The Path of the Oils

A dragon found an abandoned toddler in the forest. Elder Netu said the dragon rescued her from the Dark Valley. The Council declared her as a part of our family. For years, she never spoke a word. The night we sacrificed her, she found her voice.

“Imago, in the afterlife, you are one of them.”

Her words would be the first and last she’d ever utter. Even though I’d never heard her speak before, her voice sounded familiar. Her clear tones fell softly within the folds of my ears. I felt a swirl of warm air move through my throat and into my lungs. Long after her eyes closed, I experienced her words vibrating in my chest. The words of my sister were as befuddling as they were miraculous.

Everyone gathered in the Sangoman heard the last words. Yet, nobody seemed to react. Her sacrifice was more important. Idle chatter and competing body fragrances from the villagers of Alchemon quickly replaced the voice of my sister.

The natural hot springs of Alchemon and its irregular, curved mountains are the envy of the world. We do not take the serenity produced by the warm mountain springs for granted, but it’s the entire biome that makes Alchemon such an enchanted place to call home.

Separating the mountains from the valley is a dense, plush rainforest that outlines the outer oval of our land. A day’s walk within the warm, misty rains of the forest can cure a bout of melancholy or acute moments of rage. All the animals of the forest play with each other as friends and we commune with them as family. The Ibis in particular are integral to our lives.

In Alchemon, every species of Ibis is able to live and fly freely. The Ibis move in harmony between the mountain, forest and valley. If prepared by those with Old knowledge, Ibis eggs can bring a mystical delight to the tongue. However, we mostly use their eggs to produce our various inks and their feathers for our various quills. Those with the Old knowledge can make the Sacred Quills from the Ibis feathers. The rich, fertile farming soil comes from the Ibis dung. Those with the Old knowledge can cultivate the dung into dirt to produce the Healing Soil.

From the Quince shrubs we eat.

From the Breadnut trees we eat.

And from the dragon eggs, we eat.

Yes, we have lived peacefully among the dragons for centuries. Alchemon’s geography and ecology are perfect for hosting the dragon eggs and weaning baby dragons. In exchange for our labor, we keep the eggs that failed their hatching and the baby dragons who struggled to fly. Dragon eggs are integral to making our oils. Those with Old knowledge make oils directly from the baby dragons.

Making ink and making oils is central to the Alchemonian way of life.

To maintain our way of life, we are obligated to sacrifice at times. We sacrifice with no hesitation. Hearing my sister’s voice that day made me hesitate for the first time. I couldn’t explain the emotions within me. It also made me question my mother.

During the sacrifice, I stared in the direction of my mother after hearing my sister’s voice. My eyes pleaded for a response. Her eyes narrowed sharply back at me as a swirl of warm air began to escape my lungs. The Sangoman was warm, but my mother's stare brought my body to a shiver.

I could feel the vibrations of my sister's words traveling from my lungs into my forehead. My temples began to throb. The throbbing felt as familiar as the sound of her voice. My mother stared more intensely and no longer looked familiar. I closed my eyes. The throbbing stopped immediately and my chest began to burn. When I opened my eyes, the room was a blur.

I saw the personage of my uncle walking over. His voice seemed to travel to me faster than his body. “Wrong oils, Imago.” His words erased the blur.

Suddently, a flood of sunlight filled the room through a large stained glass window on the East side of the Sangoman. The sacrifice was about to start.

As was tradition, my sister’s body was elevated high above the freshly cleansed, oil-clay floor of the Sangoman. For ceremonies, I’d visited the Sangoman many times. Yet, never before had I noticed how the ceruleans and cyans of the window seemed to swirl into images. As my sister's body continued upward towards the ceiling, I peered deeply at the artistry of the stained glass. I saw an image of a baby dragon with blood dripping from a copper-colored crown. The baby dragon seemed to be kneeling in front of a jinn. But I wasn’t sure.

The burning in my chest grew. I gnashed my teeth and swallowed hard to keep the burning out of my throat. I forced my eyes shut. When I peered again at the stained glass, they images were gone. Only the cerulean and cyan swirls remained. We finished the sacrifice.

I calmed my body and tried again to see the images within the window. The baby dragon and jinn did not return, but the eyes of my sister appeared. The sound of her voice entered my head in a language unfamiliar to me. My head throbbed.

“Wrong oils, Imago,” said Elder Netu.

As soon as Elder Netu spoke, the image of my sister’s eyes and the sound of her voice were gone.

That night was almost three years ago. There are times when I wonder if it was real. There have been many ceremonies in the Sangoman since. The East-facing stained glass window still swirls, but no other images have appeared. Since the sacrifice of my sister, nothing extraordinary has occurred in Alchemon either. At least nothing beyond the ordinary extraordinary things we Alchemonians already experience.

There are two types of Alchemonians. The Alchemonians with Old knowledge and the Alchemonians who are guided by them. The Alchemonians with Old knowledge are jinns from the Old World. The Great Mana placed them in Alchemon to guide us on our path back to the Origin.

The jinns among us are soothsayers, mystics and possessors. They live outside of sight and are able to move within the air. Although they are naturally bad beings, they hold the good magic we need. The Great Mana placed them among us to earn their way back to the Origin. Otherwise, they lose their magic. Only by guiding us on The Path, can the jinns travel with us back to the Origin. Using Old knowledge to make the various inks and oils is how the jinns guide us most. When they fail to guide, we all tend to suffer. And through sacrifices we erase our suffering.

Every Alchemonian knows how to use oils. With time, we learn how to use them in every part of our lives. As the saying goes, “Right Oils, Right Path.”

As part of ritual, all guided Alchemonians write their dreams in a journal before bed. Better ink yields better dreams. Better quills yield more useful dreams. And we cannot dream beyond what we write.

Last night, my sister appeared in my dream. I cannot explain how because I did not write about her before bed. Even more inexplicable is that I remember nothing in my dream that was created from my journal. The only thing I can remember from my dream is what she said to me.

“When oils become the ink, the path will be Right. Ziwanda ndi zokwera. ”

When I awakened. My chest was burning. My voice was gone. And my entire journal was empty. At that moment, I started my quest for the truth of things.