Nubia - Version One

[Milton Davis]

She waited for them atop the steep hill, a battleground of her choosing. All her life she'd prepared for them. All her life she pursued them. Now she stood alone, the hooves of their mounts shaking the ground beneath her feet. They killed her parents. They slaughtered her people. Hatred rose in her mouth like a foul liquid and she forced it down. This was no time for emotion. It was a time for concentration, a time to release all she had learned. An undulating line of conical helmets broke the jagged horizon and she raised her bow. They would all die by her hand. Every last one of them.

The riders brow appeared and she released her arrow. It struck him between the eyes and he tumbled backwards from his horse. Her second arrow struck another rider in his mouth,  stifling the battle cry he intended to yell. Her third arrow passed through the jowls of the third man attempting to turn away.  He remained on his mount, his hands attempting to stop the blood flowing from his cheeks. He was alive, but the poison would kill him eventually. The other riders milled before her, circling the one who led them. He was a man almost too big for his mount, a hard face brute covered in the shaggy coat of some animal she did not recognize. A golden helmet bordered with precious stones rested on his bearded head. He stared at her intensely, as if seeking some recognition. He would find none. She was a babe when he last saw her, if he saw her at all. Her village was one among many his horde raided and razed, a settlement whose memory was washed away long ago in blood. But she remembered. She would never forget.

[Diop Malvi]

Will she be in Griots II?

[Milton Davis]

I don't think so. I was inspired by the image. I have another interpretation I'll post soon.

Diop Malvi said:

Will she be in Griots II?

[Milton Davis]

She stood before the temple walls with the others, each seeking entrance for their own reasons. The Dogon held knowledge beyond all others; it was said that they came from another world and they hid their knowledge within their simplicity. Those surrounding her sought what the Dogon possessed for various reasons, but she was sure her reason was the most ominous of all.

Acolytes emerged and a clamor rose among the applicants. She said nothing. The servants of the teachers approached each person asking them one questions: What do you seek? When the acolyte reached her she answered simply. Revenge.

[Milton Davis]

The riders charged in unison, their leader lagging behind the wall of horseflesh and steel. She ran toward them, loading her bow as she ran. She shot the horses one by one, bringing down three before they were upon her. The first man was the first to die. She leaped on his horse, stabbing him in the neck with an arrow then pushing him from his mount. His cohorts swarmed her, then discovered her prowess with a scimitar. Two more died, tumbling to the grass with slit throats. A blade stabbed her thigh and she ignored it. Pain was temporary, vengeance complete. She tired of the mounted duels quickly. With a sudden effort she leaped from the horse to land on her feet.

They were outmatched.  It was obvious with the first arrow loosed that she would eventually kill them all. Yet they persisted. It men as vile as these could have a positive trait it would be their relentlessness.  It was the reason for their conquests. It would also be the reason for their deaths.

 

When the others left, she remained. She made no attempt to feed or bath herself. She sat before the temple, moving only to relieve herself. Even that necessary function ceased as she began to starve. But she would not leave. The acolytes peered over the walls and shouted at her. Their masters had made their choices. There would be no more selections. She was wasting her time.

When she could no longer sit up, she lay in the mud, staring at the walls. The doors finally opened and a robed man approached her. He knelt before her dying form, curiosity in his eyes.

“Why do you persist?” he asked. “You are dying.”

“Everyone I love is dead,” she replied.

“Then join them,” he replied.

She forced herself up to stare at him.

“I will not die until they die,” she said.

“Revenge serves no purpose,” the man said.

“Revenge keeps me alive,” she retorted.

The man clapped his hands and acolytes appeared. They lifted her to her feet.

“We will accept you, only to prove that you are wrong.”

She managed to smile. They would fail.

 

The riders realized their mounts were more a hindrance than help against her. They dismounted, their swords held before them as they encircled her.  Their leader remained on his mount, and expectant smile on his face. His ignorance sparked her anger again. This man, this stupid, petty man was the cause of her family’s death.  With only brutality and strength they destroyed her life. Now they approached her with the same weapons, expecting to vanquish her despite their dead cohorts littering the grass around them. What drove such men to still imagine there would be a good outcome for them?  She pushed the emotions aside once again. Reason did not prevail here. Instinct was at work, primal destructive urges. At least in this case, they would cease.

