn almost as one with questing eyes. Their leader steps forward, that easy smile on his scarred face.

“What’s this? They’ve sent us a pretty faced boy?”

There is laughter from the other men, who eye me mockingly.

“And where is the food? The drink?”

I do not answer his questions. Instead, I say: “You are worshippers of Raka.”

The man’s smile remains, but he eyes me curiously. “What do you know of Great Raka?”

I could tell them much of Raka. That the god has no idea of their existence. That to him, they are but ants whose utterances of his name will never reach his ear. But instead I say: “You fight his war. I fought it once as well. I have come to ask you to spare this village. They are not worthy foes. Harming them will not serve Raka. Take their food and drink, but leave their children be.”

Their leader looks at me, exchanging incredulous glances with his men. “You are certainly full of mouth for such a small one.” He stalks up to me, gazing down. “A follower of Raka?” A rough hand whips out to shove me hard, and I stumble back. “I do not see a follower of the Great Lord.” He shoves again. “I only see a boy.” The last shove almost sends me to my back. “Did your people think if they sent you we might let the rest be? That they might be safe? We need fighters for our ranks! We need the coin of Mura slavers! You will go back and tell them we do not accept this paltry offer.” His face contorts into something feral, as he pulls a knife. Yet the smile never falters. “But first, we will keep a piece of you with us—so that our demands are clear.”

He lunges forward, fast for a man his size. His arms wrap tight about me as I am drawn close. His men laugh as I struggle to push him back. But he is strong, his body harsh, honed from battle. He clamps a hand to my chin, lifting my head to press the tip of his blade at my cheek.

“What will it be boy? Your nose? An eye?” The cold edge of the knife traces my face tauntingly, and for a moment he and it fill up my whole world. Fear grips me until I am drowning in it. All I want to do is flee, to escape this cruel man. In my panic I reach out, grasping for anything to keep me afloat. What I find is that part of me I have tried to bury.

I see my attacker for all that he is—flesh, organs, bones, and arteries, all held together by the thin thread of life. He is no god. No immortal. Just a man. And there is weakness, everywhere. I aim my head at the bridge of his nose and strike. There is a cry of pain as he releases me, stumbling back and holding his bloodied face. Blinded, he doesn’t see the sickle I pull from behind my back—until the blade cuts wide and deep across his abdomen, spilling his insides in a mass like glistening worms at his feet.

He falls to his knees, making futile attempts to put himself back together. The smile is gone now. His wide eyes look back to me, not understanding. “Just a boy,” he croaks weakly, before coughing out a bout of blood and crumpling.

I cast my gaze towards his men. They are stiffened with shock at the death of their leader. But they are battle-hardened and recover quickly. The sound of scores of weapons being brought to bear fills the air. And there is fury and vengeance in their eyes as they charge, determined to end me. Moments later, as twelve of their number lay dying at my feet, the look in those eyes has turned to horror.

“You are no boy!” one stammers. “You are a demon!”

I stare at him, wiping away the blood that splatters my face.

“Not a boy and not a demon” I reply, readying to finish my grim work. “I am a blade.”

I walk back in the dark night, alone. The creatures of the forest, hunters and hunted alike, hide from my presence—as if understanding a killer stalks among them. I have learned much this night. I am no longer what I was. But neither am I completely mortal. I am something else, a wraith that lingers between two realms.

I enter the village far behind the returning children and carts of food. Parents rush out, listening as their sons and daughters relate the tale of finding the warriors—all slain, none but their horses spared. There are shouts of rejoicing and deliverance. Akili stands among them and a part of me is glad, knowing she is safe. I slip into my dwelling, peeling off clothing soaked in crimson and gore. Filling a clay jug with water I begin scrubbing my skin, wondering at what lies beneath. So intense is my cleansing it is a while before I notice the bony figure in my doorway. Nanya.

She tosses over a hollow gourd filled with liquid. “This will help remove the stench.” Then she is gone.

When I am clean, I dress and walk through the village, sidestepping the revelry until I reach Nanya’s home. She calls my name as if expecting me. I find her sitting at her loom.

“Did you slay them all?”

For some reason, I am not startled by the question.

“Yes. They will not trouble this village.”

She nods.

“You are not angry?”

“There was no other way.”

I frown. “But you claim there is always another way.”

“And they chose theirs,” she replies.

I try to work out her puzzling words, but there is another matter.

“You are not surprised, that one girl can slay some forty men?”

Nanya chortles, stopping to admire her handiwork. “Certainly little golem, you have dealt with worse.”

