I-V: Hard Work for Easy Life


The Open Sea, The Bloody Coasts, West Africa

Morning, 868 Anno Domini, May 1st (?)

Anené looked upwards to the open sky, admiring the pale sky above. He adjusted his new eyes again, to see a clear view of flocks of birds flying in formation. The clouds were sharper, he saw every colour that could possibly exist. Gone were the days of grainy, blurry vision; now, the world was a breathtaking tapestry of hues and textures.

"Astonishing…" he thought.

It was a wonderful thing, to finally see the world of how other people saw it. It was stark contrast to his childhood days.

"You look ridiculous." came the voice of his companion on the boat, he coughed awkwardly as he looked behind him to see a comparatively more beautiful and feminine individual that was looking at him with mocking disdain. A grin almost threatened to break her flat expression, and he blushed a bit in embarrassment.

"Yes? W-Well, your hat looks ridiculous!" he said back.

In response, the young woman laughed, and he felt more shame and a growing feeling in his stomach. It was way far from the truth, it was a sunhat made of straw, and painted in pure alabaster, it greatly overhauled her charm, contrary to his words.

It has been a year since the tribes have convened together, and much had changed since then. The school in Man has grown, and was able to fit a hundred people by now, but construction has been ongoing since. The intertribal council has been split into two parts when bureaucracy was officially implemented within it, known as the Upper Clan and Lower Clan respectively.

"It is not funny, Ama." he huffed and crossed his arms, his brows furrowed.

She continued sniggering.

He waved his head in exasperation, and looked towards his honoured chieftess. Except, she wasn't on the boat. Nor anywhere where she could be seen for that matter. Where was she?

He looked up and saw her up the mast, and found her. Her lithe form hanging on with one hand and her feet, as she peered across the horizon, her body swaying slightly with the movement of the boat. Her right hand shielded her eyes from the sun as she peered intently across the horizon.

How in Nyame did she get up there?

"Aha!" she said suddenly, and his eyes bulged for a second as she leapt from the mast with reckless abandon.

*SPLASH*

"Ah!" their voices carried across the salty breeze.

"That was rude of her." she harrumphed.

"You're speaking about our chieftess, Ama." he leaned down to pick up a compass, examining it closely.

"As if…" she snorted and rolled her eyes.

Silence fell over them, punctuated only by the rhythmic lapping of the sea against the boat's sides.

"It has been long." she spoke, staring into the deep blue.

"Hm?" he had already put down the compass and was now examining a nearby clipboard, made of tropical wood and primitive parchment.

"Do you remember when things changed?"

"Hm? What do you mean?"

"Well… when we stopped living our lives… normally." she said, spotting a fishing boat in the distance.

Anené raised an eyebrow, trying to decipher the illustrations.

"Normally?"

"The furnaces… the city… all those things. Things that were not there when we were just another tribe, living our days…"

Another fishing boat joined, se squinted at the flags adorning the vessel, lost in thought

"Those old days… seem so small now. So far away."

"Heh, yes. Do you remember that time we had to make a gift for my papa?" he gave a wistful smile.

"Antó looked insane when she had to rock that thing back and forth, I couldn't believe she would spend so much time on that." she was talking about the lathe, made of wood and powered by human determination, the way how frantic she looked.

"She made different clocks when we were young, one powered by water, one powered by the sun." he reminisced.

"She took us to many places," she smiled at that..

"-and we usually get in trouble." both shivered at the memories of the face of the wife of Guere Yawo.

Ami's gaze drifted towards the horizon, where more ships dotted the seascape.

"Wonder how Adofo, Ackon and Dede are doing." Ami pondered.

"Huh, which Dede?"

"Both of them." she scratched her neck.

"Siriboe Dede, if I remember is part of the housecraft caste." Anené adjusted his glasses as he put down the clipboard.

"Bemah is busy with her babies, Ackon is still on his northern expedition, I haven't heard from his runner yet. And Adofo is with the soapmixer man." he shook his head and his eyes landed on a jar, it was filled with strange plants suspended in queer liquid.

Ama sighed, taking her eyes from the growing number of canoes.

