The Quest
‘I cannot consent to this, Great One. She is too young.’
‘She lacks patience.’
‘Yet she is a fighter. One of our best and one of our last.’
Father-Mother sat pensively in their tent listening to the wisdom of the Elders, their face illuminated by two burning braziers of azure flame. They waited till silence fell and no more voices called out disapproval. Then Father-Mother spoke.
‘Rain-Born,’ they said, in a voice that sang with power.
Rain-Born lifted her face up to look upon the visage of withered Father-Mother, ancient beyond comprehension, each wrinkle on their face a marker of an age long past. Equally the ancient one looked into her, passed her wide young eyes and dirt-caked lips, as only Father-Mother’s eyes could see. Father-Mother looked into the spirit, and based their judgement on that.
‘For sixteen summers you have served the Tribe as a warrior. As a blade to strike down our foes you are one of our most treasured instruments. I look upon you and see strength of spirit, as I did on the night you were brought into our world. I find you worthy.’
Rain-Born inclined her head a fraction of an inch to show her respect to the Great One.
‘What do you ask of Rain-Born, Father-Mother?’
Father-Mother allowed the Elders to whisper of Rain-Born’s ignorance. Tribal custom usually dictated that the warrior being given a quest did not address Father-Mother. But the Great One merely nodded.
‘We mourn the death of our Tribe,’ Father-Mother began sadly. ‘You know that our warriors are killed in raids from the Guthra people, our cattle fall where they stand, our plants wither. The witch-woman of the Guthra have cursed us to a long, slow demise. The Tribe must endure, but we will not see the next winter without aid.’
Father-Mother paused, and met the worried gazes of several of the Elders, before they came to the crucial point.
‘You, Rain-Born, must find that which will restore us. You must find Callisto.’
Hushed murmurs dominated the room. Rain-Born felt a darkness surround her, as if an evil spirit had gained entrance to the clandestine meeting.
‘What is Callisto, Father-Mother?’
‘You must not ask us this question,’ Father-Mother replied, and their tone was strict and harsh. ‘Callisto is that which shall save us. All Rain-Born must know is that she shall know Callisto when she sees it.’
Rain-Born nodded, bowing low. She understood.
‘We tell Rain-Born that we know where Callisto is,’ Father-Mother continued. ‘For as we slumbered we dreamt. And in our dreams there emerged a place where destiny is made. We have made a map of this place. If Rain-Born accepts our quest, she will venture into the Deadlands further than any Hanakh has travelled, through the canyon of evil spirits and passed the vile swamps of many-eyes. She will traverse the Tunnel of the Changeling and then she shall come to the Iron Forest.And there, within thetallest tree, shall she find the salvation of the Hanakh. There Callisto waits.’
Rain-Born could only nod solemnly. When they had called her here she knew she would be sent on a journey more perilous than a simple hunt or raid. It would be one that could mean her death at the hands of the monsters of the Deadlands. Yet she too mourned the death of her Tribe, her family. Her heart hurt to see them walk like doomed wraiths in their tents.
Bowing so low that her head touched the fur-rug of the tent’s floor, she said, ‘Rain-Born will do this thing, Father-Mother. For the Tribe.’
‘For the Tribe,’ Father-Mother nodded, pleased. ‘We bid you leave tonight, under the protection of darkness, to evade the scouts of the Guthra. Take our map and your finest hunting bow with you. Do not tarry. We expect to see you again in four nights.’
Having barely had any time to register the magnitude of this request, Rain-Born merely bowed and made to leave the Great One’s tent.
‘We would warn you, Rain-Born, do not converse with those of the Deadlands,’ Father-Mother said quietly, and her solemn tone made her words carry that much more weight for the young Rain-Born. ‘The wastes are dry and desolate, and non who wonder in those evil winds can be trusted. Do not let any know of what you seek. Now go, and may the Great Spirit go with you.’
When Rain-Born had left the tent of the Great One, The Elders each uttered a short prayer to their protector spirit that she might fly with sure wings on her journey. Then they left the tent and braved the roaring winds of the desert. They were returning to their homes to attend to their young, or their sick, for all of them knew the Tribe would not last much longer.
One Elder in particular, second only to Father-Mother in age, knelt before her when the others had left. His red-rimmed eyes betrayed his grief.
‘Father-Mother, we do not doubt your sublime judgement. But what if the young one does not return? What shall we do to save the Tribe?’
Father-Mother smiled for the first time that night, and bid the aged Elder stand.
‘Ragged-Tooth,’ she said. ‘We, your Father-Mother, were born fromCallisto. We know who it is that shall find Callisto. And when once again we hold it in our hands, we shall bathe in Guthra blood.’
