Not everything sleeps during the night. Far from it. Nearly as many animals lived in the heat of the darkness as those who lived under the sun. The constant clicking of insects that sang to one another in the leaves of the trees, the rustle of dead foliage under soft paws, the cracking of branches as a monkey's weight was too much for the dry limbs. It was a chorus of life if one listened closely enough, and to add to the music, a hollow rhythm thrummed through the trees.
Calloused hands beat on the soft leather of a drum, skin colored orange by a larger fire in the middle of the village. The beat was quick, erratic; it moved her. She rocked back and forth, elongated head bobbing up and down as she swayed. The dirt around her remained undisturbed, but she could feel the ghosts dance before her. She sang out to them, the spirits. They moved and jumped, held hands and moved together before releasing each other and ducking. They raised high into the air, feet leaving the ground, flying before coming back down to the earth.
She did this often, played for the honored fallen, gave music for all of them to dance to. Then, when the music was in her soul, she would join, dance to the drum, leap into the air, turn duck and jump again. But this night, she only played, patted and beat the skin of the drum. If anything had heard the music, they left it be. The life in the forest around her was quiet, listening before moving on. Only when they felt safe enough away did they begin making their own music again, singing, crying, calling.
The air was so hot that even her skin was beading with sweat; she who was a native of this land. But that did not stop the animals from living out their purposes, and it wouldn't stop her. Faster and faster her hands hit the small drum between her crossed legs, the meaning of the words she sang were lost to the trees and the air, the fire danced ignorant of it all. Only the ghosts heard, and understood. It was for them anyway.
The music stopped. Ears rang with the sudden silence and the ghosts went still. Dark eyes were looking up. The stars were bright, so many of them that the sky was not black at all. The moon was missing just a small part of it, just barely rising over the tops of the trees. She looked at its face; the pale light so bright the soil around her was colored white. The moon and the fire fought for dominance over the large clearing. The moon was stronger, painting all of the abandoned huts with its color, letting the jealous fire color only the dirt surrounding it.
She lifted a hand, raising it slowly, fingers spread, palm facing the moon in greeting. She tilted her head, dark shadows splayed out against her face. The moon, resting between two fingers, shined directly into her left eye. The light, so powerful, moved through her claws, lighting them up; small white flames on the tips of her fingers. This was not the moon she was named after. Diwizama; the red moon happened only so often, and unpredictably so.
She watched the moon creep up her fingers like a fat caterpillar, then lowered her hand back to the drum, making a soft hollow noise. She began to turn her attention to the much warmer light of the fire, when a light caught her eye. She looked back up, eyes wide. She stood slowly, setting the drum to the side. Shoulders squared back, head raised, face against the stars. One was falling out of the sky, a yellow star. She watched it, feeling her heart race. It streaked across the sky, then it arched, moved and weaved. Slithering almost like a snake. It passed overhead and she spun, following it as it moved, vanishing over the tops of the trees on the other side of the village.
Everything around her was silent, even the crackling of the fire seemed to have quieted in reverence. She was still for only a moment longer. Then, she turned, kicking the dirt around her into the fire, smothering and killing it. The moon shone on the fire's smoky last breath, curling into the sky, and glinted off of the metal rings around her neck as she ran to her hut. Her hands were shaking as she dug her fingers into the ground, packed hard from years of her feet trampling over it. She grunted and moved, grabbing one of her garden tools. She began to stab the earth, breaking it and softening it. She dug out a square, cleared the dirt off of the area and revealed a small red light, dully illuminating black metal.
She easily coaxed a fire from the small hearth in the hut, allowing her to see the rectangular pad with the numbers. She scolded herself for her hastiness, but her body still shuddered as she pressed the numbers: 2 0 1 8. The black metal clicked and she turned then pulled on the silver handle, raising a small door open. Small amounts of dirt fell down into the flickering darkness, soon followed by Diwizama.
Her knees bent as her feet hit the ground. The light flickered a moment longer before it slowly faded to a constant, illuminating brightness. All around her, cold emotionless masks stared, some with red eyes, some with grey. The metal did not reflect the light very well, but the weapons placed under each mask did. So, too, did the polished skulls.
She closed the distance between her knee and the ground, bowing to the individuals lined all along the walls of the wide room. Each section of the wall was set with a mask, armor, weapons and skulls, and she showed respect to each and every one, ending with one to her right. She paused a moment, calming her breathing and her heart. The excitement had left her face, but not her eyes as she stood and approached this final warrior. A single human skull was set below the weapons, and she touched it gingerly.
She went immediately to work. A trip back up saw the return of a bowl of water, a grass mat, a leather pouch and a knife. She laid the mat in the center of the room and knelt on it, the knife on one side, and the bowl on the other. She removed her jewelry and took the ornaments out of her tresses, setting them down before her knees. She undid every braid, the coarse hair keeping the curved shape of each tress. She pulled her fingers through them, and then painfully began to braid them again.
Each tress was tight, pulling at her skin with every twist and tug of her fingers. She braided several rows like this, taking much time, making sure each was tight. She knotted the end of the final braid. The looseness of her scalp that she had been feeling for a while was now gone. She bent and lifted the first of the ornaments by her knees. Each tress got three ornaments, one near the scalp, one in the center of the tress, one near the end. These chimed against each other as she moved them to the side to work on another.
She then lifted the knife, the blade gleaming white in the artificial light of the room. She ran the blade first along her left arm, beginning with her knuckles and up to her shoulder. She was slow and careful, especially over the raised scars over her body. The blade moved against her chest, then her abdomen. She shaved down her legs and feet, even her toes. Then she lifted the blade and placed it over her shoulder. This was the most dangerous part, and previously, members of her tribe would have helped the other hunters clean the parts of their bodies that they could not see.
