Beads of Death and Love
Fiction - by Stephen Curro
I. A Bead of Quartz
My people do not measure time with years. We split the cycle of time into three seasons, and for each season we survive, we are given a bead. Every bead on my necklace tells a chapter of my life, forming a chain unique only to myself.
Often my children, and later my grandchildren, would ask about my beads. I’d happily tell them that the indigo bead was my first, given to me in the Sun Season when I was born. The jade green bead was the Star Season when I learned how to swim. The golden bead was the Storm Season I met my wife. Describing one bead always revives a hundred stories. Stories that I love. Stories that I forgot.
Stories of how blind faith can drive an entire village mad.
I remember when I earned my thirty-third bead. That means, I think, that I was ten, perhaps eleven years old.
I visited Qamak, our shaman, on the first day of Star Season. Everyone saw the shaman at the start of a season to atone for sins and read the future.
I dreaded those visits with Qamak. Qamak’s necklace was heavy with over two-hundred beads. His body was more bone than skin and muscle. There was something unsettling about being in a dark space with only a small fire for light, in the presence of the most powerful man in the village and the god he spoke for.
Nervously I knelt before the fire, bowed my head and confessed my sins over the last season. I’d swum too far out past the breakers. I’d played with my aunt’s knife when she wasn’t looking. I’d talked back to my mother. The usual antics of a child. His ancient limbs shaking, Qamak prayed for my salvation before he cast his crystals to determine my penance. Usually that would mean performing ritual prayers or fasting for a whole day.
This time, when Qamak cast the crystals, his eyes swelled. Hastily he gathered the crystals and tossed them again. And again. Even in the dim light, I could see his face was bleached of color.
“Casai,” he whispered to me. “Tomorrow at dawn. You meet with Jannavar.”
I forgot to breathe. Every child was inevitably sent to meet our god Jannavar. If he deemed you worthy, you would survive the encounter. There would be much celebration and thanksgiving, and you would then begin your training for adulthood. If you were deemed unworthy, Jannavar would eat you whole, or worse.
Qamak gave me my thirty-third bead to add to my necklace before he sent me home. It was a milky-white bead, a stone that resembled quartz. I felt dizzy as I realized this bead could be my last.
The reaction from my family was a blend of excitement and concern. My father, Maharba, was one of Qamak’s acolytes. Deep in faith, infinite in patience, he drilled me on prayers to offer during the encounter. “You won’t be alone,” he assured me. “All those who love you will be with you.” I felt safer as he embraced me.
My mother, Rasha, said very little. She smiled and kissed my head, but there was a festering worry behind her azure eyes. Rasha was the village’s master weaver. She had woven flower crowns for every child who had gone to meet Jannavar since she was apprenticed, long before my birth. Some of those children had never returned.
My aunt, Neema, was the war master. “Show no fear,” Neema said in her signature iron tone. “Jannavar does not abide the weak.” Her words clung to me like oil you cannot rub off. That night I rolled and thrashed in my cushions, incapable of sleep.
The next morning, the village gathered in the early dusk to see me off. My mother wordlessly crowned me with the laurel of white flowers she had woven for me. I tried to tell myself that this was not goodbye.
After anointing my brow with sacred oil, the shaman put his hand on my shoulder and gave me a warm, encouraging smile. He handed me a torch and said, “Go.”
I followed the God’s Path, a dirt road that wended through the jungle and then up the side of the long-dead volcano that had been filled with water from rain and the sea. In the predawn gloom, my torch kept me on course, casting light and shadows all around. The sounds of morning birds and jungle beasts called in the distance, but none of them bothered me. They knew to avoid the God’s Path, and the crater beyond.
The sky was swelling with orange light when I reached the summit. There was a stack of three great rocks at the edge of the crater, upon which sat the conch. Everyone in my world who was older than me had held this shell. Now it was my turn.
I held my torch high above my head and then cast it into the crater. I took the conch shell, held it above my head with both hands, and then with a deep breath blew a single note that echoed across the crater.
I sat the shell down, stepped back, and waited. My limbs shook like trees just before a storm.
For a time, there was no sound, save the gentle sloshing of the water. As the sunlight spilt over the horizon, a great bubble broke the surface. More followed, and soon the whole crater roiled like a pot over fire. The ground beneath me shook. I tensed my body and commanded myself not to run.
There was an explosion of froth. Hands bigger than our biggest hut with talons longer than our tallest man grabbed the edge of the crater. Three glowing orange eyes glittered atop a monstrous head. Jaws opened, revealing fangs twice as sharp as spears. His shadow swallowed me, his girth blocked out the sun. Then he looked down upon me and growled a growl that I felt deep in my chest.
