The Warning (Ghost Story)

I can't believe it! Just learned I took the number one spot in my group in round 1 of the 2017 NYC Midnight Short Story Challenge. There were just over 3,000 people competing...only five in each group (there were about 100 groups) move on to round two.

We were assigned genres/subjects/characters...mine were Ghost Story, self-indulgence/an heir. As soon as we learned our prompts, we had just 8 days to write our short stories. I had a super busy week at work so I just did what I could in one day. Here's my original submission, warts and all (parents: I'd say this story is PG13).

The Warning

Synopsis: Young, powerful Junn receives a warning from the spirit of his greatest ancestor. But will he use the words of wisdom to change the ancient ways of the tribe?

The Warning

By Jessica Ramesch

The aag aankhen were getting closer. The deep snow muffled sound, but Junn could hear the occasional howl—warnings meant to strike fear into the hearts of the weak. The oldest stories of the Inukal told of the aag, the “fire eyes,” and their contempt for soft-foots. Soft-foots like Junn, and his mate Swati. Tender morsels like their babe, Maasoom.

Junn felt fear, but did not give in to it. He would reach the village before the aag closed in. As a boy going through the Proving, he had learned to push his fear down…to make his face a hard mask. His dark eyes told nothing.

The sun had sunk to just above the tree line, so Junn sank down and offered a prayer to his ancestors. The cold bit at his knees and threatened his fingertips, but it was a small sacrifice. Much larger would be demanded of him before the day was out. 

Today above all days, the ancestors would be honored. Perhaps one day, their spirits would return, and live amongst the Inukal as in the Age of Wisdom.

Rising, Junn adjusted the game bag slung across his shoulder, and set out again. Within minutes he could see the flames of the massive bonfire. He did not notice the golden shadow that trailed just behind him.

When Junn had set out that morning, the village women had been hard at work gathering branches and other kindling. Tradition demanded that the fire be set outside the hut of the shahsak—the Inukal leader and, as such, embodiment of the stars-and-moon spirit.

This night, Junn and the other Proven would present the shahsak with riches collected over three months of hunting. Fine skins, furs, beads, dried meats, salted fish, and bitter greens would be offered. If the leader chose to honor Junn as his heir, he would keep Junn’s gifts. If not, the offerings would be distributed amongst the village elders.

“Junn, son of T’mash!” The Watchers cried out. Legends told of days before the Watchers, when friend was often mistaken for foe. The aag were not the only enemy. But arrows and spears loosed in the dusk could not be called back.

Junn was worthy of no honorific, but there was a time when his lineage was known as “most worthy.” A time when the descendants of T’mash were thought to have tamed the fire in the earth’s belly, the aag on the land, and the stars and moon in the sky. Those days of magic and dark lore were long gone, if not completely forgotten.    

As Junn stepped into the village circle, he felt a rush of warm air…and something else. It was like the static that sometimes filled the air during the cold, dry summer nights. The hair on his long arms seemed to raise from his skin. It made him want to frown, but this was not the moment to think on such things. His gait did not falter, and his face was as one frozen.

“Light of my eyes.” Swati had heard the Watchers, and as tradition demanded, she greeted him at the door to their stone cottage. She stretched out her arms, as if beseeching him. “Will you eat? Hot k’hav, boiled lamb, and lentils await.”

The smell of the hot k’hav, made of fermented mountain seeds, was welcome. Junn entered and sat so his mate could remove his skin-and-bone boots. Sipping his k’hav, he watched Swati bend and swoop around the hearth. He could feel seed of the stars-and-moon quickening inside him. Something an Inukal-rak, a Proven male, must not ignore.

Without warning he launched himself at her back, slamming Swati against the cold, rough stone table. He pushed her head down, and held it there with one hand. Moving her skirts out of the way, he plunged into her, and heard her cry out in pain. It was barely a cry, bitten off before it began. She had learned not to struggle. If she fought, the Proven would have her in the village circle. Then the elders would spit on her and call her Dishonored. And then the real suffering would begin.