There is a numbing silence. Little golem. I have been called this before. She looks up to eye me fully. And for the first time I notice something else in that unnerving glare, a cold fire just beneath. She sits up from the loom, making her way towards me. I back away, stumbling until I am pressed against the earthen wall.

“There,” she whispers, crooning the word. “You know it now. Say my name.” It is not a request. My lips are pried apart, the breath drawn out and worked about my tongue.

“Kal,” I utter.

The world falls away. Piece by piece it crumbles. The simple dwelling of dried red mud is gone. I am now in a great hall of stone, white and dry as bone. Along the walls runs a tapestry of moving images—gods in battle. It is a grand sight, but no more so than the being that towers before me.

Kal, Mistress of Battle, reclines upon her ashen throne, each of her six arms at rest. Her jade eyes are fixed upon me, a small and fragile thing compared to her grandeur. I stagger beneath her gaze, falling to my knees.

“Yuh a gwaan like yuh neva mingle wid ah god before,” she taunts, bringing a smile to that bloodstained face. Her godstongue pounds in my head and I swoon under its weight.

“You. All along, it was you,” I manage finally. Humiliation, anger, and disbelief war to overwhelm me. I beat them back to find the strength to speak. “You cast me out, banish me among mortals, deceive me—to what end? Is this some game of the immortals?”

“Wi gods ramp enuff games.” Those jade eyes are unflinching. “And you likkle golem get caught up wid ah very cunning playa. But, mi nuh put yuh pan dis path…”

I am lost at her words. If she did not set me on this path then who…“Raka!”

Kal grimaces at the name. “Yuh creator mek yuh as a weapon. Ah weapon fi kill gods. Yuh do it likkle bit too good.”

Seeing my confusion she laughs; but no mirth touches that crimson face.

“Yuh nuh think so it funny dat mi bredda, the lurka wah eva inna di shadows, so prideful inna him cunning, wuuda sen you—a weapon—’gainst mi, di Mistress ah Battle? Wah is a weapon to mi but a ting fi control? Fi mi mash up?”

I stare at her, and understanding that I had long feared to face creeps through my bones with a chill. Our battle. The ease of my defeat. Caught in magics against which I had no defense.

“I was sent to lose,” I whisper. “I was sent to my end.” This betrayal cuts at the heart of me. It is an odd thing to know that the one who created you, sought your death in turn.

“Mi bredda mek yuh outta im own essence.” Kal says. “Every time yuh kill ah god yuh tek dem power—and give im—mekking im stronger. Wah ah crafty weapon yuh be. But fi keep im blade sharp, im did haffi share. Im put whole heap a dat same stolen powah back een a yuh. In im greed im mek someting wah as strong as its mekker. An if dat deh weapon eva gain ah mind ah dem own…”

“No!” I cry out. This emotion growing in me I know well. Anger. I am brimming with it. “I served faithfully! I would never have betrayed him! For him I would have given all! Plunged into the Abyss at his bidding!”

“Yes,” she eyes me with a weighing look. “Yuh might av at dat. Yuh mekka create yuh like a likkle pickney, fi depend pan whateva im feel like fi do. Any mood im feel like. And yuh so eager fi mek im happy. But no living ting can hol di power of di gods ah get aweh. Yuh did a change, likkle golem. Mi brudda see dis and im fear yuh might grow beyond im. So im send you to slay mi—ah weapon gainst ah mistress ah weapons. And im hope wen yuh dead at mi hand all dat power he gift yuh wud flow back to im.”

I listen. It is a plan that fits my maker well. Devious. Calculated. I was a means to an end. And once met, I was to be discarded—like any other tool.

“Mi brudda think seh im smart,” Kal remarks ruefully, “but mi see through dat ah walk wide. Instead, mi cut di string from im precious puppet and put yuh weh nobody can find yuh.” She sneers and those jade eyes burn like fiery ice. “Yuh shud see im now. Im desperate fi find yuh. Im a wonder wah mek im power no go come back. Im sit now inna im shadowed temple, ah shrunken fearful worm, cowering and surrounded by im enemy dem.”

This thought of my maker, so vulnerable, whose touch I once relished, should move me. But I find my heart hardened. I am remorseful—not for him, but for a thing I once held important, a bond I once imbued with meaning. For the first time I truly feel alone. Free, but alone.

“And where is that power now?” I ask.

Kal grins a set of monstrous teeth. “Weh it did always be, likkle golem. Yuh did mek fi hold di god dem power, mi just change up di vessel. Mortal flesh must work hard fi transmute dat deh strength deh, fi understand how fi bend it fi do yuh will. Mi surprise it tek yuh so long fi tap into it. Mi suppose yuh did need some…incentive.” She makes a pleased moan, like a thousand carnal devils writhing in ecstasy. “See it deh, bredda. Yuh nuh di only one bright.”