Head of a dragon. Body of a whale. Arms of a lizard. Legs of a jaguar. Tail of a snake. Eyes of suns.
Jannavar.
I suddenly forgot all the prayers my father had drilled into me. My body was heavy with terror as I bowed down and babbled prayers of my own. I swore that I’d never disobey my parents again, promised to burn offerings in the temple every day, anything if Jannavar would please spare me!
After a time, who knows how long, I dared to lift my head just enough to peer at my god.
Jannavar stared at me with his three eyes. His expression was fearsome, irritable, but I think, it was also curious. It was as if he did not know what to make of me.
With his great hand he took hold of me and set me on my unsteady feet. He pointed a finger to my head. He could have eviscerated me with his claw as easily as you or I could tear a leaf. With extreme precision, he twitched his claw and drew a superficial cut over the skin of my brow. I tried so hard to not whimper when he drew blood. Then, with a thoughtful growl, he dove beneath the surface. The water rocked and sloshed and slowly stilled as if Jannavar had never been there at all.
I stood for a long time, unable to comprehend what had happened. As dawn creeps over the horizon, so too did the realization that I was not going to die. To think I had passed the test, that I had looked the mighty Jannavar in the eyes and lived! I stumbled back down the God’s Path in a daze.
When I emerged from the jungle, the whole village was waiting for me, cheering and jumping in excitement. My mother and father squeezed me in crushing hugs. Qamak touched the cut on my brow and blessed me. My father and the other men lifted me up and paraded me around the village.
The rest of the day was devoted to feasting and dancing. I was given the sweetest fruit to eat, and for once in my life I had no work to do. I felt so loved.
This was the beginning of a new chapter in my life. Little did I know, it was also the ending of a chapter for my people.
The days passed. Weeks, I think you’d call them. Soon came the day of the Star Festival. Over the last two seasons, the village had been building a great statue of Jannavar out of wood and stone. At the Star Festival, we would consecrate the statue, and then at the start of Storm Season it would be smashed to symbolize Jannavar’s sacrifice for us. This frequent worship had been the center of my peoples’ lives for seasons innumerable.
I remember when the day of the Star Festival came, Neema sent me to gather rocks suitable for knife and spearhead making. I had nearly filled my basket when I heard a strange noise, almost like a cross between a cough and the fluttering of wings.
I looked out to the horizon where the sea spread to the edge of the world. I saw a creature flying in the sky, grumbling and humming and coughing. Smoke belched from spikes on its back. It had long wings but did not flap them. As it came closer to the island it began to descend, and I saw there were people walking on its back.
Realization struck me like lightning. It was not a beast. It was a ship. A ship in the sky!
I dropped my basket and ran to Neema. Neema and the warriors had gathered with the rest of the villagers. By now everyone had seen the bizarre ship and stopped to gape.
The ship gently settled onto the beach. Spinning things under the wings whined and slowed to a stop.
A door opened and a platform was lowered. A procession of men filed onto the sand. They wore dark blue clothes that covered their whole body and strange hats with golden symbols.
Neema wasted no time directing the warriors to take defensive positions on the beach. My father gave me a reassuring nod before taking his place by Qamak. I held my mother’s hand and whispered a prayer for protection.
One man with a fluffy beard stepped forward with a glittering orb in his hands. He spoke, and the orb flashed with each verbalization, filtering his foreign words into words we could understand. His voice was joyous, bright like the sun.
“Greetings! We mean you no harm. We come from a land far across the sea.”
The air was heavy with nervous whispers. We had not had visitors from other lands in centuries, and they had never come in flying ships.
Qamak stepped forward warily. “I speak for our tribe. What do you want of us?”
One of the strange men raised his hand in greeting. There were gold lines running along his blue suit, and he had a thick mustache. He spoke strange words, and the bearded man translated. “This is Captain Waldrick of the airship Dauntless. He says we come in peace, in the name of our queen, to meet you and explore your island.”
Qamak crossed his arms. “Why?”
The man relayed the question, and the captain laughed. His translated answer was, “Why? To satisfy our curiosity. You are human, yes? You are curious, yes? We have never seen this land before.”
Qamak whispered with Neema for a moment. It was clear from Neema’s sour expression that she did not trust these outsiders. Qamak dismissed her concerns with a snort. “You may stay, but you must sleep on your ship at night. You may explore the jungle with an escort of warriors, but you are forbidden to walk the God’s Path. Should you violate these terms, Jannavar’s wrath will be your doom!”
