Dark Fantasy

Ipswich, England 1942

Anthony Sinclair raced down the long white corridors of the hospital. The world was a blur, his mind focused entirely on his destination. This couldn’t be happening, he told himself over and over again. He rounded the corner and paused. Henry Griphan, his best friend and closest confidant, sat in one of the hard wooden chairs, his arms folded across his chest and head between his knees. He looked utterly miserable and covered head to toe in guilt.

No, it couldn’t be.

“Henry,” he breathed as he neared him.

The former General of Her Majesty’s Army looked up with tearful eyes and, for a moment, there was no recognition. Then he blinked and the haze slowly moved out of his dark grey eyes. Henry struggled to his feet, still unsteady with his new prosthetic leg. He’d only got it a month ago and still could not seem to function at his former level.

“Andy? Andy, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I tried to save her. I—” he babbled almost incoherently.

Anthony grabbed the taller man’s arms and shook him. “Where is she, Henry? Where’s Xyan?”

Henry gazed to the door he was seated next to with a forlorn look, but said nothing. He didn’t need to. Anthony let him go immediately and headed for it in a long, determined stride. He ignored Henry’s apologizes as he opened the door and stepped inside and stopped.

The room was private of course, he paid for nothing less, after all, his family sponsored the hospital and even helped in its construction over a century ago. Such favors were rarely forgotten, even today. The only occupant of the room lay on a sterile metal bed in the center of the room, her head propped up on numerous pillows. A lone sheet covered her pale petite body, her tan long gone by the shock of the accident. Whoever pushed her down the stairs would pay, Anthony silently guaranteed.

He moved cautiously toward the bed, fearful to awaken the small woman, yet unable to stop himself. This wasn’t his beloved. This wasn’t his beautiful wife who never harmed a soul in her life. Her ebony black hair was limp and covered in sweat. The pallor of her flesh was tinged with hints of blue. She looked deathly pale, but there was no doubt she’d given birth and he feared for both his wife’s and child’s well being. Nonetheless, Xyan was still breathtaking.

“Xyan,” he whispered as he stroked her cheek.

Her brows bunched together before her chocolate brown eyes opened. She smiled tiredly up at him. “Antonio…what took you so long?” she teased. Her eyes closed and for a moment Anthony feared she passed out, but then they reopened and she winced in obvious pain before she smiled past it. “So, what’s a hunk like you doing in a place like this?”

Anthony smiled softly at her. Despite her obvious pain, Xyan kept upbeat. For his sake more than her own, he suspected. He brushed her sweat soaked hair from her eyes. “Checking on my baby.”

Her eyes sparkled in mischief. “Naomi’s in the nursery.”

“You know what I mean.”

She sniffed and tried to stretch, only to cry out in pain. Instantly, Anthony bent over her. She shook her head. “No, Antonio. I’m – I’m all right. I just hurt.”

“Is there anything I can do?” he asked gently.

Xyan reached up and touched his chiseled cheek. His long blue-black hair fell over his shoulder to brush her arm. Her smile broadened. “No, my love. The damage is too severe, even for magick.”

“But—”

Her fingers brushed his lips to silence him. “Our best healers have tried. It is a curse we cannot counter so there is no point to fight it.”

“Xyan,” he breathed. Tears burned at the back of his eyes.

“Lay with me,” she pleaded. For the first time since she awoke, there was real fear in her voice and tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

Nodding, he took off his glasses. He placed them on the small nightstand next to the bed, then placed his jacket on the chair. Climbing under the sheet with her, he gently pulled her near, fearful of her internal injuries. Xyan cuddled up close, her head tucked under his chin as he wrapped his arms around her petite frame and drew as close as their bodies would allow. Her slim form shook in his arms, but she said nothing in complaint. Xyan was one of the strongest women Anthony knew. If only he could take her back to Spain, back to her parents so she could be surrounded by her family, but there wasn’t enough time and he didn’t possess the power to teleport her such a distance. He didn’t know what to do.

Her aura fluctuated and patches of black appeared here and there, a sure sign she was poisoned and soon her aura would deteriorate and then her soul would leave as well. This was no mere accident. There must be something he could do to save her, something his magick could do.

She gazed up into his tri-blue eyes and caressed his cheek. “Hey lover, what are you thinking?”

“How much I love you.”