I look down at my hands, as if my eyes can pierce flesh, seeing to the hidden power beneath. “So there is no Lilia. No Matron of Weaves, no Nanya. It was all a ruse, another deception.”

Kal sucks her teeth hard and long. “No mek one donkey choke yuh!” In an instant the world shifts. I am now in a grand chamber decorated in reams of richly patterned cloth. A dazzling being sits towering before me. Wrapped in shining white gauze, her six arms work meticulously in a never-ending blur upon an immense golden loom that spins threads of light. “Mi name Lilia, Goddess ah di Loom, an a me same one name Kal,” she declares in rhythmic tones that move in time to her work. There is another change and I am back in the hall of the warrior goddess. Only, now, a small, wrinkled mahogany figure stands in front of me. Nanya. “And sometimes I am an old woman who watches over a small village,” she says, letting her godstongue diminish. “Have you dwelled so long among mortals that you have forgotten the ways of gods?”

The ways of gods indeed. Who can understand them? She offers a hand and I hesitantly accept, rising from my knees. “Why all of this?” I ask. “Do you want me as your weapon? Will you send me now to slay in your name?”

The old woman—Kal, Lilia, Nanya—releases a breath. And I am struck by how…weary…it sounds. Like a world, a star, a whole reality, grown tired of holding its own weight, threatening to collapse upon itself. She gestures a hand to one of her moving tapestries, awash in vibrant color where gods rage in battle.

“The wars of the Elder Gods,” she says. “I was birthed in this. Forged as so many of my siblings, as weapons—much like you. Our parents could not know we would rise up to one day slay them, becoming gods in our own right. Yet much of their taint remains. We feud now like them, unable to find peace.”

I eye the tapestry, watching as the younger gods are given birth only to repay their parents with fire and blood. “Raka believes there must only be one of you in the end. One who will be called God. Only then will these wars end.”

Nanya turns to me, her eyes piercing. “What do you believe?”

I am taken aback. No god has ever asked me such a thing. But she waits, expectant. And I am forced to find an answer. I think to the small village that took me in and imagine them bowed to Raka. I imagine all the beings on all the worlds under his sway. And I am troubled. I feel something tear within me, a final severing of an umbilical cord—or perhaps a chain.

“No,” I say at last. “The weaving goddess of even a small village is significant, if only to her followers. Existence would be…emptier, without her.”

Nanya nods with a slight smile before that tiredness again creeps to nestle about her eyes. “Indeed. It is why what I must now ask of you will seem so strange.”

What, I wonder, could this goddess of strife and discord possibly want of me?

“Long ago, I grew weary of this senseless conflict. And my role in it. I was born a being of battle. And a battle must end in either loss or victory. But there is no end to this war, no resolution—just eternal struggle. It is a maddening existence. So I created another self, Lilia the Matron of Weaves. I took this form as well, Nanya, to walk among mortals. And within both, I found something long denied me—peace. In the simplicity of the loom and that little village I found a serenity that I’d never known possible.”

She turns to face me.

“I wish to only be her now—Lilia. I wish to return Kal to the Great Essence, to let her sleep forever in the Abyss. And you are a slayer of gods.”

It takes a while for her request to strike home. When it does, I am struck speechless.

“I…” My words are a stammer. “I cannot defeat you.”

“But you are more than capable of slaying me, were I to allow it. Before I offered up myself, I needed to know whether you were just an empty golem, or a being that could think and feel, with its own mind.” She fixes me in that hard glare, as ensnaring as her magics. “Why did you choose to save that village from those men? To save beings your maker taught you were unworthy?”

I cast about, grasping. Then my mind thinks to Akili, the women I have sung with, the boys who danced with me, the hunters who saved me, and it fills me with unmeasured warmth.

“I didn’t want to see them suffer. I came to…care for them.”

The old woman’s depthless eyes gleam. “Care, for mortals. What an absurd and fantastic notion. I have slain many of my siblings, more than even you. When you take my life, all the power you gain will be enough to make you one of us.”

I glare, my mind and heart seizing as I comprehend her mad proposal.

She smiles at my dawning awareness. “You would be our first newborn. One whose time in that small village has taught her that there is more beyond this petty war of the immortals.”

I shake my head, overwhelmed. “But I know nothing of godhood.”

“You know more than most. And with the power you will soon have, you can end this futile gods’ war.”