"What was she looking for anyways-"

The boat rocked at her response, curious, they looked at the brown fingers straining on the sailing canoe. Finally, Antó hoisted herself up, her body dripping with seawater, and in her left hand were three crabs. Anené grimaced as one of the crabs was pinching her skin, drawing blood.

"Does not that hurt?" he cringed.

"Like the devil himself, the salt isn't helping either." she nodded, her expression seemed unbothered about it.

"Wait a moment! How did you spot crabs from there!" Ama exclaimed, as she pointed her finger towards the mast.

"Probabilities." as if that explained everything.

She let out a suffering sigh at that and shook her head.

"Whatever, get those crabs off your fingers before everyone makes fun of you having three fingers." she scooted over and attempted to get rid of the crabs.

"What are we gonna use them for?" Anené said.

"Krabby Patties." she said in a language that wouldn't be invented.

"What."


Far from the trio, a massive fleet (by their standards) plied the waters, their canoes transformed into makeshift fishing vessels and transport crafts. The bustling scene was a symphony of controlled chaos. Men, and even a few women, raised their voices, giving orders that resonated over the sea breeze. Nets heavy with sardines, mackerels, tilapias, and anchovies were hoisted aboard by a mix of slaves and young fisherman apprentices.

There they were swiftly and precariously loaded up into separate barges, where rowers strained and huffed, their synchronized efforts keeping the rhythm with the beat of the drums. Boatmasters bellowed commands, and the resounding "heave!" and "ho!" of the crew echoed across the water as they propelled the laden barges toward the rapidly growing port town.

As the convoy approached, the air grew thick with the unmistakable scent of fish. The town exuded the odorous blend of fresh fish, drying fish, boiling fish, and the unfortunate presence of rotting fish. It was a settlement primarily inhabited by those of the lower caste, with the occasional highborn figure scattered here and there.

The main feature of this settlement, however, was undoubtedly the expansive compound situated near the (yet-to-be-completed) harbour. Rows upon rows of metal cooking pots exuded steam and odour, as fish flesh was boiled until yellow sardine pus bubbled into the open air. Women wearing masks and aprons did their diligent work as children ran to and fro making deliveries or were needed for assistance. The mixture was then strained, collected, and stored in airtight barrels ready to be transported.


"Industry" Grounds, Tribe of Nuon, West Africa

Late Morning, 868 Anno Domini, Same Date

"BY THE ANCESTORS! What is this SMELL!?" an old woman exclaimed, coughing harshly into her fist, almost gagging. It was enough to pinch her nose in disgust.

"This is the "rendering works" mother…" a younger man calmly rubbed his poor parental figure on her back.

A new domain was present in Chief Berko's tribe, it was built on the other side of the river a few moons ago. A stone bridge connected the land from the other side, it was well constructed by the standards of the tribe's builders. It was graciously accepted as a useful gift, serving a vital link between the two river banks, courtesy of Chieftess Guere. The site had five massive pots, forged from good Nimba iron, a brick furnace was built under them to heat the pots. Where men with thick masks filled with charcoal and cloth were stirring the boar tallow (sometimes hippo, when one appears in the river) into a consistent porridge, filling the air with heated fats.

This mother-son duo was perched on a cart full of ashes, which was turned into lye for the preparation of the soap. The mother wanted to see what her recently missing son was up to, and came along for the ride. To which, the son was starting to regret.

The ash cart finally stopped at their destination, in front of a building which looked like a small Western European-style barn with a thatched African-style roof. When its doors slammed open, it revealed a small swarm of young men and boys rushing towards the small convoy to pick up the barrels of ashes and dead animals. The mother and son got off from the court, stepping on morning mud and dirtying their bare feet.

*squelch*

"What obscene labour is this used for?" she sneered, marching forwards closer despite the smell, and uncaring of a surprised boy-slave slipping into the muddy field beside her.

"For the soaps mother…" her son caught up to her, the fallen slave-boy was then covered in more mud by the son's puddle rain, his complaints went unheard.