“Liar.”

He laughed but it sounded hollow. “I was, too. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” She lifted her lips to his in a gentle but tantalizing kiss. She pulled back but only for a moment. “Make love to me.”

His eyes widened. “We’re in a hospital.”

“So, let’s get out of here.” She winked suggestively. “I was thinking some place warm and secluded. Just you and me.”

Anthony was so tempted. She looked so wanton, so needy and utterly gorgeous no matter how exhausted she appeared. He cupped her cheeks and kissed her forehead. “What about Naomi?”

“She’s safe. Please, Antonio, I need you. I want you. One last time.”

Anthony closed his eyes. He wanted to say no, but he could never deny her. She was his wife, his life and if he was about to lose her, he would see to it she received her heart’s desire before she passed on to the next life. With barely a thought, he teleported them away from the hospital to a small clearing in the woods just outside of town where they picnicked only a week ago. They lay together under an old oak and listened to the sounds of life all around them.

Anthony’s mind worked franticly for a spell to cure his beloved as he slowly stripped her of the plain hospital gown she wore. She lay beneath him and smiled lovingly up at him as she tried to assist in disrobing him, but she was already tired and weak. He stripped off the last of his clothes as she watched with an appreciative eye. She often teased him about his football player build, how perfect his broad shoulders and slim waist were and how pale of skin he was, so unlike his cousins from Spain. Now Anthony felt more awkward than he did the first night they made love. But Xyan only smiled and opened her arms to him with a sultry smile of encouragement.

They made love slowly on the cool, damp grass on into the night with all the passion of any young couple. Anthony made sure to kiss every square inch of her, to bring her as much pleasure as humanly possible and then some. He made it last for hours and her cries of need and pleasure were like music to his ears. She writhed beneath him, clawed at his back and begged for more until finally there was no more to give and they lay curled together on the soft bed of grass.

Xyan’s head rested on Anthony’s chest as they fought to catch their breath. Her breathing was shallow and, if Anthony didn’t know better, he would have thought she was about to fall asleep. But she didn’t. She held him as tightly as she could, but grew weaker and weaker by the moment. He pulled her as tightly to him as he dared and fought the urge to crush her to him.

“We’ll meet again,” he whispered against her hair. “I’ll find you and we’ll be together again. I promise.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” she breathed, her eyes closed. “It may be life times before we find each other.”

“I will find you, Xyan,” he promised.

She sighed in agreement before her body went limp in his arms and her soul fled. Anthony continued to cradle her lifeless body nonetheless, and repeated the oath over and over again like a mantra. He would find Xyan again, even if it took lifetimes.

A sickening crack filled the small spilt level house, followed by the tearing of flesh. It was a glorious sound he could have sung to. The feeling of raw flesh brought back the blood lust he had not felt in ages. It came like an old friend you would never turn away. He yearned for more. The feel, the taste. The smell was intoxicating and arousing in a perverse sort of way. The man, if you could call him a man any more, quivered in his arms, his shattered spine allowed only his neck to move in a jerky shiver of muscles. He would die soon, leave this world as he came, crying for mercy. Sinclair was as pitiful as those who came before him.

"Michael, please! I'm your father!" the middle-aged French man cried. He was podgy around the sides, years of limited exercise and tobacco taking its toll. He was perhaps the most pitiful of the great line of magicians.

His cries for freedom fell on deaf ears as the man, once his son, leaned close to his throat. "Michael's dead," the vampire purred, slowly licking his jaw line. "My name is Henry."

Sinclair sobbed as he was fed upon, his magick and strength being stripped of him. In this form, Henry was not as large as he had once been, not by half. His soil drenched tuxedo made him appear like the devil himself. Long brown hair clung around his shoulders. It was a style Henry had always despised, but beggars cannot be choosers. The smaller form had the strength of the gods. He was a god.

Henry held Sinclair close, allowing their bodies to touch as he pulled every last drop of power from within the dying man. His lips made their way to Sinclair's throat. He felt the large man stiffen as he pierced the flesh with his teeth. Henry almost stopped. He really didn't want it to appear like a vampire attack.

It would alert the wrong people. But a frenzied hunger gripped him. First, he would drink from the husband and then his perky little wife who was cowering across the room.

He felt his loins tighten at the thought of her blonde hair.

