Akkiia

There weren’t always dragons in the Valley.

But no one alive knew that time, firsthand. Nor had anyone alive, known anyone alive, who knew of that time, firsthand. The generations passed and passed again, and finally, all that remained were the whispers of truth that persisted despite time, agony, terror, and despair. The truth that raises its head when a glimpse of hope survives despite its enemies. The truth that emerges in dreams, when consciousness is incarcerated so the freedom which sleeps in the hearts of humanity can dance. The truths of Truth, laden with the power of an unquenchable desire to be heard, to be known, to be real.

Yes, the stories of those days existed, sure, but with a strength most experienced as the last, faded, wisps of a sunset before the night envelops it into its unsatiable belly. Providers looking over their shoulders to gather food were too busy to hear about the pre-dragon era (PDE). Nurturers scurrying the children to the river to bathe were too scared to bear the weight of hope needed for pre-dragon stories to be true. Grand Priestesses consecrating the multi-tiered offerings to be laid at the Dragon Overlord’s throne were too invested to shun the rewards that came by dismissing all hope of pre-dragon human agency. The under-12s, some of them, believed the stories of the pre-dragon days, but usually only until they were twelve. Unless the dragons’ wrath slipped out from its appeasement schedule and disappeared one of them right in front of their eyes. For when one of your friends is sacrificed, you become an adult, no matter your age.

------------

------------

It would take them all day to walk from their sleeping quarters through the underground tunnels to the hush arbor where speaking freely wasn’t considered treason. They never planned their journeys – led only by the heartbeat of Spirit who had yet to leave them forsaken. But when Spirit awakened one Kaluluwa, almost supernaturally all Kaluluwa awakened. With a knowing look, they would begin preparing for their sacred charge. Without words, each one collected one loaf of bread, one fill of water, a mite of albanion (the fruity kind not the salty kind), the sword they received at their investiture, and one link of the Liberation Chain. They would need nothing else, even if the situation required it. The tales of the PDE persisted because of the unreasonable faithfulness of the group called to the task before they were born. Tethered to the stories from generations before – from umbilical cord to umbilical cord – they alone carried the truths of the days of old. The stories must be told. And tell them they would.

------------

------------

Akkiia (she/they/them), in their last year as an under-12, shivered. Not the shiver of fear; more like the shiver he/him/his humans made when they were almost done with a long urine stream. Uncontrollable, yes. But amplifying awareness of human limitation more than fear. She turned around and saw the Kaluluwa walking toward the entrance of the underground tunnels.

Ah, Akkiia, thought, “that explains it.”

It’s not like she would have heard them talking. No one had ever heard the Kaluluwa speak, except when they were storytelling in the hush arbor. Akkiia wondered whether they spoke when they were alone and in private. Did they ever laugh, did they ever cry, did they ever shout or sing outside of the hush arbor? These weren’t the silly ponderings of an under-12 or the incessant questions of a toddler. Ever since she could remember, Akkiia knew in the deepest places of knowing that she would be tapped to become Kaluluwa. They tried explaining it to the Providers and the Nurturers, but no one would take them seriously. One day they summoned their courage to approach one of the Grand Priestesses, but she had no time for an under-12 with no currency, no power, and no offering to give. Yet and still, in dreams and the wayward imagination of one who has yet to be sullied by the despair of “that can’t be possible,” they saw themselves, Kaluluwa. Not as a Kaluluwa. Just, Kaluluwa.

As she watched the group of Kaluluwas disappear into the first underground tunnel, she knew that soon Spirit would awaken The Ready with the time the storytelling would begin. It would have been strange to believe that, without words, people all across the Valley, should they have ears to hear, would awaken to Spirit-led directions to the hush arbor at the exact time when a new PDE story would be told. It would have been strange, had Akkiia not seen it her whole life. Stranger still was how the Kaluluwas know not the particular story they are meant to tell before they leave for their journey. Each PDE tale is new to the group telling it, only revealed as the journey begins. Along the way, still in silence, the Kaluluwas receive the words for the part of the story they are to tell upon arrival. The Ready who have chosen to come, bring with them the candles and other accoutrements to sanctify the hush arbor space for the telling. And after the Kaluluwas have consumed their mite of albanion, they begin to tell the story, gifted to them just hours before and set apart for that day.

In her final year as an under-12, Akkiia was finally allowed to accompany The Ready to the hush arbor. They had waited for this moment their whole life. And in those first dawn-lit moments of the day, they had no idea how their life would irreparably change because of it.