Pythian Games

What’s In A Name?

She awoke with a burning sensation in her chest. A deep unabiding pain that would not leave her alone. She had to have water. It was not allowed at this point, she knew, but that didn’t change anything. Salia began to cough, choking on thick discharge in her throat. She spat and coughed and spat some more. The old man did not take pity on her.

This was her third trip to the Hinterlands. This was her final trip to the Hinterlands. Twice before she had failed, and failed badly. Neither time had she taken the results of her Journeys well. The harder she was on herself for her failures, the more she took it out on those who came to her for her help. The more she treated her People badly, the more they treated her badly, until many of the People were avoiding her all together. So she had had to come again, like it or not. Yet with this time, this would be her last attempt; this would be her last chance to make an attempt. If she failed, she would not be permitted to try again. She would be cast out as the Medicine Maker of her People. She would lose all rank. She would be a pariah. She closed her eyes against the tears of shame and fear that rose like crystal bullets, locking them inside herself tightly, baring the shards as they carved their way through her heart.

She had come to the Old Man, begging him for help. He had refused at first, telling her she was too weak, too frail, too unclear, for him to help. She had stayed at the foot of his door for three days, begging, weeping, sobbing, keening, until the Old Man had relented. He had warned her that she would not like his way. That due to her failures in the past, he would have to take measures to ensure that he himself was protected, even as he exposed her to greater and greater risk before the Gods. She had agreed, blindly, pleading with the Old Man to do what he must and what he thought best in order to ensure she could return to her People as Blessed by the Gods as a True Medicine Maker. The Old Man simply harrumphed at her and spat dismally at the ground.

He had allowed her to take one night, to feed both body and spirit. She slept upon a pile of pine branches, her head cradled against her arms, dreaming pleasant dreams of riding the back of the Raven King as He traveled from one Land to the next. She was unprepared for the shock of the icy water being thrown on her back to awaken her before the sun had even begun to rise in the new day’s sky. With a shriek she was on her feet, shuddering in the abrupt cold, peeling her clothing off, trying to move nearer the fire. It took less than a second for her to realize there was no longer a fire. It had been tamped out before her rude awakening. The Old Man glared. ‘Disrobe.’ He ordered her. He tossed an old skin, battered, filled with holes and clots of dust, at her feet. ‘Put this over you.’ He walked away without a glance towards her to see if she obeyed. With great care, she removed her clothes, spreading them out on the ground to dry. She wrapped herself in the skin, finding it smelled of age, of mildew. She stood waiting, afraid, looking in the direction the Old Man had gone.

He came up upon her from behind, frightening her enough to cause her to yip and jump out of his grasp, when he touched her shoulder to alert her to his presence. Again, with a look of disgust, the Old Man shook his head. He gave a long tired sigh. ‘Leave everything.’ He commanded. ‘Follow me.’ Salia gave no thought to her food, her blankets, or anything else she had carried with her. The Old Man had a small pack on his shoulder. Why would she worry? With trepidation still churning in her heart, beating in her stomach, Salia followed the Old man, trusting him to see her through.

They walked many hours that day. The Old Man did not stop to break his fast. He did not offer her food. He did not give her information. There was no talking. He merely walked on at a steady even pace, forcing his way through dense brush as it came up. Salia was expected to do the same. As they walked alongside a stream, Salia stopped for one breath to gather water in her hand for a quick drink, but she did not linger long. She rushed to catch up with the Old Man.

Afternoon had long since burned away into the evening. Dusk was nigh now. Salia paid no heed to the tears as they fled the corners of her eyes, staining her cheeks with white lines as the dust of the day dripped away. They came upon a clearing, at the edge of a cliff, overlooking the Great Canyon of the River Queen. Throughout the clearing were poles. Non-descript poles, standing there with no rhyme, no reason. Salia shook her head. Some were close to the cliff’s edge. Some were further away, closer to the edge of the forest. Some were closer to the wall of rocks on one side. Others were in the centre of the clearing. Off to one side was a small hut. It seemed empty, deserted.

