A New Warrior

        The Elder's Circle buzzed with private conversations as Danon limped by.

        “Is as prophesy foretells,” one elder whispered to his neighbor, “…he shall defeat the undefeated.”

        “Your yars have grown too many, old friend.  Who believes that superstition anymore?”

        “You do not respect the legend?”

        “Hush,” said the younger man.  “The May'r is starting to speak.”

        A young boy ran from the Lodge to drape the ceremonial shawl over Nathon's shoulders.  It would not be right to recite the Clan's heritage without wearing it.  May'r Nathon rose and began to recite.  He spoke smoothly, faithfully repeating the words as his father had instructed him, as had his father before him.

        “Was eighty yars ago, in summer of 2050, when the Hol'caust began.  Two moons passed with none but a few of the great Whites aware of its arrival.  The bios plague did not come across the great waters, as was first told, but caused when Caucs launched their great flaming arrows into the sky.  When hand of the Great Spirit caught and crushed a flaming arrow, spilling its poison back on those who launched it.  When the Wind Spirit caught some of the poison and swept it far across the land to punish all Caucs.

        “The plague had little effect on Spanics, Slants, and Blacks, or the tribes of True People.  The winds of death passed over us, bringing only the stench and 'tamination that followed the death of millions of Caucs.

        “Before we learned who had called up the terrible sickness, the once proud White race who had caused it were no more.  The survivors, minorities of pure bloodline, joined what few Caucs had survived.  We, too, helped in burying the dead.  When the cemeteries had filled with multiple graves, the fires began.  They blazed through the night as piles of bodies increased.

        “The land was shocked by what had happened.  But when that shock wore off, the Blacks realized they were no longer one of the minorities.  They were the largest surviving ethnos.”

        Someone handed Danon a cloth to wipe his face as he listened intently to the events following the war: the period of confused reconstruction which had culminated in the Black's supremacy, how the National Apartheid Party came into control and manipulated the national shock.  He learned how anguish became outrage, then racial hysteria.  Their vicious desire for retribution had hungered for vengeance, war trials to convict the guilty.  The pathetic handful of Caucs who had lived through the holocaust were forced to bear the blame for a multitude of real and imagined atrocities relating to the War.  Some, like the Du Pont family, were sought out around the world and hunted down to be punished for being the 'Angel of Death.'  But all this was not enough.  Still the Apartheid party was not satisfied.  They wanted more, and whatever they wanted became the “will of God.”  They were the Perfect Ones, chosen by their God to continue a purge He had started to free them from centuries of bondage.  They proved their supremacy.

        Any non blacks were distant relatives to the Great White race, they believed, and therefore were also Bios, and collectively responsible for the Biowar.  A core of fanatics controlled the country's legislature, confiscating property and barring all minorities from living in the cities.  A perfect society could not have ghettos or unkept slums, so they would prevent their breeding.  All non black were relegated to the legal status of servants and laborers, outcasts of a Perfect Society.

        “Into this cave some came,” Nathon continued.  “A mixture of tribes seeking refuge.  Slants and Spanics assembled where they could, in abandoned buildings far from town, in sewers beneath city they formed their own clans.

        “Here, in Grotto Cave, the tribes of Chocs, Manchees, Okees, and Lakota have lived for many yars.  We raise our children.  We wait for the prophecy.”

        Nathon lifted his arms outstretched to finish.  “And we summon the spirit of Supreme May’r to come from afar.”

        It was over.  Several elders struggled to their feet to stretch their stiff legs.  Some placed a congratulatory hand on Danon’s shoulder before leaving.  Others hurried to catch Nathon before he reached the Lodge.  Soon the Circle was abandoned.  The dispersing crowd cast occasional glances, but seemed unwilling to approach, as if suddenly distanced by his new status.  Only Lauriel approached from the edge of the clearing.

        “Your brothers wait for you.”  She pointed to the waiting cluster of black leathers.  “They will take you to Den.  Is much to learn tonight.”

        “What about you?”

        She glanced back to the waiting warriors as if making a choice, then smiled.  “This one will teach you later.”

        Her offer sounded vague, but intriguing.  Unfortunately, before he could question her, she walked off and the warriors approached to drag him away.