 

They bathed her, fed her and gave her robes. She joined the other students recently accepted and learned the ways of the Dogon. They taught of the world from which they came and of their wish to one day return. They taught them of healing herbs and medicines. They taught them the ways of wrestling and weapons, because only a mind free of fear can reach the highest levels of thought. She learned and she excelled. Six years after entering the walls of the temple she stood before the high priest, the best among an elite class, the first among the most skilled. The priest stepped down from his simple chair and carried the robe of priest to her, the first step toward priesthood. He extended to her.

“Have you taught me all there is to know?” she asked.

The priest was startled by her question. “Yes. We hold nothing back. Truth cannot be owned.”

“Then I will go,” she said. “I have men to kill.”

She turned and walked away. No one attempted to stop her.

“Revenge will leave you with nothing!” the high priest shouted.

“We will see,” she whispered.

 

They circled her and she circled with them, bow in her left hand, dagger in her right. One darted in and she danced away, fast enough to avoid his grasp but slow enough to allow him to grab her skirt. He ripped it away, revealing her near nakedness. The anger of their comrades’ deaths gave way to unbridled lust. She looked at them with a sensuous smirk. Let them lust. Lust would break their focus. Lust would make them careless. Use all your weapons, her teachers instructed her. Death comes in many forms.  The man held the skirt up like a trophy then pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply. When he removed it he leered at her then pounced.  Her dagger flew from her hand as he jumped, finding its place in his neck.  His scimitar was in her hand before the others could attack. She spun among them, her movements both sensuous and deadly. When she ceased her dance they all lay dead. She sauntered to her skirt then slowly tied it around her waist as the last man looked on. She took a stance as he finally approached, patting his palm with the flat of his blade. His confidence sickened her.

“Very good,” he said. “I’m impressed. I take it the Dogon were saddened by your departure, as they were when I left their pitiful temple.”

His words startled her but she did not flinch.

“The Dogon think they can pacify us by teaching us their ways. They think by teaching us the secrets of the world we will immerse ourselves in more cerebral pursuits. But there is one flaw in their logic.”

He raised his sword to guard position, as did she.

“Our bodies are only vessels to them,” he said. “They fill them, but they do not feel them. They don’t understand our need for emotions. They don’t share our desire for pleasure and power…or revenge. With their knowledge a man or woman can achieve all their desires.”

Their swords clashed. He was powerful, much more powerful than she expected. She quickly adjusted, parrying his pounding blows and dodging his quick kicks. She suspected he left the temple once he gained his martial skills, thinking it was all he needed to fulfill his dreams. She watched his eyes as they fought, the fatigue and frustration growing with every blow deflected. Tension filled his face, his teeth gritted. She smiled and he roared. Speed accompanied his thrust and it slipped by her guard. The edge of his blade creased her stomach as she pivoted away. It was a cut that should have disemboweled her. Instead a thin red line appeared.

His eyes bulged. “You should be…”

She drove her blade into his stomach . “Dead?”

She twisted her blade then ripped it from his body. He wavered then fell. She stood over him.

“You left the temple too soon,” she said. “There are herbs that toughen the skin and muscles until they are almost like iron.”

She spat in his face and stabbed him again and again. She stabbed him for her mother and father, her sisters and brothers. She stabbed him for every person in her village. She stabbed him long after life left his body. When she ceased her arm quaked and her legs went limp. She fell to her knees beside him, her body overcome by deep sobs. She fell forward, her face in her hands. When her sobbing ceased, she came to her feet empty.  She dropped the sword then took off her wrist protectors. She removed the quiver from her back and placed it beside her bow. The stench of death had summoned its followers; vultures and crows circled overhead as jackals lurked on the horizon.  The high priest’s wisdom appeared in her mind and a melancholy smile came to her. Revenge did not heal. Death did not cleanse.  She was still alone.

 

She stood before the temple as she had years ago, filthy and starving. This time the high priest emerged, shuffling to her prone form. She looked into his eyes and he frowned.

“Why have you come back?” he asked.

“Revenge was not enough,” she said.

“What do you want from us now?” he asked.

“I wish to learn. I wish to heal. I wish to live.”

He reached down to her and helped her stand. As they walked together to the temple entrance she knew she would leave again. But this time she would leave for the right reasons. She would teach. She would heal. She would live.

 

-End-

[Penelope Flynn]

Wow... I LOVED that.