"SOAPS!? THIS!? SOAPS ARE MADE OF THIS BOILED ROTTEN SOUP!?" she screeched at him, all males within in the vicinity wincing from the sudden sensitivity of their precious eardrums.

"Mother…" he hissed painfully.

A new luxury was taking the tribal nobility by storm, and that was that miraculous-scented bar, that did away any sweat and grime. It left a fresh cooling feeling that provided much-needed relief in the tropical heat. It came in many shapes and sizes, including long bars for the new wooden bathhouses, or exquisitely scented and meticulously shaped ones reserved for those who could afford to pay a princely sum.

"How did you even know what soap is made of, son of mine?" there it was, that look of opportunity, of greed… The son lowered his eyelids in exhaustion, and shook his head.

"You won't tell your own mother?"

"Chieftess Guere tasked me to-"

"YOU HAD AN AUDIENCE WITH CHIEFTESS GUERE!?" she cut him off, her eyes filled with stars as she held her offspring's shoulders tightly.

It seems he may have made a mistake…

He coughed, and cleared his throat. "-as I said. Chieftess Guere tasked me to help her make soap for her tribal healthcare project, in exchange for my freedom. Myself, and several others who were captives, were-"

"Why haven't I heard of this!? Why did you not tell me that first!?" she demanded, her eyes boring into his with unwavering intensity.

"You were… distracted." he shivered.

"Hmph." she let him go, but the Kru noblewoman adopted a calculating look.

"What specifically is your relationship with her, my son?" ambition and avarice glinted in her eyes.

"Cordial, mother." he lowered his eyelids in deadpan. The older woman, though, remained unconvinced and crossed her arms at him.

"Fine! Yes… she is… beautiful." he admitted.

"But she didn't seem all that interested in me specifically, she was open to the rest of the captives, she was more friendly with people her age or younger." If he were twenty years younger, he would have made a fool out of himself, or dead. No matter what, even if you were a barbarian tribe, you did not mess about with a chieftain's daughter, alive or not.

That was what he believed, as a proper man.

During his captivity in slavery, he had thought of her as a wistful and naive girl, but a very powerful one at that, when she revived the fallen warriors with her spells. What astounded him most about the young woman though was… how far she had thought ahead. Ridiculously so, he would have thought there was a very interfering abosom or a blabber-mouthed ancestor spirit helping her along. Her knowledge seemed without end, every move, every scenario real or imagined.

How plague spread through the land and your body, how much you can build high up, before it collapses, how many people you can remember before you start forgetting, how to find the culprit of a crime…

It was almost… terrifying.

Somehow though, they all swore a contract in her name as second-class debt slaves, not a bad deal for them, it was better than becoming two-footed livestock.

"Hmph, keeping her options open, I see." she said with a mix of disappointment and what seemed to be mild respect. He shook his head at that.

"Other than that mother, she-"

"Ah there you are, this your mother, Jojo?" a female voice interrupted his words. Both of them to a woman, wearing one of those newfangled sunhats.

"I wonder where that piercing scream came from." she said casually, hands on her hips.

"Who is she?" his mother said with a blank look.

"Ah, honoured mother, she is my charge. Her name is-"


The Market Village, Tribe of Sherbro, West Africa

868 Anno Domini, Same Date

A deep, resonant horn call reverberated in the village of Sherbro, both freemen and slaves listened to its call. They knew that ominous sound all too well. For the trueborn, it signalled yet another lucrative business venture; for the slaves, it was the sound of doom for their homelands…

Out of all the Kru, the Tribe of Sherbro was most infamous for its captive-taking tactics. Other Kru only stole anything shiny and valuable, with the occasional slaves. For this tribe, they exclusively swore in spriting men, women, and children far from their lands of birth.

"Come, my son, it is time..." the father lazily grinned.

"Yes, honoured father…" the son licked his lips.


Culinary Arts School (Under Construction), Tribe "District" of Man, West Africa

868 Anno Domini, Same Date

Foundations for the city were underway, as the mountain side was beginning to be dug and reshaped into terraces for agricultural purposes. Upon these newly completed terraces, the first seeds were being sown, notably sorghum. Sorghum is a versatile crop with many uses, from the making of alcoholic beverages and bread, to an important component in brooms, and even be a delectable syrup. It can even be consumed directly, tasting a bit nutty with a chewy texture.