The captain smiled. There was something about that smile that I didn’t like.
After we’d gotten over the initial shock, we were all excited to have visitors. Some of the strange men were shown around the village. Others were eager to explore the jungle. Neema was beside herself and had veteran and trainee warriors alike watch the visitors like hawks. I was equally curious about the strangers, and I wished I could speak their language so I could ask my own questions.
I found it odd that the strangers were so interested in things that were commonplace for us, like grinding food with a mortar or wearing loincloths for clothing. The captain was especially curious about our faith in Jannavar. Somehow, the outsiders had heard legends of Jannavar from across the sea, and they were eager to meet him. Qamak and my father answered the captain’s questions, though they refused to let the strangers visit the crater where Jannavar dwelt. The captain bit his lip in contempt, but he complied with Qamak’s orders.
As the day drew on, villagers began to focus less on the visitors and more on the coming festival. Jannavar, after all, was expecting days and days of ritual. We prepared for the evening of worship by practicing the sacred dances. We painted our bodies red and yellow and donned necklaces and bracelets of shells. I helped my mother arrange bundles of flowers to sacrifice.
That night, the village was lit with so many torches that the stars looked dull by comparison. We ate succulent pork and roasted vegetables, but not before Qamak offered a sizable portion to Jannavar. Then we commenced the ritual with vigorous drumming, dancing, and chanting. Even now, I can still feel the energy of that night. The whole ceremony, I think, might have been fun if our souls had not depended on doing it in the first place.
The visitors stood back, observing with expressions that ranged from genuinely fascinated to arrogant. I noticed the captain kept looking in the direction of the God’s Path with hunger in his eyes.
The festival continued late into the night. Then, when I was mid-step in a dance, I heard a great roar that threatened to shatter the island itself. I tripped and fell in surprise. Everyone stopped and buzzed in confusion.
Someone shouted and pointed toward the God’s Path. Figures were fleeing from the jungle—men from the ship. They were bloodied, and they were terrified, and they were running for their lives.
Jannavar had been stirred to a terrible rage. The mighty behemoth climbed from his watery lair and slid down the crater, causing a landslide in the process. His body glowed in greens and reds and blues, and his eyes were bright like moons. I don’t know what the men had done, only that they had slipped away during the festival and done something to antagonize Jannavar.
The god of our island shook the very earth as he rose to his full height. He roared like a hurricane as he tore at the ground in an attempt to kill the invaders. Some of the men were caught in the mass of soil and rocks and trees and hurled to their deaths like pebbles.
The men that avoided this swift death ran through our village, screaming in their language. Jannavar did not care that we were in his way. His feet crushed our huts like they were bundles of twigs. The captain and his men rallied around their injured survivors and rushed them away.
I ran with my father and mother into the brush outside the village. I heard my people crying prayers for mercy. The prayers were drowned out by Jannavar’s vengeful roars.
The foreign men led Jannavar to the beach. I saw everything from where I crouched, there was so much light from the moon, from the torches, from Jannavar…
…and from the ship.
The men had woken their ship up. Its wings furiously spun and droned as it rose just a bit higher than Jannavar’s head.
Jannavar stopped, puzzled. This was an alien sight to his three eyes. Perhaps he took it to be a rival god. With a snarl he lashed at it with his claws.
The ship abruptly banked to the side, keeping out of reach. Then the ship shot fire from its sides, fire followed by booms of thunder. The bursts of fire struck Jannavar in the face. He roared in pain and stumbled backward.
Quivering in anger, Jannavar took a deep breath. His three orange eyes turned green. He roared as his eyes shot a stream of green fire. The fire struck the side of the ship in an explosion of sparks and steam.
The ship listed. For a moment I thought it would fall, but it recovered and fired more of its thunder upon Jannavar’s face. He covered his eyes with his claws and snarled.
Someone stood at the front of the ship, like a phantom of death. He threw a glowing ball of light from his fingers. It exploded into a sparkling dust, which showered over Jannavar like celestial rain.
Jannavar sneezed. He coughed. He lost his balance and fell down with a terrible crash.
A powerful quiet fell over the island, save for the rhythmic rumbling of Jannavar in a deep and unshakeable sleep. Jannavar, struck down by stardust? It was so challenging to everything that I knew that I felt faint.
The strangers landed their ship and charged out with ropes and nets and chains. They swarmed over Jannavar and wrapped him securely in their bindings. Once he was fettered, they climbed back on board and the ship rose once again. Jannavar was lifted from his resting place. Slowly, he was carried off by the metal ship flown by alien men from across the sea. That’s when I realized—this operation was too coordinated, too thorough. The men had not accidently incited Jannavar’s rage. They had deliberately drawn him into a trap.