Milton Davis said:

The riders charged in unison, their leader lagging behind the wall of horseflesh and steel. She ran toward them, loading her bow as she ran. She shot the horses one by one, bringing down three before they were upon her. The first man was the first to die. She leaped on his horse, stabbing him in the neck with an arrow then pushing him from his mount. His cohorts swarmed her, then discovered her prowess with a scimitar. Two more died, tumbling to the grass with slit throats. A blade stabbed her thigh and she ignored it. Pain was temporary, vengeance complete. She tired of the mounted duels quickly. With a sudden effort she leaped from the horse to land on her feet.

They were outmatched.  It was obvious with the first arrow loosed that she would eventually kill them all. Yet they persisted. It men as vile as these could have a positive trait it would be their relentlessness.  It was the reason for their conquests. It would also be the reason for their deaths.

 

When the others left, she remained. She made no attempt to feed or bath herself. She sat before the temple, moving only to relieve herself. Even that necessary function ceased as she began to starve. But she would not leave. The acolytes peered over the walls and shouted at her. Their masters had made their choices. There would be no more selections. She was wasting her time.

When she could no longer sit up, she lay in the mud, staring at the walls. The doors finally opened and a robed man approached her. He knelt before her dying form, curiosity in his eyes.

“Why do you persist?” he asked. “You are dying.”

“Everyone I love is dead,” she replied.

“Then join them,” he replied.

She forced herself up to stare at him.

“I will not die until they die,” she said.

“Revenge serves no purpose,” the man said.

“Revenge keeps me alive,” she retorted.

The man clapped his hands and acolytes appeared. They lifted her to her feet.

“We will accept you, only to prove that you are wrong.”

She managed to smile. They would fail.

 

The riders realized their mounts were more a hindrance than help against her. They dismounted, their swords held before them as they encircled her.  Their leader remained on his mount, and expectant smile on his face. His ignorance sparked her anger again. This man, this stupid, petty man was the cause of her family’s death.  With only brutality and strength they destroyed her life. Now they approached her with the same weapons, expecting to vanquish her despite their dead cohorts littering the grass around them. What drove such men to still imagine there would be a good outcome for them?  She pushed the emotions aside once again. Reason did not prevail here. Instinct was at work, primal destructive urges. At least in this case, they would cease.

 

They bathed her, fed her and gave her robes. She joined the other students recently accepted and learned the ways of the Dogon. They taught of the world from which they came and of their wish to one day return. They taught them of healing herbs and medicines. They taught them the ways of wrestling and weapons, because only a mind free of fear can reach the highest levels of thought. She learned and she excelled. Six years after entering the walls of the temple she stood before the high priest, the best among an elite class, the first among the most skilled. The priest stepped down from his simple chair and carried the robe of priest to her, the first step toward priesthood. He extended to her.

“Have you taught me all there is to know?” she asked.

The priest was startled by her question. “Yes. We hold nothing back. Truth cannot be owned.”

“Then I will go,” she said. “I have men to kill.”

She turned and walked away. No one attempted to stop her.

“Revenge will leave you with nothing!” the high priest shouted.

“We will see,” she whispered.

 

They circled her and she circled with them, bow in her left hand, dagger in her right. One darted in and she danced away, fast enough to avoid his grasp but slow enough to allow him to grab her skirt. He ripped it away, revealing her near nakedness. The anger of their comrades’ deaths gave way to unbridled lust. She looked at them with a sensuous smirk. Let them lust. Lust would break their focus. Lust would make them careless. Use all your weapons, her teachers instructed her. Death comes in many forms.  The man held the skirt up like a trophy then pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply. When he removed it he leered at her then pounced.  Her dagger flew from her hand as he jumped, finding its place in his neck.  His scimitar was in her hand before the others could attack. She spun among them, her movements both sensuous and deadly. When she ceased her dance they all lay dead. She sauntered to her skirt then slowly tied it around her waist as the last man looked on. She took a stance as he finally approached, patting his palm with the flat of his blade. His confidence sickened her.

“Very good,” he said. “I’m impressed. I take it the Dogon were saddened by your departure, as they were when I left their pitiful temple.”

His words startled her but she did not flinch.

“The Dogon think they can pacify us by teaching us their ways. They think by teaching us the secrets of the world we will immerse ourselves in more cerebral pursuits. But there is one flaw in their logic.”

He raised his sword to guard position, as did she.

“Our bodies are only vessels to them,” he said. “They fill them, but they do not feel them. They don’t understand our need for emotions. They don’t share our desire for pleasure and power…or revenge. With their knowledge a man or woman can achieve all their desires.”