        His indoctrination – a sacred ceremony – lasted far into the night.  There was much for the new warrior to learn, and Devon ensured every step of the ceremony was followed meticulously.  He was presented with his own set of leathers and a dagger, the symbol of both death and survival.  Tucked inside the knife’s hollow handle was a curl of parchment, the prophesy.

#

The visitor comes from afar … to defeat the undefeated

 … to lead his people to freedom

 … with great magic, the warrior sacrifices himself for those not his own

emissary to the future … leader of clans … the Supreme May'r.

#

        Without any explanation, he was charged to keep it safe and protected.  He learned that the members of the Brotherhood had all experienced the sacrament of death, a ritual that severed their ties as clan members.  In their new life, they served apart from, and watched over, the other clansmen.  Some of the original Grotto warriors could trace their lineage back to the Cherokee guardians, called Mankiller, who watched over villagers well into the Nineteenth century, till removal by the encroaching Europeans.  Like their Samurai and medieval knight counterparts, their path of sworn duty was to protect the Clan from any threat and ensure its survival.  He learned the simple, yet sacrosanct code that would guide his steps on this new path.

Loyalty to May’r and Clan above all.

One warrior was expendable; the Brotherhood must continue.

What needs to be done, must be done.

Hunt with courage, and die with honor.

        The concepts of courage, honor, and commitment were reinforced with blood oaths.  As each warrior had done before him, Danon took his blade and drew enough blood to smear over his face.  His symbolic death to a former way of life.  Then each new brother embraced him with a solemn pledge to live and die by the code.

        When Danon finally returned to Lauriel’s lodge, his head was spinning with symbology, codes, and several beakers of Brien.  He tried to pass through the darkened room with a warrior’s stealth, but bumped into the screen divider.  He managed to catch it before it fell, making even more noise.

        “You still walk like pregnant ox.”

        He spun around and peered into the darkness.  Finding the lamp, he lit the room and revealed Lauriel sitting against the wall, sharpening her dagger.

        “I expected for you to be sleeping.”  He leaned on the table to keep from swaying.  “Were you waiting up for me?”

        “Of course not.”  She inspected her knife, then sheathed it and picked up a sponge from the basin of water.  “Come here.”

        “What are you doing?”

        “Your face, bend over.”  She wiped the dried blood off his face and lightly sponged his purpled mouth.

        “Ouch!  Take it easy.”

        “Be still.  A warrior does not fear pain.”

        “This one does not fear pain,” he said, mimicking her accent.  But you could still do it a little softer.  What's this prophesy thing about a Supreme May'r?”

        “Is old myth from before the Hol’caust.  An old riddle that makes no sense.”  She stood up to examine the cuts on his chest, ensuring they were shallow and would heal quickly.  “One of many legends that some, including my father, put too much faith in.”

        Danon gritted his teeth as the sponge raked across his chest.  “I think you're enjoying this.  So just what exactly is he supposed to do?”

        “The old story tellers add stuff 'bout uniting the separate clans into one tribe.  Some kind of revolt, I don't know.  If went out there and asked ten different elders, would hear eleven different answers.”

        “So what do you think?”

        She dropped the dark red sponge back in the basin.  “Is no one coming, I think.  And if our life ever improves, it'll be cause we make it.  We must work for it.  And it won't ever happen sitting on our butts waiting for some mythical spirit to appear!”

        “Profound wisdom,” he said with a mocking smile, “coming from a wo'am.”

        “Careful, young warrior.  I'm more than enough wo'am for you.”

        He leaned closer, smelling the day's sunlight lingering in her hair.  She was right about one thing.  He reached around her waist.

        She pushed him away, but not forcefully, her callused hand was almost gentle.  “That's not what I meant.”

        Danon pulled her close to stare into her eyes, pale green pools of fire that never quenched.  Her confident expression waivered under his penetrating gaze.  What was she thinking?  How did she really feel about him?  Was he stirring similar emotions deep within her?  Was she reaching for her dagger again?  He gently embraced her, bringing her lips close.

        “No, Danon.  I don't …”

        “Thank you,” he said.

        “For what?”

        “For talking to your father, about becoming a warrior.”  He felt her shallow breathing.

        “Was not my choice.  Was what must be done.  Now, must get rest for tomorrow.”

        He pulled her closer, willing to risk the feel of her dagger to taste her lips.  They almost touched when he felt something on his chest, but it wasn't steel.  It was her trembling hand, pushing him away.