With no hurry, the ship disappeared in the darkened horizon, the ship’s lights shrinking until it was like a tiny star in the distance, and then it went out.
Only then did we dare to venture out of our hiding places. We walked the broken remains of our huts. We walked the flattened ground where Jannavar had fallen. We walked the beaches and looked out to the horizon in confusion and with longing.
They had stolen our god.
I fell asleep, I think, because I remember waking up in a cocoon of tall grass. As I rose to my feet, legs shaking, I saw the extent of the damage in the fresh sunlight.
Nearly all of the huts were destroyed, and the temple was smashed in. Seven of our people had been trampled to death. The beaches to the northeast were totally covered in the rockslide that Jannavar had caused.
A mob of people had gathered around Qamak. They were scared, and whenever they were scared they turned to Qamak for answers. “What happened to Jannavar?” the people cried. “Why did he leave us?”
The shaman’s lip trembled. He gazed upon the great statue of Jannavar and began to weep. It was deeply disturbing to see him crying.
“We have failed our god,” Qamak cried. “We did not please him, and he allowed himself to be taken. He abandoned us!”
There was scattered moaning that grew to a collective wail of despair. To think our god, our creator and sustainer, had abandoned us. I had never felt such powerful emotions in my life. I fell over and balled. My father and mother embraced one another in sobs. Even Neema’s icy face melted in her tears. There was not a dry eye in the village.
This was not something my people could bear. Frantically villagers began to prostrate before the great statue. Others danced in a frenzy. Some ran into the jungle to gather flowers or the beaches to find shells, all of it hurled before the idol. Some slaughtered goats, pigs and chickens in bloody offerings. Qamak had the dead placed before the statue and delivered a mournful eulogy.
I? I moved from station to station throughout the day whenever someone requested me. My father had me bow down in repentant worship. Neema bade me to dance with all the vigor I could muster. My mother sent me to scour the beach for all the shells I could carry. In these most uncertain of times, I needed direction, and I took it from whomever gave it to me.
Anxiously we kept looking to the horizon, hoping that Jannavar would come swimming back. But the day passed us by, and when night cloaked the island Jannavar was nowhere to be seen.
It was a misery to greet the next day. Still our god had not returned to us. The mood in the village was gloomier than a whole season of rain.
Dismayed, Qamak commanded us to redouble our efforts. More offerings were gathered. More worshippers praised the statue. More. More. More!
But not all of us immediately joined the frenetic worship. Neema sent out the warriors to hunt for food, as many of our livestock had been sacrificed the previous day. Fires were started. Meat was cooked and fruits were peeled. We all felt a little better with full stomachs as we resumed our desperate worship. Dance. Bow. Sacrifice. Again. Again. Again!
Another day. Another night.
Jannavar was still displeased with us.
The next day, our third without Jannavar, we began to grow discouraged. People wept and slouched on the ground or huddled in ruined huts.
Neema, devout as she was, became impatient. She was not the sort to sit and wait for things to get better. She directed the warriors to assist villagers in rebuilding the village. My father even left the temple to join me in clearing away debris. He had been fearful when Jannavar left, but he had carried on with no complaints and a determination that had yet to be broken. I wanted so much to be like him.
We’d spent half the morning working before Qamak shouted at us in disbelief. “What are you doing? We must be collective in our devotion, or Jannavar will never return!”
Neema was almost as tall as Qamak, and twice as strong. She looked him right in the eye and countered, “And where will the people sleep? Where will they eat? Surely you do not expect us to sit in rubble while you chant all day?”
Qamak was red as a pomegranate. “We cannot waste valuable time.”
“On that, we agree.” Neema walked off before Qamak could get another word in. The shaman chased after her and they argued until the sun had dropped from its zenith. By then Neema conceded that repairs to the temple could take priority over the huts, as long as something was being rebuilt. I worked diligently, but I felt the prickles of an insult. Was shelter for the people not important?
The days went by as things slowly drifted to something resembling normal. The temple was restored, the huts were rebuilt, and we had fallen back into our typical routines.
Still, it was an era without Jannavar, and fear and uncertainty embraced the island like a spider web. People jumped from the slightest misfortune like fleeing the bite of a venomous snake. Accusations were thrown hastily like rocks. When Juubal’s knife went missing, he blamed Tori for witchcraft and traded punches with her husband Waan. When Harul came down with a fever, half the village broke into a panic about evil spirits.