The Old Man strode forward. ‘Choose.” He intoned. Salia cast him a quick look, before turning her attention to the poles. Plain undecorated poles. There were no carvings, no stories, no rings. Salia squared her shoulders and walked to the pole that spoke loudest to her. The Old Man grunted in approval. He had assumed she would simply pick the one closest to her, out of sheer lack of will power. But no, Salia had chosen the pole nearly at the cliff’s edge, one where the other poles were farther away in all directions. The one most bereft, most alone.

Salia stood behind her pole, looking out over the chasm before her, seeing the steep walls of pure white rock reflecting back the pink light of the setting sun, setting the wee river afire as they did so. The heights were dizzying. The view immense, and powerful. Salia shut her inner eyes, allowing the last vestiges of the setting sun to sear themselves upon her vision. The Old Man had come up upon her. He removed her old skin and cast it aside, as if with disdain. He began to chant heavily and lowly in the Ancient Tongue, as he sprinkled her with a pungent dust from his waist pouch. Salia was unsure whether he was blessing her or cursing her, and at this point in her life she wasn’t sure which would be of better use. She offered up her own prayers to her own Gods, beseeching blessings from Them. Then the Old Man set down his shoulder pack, chanting louder, deeper now, still using the Old Tongue, and drew forth a heavy rope, blackened in places from who knew what, coarse and thick. With this rope, the Old Man bound Salia to the pole, facing towards the river’s gorge. She did not struggle; she did not pull away. Although her body betrayed her with its trembles, with her weak knees unable to support her, the Old Man tied her firmly in an upright position. The Old Man tied her securely, without tying her over-tightly. The rope pulled her to the pole and held her firmly in place. After the last knot was secured, the Old Man spat at the base of the pole, thus ending his chanting. He then turned, though she could not see it, and walked away. She could hear his steps as he retreated, but nothing more. She passed within herself and sat there to wait.

So deep was her meditation that she did not hear the Old Man as he piled sticks and branches and pieces of wood dragged in from the forest to create a large pile in the center of the clearing. She did not notice how he piled a circle of stones around his wood piling. The first physical knowledge she received was that of the acrid smell of smoke as he lit the wood, setting fire to the pile, and letting it burn. The flames licked and lapped and devoured; the heat cast warmth against her pole, and against her body. Salia drifted back into herself again, letting go, always letting go. Just had she had the last two times.

It did not take her long to fall into a deep sleep, even in her current position. Dreams came to devour her, from the inside out. This time, again, they did not succeed.

Morning came. The Old Man did not. Salia watched the world unfold from her perch. The fire behind her smoldered still, more quietly and more sedately, but still it gave forth warmth.

Night fell. Salia did not sleep. Her fear was creeping in, on kittens soft paws, into her brain, scratching at her heart.

Another morning. No Old Man. The fire burned lower, but the warmth was still a comfort. Huge black birds began to flutter by with an increasing frequency. They did not stop. They did not pry. But they did not bring comfort.

Night fell again. The cold came then, as the fire grew dim and small, having eaten through the wood and the debris.

A new morning. More birds. This time they came closer. They were not ravens as Salia had hoped. No. They were vultures. Salia had no more tears to cry.

Moon rose. Moon fell. Sun rose. Sun fell.

The fire had turned to dust. Cold, lifeless, dust.

The night came again, freezing her bones.

Sun up. Sun burnt. Salia’s lips were black from burning. Her body cried. The coughing fit began.

There stood the Old Man. Relentless in his distance. Once she was done spitting and coughing, he came closer to her. He offered her a sip of bitter liquid. Not water. Not juice. Something …else. Had Salia been in her right mind she might have recognized the ingredients he fed her. But in her state, she had nothing left anymore. He looked into her eyes, gauging her health, her tenacity, her ability to continue. The Old Man may have found her lacking, but he deemed her fit enough to continue. He had brought with him fresh rope. He did not untie the first rope, now grown loose and unsupportive. He simply looped the second over the first and tightened it, cleaving her anew to the pole. He uttered not one word to her. He simply did his job, then he left, abandoning her to her task yet again.