"I still do not believe that making food is a science." Ama said, sitting by the window.

"Utterly unconvinced, are you? Whatever… but now it is time to make the buns, with our new ovens!" the chieftess said to Ama, while fastening her new apron around her waist.

Ama frowned while she was listening to the whispers of the students at the other end of the table, failing to be discreet.

"Can you imagine? A highborn cooking their own meals!"

"She must be high ranked if she can speak to her chieftess oh so casually!"

"It is as the legends say! She is so captivating!"

Ama rolled her eyes at them, then looked to the chieftess and her rapidly reddening cheeks.

What an easy woman.

Speaking of women, the new students were all that, mostly from highborn families of each respective tribe. Seeing as no boys would ever want to be caught dead in here, they'd rather have much more dignified crafts like building and hunting. A true shame really, Guere Antó would have liked teaching and moulding a Krumen Gordon Ramsay. But alas… it will take some time.

During the confederation process, an amendment for education was mandatory… at least for freemen and those that had the time. The chieftess really fought hard for all to be universally educated, but there were many things to do, children were expected to help their families first than seeing them become independent and capable. Those modern ideals were non-viable in an age before industrialization, and the chieftess conceded defeat and went with the forlornly realistic decision the other chieftains outlined in the agreement.

"Alright girls! Now you form it into a smooth round shape, practice makes perfect!" the ten female students followed the chieftess, poised and confident in their abilities to follow.

The school, really, was a collection of long huts filled with classroom facilities from whatever an iron-age tribe could scrounge up. It was its own little gated community with gender-specific dorms and for what limited amount of teachers they had, which was cutting it close.

"Ah! Undergraduate Anené, did you bring the nuts and seeds?"

Often, the more learned students served as part-time teachers, passing on their knowledge and guidance to their peers. They got the name of "undergraduates", as the line between teacher and student was thin for them.

"Now unto the meats! We'll be using crabmeat, but first…! We must tenderize it so…"


Hall of Elders, Tribe of Toro, West Africa

868 Anno Domini, Same Date

Shaman Akyaw Afúom looked resolutely at the gathered shamans, in solemn regality. Deep within the heart of their sacred gathering, a central fire cast its flickering light upon each of their stony faces, ravaged by time. The eldest of them, Shaman Kwame stood among the rest, his bony fingers holding his healing staff tight.

"My honoured brothers…" Shaman Kwame's aged voice carried across the sacred chamber.

"It has come to our ears that the world of spirits has begun intertwining with the living once more, and it has been for these lasting moons, since she appeared." the men rumbled in agreement, men who saw realities beyond imagining.

"The cycle is coming to an end…" a blind shaman, muttered.

"We must act, honoured brothers, so that the land of all men shall live on…!" the lead shaman proclaimed. Knowing all too well the dire consequences that could arise when the realm of the unseen interfered with the world of the living.

The gods possessed immense power, but that did not mean they were steady with it, often leading to immense disaster. Often, they bought curses instead of blessings, when one's prayers were misunderstood by their divine minds, which were beyond human understanding and often lacked the sensibilities of puny mortals.

Though the memory was nearly forgotten, the oldest of the gathering remembered ancient whispers of a great temple of wood and vine, adorned by the finest jewels, where crimson wine cascaded down its grand steps.

All of it brought down by a devastating storm, triggered by a long-forgotten wish, the names of those responsible and the nature of their wish lost to the annals of history, destined never to be unravelled.

If they were to exist more than mere whispers, they had to do something about the anomaly in their midst.

Witnessed by many, the miracles and altruism of the Chieftess of Man has shifted their powers over her own domain, with "medics" and "engineers" replacing many of their positions that they have held for thousands of years. But that wasn't the problem, sure there were those threatened by the changes she brought with her inventions and institutions. Yes, it was scary, but what made them sleepless at nights was if she were to abuse her powers, and threaten not just their way of life… but all mankind.