Qamak made frequent pleas in the temple and before the great statue, commanding us all to take part in lengthy rituals at night. The dances became forced, in body only, as if we were dead on our feet.
At the end of Star Season, we gathered to ritually smash the statue of Jannavar. But Qamak had other ideas. From under the statue he declared that destroying the statue would not please our god. There was only one thing left for us to offer: ourselves.
A silent uneasiness fell over the village. The acolytes gaped in perplexment. My father was frozen, unable to comprehend what Qamak was demanding of us. It was our way to give flowers, shells and livestock, but people? I held my breath as Qamak cast his crystals.
It was divined that Tumad, a fit warrior, should be the first offering. To our further shock, his wife Relwa was to be the one to sacrifice Tumad on the altar. The young woman was horrified, but Tumad was a devout believer, and he consoled her with a calm and loving voice. He drew her to the altar, placed his dagger in her hands and laid upon the stones. Relwa pierced his heart and ran his blood on the temple floor. Then she collapsed and cried and cursed the world.
Witnessing a sacrifice of this magnitude made my stomach jump. It was, I think, one of the worst things I had ever seen. I ran outside and vomited into the bushes. I buried myself under my cushions that night, but I found no sleep.
The next day, I confessed my sins to Qamak. I don’t remember what I repented for, only that Qamak was silent for the entire time I was there. He muttered a prayer and slapped my thirty-fourth bead into my hand. It was smooth and scarlet.
I held that bead in my fingers as if it were poisonous. It would forever be the bead I earned just after we had murdered a member of our community.
II. Beads of Scarlet and Obsidian
That night another victim was chosen, as was the person to carry out the death. Every few nights it was done again and again on through Storm Season. There seemed to be no pattern to the sacrifices, except that the one to deliver it was always related to the victim. The pain of the offeror, Qamak said, had to be intense or Jannavar would not be pleased.
My father assisted Qamak in these offerings as if in a trance. He became like Jannavar’s volcano—rigid and lifeless. One morning, I asked if we would be sacrificing another person that night. With glassy eyes and a cold voice, he replied, “We will offer as many people as Jannavar demands.” I wondered if he was being so firm to keep my faith strong, or his own.
I don’t know when exactly it happened, but I began to notice that a band of warriors had taken it upon themselves to round up both the sacrificial victim and the offeror. The chosen were delivered to the altar, no matter how they cried or resisted. Neema would glare at her warriors with disgust, but she never stopped them.
At Qamak’s direction, the sacrifices became more pronounced. A new altar of stone and bone was constructed before the statue. Special loincloths were woven for the victims. Their bodies were painted. Drums were played. People died and their loved ones wept. I wondered why Jannavar commanded such pain.
Storm Season passed and Sun Season returned. Again I met with Qamak and I received my thirty-fifth bead, a sphere of polished obsidian. I wondered how many more people we would lose before I got my thirty-sixth.
We were well into Sun Season when Qamak’s strength began to fail. His age, combined with a lack of food and sleep, had brought him to the edge of his life. With trembling hands, Qamak tossed his crystals for the final time. He read them from the floor of the temple and had someone pull him up, as he could not sit on his own. “It is the will of Jannavar,” he wheezed, “that Maharba shall sacrifice his son Casai immediately. Then he shall take his place as the new shaman.”
Everyone’s eyes drifted to the two people named. Maharba, my father. He was pale, as if his body had been drained of blood. Casai, myself. The first child to be named for sacrifice. I felt like my father looked.
The sacrificial police were lurking on the edge of the crowd like vultures. Before I realized it, two of them seized me and dragged me off. I saw two others restraining my father. “Casai!” he shouted.
“Pa Pa!” I cried back. I struggled uselessly. I saw my mother Rasha lunging for us as warriors held her back.
I was made to sit outside the temple. I felt numb, like I wasn’t really awake. People began to chatter anxiously. I could hear my mother wailing somewhere in the distance. Neema was squeezing her spear so hard I thought it would snap. I didn’t see Qamak anywhere—he must have been too weak to attend.
When my father arrived, he was wearing the ceremonial necklaces that Qamak once wore. We all proceeded to the new altar in the shadow of the statue.
I looked up to the towering figure that was my father. His face was thick as stone, far thicker than I had ever seen. He was no longer Maharba the acolyte. He was Maharba the shaman.
I jumped as the ceremonial drums began to play.
“Are you prepared to be given to Jannavar?” my father asked.
Dutifully, I nodded.