She had no one though. The many human skulls that belonged to the individuals along the walls could not help her now. She felt the blade run slowly against the back of her neck. She could acutely hear the hissing of the blade as it cleaned the skin. She moved the blade back and then forth, lowering the blade down to her shoulders, using her free hand to pull her elbow to reach across her back. She was careful here as well. Long scars comprised of short dashes ran parallel with her spine down the entire length of her back.
When the arm could reach no further, she bent forward and bent the arm behind her at her side to get the lower part of the back. Finally she passed the blade to her left hand and cleaned her right arm. She ran the blade then along her neck and jawline, along her chin and cheeks, and finally along her brow, finishing with the space between her eyes. She set the knife down, completely clean.
She dipped her hand into the water and began to wash her skin clean.
The warriors around her watched, unmoving. She knew many things now, separating myth and legend from fact. In just one-hundred years the world had advanced so quickly it was blinding to those who could only watch. Science had destroyed the magic and wonder of the world around for those that would listen, and could not escape the facts. Diwizama was glad that the horrors of reality had occurred long after everyone else was gone. She knew now that the Payas were no more gods than she was an ape. They were visitors from a planet far beyond the stars, not within the system that circled her sun, for the other planets there were uninhabitable.
That they could be killed meant they were mortal, and she had noticed the difference in the skulls of the Payas. She had come to recognize those marked with age in the amount of tusks and barbs that were there.
Yes, they were mortal, and the Danda Kerekuru was the vessel in which they travelled the stars to arrive on Earth for the hunt, not a star itself. The Payas were not unlike a Britain or American, boarding a plane to come and hunt the dangerous animals of Africa.
But this knowledge had changed nothing in Diwizama. She was the last of the Kure Iradandaanya, and with all the honored fallen as her witnesses, she would bring honor in this hunt, even if it meant her death.
She washed away the sweat, the dirt, and the loose hairs until her skin was smooth and clean. She bowed low on her mat, to the first fallen Paya.
"Honored fallen," she said, then stood and moved around the room. She cleaned away the dust and polished every last bit of armor. To each one, she said their name, or the name given to them by the clan. Each stroke of her wet hand was slow and reverent, warm against the cold metal and bone. She showed the same amount of respect and care to each one, ending with the last, and letting water drops glitter onto the human skull set below named 'mother.' Once she was finished, she set the bowl aside and stepped back to the center of the room.
Her heart beat hard and steady, gazing around at the ancestors and the Payas.
"Honored fallen, I go now to bring honor in the Kure Tua, I chose for my weapon, the ba of my first kill," she turned to the wall on her right, taking the short metal cylinder from above the lonely skull and turned, presenting it around to the warriors, "it brought me honor in my first hunt, and may it bring me honor in this, perhaps my last," she knelt again, placing back on her jewelry and loincloth. Into the remainder of the water she put handfuls of white powder from the leather pouch until the water was a thick paste. She painted a mask on her face. This was, once again, something that would have been done by another member of the clan, one not participating in the Kure Tua as it dirtied the hands that were just cleaned.
Her fingers brushed against the now-dry skin, leaving white trails along her lips, under her eyes, and on her brow she painted a symbol: a downward-facing crescent, with three sharp lines underneath it.
She brushed her fingers against the mat until they were clean, and lifted her spear. One final time she observed and acknowledged the warriors. She then rose up the ladder, and the light shut off with the soft slam of the door.
White claws armed the safe once more, then she lifted and strapped on something that didn't belong in this world of hers. It looked much like a watch, a thick black strip of nylon wrapped tight around her left wrist, but the square face had no way of telling the time. The only thing there was a small circular lens, barely the size of a pea. She pressed a button on the watch until the lens blinked a bright red only once with a high-pitched beep, then left her in the orange glow of the fire.
It was lucky she had hunted earlier, the small boar was already cooked, and she did not mind eating the meat cold. In utter silence she cut pieces of meat from the carcass and feasted on what was left. The silence was meant to allow her to mentally prepare. She was alone on this hunt, it would be very difficult, but she had primed for this all her life. She felt anxious, but she was still and calm. The ritual had worked out the shaking of her body, and the goose bumps had receded.
She thought about changes in the jungle that had occurred in the last century. A portion of the southern lands had been given to the government to appease them and discourage them from taking it all from her. She would avoid those, and lead the Paya away from them. It was nothing but mines now.
The trees near the east were probably big enough now to hold her weight on their branches. They were new and young trees after a fire had swept through there not long after the last hunt. It was also the area of her lands that she knew the least due to the new growth. Everywhere else she could maneuver through sleepwalking. Her eyes burned from the lack of rest in the previous night, but she was wide awake. There was no room for weariness in her body or mind.
The sun came up quickly soon after her meal, perhaps just as eager as she for the day. As the sky lit up, and the sound of the diurnal animals began to stir, she lifted her foot-long ba in her hand and stepped outside the hut. She stood, feeling the world around her began to heat back up. She listened to the whine of insects and rustling of leaves. The golden sun peeked over the trees and slowly began to light the entire village, falling on her and warming her skin. She closed her eyes and inhaled the air, taking in the familiar scents, and the one unfamiliar one.
Dark eyes opened to look into the darkness of the forest. All her muscles were taught. She gripped the spear tightly. She was waiting for some unseen command, some leave to go, whatever it was; a shift in the earth, a subtle change in the air, the movement of the sun or elongating of her shadow. She held her breath for a moment, then suddenly moved, jogging towards the trees. With a rustle, she was consumed by it.
The Kure Tua had now begun, and left alone in the village, the ghosts whispered: dtai'kai'-dte sa-de nau'gkon dtain'aun bpi-de.