There was a reason why Nyame, the brightest one of all, ascended into the heavens and left the realms of mortals alone.

"We must destroy her!" one declared.

"How!? She is nigh invincible, you old fool! I was there to witness her fiery rage!" a shaman from Bassa sneered at the warhawk.

It was something he never forgot, burned deep into his memory as men cried like babes as they were engulfed by the purple. He was no stranger to burned men, but fire, for him, was a small thing, that could be managed. The battlefield at Man saw no hope in quenching the otherworldly flame.

"Must we truly bow our heads to the girl-child?" a considering shaman said with a frown.

"A girl-child of her calibre, that undoubtedly can make us bow our heads with just but a thought." one flatly said.

More rumblings between old rivals sounded, only three were not giving any trouble, that being Shaman Akyaw himself, the blind shaman, and of course-

"Silence, honoured brothers! Silence!" the most eldest croaked.

At that, they quieted, fearful and respectful of the warrior grandfather.

"Though she is blessed, gifted by great and terrible power. We must not be too hasty in bringing the doom upon us all. First, we must acknowledge of what we know of the Chieftess of Man." at that, the oldest gave a pointed look to the elder Akyaw, and he stood at attention and began to speak the facts.

"I thank you, honoured brother." Akyaw bowed and he began to explain.

"To comprehend the true extent of her power, it is crucial to grasp the abilities she wields. She possesses formidable mastery to move things with her sorcery, able to complete an entire gathering hall faster than our most skilled builders. She displays a mastery of the purple flame, seemingly without end, and carries with it desolation." at that the shamans looked grim, a few nodded their heads at that.

"No mind is safe from her heart, of which she reads through the mind and soul. So it will not be easy to lie or deceive, she can sense the whole of our soul." an incident at Sherbro saw two men convicted to death after the Chieftess sensed their malice within their hearts, saving the lives of a family.

"Most of all, she has power over people, ensnaring those who hear her sing." to them, it was the most terrifying of her abilities, to rob ones' senses and make it her own.

"It was shown time and time again, at the feast of unification, the mining chants, her own place of learning…"

"That is our adversary, honoured brothers, if we give her reason to be." Akyaw bowed, and sat back down.

Murmurs were shared, one wanted to find a way to banish her, another saw to it to reel her in through binding spiritual contracts, from marriage, to blood pacts, and more.

"Shaman Yaw, honoured brother, if you would please." the elder asked of him.

"Yes, most honourable brother." he stood and bowed like the rest, and the blind shaman gave his report.

"My spies have been diligent, and have found a great a many things." he spread his arms wide.

"As what honourable brother Akyaw has said. My shadows have told me of the influence Chieftess Guere has been in her learning place. The daughters of the highborn, are no doubt being exposed to her abilities, whether they have become slaves to her will remain uncertain." some shamans swore, truly what a travesty for those of high birth.

"She also travels in disguise, usually having her eyes covered whenever she goes upon excursions of our new confederacy, mostly visiting the new industries, then going back to her village, where the trail lies dead." the blind shaman sat back down having said his piece.

They weighed many different options, and more arguments began to erupt but were cut short when Kwame glared at them. Plans were formed, and secret pacts were made far from the light of the fire. Still, if they were planning on taking on a demi-goddess, perhaps help could be found elsewhere. Suddenly two smoking bowls were raised, suspended by the threads of the bony fingers of the eldest.

At that cue, they began searching for their answers.

They chanted the words of blessing to open the gate between the veils of the mortal world and the spiritual one. The room quickly filled with smoke, their lungs breathed it in deeply and soon their physical beings were infused by the wisdom of the spirits of past, present, and future.

Shaman Akyaw breathed in most heavily of all, the chemicals infusing with oxygen to feed his blood, to begin its divine and holy work.

Then, he began to see.


He saw a tree, burning in the rain. Its fruits were once plentiful and pure, but soon overtime, they all fell one by one, becoming useless and rotten, for no one was there to see the value in them. For that sorrow, the tree lost all its lustre, its branches dry and brittle. When the fire came to, there was nothing left of the tree, but its ashes that once held forgotten fruit.