My father’s eyes shimmered. With a booming voice he cried, “In the name of Jannavar, you will shed your connection to this material realm!”
The warriors took hold of me. They stripped me bare and dressed me with a pure white loincloth. All at once this moment became real for me, and I nearly suffocated on my own fear.
“You will be anointed with the marks of the divine!”
An acolyte holding a vessel of blue paint knelt before me. He dipped his fingers into the paint and drew a line down my forehead, nose, lips and chin. He added a dot on each of my cheekbones. Lines and dots were dabbed on my arms, chest and back. Someone placed a fresh crown of flowers on my head. I tried to keep my breathing even.
My father took a deep breath. “Give yourself. Now!”
I was lifted off my feet and set face up on that rough altar, arms out, palms up. They bound my wrists and ankles to the altar with rope.
The drumming intensified. The acolytes withdrew to the rest of the crowd, giving my father a vast stage to perform his dark work. My father revealed the ceremonial knife from the folds in his robe. It was a blade as long as a banana, fashioned from the tooth of a long-dead monster. He held it up to the heavens and prayed that this sacrifice would please our god.
My whole body shook in the ropes that bound me. Tears streamed down my face, smudging the blue paint. I loved my father dearly, and now to see him hovering over me with the sacrificial knife was nothing less than my worst nightmare brought to life.
“Pa Pa,” I whimpered. “Please.”
My father’s lip trembled. He gave the slightest shake of his head. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “Jannavar commands it. I must obey.”
I shook my head. “But why?”
My father’s knuckles went white around the hilt of the knife. Gently he ran his fingers through my hair. His shimmering eyes overflowed with tears. As the shaman, he did not have to answer my sinful questioning. Yet he whispered, “I do not know. It’s not our place to ask.” He glanced at the idol of Jannavar ruefully.
Horror, and rage, filled me like a flood. My father was commanded to kill me, to sacrifice his only beloved son, and he didn’t even know why. In that moment my faith in Jannavar evaporated like sea mist. What god would demand a father to murder his son with no explanation?
“Forgive me, my son,” he whispered. He kissed my brow. Slowly he raised the knife.
I couldn’t believe the father that had loved me, cared for me, prayed with me, was now going to end me without question. No, that father would never go through with this. I realized it wasn’t just me that was about to die—the father I loved was about to die too.
“I love you, Pa Pa,” I said through my tears.
When I said this, I saw that glassy look in his eyes shatter. After living through a tormented night, the sun had risen within him. His aim with the dagger faltered. I felt a glow of hope that he’d defy Jannavar, that he’d cut me loose and walk me away from that vile altar…
He inhaled deeply and raised the knife again. I recognized that determined grimace on his face. He was going to make himself do it, no matter how he’d hate himself afterward. I was overwhelmed with despair. My sobs became hysterical as he pushed my head back to expose my neck…
“Maharba! Maharba! Do not do this!”
It was my mother Rasha screaming at the top of her lungs. Two guards tried to force her back. She was like a berserk animal, lashing, clawing, scratching, biting anyone who got in her way.
In a matter of seconds, the guards subdued her. As they carried her off, she screamed, “Do not kill our only son! Do not harm our boy. If you do this, I will kill you myself. Do you hear me, Maharba? Do you hear me?!”
The crowd murmured in the wake of her outburst. Neema raised her spear and stepped to the altar. “Release him, Maharba.”
“Sister,” my father said in a warning growl. I noticed his grip on me had lessened, and he had lowered the knife.
Neema aimed the spear between my father’s eyes. “This is madness. Let the boy go. He’s my nephew. Your son!”
My father clenched his teeth. “Jannavar commanded me to sacrifice him.”
“What is the point?” Neema turned to the people with fire in her eyes. “We have sacrificed our own people for days, and still Jannavar has not returned. We must accept the reality. Jannavar is never coming back!”
The village collectively gasped as one. The drummers stopped in exasperation. “Blasphemy!” one of the warriors shouted.
“I don’t care,” Neema snapped. She glowed with satisfaction, like she’d been wanting to say this for a long time. “We have lived trying to please a monster in a dead volcano. We have prayed and danced and bowed down in the hopes it would not eat us. We have had villagers slain by their loved ones. Now we must kill our own children, too? That is not a god I will worship any longer!”
That was, I think, the first time anyone had ever publicly renounced Jannavar.
The silence was oppressive. The villagers shifted uncomfortably on their feet as Neema’s words sunk in.
One of the warriors stepped forward and shouted, “Neema is an infidel! She must be sacrificed with the boy!”
