Lincoln Hayes

Malu clutches the prize tightly beneath his beaten and brutalised torso—a small silver buckle, surreptitiously snatched from General Binnah’s boot as it had rained fury on his skull, ribs and belly.

A glob of phlegm, summoned from deep in his assailant’s chest, drips from the bridge of his broken nose, forming a tiny mud pool on the city’s dusty street as a crowd disperses. He is just another worthless foreigner—a speck of flotsam, savaged by the General’s infamous wrath.

Consciousness dwindling, Malu’s swollen eyes watch Binnah swaggering away, gemstone-studded cloak flapping in his wake. One of those gems—a ruby—cries out.

A thousand voices call Malu’s name. A thousand souls, spanning time immemorial, and Malu knows each one.

They are his ancestors.

***

He wakes, with the buckle still clasped tightly to his chest. Everything hurts—screams—as his senses claw their way to the surface.

A concerned, honey-hued face hovers above his.

‘Are you satisfied, cousin?’ Kaliu tut-tuts, muttering as he dabs Malu’s damaged body with an astringent poultice. ‘He could have killed you; yet, somehow, by the ancestors’ grace, you still breathe.’

Forcing his eyes open to confirm he is in the safety of their tiny, thatched hut, Malu grins, then immediately winces with the tearing of freshly healed cuts.

‘Yes,’ he says, opening his hand to reveal his trophy. ‘I have it!’

***

He was twelve when the riders came.

Malu, Kaliu, and four totem-brothers had been deep in the forest, on their month-long journey into manhood. But instead of being welcomed home to frond-waving and ululation, they returned to corpses and a village of smouldering ash.

While his totem-brothers searched frantically for survivors, Malu had sprinted to the ebony grove, where Balangu’s hut was now a smoking ruin.

As the Chieftain’s second-born son, Malu had been apprenticed to Balangu, the tribe’s shaman, since the age of eight. Under Balangu’s instruction, he meditated on the sacred ruby, which held the essence of his ancestors and the lineage of his tribe deep within its facets.

And through this ancient talisman and the souls that inhabited it, Malu learned the dream rites, empowering him to visit enemies and allies alike—in their sleep—to manipulate their thoughts and desires, acquire or convey secrets and, if needed, to kill.

But such magic took time and preparation; on this day, there had been neither. Kwaranian warhorses, led by then-Captain Binnah, had swept through without warning, burning and slaughtering mercilessly. By the time the boys had seen the smoke columns in the distance and sprinted the forest-paths homewards, the Kwaranians—and their homes—were gone.

With no regard for the embers scorching his feet, Malu had rushed into the ruins of Balangu’s hut, stepping over his mentor’s charred body, to sift through white-hot debitage, searching in vain for the ruby. Weeping for his tribe.

***

‘It must be tonight,’ Malu whispers hoarsely.

Kaliu grunts and disappears into the darkness, returning with a glowing brazier. From beneath his bed-rags, Malu produces a satchel containing the dried roots and herbs he has foraged over the years, anticipating this night—a task made almost impossible in this alien and spiteful land. Yet here, to Kwaran—General Binnah’s home—is where their trail of vengeance brought them, to infiltrate the city as indentured workers: slaving for meagre pay, waiting and preparing.

Malu sprinkles a pinch of each item into a simmering pot, muttering the incantations Balangu infused deep in his memory. With each chant, he descends deeper into a trance, becoming one with the deepening night. Finally, he holds the buckle to his forehead, and with one final utterance drops it into the potion. Pungent, pus-yellow froth rises and spills over the vessel’s lip and douses the fire—leaving the cousins in darkness.

All is silent but for Malu guzzling the brew, oblivious to the scalding of his mouth and tongue.

***

Typically, General Binnah snores like a lion, but tonight, he whimpers in his sleep, shrill squeals emanating from rigid, motionless lips. He feels paralysed, as if a granite giant kneels astride his arms and legs, gripping his throat with remorseless hands.

From a distance, he is sleeping soundly, but in his mind, he is emphatically awake.

He senses the shadow-creature lurking in the flickering shadows of his candle-lit chamber. His eyes dart desperately from one dark corner to the next, searching for the source of his terror, then fall upon the empty hook by the hearth, where his gem-studded cloak should be—a lifetime’s accumulation of talismanic powers from villages like Malu’s that have emboldened his despotic depredations.

A distorted apparition, vaguely human in shape, manifests at the foot of his bed. Vibrating. Blurring and refocusing. Growling. At its centre is a vibrant, red light. Its intensifying incandescence warms his face at first, but soon begins to scorch him, bubbling and peelinghis skin and flesh in layers, until his exposed skull cracks, then crumbles, leaving smouldering, ashen residue and brain grease on his opulent pillows.

***

In his dream-state, the shaman’s acolyte balances the ruby in his outstretched palm. The fury and indignation of a thousand generations flows through him, dispensing destruction and death.

***

Malu wakes, dawn’s light creeping across his still-swollen face, a new treasure clasped to his chest. Clamour grows in the distance, coming from the direction of the palace.

Kaliu sighs deeply, relieved at his cousin’s re-emergence, tears welling at the sight of the red glow seeping through the cracks in Malu’s fingers.

Within minutes, the two young men slip away unnoticed into a teeming crowd, leaving this abominable place behind them.

***

In a clearing, beyond the vestiges of the old village and the ebony grove where Balangu’s hut once stood, a new hamlet has sprung. A smattering of survivors has begun to rebuild. On this night, the shadow-man—a messenger bathed in the warm, red glow of their tribe’s ancient talisman, visits his four totem-brothers in their sleep.

Balangu’s acolyte—now their shaman—is returning home, and with him, the souls of a thousand generations.

---

Lincoln Hayes is a resident of Townsville, Queensland. Although qualified as an archaeologist, he has spent most of his working life in government policy roles, before discovering a love of storytelling. His flash fiction and short stories have appeared in online publications such as Literally Stories, Commuter Lit and Claws Out Literary.

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