She lifts a hand and there is a knife there, a small unassuming curved blade. She offers it to me, and I take it hesitantly, wrapping my fingers around the black hilt, shuddering with an exhilaration almost forgotten. The blade speaks to me, weapon to weapon—and I know its only purpose is to end its maker.

I struggle to grasp the enormity of what is being offered. Am I to become a god? To wield celestial power and shape my own fate? To be considered an equal with my own maker? My hand grips tighter on the blade as I stare upon this suicidal goddess. This is the reason for my existence. I have slain many of her kind. One more should not matter. And yet…

My hand trembles in place. And I stare at Nanya, past this visage she wears, to the desperate goddess beneath.

“Is this my destiny? To become one of you undying beings, of barren souls and desiccated hearts? Beings grown so tired of immortality, they must lay devious schemes to end their existence? Will this be my fate one day—seeking out another to grant me the reprieve of a final rest?”

Nanya frowns. “I offer myself now to you. I offer you godhood. Take it! Make your choice!”

Choice. I play with the word. I was not created to know its meaning. But I understand it now. And it is everything. Closing my eyes I take a deep breath and choose my existence. My fingers relax.

“No.”

A silence follows, deeper than the void.

“What did you say?” Nanya asks, her tone like sliding steel.

“No,” I repeat, firming my voice. “I do not want your offered godhood.”

Nanya scowls, and I glimpse howling demons in her glare. “You would throw away a gift of immortality? You would pass such a thing by?”

“What you call a gift, sounds more like a prison.”

“Doan ramp words wid mi, likkle golem!” she snarls, in godstongue so fierce I expect to see Kal once more standing before me. “Yuh too damn bright eeh?” The power of her voice alone nearly sends me to my knees. Swaying, I steady myself and meet her glare.

“That’s what you called me. But no longer. You showed me that I could be more. You brought me to that small village, placed me at that loom, showed me that there were other ways to be. Did you think I would be unchanged?” I dare to lift my chin higher. “I am no longer anyone’s weapon to be wielded. Not Raka’s. Not yours. I am my own being. And I am worthy of more. You taught me that.” I find it easy now to cast away the knife in my hand, letting it clatter noisily across the stone floor. “If you no longer want to be Kal and remain Lilia, then do so. You don’t need me for that. You’re a god, aren’t you? Make your own damn choice.”

In the quiet that follows, I ponder if I have gone too far and dwell on the chances of my coming oblivion.

“Well this is unexpected,” Nanya grumbles at last, her godstongue gone. “Could it be that I have created more than I bargained for? That you have learned in this brief imprisonment in a mortal body what it has taken me a gods’ lifetime to understand?” She cackles at some inner joke. “And they say there is nothing new to learn. So, what now—once weapon, once golem?”

I release a trembling breath. “So, I am not to be destroyed?”

Nanya snorts. In a blur we are back in her simple home, where it is still night and the sounds of revelry can be heard—as if no time has passed in our absence. “Your life is yours. Do with it as you wish. You may have denied yourself godhood. But you are no simple mortal either. You are…something different.”

I nod. Even now, I can feel the power I once held beneath this mortal frame. I do not know how much. Or how I might wield it. But it is a part of me.

“You must know,” Nanya says, “that you cannot remain in this village. The use of your power this night will ripple across the gods’ realms. It will turn the heads of my siblings. They will seek you out, to make you their own. As will your maker.”

I shut my eyes at this revelation. Nanya can protect herself against whichever gods come hunting me. But this village would not survive a battle between immortals. I draw a breath and open my eyes.

“You have said this is a wide world. Perhaps it is time I saw more of it.”

“It is a wide and dangerous world,” Nanya replies. She waves her hand and a golden sword with a curved blade appears in my own. It is beautiful. Yet…

“I think I prefer the last weapon I used.”

Nanya raises an eyebrow. When I look to my hand again I am holding the large curved sickle. I let its weight settle upon me. It feels…right.

“You should go,” Nanya says. “Already, I feel the gazes of my siblings…searching. What will you do, when they or their minions come your way?”

I fit my sickle onto my back. “I come in peace to all who wish it. But those that do not…”

Nanya gives a knowing smile. “Those that do not, will learn that there is always another way. And you are a slayer of gods.”

I turn from her, making my way to go.

She calls to me. “When my siblings ask after you, who shall I tell them you are now?”

I pause. “Tell them I am Okono. The girl who was lost but found her way.”

I feel the old woman’s amused smile at my back as I stride from her dwelling.

I am a blade. A star. A girl…rising.

 

(Editors’ Note: P. Djèlí Clark is interviewed by Caroline M. Yoachim in this issue.)

© 2026 P. Djèlí Clark