Their swords clashed. He was powerful, much more powerful than she expected. She quickly adjusted, parrying his pounding blows and dodging his quick kicks. She suspected he left the temple once he gained his martial skills, thinking it was all he needed to fulfill his dreams. She watched his eyes as they fought, the fatigue and frustration growing with every blow deflected. Tension filled his face, his teeth gritted. She smiled and he roared. Speed accompanied his thrust and it slipped by her guard. The edge of his blade creased her stomach as she pivoted away. It was a cut that should have disemboweled her. Instead a thin red line appeared.

His eyes bulged. “You should be…”

She drove her blade into his stomach . “Dead?”

She twisted her blade then ripped it from his body. He wavered then fell. She stood over him.

“You left the temple too soon,” she said. “There are herbs that toughen the skin and muscles until they are almost like iron.”

She spat in his face and stabbed him again and again. She stabbed him for her mother and father, her sisters and brothers. She stabbed him for every person in her village. She stabbed him long after life left his body. When she ceased her arm quaked and her legs went limp. She fell to her knees beside him, her body overcome by deep sobs. She fell forward, her face in her hands. When her sobbing ceased, she came to her feet empty.  She dropped the sword then took off her wrist protectors. She removed the quiver from her back and placed it beside her bow. The stench of death had summoned its followers; vultures and crows circled overhead as jackals lurked on the horizon.  The high priest’s wisdom appeared in her mind and a melancholy smile came to her. Revenge did not heal. Death did not cleanse.  She was still alone.

 

She stood before the temple as she had years ago, filthy and starving. This time the high priest emerged, shuffling to her prone form. She looked into his eyes and he frowned.

“Why have you come back?” he asked.

“Revenge was not enough,” she said.

“What do you want from us now?” he asked.

“I wish to learn. I wish to heal. I wish to live.”

He reached down to her and helped her stand. As they walked together to the temple entrance she knew she would leave again. But this time she would leave for the right reasons. She would teach. She would heal. She would live.

 

-End-

[Milton Davis]

Thanks, sister!

Penelope Flynn said:

Wow... I LOVED that.

Milton Davis said:

The riders charged in unison, their leader lagging behind the wall of horseflesh and steel. She ran toward them, loading her bow as she ran. She shot the horses one by one, bringing down three before they were upon her. The first man was the first to die. She leaped on his horse, stabbing him in the neck with an arrow then pushing him from his mount. His cohorts swarmed her, then discovered her prowess with a scimitar. Two more died, tumbling to the grass with slit throats. A blade stabbed her thigh and she ignored it. Pain was temporary, vengeance complete. She tired of the mounted duels quickly. With a sudden effort she leaped from the horse to land on her feet.

They were outmatched.  It was obvious with the first arrow loosed that she would eventually kill them all. Yet they persisted. It men as vile as these could have a positive trait it would be their relentlessness.  It was the reason for their conquests. It would also be the reason for their deaths.

 

When the others left, she remained. She made no attempt to feed or bath herself. She sat before the temple, moving only to relieve herself. Even that necessary function ceased as she began to starve. But she would not leave. The acolytes peered over the walls and shouted at her. Their masters had made their choices. There would be no more selections. She was wasting her time.

When she could no longer sit up, she lay in the mud, staring at the walls. The doors finally opened and a robed man approached her. He knelt before her dying form, curiosity in his eyes.

“Why do you persist?” he asked. “You are dying.”

“Everyone I love is dead,” she replied.

“Then join them,” he replied.

She forced herself up to stare at him.

“I will not die until they die,” she said.

“Revenge serves no purpose,” the man said.

“Revenge keeps me alive,” she retorted.

The man clapped his hands and acolytes appeared. They lifted her to her feet.

“We will accept you, only to prove that you are wrong.”

She managed to smile. They would fail.

 

The riders realized their mounts were more a hindrance than help against her. They dismounted, their swords held before them as they encircled her.  Their leader remained on his mount, and expectant smile on his face. His ignorance sparked her anger again. This man, this stupid, petty man was the cause of her family’s death.  With only brutality and strength they destroyed her life. Now they approached her with the same weapons, expecting to vanquish her despite their dead cohorts littering the grass around them. What drove such men to still imagine there would be a good outcome for them?  She pushed the emotions aside once again. Reason did not prevail here. Instinct was at work, primal destructive urges. At least in this case, they would cease.