Dropping Sinclair's lifeless form on the bloodstained beige carpet, he crawled on his hands and knees toward Mrs. Sinclair. She was young, too young to be Michael's mother. The body hosting his spirit was eighteen. Sinclair's wife could only be in her late twenties or early thirties. She was such a small thing, golden blonde hair, and petite body. It was her chest that must have caught Sinclair's attention. She was well endowed and had the feel of a cocktail waitress or former stripper. It was possible then, more than one Sinclair had fallen for such girls. Nevertheless, there was magick within her. Not as strong as her husband's, but still there. She was a seductress, using her gifts to gain money, fame, and love.

Henry's new senses told him all this in less than a heartbeat. When Michael was alive, he had resented her and at the same time, secretly desired her. Today, those dreams would come true, even if Michael were no longer alive to enjoy the fruits of his labour.

She did not scream, to much shock even to think clearly. It was how Henry liked it. He was a wolf stalking his prey. The boy would not be like this. No, the child would fight, so would his friends. Nevertheless, one by one, they, too, will become his. The faery and angel will bow before him. They will lay under him, crying out his name in passion, and he would give them a pleasure they could never have dreamt.

The woman whimpered as he reached her. It was impossible to believe she could ever have mothered the body he now inhabited. She was so young, so very tasty. He nuzzled her neck, drinking in her fear.

"Please, Michael. Don't do this," she sobbed as he undid her soiled blouse.

 "Lynda. May I call you, Lynda?" He grinned down at her as he sat on the edge of the bed and caught her leg before she could pull away. "That's a very pretty name. I guess you know by now your husband's dead and I'm not Michael. Well, not any more at least. And no, I'm not a demon, not quite at least." His hand started to travel up her naked thigh. "We're going to be very close for the next few weeks. Very close. You see, I've been dead this past week. A coma of sorts. A crazed Warlock switched bodies with me at the last moment." He indicated the closed bullet hole on his forehead. "Should've killed me. I'm not quite sure why it didn't or why Michael's memories led me here, but there's a purpose behind everything, I suppose. Now I'm just hungry. Very, very hungry."

She screamed then, long and as loud as the gag would allow her. Henry smirked as he lowered himself upon her. "I like my food lively," he teased before striking. Soon Elijah Hawke will scream in agony as he, too, lost all his loved ones to Henry Griffin.

Unnaturally smooth walls rose fifty metres to where sunlight filtered in through a stained, but once clear, perma-glaz dome. The chamber appeared to be some three hundred metres in circumference with several openings to the outside. To his left, a broad staircase swept up to a gallery. He checked carefully for signs of Priest or Activist. Finding none, Rhyka started across the floor for the gallery. About halfway across, a harsh booming noise froze him in his tracks.

From the corner of his eye, Rhyka spied a gigantic predator rushing out a tunnel mouth, wings spread, arcing downward, thrusting with long tearing claws. His jaw dropped. Its wingspan must be forty metres from wing tip to wing tip. Cruel cat-yellow eyes, the size of a cartwheel, fastened him with a malevolent stare. Filled with unimaginable terror, he stood rooted to the spot. With a sinking stomach, Rhyka realised that his sword would be no more than a thorn to this brute. The beast must be some sort of Priestly watchdog.

The creature’s head was a metre and a half-long, supporting a bright blue crest. Its neck continuously twisted this way and that. Shades of light brown flecked the upper and under wings. From claw to blue topknot, Rhyka put the creature anywhere from fourteen to sixteen metres in height. Its beak was bone yellow as long as a small canoe and mottled brown beneath the jaw. Loose blue flesh hung about the eye pockets. Narrowly avoiding a snapping beak, Rhyka heaved himself to the right. His shoulder went numb when he hit the hard rock floor. Ears ringing, he got up and staggered through an opening to the outside, away from the beast. Weak and confused, Rhyka was vaguely aware that the creature was pursuing him.

Rapid movement caught his eye. It was the beast. He had to move faster. Startled, he started to slip and slide on the cloud-wet rock. Blind panic set in when before him, floating in and out of fog clouds on silent wings were hundreds of the creatures. He fought to maintain his balance and slow his momentum. Still sliding, he looked down the Spire to a flat outcrop directly below. It was a drop of five metres. Under normal circumstances this would prove an obstacle, but with a bung shoulder and fractured ribs, impossible. A fiery pain lanced through his foot like a sword through flesh as he twisted his ankle. His back arched involuntarily, causing him to over balance. He felt himself free falling through space. Time passed in microseconds. Horrified, he looked back to watch the creature pursuing him. It had launched into the soft-wet clouds.