It was like pulling a small pebble out of the side of a mountain and causing the entire face to crumble. Some called for Neema and I to die. Some cried for our release. Shouting gave way to shoving gave way to spears and arrows and knives.
As the chaos grew, my father used the sacrificial knife to cut my bonds. “I’m so sorry, Casai,” he murmured.
As he pulled me up, I saw a surge of men rushing to Neema. Neema undulated a battle cry and repelled them like the fierce warrior she was.
“Run,” my father shouted. “Run!”
I ran past the great idol, disappearing into the jungle. I ran through the foliage until my legs were heavy and my chest burned. I crawled between the deep roots of a gargantuan tree and collapsed.
In the distance I could hear fighting and screaming. I bowed my head and prayed to Jannavar for protection…
I stopped mid-sentence. Even after I had renounced Jannavar, the habits of my upbringing compelled me to call upon him. I was disgusted with myself. I could not do that any longer.
But whom would I call to?
A chilling thought entered my mind: was there anyone to call to at all?
I crouched lower in my hiding place and I prayed to anyone who might hear me, any merciful god who might be listening to please save me and my family. Please!
Please.
I hid in the jungle for the rest of the night and the following morning. In the afternoon I felt bold enough to approach the village. I peered from behind a curtain of vines to assess the aftermath.
The village looked even worse than the night Jannavar left. Someone had set fire to the huts, and their charred remains gave off tufts of smoke. The ground was black and gray with ash. I saw men and women lying on the ground. I gasped when I realized they were bodies.
I walked through the burnt village with the feet of a deer. I could hear talking and shouting in the distance. Every few steps I stopped to scan my surroundings like an owl. I jumped at every sound, every shadow.
Soon I found myself before the altar. I yelped in horror when I saw that Qamak’s body was tied to it. The shaman’s blood stained the altar and the ground around it.
Even though Qamak had started the sacrifices, somehow, I felt revolted to the core. After all the years of spiritual guidance he had given us, I couldn’t believe someone had gutted him and left him to rot.
I looked at the statue of Jannavar. It was charred at the base, but still intact. A sharp anger rose within me. I didn’t see a god anymore. I saw a demon.
“This is all your fault,” I hissed. I seized a rock and hurled it at the statue. It bounced off with a clack. My anger ignited into a blaze. “All your fault!” I shouted. For the next several moments I threw rocks and sticks and anything else in arm’s reach at the statue, and every throw felt good. Finally, I screamed and fell to my knees, not in worship, but in a catharsis of emotion.
Something touched my shoulder. I whirled around and lashed out with my fist. My fist made contact with a face. Someone grunted.
I blinked as I realized I’d struck Neema. She was covered in cuts and scratches, the most prominent of which was a long cut that ran down from her right eye to her chin. It would become a fearsome scar. There was a bewildered look in her eyes, as if she was surprised to see me.
Whimpering, I grabbed Neema in a frantic hug. She pulled me into a protective embrace and rocked me gently.
“Ma Ma?” I asked. “Pa Pa?”
She smiled. I don’t remember her ever smiling before then. “They are fine.”
A weight lifted from my heart. I silently gave thanks to whatever gods had saved them. “What happened?”
“There was fighting after you ran away. Most of the warriors fought in favor of the sacrifices. We could not stop them all.” Her gaze dipped, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “Many were killed.”
I said nothing. I couldn’t even comprehend the level of violence that had overtaken the island. I felt like I didn’t even know my own people anymore.
“What will we do?” I whimpered.
“Come,” she said. “We have a safe place, but we must hurry.”
Neema led me through the battered village and into the jungle. We walked among the trees and ferns until we reached the western coast of the island. Two dozen of the villagers had assembled, most of them warriors and their families. Many were injured, bandaged and tended to by others.
“Casai?”
My heart leapt as I saw the crowd part. My father had his arm in a sling and my mother clutched a knife caked in dried blood.
“Ma Ma! Pa Pa!” I ran to them and we tangled ourselves in a hug, crying.
“I’m sorry, Casai,” Pa Pa said. “I should never have hurt you like that. You’re my everything. I love you.”
I felt the love of my parents washing away the pain of the previous night. “It wasn’t you,” I said through tears. “It was Qamak. It was Jannavar.”
This was, I think, the first I had ever thought of crying as a joyous thing to do. I could have stayed in their arms forever.
For a time, we hid in the western jungles, taking great care to not draw attention to ourselves. We foraged only for what we could eat without cooking and kept our voices softer than the sounds of the jungle. Sometimes in the distance we heard yells of battle and cries of pain.