This was the Way. Inukal-rak were required to dominate from an early age. “Feel no pity, spare none.” So it had always been said. Those with sorrow in soft hearts were weeded out during the Proving. The Forest of Black Waters was filled with their bones.

Junn had learned well, and followed the Way closely. One day, perhaps soon, a son of T’mash would lead again, and bring the Inukal back to days of magic and power.

When he was finished with his mate, he hunched down on the warm floor by the hearth to eat. He did not see the golden shadow begin to blacken. Begin to blacken, and take on a face and limbs. Fingers and toes. Features not seen since the Age of Wisdom. The specter imitated the Inukal-rak. Hunched down, it waited.

****

The stars and moon were shining bright in the night sky. It was a good omen for the festival of the dark season. Swati had joined the other mated females to make the fish-and-ember cakes. Junn prepared his game bag, donned his grandfather’s aag fur cape, and walked to the bonfire. His black specter followed, but eyes seemed to slide past it.

As he walked, Junn could see flames above stone and thatch cottages like his own. The cottages ringed the vast village circle and the leader’s home—the only one with a cool, clay roof that would never burn. The snow came to Junn’s knees and glistened in the flame-light. As the bonfire burned, the wet branch platform beneath it would begin to smoke and dry out. Eventually fire and snow would meet, and snow would win.

Samajhadaar, the shahsak, was standing close enough to put a hand in the flames. During the giving, he would stay close, enduring intense heat. A red and brown rash would form on his skin, making him look like he wore a fishing net across his back. Never was the shahsak more respected than when marked this way. His words would carry great weight until the marks faded.

“Junn, I will speak with you,” Samajhadaar intoned.

The specter smiled, and Junn felt that static frisson once more. The leader honored Junn by calling him up before the entire village.

Junn made his way past a new Proven and the females assigned for the young Inukal-rak’s consideration. They were a few years younger than Swati, but old enough to be wearing roughcloth wrapped skirts and long garlands. Females too young to mate did not show such modesty.

Junn ignored them, bumping into one who did not move aside quickly enough. Another day he might bargain with the male for one of these young prizes. New Proven were not good bargainers, and an untasted female could be had for as little as a good skin or string of beads. But this was not the moment.

“Inukal shahsak, stars-and-moon spirit made flesh, I see only you,” Junn shouted as he approached. A few paces away he put his knees into the snow and proffered his game bag, bowing his head for the leader’s blessing. “I am not worthy, but I am yours.”

“So. A fine skin,” said the leader, taking the bag worked with scented oil and thread of dyed fibers. It seemed to Junn the leader was quiet a long time. Was he examining the gifts?

“You say you are mine, Junn of the T’mash?”

Junn almost stopped breathing. Could it be? He didn’t dare speak or move. He wanted to be heir, and he would perform the day’s duties without error.

The leader put his hand on Junn’s head. “These gifts, I will keep. It is an auspicious day, and many seasons I have considered my heir. One strong enough to lead, and strong enough to listen.” Pulling Junn up by his thick black hair, the leader looked him in the eye. “You are mine, now. Your body—blood and bones—is mine.”

The announcement made, two females ran to fetch the cooks, who would bring the fish-and-ember cakes. There would also be a piece of the leader’s own cake, saved in a small earthen pot since the leader’s ascension.

Junn looked around and spotted the leader’s mate, telltale pot in hand. The leader had taken many a female...some without the proper bargaining and payment, and some before the proper age…but he kept only one in his home. A tiny woman, she constantly chewed her lips and rubbed her bony fingers. She seldom spoke in front of others.

Looking to the shahsak and waiting for his nod, the female placed the pot in Junn’s waiting hands. Holding it reverently, Junn stood and followed the leader into the big clay-roofed home. Had anyone had a Seeing Eye, they would have noted how the specter put a possessive hand on Junn’s shoulder. But the art of seeing beyond the earthly plane was lost.