Neither time before had she been roped to a pole. Neither time before had she gone so long without food, or water, or shelter, or human contact. She felt as if she were losing her mind. She felt lost, untouched, unholy. She felt, unworthy, unclean. She reaffirmed her vow to her Gods that she was here to prove her fitness for her position within the Tribe. Then she screamed, and screamed again, for sheer exhilaration and enjoyment of it.

Thunder crackled from within the cloud cover. A low booming shuddering sound that loosened Salia to her foundations. Lightening shot out, streaking from one cloud to the next. Fingertips like silver bullets prying the heavens open, releasing the torrent of rains. The sky turned black, the sun swallowed whole by the swollen clouds. Salia laughed in the face of the storm, laughed hysterically. Storms terrified her beyond her capacity for normal thought. If she could have run, she’d have been long gone. As it was she stood her ground, rain drops pelting her like stones. Lightning licking at her toes. Thunder slamming her back harder against her pole, her beloved sacred pole.

In the midst of the storm, the animals began to attack. Ones that Salia had thought she was only imagining. Those creatures who brought out the worst of Salia’s dread. Rats crawled up her legs, toes digging roughly into her flesh, to nestle in her hair, ripping out hank after hank to be used to swaddle their own dread naked babies. Snakes coiled around her arms, weaving in between her flesh and the rope, pulling tighter and tighter and tighter until there was no feeling left, until the sensation of the rope disappeared completely. Wild dogs came, ripping and nipping, tearing off small chunks of flesh before running. Wild cats yowled, frightening away the others, before zooming in to scratch and claw and shred. Vultures dove in, swooping to avoid claws, tearing out their fair share of flesh as well. A raven, her beloved raven, fell like a rock from the sky, snatched out her eye, and was gone before she knew what hit her.

The screaming had long ago stopped. The pain was so intense, so brittle, that Salia did more than give in; she moved past. She stood outside her own body, watching as animals large and small came to garner whatever bit and bite they could manage. Until there was nothing remaining but bits of broken bone and slush dripping down the pole, staining the rope. The rain trickled off, soon to be no more. There was nothing left of Salia. She stood there staring at her own ragged remains, and did nothing. Did nothing for the longest time.

Then, she took her step back, and turned to walk away, along the trail. The trail that went alongside the rock, through the rock. She hovered above the water-gored dirt, her feet remaining dry and clean. Her spirit sweetly sang as it moved along, right into the arms of the waiting bear. The Bear. Mother Bear. The Great Bear opened Her mouth wide and swallowed the wandering spirit of Salia whole in one big bite.

The world went dark. Salia became a memory. It was over.

The Old Man saw the young woman grow old before his eyes as he stood there. He knew the time to release her was coming, but he could not do it too soon, lest he break the magic that held her. Yet if he moved to release her too late, the magic would indeed devour her as surely as would any other wild animal. That long brown hair of hers rapidly changed to a silvery white in the span of the blink of his eye. Had he turned his head even for an instant he would have missed the way the colour evaporated from the tips and ran back towards her skull, as if fleeing. The woman did not move, did not twitch, did not moan nor make even the smallest sound. The Old Man saw the Bear Spirit engulf her. He saw Salia disappear inside. Now it was time. She must come to this world, Rebourn.

He walked towards her, his old hips and knees stiff with the cold of the wait. He cut her free from the ropes that bound her, throwing the bits out over the cliff’s edge as an offering to the River Queen so far below them.

He carried the woman, limp as rags, into the hut, where he had built her a soft bed of pine boughs covered over with the softest of deer skins that he possessed. He had set a clean set of robes on the ground before the bed earlier. He laid the woman on the bed, covering her in the skins, and then he left. He left a package of jerky atop her robes, along with a bladder of water leaning against them as well. That was the extent of his job. He walked away, returning to his own home, leaving the woman to recover on her own.

He was not close enough to hear the words that pulled Salia from her trance-like sleep: ‘My name,’ Salia rasped through torn shady lips, ‘is Asaytiadenia.’ Her eyes drifted open, revealing shimmering purple irises. ‘And I am Medico to my People.” The Old Man heard the howl of laughter, and then nothing more.

written by Raven TK

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