 

They bathed her, fed her and gave her robes. She joined the other students recently accepted and learned the ways of the Dogon. They taught of the world from which they came and of their wish to one day return. They taught them of healing herbs and medicines. They taught them the ways of wrestling and weapons, because only a mind free of fear can reach the highest levels of thought. She learned and she excelled. Six years after entering the walls of the temple she stood before the high priest, the best among an elite class, the first among the most skilled. The priest stepped down from his simple chair and carried the robe of priest to her, the first step toward priesthood. He extended to her.

“Have you taught me all there is to know?” she asked.

The priest was startled by her question. “Yes. We hold nothing back. Truth cannot be owned.”

“Then I will go,” she said. “I have men to kill.”

She turned and walked away. No one attempted to stop her.

“Revenge will leave you with nothing!” the high priest shouted.

“We will see,” she whispered.

 

They circled her and she circled with them, bow in her left hand, dagger in her right. One darted in and she danced away, fast enough to avoid his grasp but slow enough to allow him to grab her skirt. He ripped it away, revealing her near nakedness. The anger of their comrades’ deaths gave way to unbridled lust. She looked at them with a sensuous smirk. Let them lust. Lust would break their focus. Lust would make them careless. Use all your weapons, her teachers instructed her. Death comes in many forms.  The man held the skirt up like a trophy then pressed it to his face, inhaling deeply. When he removed it he leered at her then pounced.  Her dagger flew from her hand as he jumped, finding its place in his neck.  His scimitar was in her hand before the others could attack. She spun among them, her movements both sensuous and deadly. When she ceased her dance they all lay dead. She sauntered to her skirt then slowly tied it around her waist as the last man looked on. She took a stance as he finally approached, patting his palm with the flat of his blade. His confidence sickened her.

“Very good,” he said. “I’m impressed. I take it the Dogon were saddened by your departure, as they were when I left their pitiful temple.”

His words startled her but she did not flinch.

“The Dogon think they can pacify us by teaching us their ways. They think by teaching us the secrets of the world we will immerse ourselves in more cerebral pursuits. But there is one flaw in their logic.”

He raised his sword to guard position, as did she.

“Our bodies are only vessels to them,” he said. “They fill them, but they do not feel them. They don’t understand our need for emotions. They don’t share our desire for pleasure and power…or revenge. With their knowledge a man or woman can achieve all their desires.”

Their swords clashed. He was powerful, much more powerful than she expected. She quickly adjusted, parrying his pounding blows and dodging his quick kicks. She suspected he left the temple once he gained his martial skills, thinking it was all he needed to fulfill his dreams. She watched his eyes as they fought, the fatigue and frustration growing with every blow deflected. Tension filled his face, his teeth gritted. She smiled and he roared. Speed accompanied his thrust and it slipped by her guard. The edge of his blade creased her stomach as she pivoted away. It was a cut that should have disemboweled her. Instead a thin red line appeared.

His eyes bulged. “You should be…”

She drove her blade into his stomach . “Dead?”

She twisted her blade then ripped it from his body. He wavered then fell. She stood over him.

“You left the temple too soon,” she said. “There are herbs that toughen the skin and muscles until they are almost like iron.”

She spat in his face and stabbed him again and again. She stabbed him for her mother and father, her sisters and brothers. She stabbed him for every person in her village. She stabbed him long after life left his body. When she ceased her arm quaked and her legs went limp. She fell to her knees beside him, her body overcome by deep sobs. She fell forward, her face in her hands. When her sobbing ceased, she came to her feet empty.  She dropped the sword then took off her wrist protectors. She removed the quiver from her back and placed it beside her bow. The stench of death had summoned its followers; vultures and crows circled overhead as jackals lurked on the horizon.  The high priest’s wisdom appeared in her mind and a melancholy smile came to her. Revenge did not heal. Death did not cleanse.  She was still alone.

 

She stood before the temple as she had years ago, filthy and starving. This time the high priest emerged, shuffling to her prone form. She looked into his eyes and he frowned.

“Why have you come back?” he asked.

“Revenge was not enough,” she said.

“What do you want from us now?” he asked.

“I wish to learn. I wish to heal. I wish to live.”

He reached down to her and helped her stand. As they walked together to the temple entrance she knew she would leave again. But this time she would leave for the right reasons. She would teach. She would heal. She would live.

 

-End-