As the days passed, more villagers joined our numbers. Neema regularly led warriors into the hostile corners of the island to rescue persecuted people. Sometimes refugees wandered near our camp and we took them in. After the tenth day, when we had over seventy people among us, Neema called our attention.
“Our village is broken,” she declared. “I have learned from various survivors that many people still worship Jannavar. But there are reports that people are finding gods wherever they look. A band to the north claims to have found a god of fire and shadows. Another says the ocean is a deity. One of my old warriors claims to be a god in human form, and he demands that people pray to him.”
Neema snorted. “The most distasteful part of this news is that these factions do not wish to peacefully coexist. Each claims their god is the only god. There is talk that they plan to make war on one another.” She shook her head in contempt.
“What will we do?” a woman asked.
“It’s obvious,” a young warrior said. His voice was laced with fear. “We must join one of the factions. Pray for mercy. Surely one of their gods will protect us.” A few murmured in agreement.
“Those gods are no more real than your daydreams,” an old man insisted.
Commotion began to bubble across the crowd. Neema silenced it with a shout.
“I will not tell you that gods exist,” she told us. “But I will not tell you that there are no gods either. I don’t know anymore. Who and what you pray to are not my concern. If you want to join one of those groups, then go.”
“What if we stay?” my father asked. “What if we choose our own gods? Or none?”
Neema closed her eyes in deep thought. “I swore to protect the people of this village, not because I believed in Jannavar, but because I believed in community. You are my people, and to lose you is to lose myself.” She looked out to the sea. “There are other lands across the water. If you let me, I will guide you to them.” Her eyes glowed with determination and, I think, humility. “Will you let me serve you one more time?”
No one spoke. People looked down or to the side, shuffling uncomfortably. Someone coughed. We had never left our island before and knew very little about what lay beyond. It was unthinkable to most that we could live anywhere else.
But it was not unthinkable to me. I stood up with my hand held high. “I don’t want to stay here anymore. They tried to kill me for their god. I want to go with you. And I want Pa Pa and Ma Ma to come with me.”
A chorus of exasperation surrounded me. My mother and father looked to me in bewilderment. They shared a glance, and an understanding was born between them.
“Yes,” my father said. “We will go with you, Neema.”
Our pledge to join Neema seemed to put the people at ease. Soon after, most of the group agreed to leave Jannavar and his cult behind. Only a few decided to stay. They slipped through the trees, and we never saw them again.
Neema moved the group south along the coast to ensure we would not be found. Over the next several days we worked to build rafts. We piled as many supplies as we could scrounge onto our craft, and as soon as we could we made sail. It was simultaneously thrilling and terrifying to go over the breakers and into that blue unknown.
I took one last look at my island as we sailed away. I watched it shrink in the distance until, like Jannavar, it had disappeared.
III. Beads Fashioned in New Lands
We sailed over the salty waters, and after many days we found seabirds gliding across the sky. We followed them to a new island with rich jungles and thick swamps.
Under Neema’s leadership we built a new village. Much happened as our new lives took shape. In time we encountered other peoples—tribes not unlike ourselves, and colonies of people from the distant land of metal sky ships. We had times of peace and times of conflict. All this and more came to pass…but those are different tales altogether.
Sometimes I touch the faded scar on my brow and wonder whatever happened to Jannavar. What did the strange men do with him? Did he ever miss our prayers and offerings? My people certainly don’t miss him.
Many of the villagers, eventually, took comfort in faiths introduced to them by other cultures, or faiths of their own invention. A few became atheist, sickened by any further thoughts of faith. To my knowledge Neema remained agnostic, but she fiercely protected everyone’s right to believe as they wished.
My parents came to accept the local gods of our new island, and I warily followed their lead. By the time I had earned my forty-fifth bead (which was made from bleached coral), I felt comfortable visiting the temples of other villages and the churches of the colonies. Wherever I went, I asked questions that troubled me. Do gods speak in your ear, or is that just the wind? What counts as a god, anyway? In my old age I still wrestle with such musings.
What I do know is that the beads ‘round my neck tell my stories. They are tales of boyhood games, passionate faith, and unspeakable violence.
But, the tales I try to remember most are the ones of love.
It was my family’s love for me that saved my life. It was my love for my father that kept him in the light. It was Neema’s love for everyone that carried us across the sea. And, years later, when I found a wife and we had children, the love between us made me feel more at home than the island of my birth ever could. Indeed, love is the most real thing I have experienced.
I suppose you could say that my god is love, and one, I think, I will worship until the day I die.