Just inside the door, the shahsak motioned for Junn to sit. “The visions can be powerful, My Junn. You have heard the legends, and by the stars and moon, you think yourself somewhat prepared. You are not.” Pointing to the earthen pot, he said: “Eat.”

Junn touched the tiny pot to his forehead, then pulled at the lid, breaking the wax-of-bees seal. The smell was of over-boiled eggs and something sour, like k’hav but also not like. Putting the pot to his mouth, Junn tapped the bottom until the contents fell out. Not wanting to gag, he suppressed his breath and swallowed the morsel whole.

Now he would have to wait. Wait, and keep his composure. Sitting cross-legged, he let the palms of his hands rest on his knees. Gazing at the shahsak, he tried not to blink too much, or too little. Whether hours passed, or minutes, Junn did not know. But after a time, the room seemed to sparkle and sway. The hair on his arms raised from the skin, and his mouth dried as if he had eaten ten salted prunes.

Before Junn sat a figure. Not the leader.

It was a familiar figure. But strangely dark, with smiling mouth and angry eyes. “So. Now you see me.” it said. It placed a dark hand on Junn’s shoulder. “And do you know me, T’mash-son?”

Junn had been expecting visions, and did not wish to speak. He would not appear as a madman in the shahsak’s great home.

“Will you hold to silence when you have but one night to see and speak?” The dark one spoke softly, but it watched Junn like a hawk ready to take a rabbit. “I will tell you one thing, and if you choose silence again, I will go,” the specter said.

“I am your ancestor. Today, a hundred paces from the outer village you sank to your knees and offered a prayer. You prayed to become the heir. You prayed for your ancestor, the Aag-Ruler, to appear to you. You prayed for knowledge from the Age of Wisdom. Will you have what knowledge I come to impart? This will be your only chance.”

Real or not real? Perhaps it was madness, but if true wisdom was to be had, Junn could not refuse. He parted his dry lips and croaked: “Yes. Yes, forgive me Wise One. I see and know you. I listen.”

“Then know this, Junn. Your other ancestors—my children, and their children, and so on for years too numerous to count—are half-beings. Their spirits are too damaged to travel to the stars and moon. Too damaged to appear to you. They suffer. Do you know suffering?”

Junn nodded, licking his lips though there was no spittle to wet them. “I do, Great One.”

The specter howled and grew in size. It grew fangs and claws, and struck fear into Junn’s heart. “You do not! The worst suffering in this earthly realm cannot compare. You feel fear Junn, I see your heart. But the fear and suffering of which I speak are a thousand times greater than what you imagine. You Inukal-rak take from your mates without giving. The imbalance is growing, and the debt cannot be repaid!”

The spirit quieted, and bent its massive, clawed body closer. “You take their food, their bodies, and their babes. You take pleasure in these things, and you want more. And more is never enough. In this age you have begun taking not only from your mates, but also from untasted females, some not of the proper age. You do this without their blessing or even permission.”

Junn shrank back, truly afraid. His heart pounding even as he tried to tell himself this must be a mad vision, nothing more. The Way was sacred and ancient. Who would believe it to be wrong? “Great ancestor, you know this is the Way,” Junn began.

Baring its long fangs, the dark, shadowy being began to fade, even as it spoke. “You are the strongest heir. You can heal the spirits of your ancestors. You can create a different fate for yourself in death. I have spoken, and now my time is gone. The dark season is begun.”

 ****

Junn awoke in his cottage, Swati keeping the flies off his face as he slept. He felt tired, but the seed quickened in him, and he reached for her. Putting his hand behind her neck, he pulled her down and bit her ear. He was the heir, and this was the Way. He did not notice the black shadow that entered Swati’s body. But Swati began to feel a growing power inside her. Ignoring Junn’s other hand forcing apart her legs, she tasted the power, and felt herself draw it in.