A wake of air buffeted him further into space. As he fell, he turned over just as an incoming beast skidded to halt on the ledge below him. With a bone-jarring thud, he landed directly between the monster’s shoulder blades. The beast let out a squawk as it lumbered up the ramp with a sorely winded Rhyka clinging to its lightly furred back. Hissing loudly, a snakelike neck permitted that enormous beak to snap at him. As he pulled away, blinding pain surged through him. The monk’s world devolved into a nightmare of pain, rock walls, rippling fur-covered muscles and cries of animal rage, accompanied by dizzy body spins as the creature tried to dislodge him. Rhyka fought to maintain control of his senses and, though giddy and disorientated, he sensed the creature pause.

Expecting to be plucked to the ground, sawed in half and munched into pulp, he instead, found himself confined to a rocky alcove twenty metres across and twenty metres high. Coned light and a moaning wind entered via circular holes high up in the wall. The brute that had taken his fall was stationary. A huge head pivoted to observe the tiny human, who must have been no more annoying than tick. A yellow eye blinked twice, a clear membrane followed by a long grey eyelid shuttered down, then up again. A bone-coloured beak speared at him.

Rhyka’s heart hammered. He opened his mouth to scream.

Greythorn had observed many stealthy killers in years gone by, but the apparition, draped completely in mottled grey and black, with a hood that extended from its shoulders to cover its face, sent shivers down his spine, for as the hood billowed slightly, he glimpsed the face within. Dark green, larger than normal, elliptical eyes set wide apart on a pale skinned face above a thin, sharp nose, along with a pointed, cleft chin below a small mouth with thin lips, and no eyebrows, stared at him.

The figures emerging from the bush were uniformly tall, taller than most humans, and lithely built. Even though they surrounded the three companions and were within a stone's throw, they moved with such stealth that Greythorn had still not detected a single footstep. The stark white hair that fell to the warrior's shoulders, within the hood, brought back disturbing rumours of a race long since believed extinct to Greythorn's mind. He could see pointed ears flicking back and forth, examining every sound before the hunter placed a foot cautiously forward. It seemed that the Elwarri were not a legend after all and it looked as if they were going to be killed by them. The figure before Greythorn, lifted one hand off its bowstring to make several intricate finger gestures. In response, the bulk of the band melted back into the forest, and still Greythorn had not heard a twig snap to betray any movement.

The robot got to his feet, facing me. A laser beam shot out of its forehead—hit my face, blinding me with a bright light. I closed my eyes and stood still, waiting for the robot to kill me by burning a hole in my head.

Gradually, the light darkened. Now there was a small hot spot on my chest. I opened my eyes and looked down. Not far from my neck, the robot lowered its head slightly, and the laser beam moved up the center of my chest. I stayed in one spot, trying not to provoke the android while the hot spot started burning my skin.

As the pain increased, I clenched my teeth. At the same time, the beam spread out until it was five inches in diameter. The beam moved to the right, and went down to my hips, and shut off.

For some unknown reason, the robot marched toward its original position. After arriving there, it pivoted, and faced ST7.

I took a deep breath, relieved, and glanced down. Sakra hadn’t moved. His mouth was wide open, both eyes staring into space.

Wanting to know if he had a pulse, I stooped, and touched his wrist.

Nothing.
 

Almost in the same moment, a knock on the door sounded and a man opened it.

Four overlords of the city, with whom she had talked five days earlier, shuffled in. When Nayana had first learned there was a reward for the dragon she was chasing, they had at first, ridiculed her. Not only was she not a dragon hunter, but she was a woman. However, when she’d repeated the question about the reward and brandished her javelin, they’d confirmed the rumors about the impressive reward.

An old town councilor, thin, hunched and dressed in dark robes, came closer to the bed she lay in. The unpleasant smell of dirt and sweat reached her and she forced back a gag.

“Supposedly, you killed the dragon, miss” he spoke with an unpleasant, gruff voice.

