Soroche: Apu Kuntur
by QalaChaki
A/N:
Thanks, first and foremost to JKR, for creating these amazing characters—and even more, for having the generosity to allow the creative explosion that is fanfiction to flourish unquashed. Everything that is good in these pages belongs to her. The clunky, amateurish stuff is all mine.
And to RedSkyAtNight, quite possibly the best beta reader and Britpicker ever to draw breath. She is a person of amazing perspicacity, patience, and humor, who has the best ear for writing of anyone I've ever met. I would never, ever have finished this piece if it weren't for her.
This story branches off at the beginning of OotP. The only significant differences are that Rawa, rather than Dolores Umbridge, comes to Hogwarts to teach DADA; and Sirius Black is out of prison and on the Hogwarts staff as Flight Instructor.
All of the geographical and linguistic details in Soroche are as accurate as I can make them. I haven't made up any words—all non-English words are either Spanish, Quechua, Mapuche, Guaraní, Nahuatl, or Miskito. Most, but not all, of the spells that Rawa uses are in one of the indigenous languages.
All of the flora and fauna, and products thereof, that Rawa brings to Hogwarts are real. With the one exception of the potion made from Black Widow venom, all of the uses of those products are currently practiced as described by the various indigenous peoples of Central and South America.
All of the places in Rawa's world—except of course for the Yachay Wasi school—are real.
Outside, a light dusting of snow gleamed blue in the moonlight, but underneath her bare feet, the belly of the mountain warmed the floor of the small room. The great brown bird stood perched on a chair in the corner, ripping with its curved talons at a luckless rodent, while Rawa turned over in her hands the large, cream-colored envelope it had brought.
Tungurawa Akapana
Yachay Wasi, Cotopaxi
She broke the red wax seal, drew out the single sheet of folded parchment, and peered, frowning, at the few brief paragraphs written there. English print she could read—most journals and many spell books were in English—but this fine, slanting sepia handwriting she found nearly indecipherable. She turned the lamp flame higher and murmured "Riksichiy," smoothing the parchment with a small brown hand. Immediately the letters stood out stark and legible on the page:
Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry
Dear Miss Akapana,
I am writing to offer you the position of Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts for the coming academic year, as word of your extraordinary talents has reached my ear.* It is rumoured, for example, that you possess the power to compel truthfulness; such a skill would likely prove quite valuable when dealing with the garden-variety magus adolescens.
I would be remiss in my duties if I failed to advise you that we have had some difficulty in keeping this position filled during the past decade: more than one of your predecessors has unfortunately lasted less than a year. However, I feel certain that if your magical abilities are as your reputation has led me to believe, you will have an excellent chance of success.
If you are agreed, I will send a conveyance for you at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely yours,
Albus Dumbledore
Headmaster
*I cannot imagine why it has reached one ear and not the other, but there you have it.
She read through the missive twice before laying it back on the table. There had been a group from Hogwarts at the conference she had attended in France last April at Beauxbatons, but try as she might she could not picture the author of this letter. She didn't think he had been in attendance at her lecture, but perhaps that was what he meant by "reached my ear": someone who had been there had told him about her.
What was a conveyance? she wondered. Another letter? Some kind of contract? Well, it hardly mattered—she had no intention of traveling half the world away to teach in a language that made her teeth hurt.
Go, said a soft voice in her ear. Ama quella. You must go.
Her head jerked in irritation. "It has nothing to do with laziness," she snapped, then had to smile at herself for answering aloud. She knew, now that she was grown, that the voices of the spirits that guided and advised her came most often from within herself. When she was a girl she had seen the gray fox in her dreams, had had long conversations—and sometimes loud arguments—with him. But the literalness of those visions became less and less necessary as she grew older, and now when she needed guidance she simply quieted herself and listened within, and it nearly always came.
You must go. It is time.
But this felt different, not like the subtle voice of her own wisdom; not even like the voice of the atoc that she used to hear as a child.
"I will not travel across an ocean to live in a country where the winters are cold and dark."
Yes. You will.
To ignore such a voice outright was, she knew, very foolish. So, grudgingly, she stilled herself and waited, and listened, but nothing more came.
Finally she said aloud, "I will not leave my people. I am not going."
Yes. You are. Because it is time.
"Who are you? If you would tell me what I must do, then at least show yourself!"
When there was no answer, she rose and padded silently into a little storeroom, rummaging among the jars on the shelves until she found one labeled Ayahuasca. This she brought into the kitchen, where she mixed the dried leaves with water and set the concoction to boil. The owl's great head swiveled as its yellow eyes followed her movements, and she looked over at it and said, "Patience, tuku. You will have your answer soon enough."
When the mixture had cooled, she strained it and drank it down, gagging on the bitter taste and clenching her teeth to keep it down, then sat back in the chair and wrapped her shawl about her. "Now show yourself," she repeated grimly.
For a while there was nothing, and then the floor abruptly vanished from beneath her, and she was standing on a mountainside far above the treeline, her brown toes bare among the lichens. It was cold, and the air was even thinner than she was accustomed to.
She saw it from far away, and drew in a sharp breath. It was gliding silently on the updraft from the mountain, black against the clear sky, making straight for her. The great wings began to beat slowly as it drew closer, darkening the whole sky with their four-meter span. It alighted on a rock outcropping so close to her that she could feel the gust of air when it folded its vast wings.
She dropped to her knees. "Apu kuntur," she breathed.
The creature turned its head and regarded her out of one dark glittering eye, the tiny feathers of its white collar moving gently in the wind.
She waited, afraid to speak again.
Later, she would try to remember how she knew she was to go with it, how she understood what it told her. Certainly the great curved beak never opened, no sound broke the silence of the treeless páramo . . . but she knew, nonetheless, that the voice belonged to the Condor.
Come with me.
It wheeled and rose into the sky, and she followed it without thought or hesitation, rising through the thin air, the mountainside dropping away beneath them. They climbed higher, up through the cloud layer, until they were clearing the highest peaks of the cordillera. And higher still, until she could see both great oceans flanking the land, and the gentle curve where the world ended.
The Condor slowed and then stopped, suspended in the air, and turned to her. It extended an enormous wing, pointing toward the north and east.
Look far, daughter.
She looked toward the horizon, but saw only endless blue water.
Farther.
And then she saw it, just at the edge of the world where sky and water met: a tiny smear of dark gray among the clouds, a shadow that seemed to suck in the light around it so that, even from this great distance, it was a dreadful sight.
You must go.
The eye regarded her, unblinking.
"Will I be safe?" she dared to ask.
No.
"Will I die there?"
Daughter, you know that no one is ever told when and where they are to die.
She looked again at the horizon, at the fearsome smudge of darkness, and understood that it was, indeed, better not to know such terrible things.
But the people of that land wait for you.
"Yes," she sighed.
And dropped like a stone to the earth below.
She awoke in the chair, with her shawl wrapped tightly around her. At once she leapt to her feet and ran out into the cold night and vomited violently onto the ground; there was always this price to be paid for visions summoned with ayahuasca. When the retching finally subsided, she scrubbed her mouth out with snow and returned to the warmth of her rooms.
The hot floor felt wonderful underneath her frozen feet. She fetched ink, and a red-and-blue macaw feather, and turned Dumbledore's letter face-down upon the table, so that she could write on the blank reverse side of the parchment. Dipping the quill into the ink, she wrote simply: I will.
Then she rolled up the parchment, fastened it to the leg of the owl, and watched as he flew off into the darkness.