The other was a mountain, greater than any mountains he had seen, its peak had risen to the moon, creating a spectacle one could never forget. But soon, that moon, that beautiful midnight sun, drifted away from the mountain, leaving it behind. Soon the mountain began to crumble, little by little, its mighty peak withered away, until it became a small hill, then it collapsed further, leaving behind nothing but an empty meaningless hole.

The nest vision he had was that of a flower, a flower that sang with the most beautiful voice, but it was a fragile flower, and it only grew weaker as it matured. Soon, its songs were becoming seldom to hear, its voice becoming muter as it wilted. Then, all of its petals and leaves have fallen off, leaving behind an empty husk that could never sing again.

Finally, came the last vision, he saw a weeping storm, that converged into a massive whirling hurricane, but what terrified him was that it wasn't made of water.

It was made of blood.

He was once a young man who gave violence freely to anyone who sought it, now an old man who gave violence to those in need, he killed with precision and grace. He had seen many scenes of viscera in his life, of gore and horror, and he was unfazed by it all.

But somehow, this was the one that made him lose his nerves, he felt himself get pulled by the winds and screamed for someone to save him. He felt his body stretch into impossible proportions, and he screamed even more.

But, it was over.


All that was left, when he opened his eyes, was a sore pain in his head. Grunting he stood up, to see the hall in shambles, the rest of the shamans were delirious, and he shook his head to focus his mind.


Mudfield, Tribe of Grebo, West Africa

868 Anno Domini, May 12th

Kwateng Owusu, chieftain of the Grebo tribe knew that his end had come. Shouts of men being beaten bloody and his son's forces being routed let him know that it has finally come to a close.

The Sherbro, he imagined. Thought that they didn't much care for them, other than being a buyer of their goods of working hands. Decades ago, they even worked together to reel in a big haul from the eastern tribes, further east than they have ever rowed, to become fat with riches. No, they had the rest of the spoils, and they were content, the bigger tribe had organised most of it after all.

But then, strange rumours and, even stranger developments have occurred while they were planning their own little raid themselves.

All four of the most powerful and influential of the tribes -Sherbro, Bassa, Nuon, Sapie-, and a few others lost a retaliation war in a single night. He chalked it up to arrogance and bad luck, dismissing the outlandish tale of a female goatman who spit fire from its hooves, or something similar to that.

Then, the news of a new tribal confederacy reached his village. From a runner from Bassa, saying that they should join in as well and become united as a country. The concept of a nation state, defined by their shared culture and solidarity was present as clans and tribes within the jungles. But to apply it to multiple highborn families, joining together willingly for the good of their people?

They said no thanks, when he mentioned taxes.

Still, they learned a lot. A say on their tribe, to be seen as equal on an over-council, lackeys on the below-council to jockey your position for you. To become more than raiders, to share infrastructure and technology with one another. But they were fine on their own, no need for overcomplications.

Days turned to months, and wounded scouts came into his hall.

An army was coming for them, led by the chieftain's son, looking for glory for himself, and they just happened to be the target. He called for his best warriors, his best healers, and sought to face them on the field. As the war drums pounded and sweat ran down their war paint, they knew they would not make this out in one piece.

When the first battle cries of the Sherbro warriors pierced the air, they did as well. He led his warriors into the heart of the conflict, their war chants blending with the frenzied shouts of their adversaries. Hearts were pierced by the minute, as spears and arrows flew from both sides, but the Sherbro had more of it than them, and the tide soon overwhelmed them. As the hours passed, the number of Grebo warriors dwindled, and hope began to fade. Chieftain Owusu could see the desperation and fear on the faces of his mean, and the situation was a lost cause.

As he lay bleeding on the ground, his last thoughts were that of his son, and wondered if he survived.


It was surreal to sense all around you, with no body to feel nor lungs to breathe. But he could hear the snot from this man, as he revelled in his "noble victory". The beheaded son gave a sneer, the enemy crowd was pointing at him as the light expanded.

He would soon be with Nyame, but he didn't want to be.


A/N:

:p :p :p