She pointed at the sack with her uninjured right hand. The skinny man approached the parcel and reached inside. He took out the blackened, slithery dragon’s tongue, clotted blood darkening the rough cut end. One of small group of councilors shuddered with apparent disgust. The skinny man couldn’t pull his eyes off the slab of meat for the longest time. He finally shrugged then put it in the sack again. He wiped his hand on his robes.

The black material of his robes masked the dirt well. To Nayana disgust, it seemed the town councilor attached little importance to cleanness or hygiene.

“Where is the carcass?”

“In the clearing a quarter day’s march to the east,” the man who’d rescued her replied.

The town councilor nodded, obvious satisfied. He reached deep into his coat and pulled out a purse that jingled with, she assumed, coins. Unceremoniously, he threw the thick purse on to her bed.

Nayana picked it up with her right hand and weighed it.

“Here’s the price we agreed on,” the town councilor said in his gruff, dismissive voice and turned toward the exit. To Nayana, the man’s contempt for her was obvious. A woman dealing in a male profession was someone he held little regard for.

The others followed him out. When the door closed behind them, Nayana took the purse to her rescuer. He waved his hand, rejecting her offer, and sat down on the low stool in the corner. She didn’t insist.

“Then, let me thank you once again, sir.”

“Why did you chase this dragon, miss?”

She didn’t want to reveal why she was hunting dragons. “I have my reasons, sir.”

Cassandra untied the rope and pushed the boat into the heavy current. Climbing into the vessel, she grabbed the paddles and maneuvered the boat into the darkness. The shouts of the Delmirths drew closer. They laughed and shouted something she didn’t understand.

She paddled hard and managed to get far enough away, certain they could never catch her except by air. Cassandra rowed with all her might and watched the angry Delmirths gather on the beach. They shouted obscenities at her. A dart sailed in her direction and pierced her upper arm. A cry of pain filled the air as she tried to pull the wretched thing from her skin. The sharp edge was deep and the blood made it slick. Cassandra gripped it tight and yanked it free. After a few good tugs, the dart let go, except for the end of the tip that was still trapped inside her arm. Blood oozed from the wound, its flow hindered only by the embedded tip.

It wasn’t until the moon shone through the clouds that she got a good look at the poisonous dart. Cassandra had used these darts to defeat many of her enemies. She knew in order to survive she needed medicine soon. There wasn’t much time, four hours at the most. With a deep breath, she forced herself to remain calm. If she panicked, the poison would work its way through her body that much sooner.

Through the shadows, Cassandra saw the apparent new leader shout orders to his army. She had visions of them pursuing her through the sky and braced herself for what was yet to come.

Picking up the paddles, she remained strong and concentrated on her mission, to find land as soon as possible. As the hour wore on, she felt herself weaken. Her arms wouldn’t cooperate. The strength left her body. She touched her sweaty forehead and closed her eyes to the consuming dizziness. The dark waves that lapped against the boat had made her seasick. Cassandra leaned over the side of the craft and retched. The world spun around faster. She tried to pick up the oars, determined to find land. The oars fell from her hands. She leaned back in her seat and held her head. The boat rocked unsteadily in the wind. Clouds obscured the moon and Cassandra found herself in total darkness.

A strong gust of wind blew across the lake. Cassandra screamed in terror as the boat rocked dangerously back and forth. She held on tight to the edges as the waves increased with force. From out of the darkness, the sound of dragon’s wings soared above her.

Thankful its sight was poor, she swallowed nervously and watched as the wind and waves grew stronger. Fearful of losing it, Cassandra placed her knapsack around her shoulders.

The dragons fought against the wind in their attempt to fly across the water, only to be pulled back by the forces of nature. Flashes of lightning appeared in the distance, accompanied by rolling thunder. Tiny droplets of rain fell. Within minutes, the storm intensified and the rain became a torrential downpour. The waves pitched the boat precariously.

A large wave came out of nowhere and headed straight for the boat. It hit head-on. The wooden craft flipped over. Cassandra struggled to the surface and gripped what she soon realized was the boat seat.

She felt along the length of the wooden boat, made her way to the edge and dipped under only long enough to surface. She held onto the overturned boat with all of her strength. Her arms tired and her head spun as the storm pounded around her. The vessel hit a rock and splintered. With the last remnant of her sanctuary disappearing below the surface, she gave up.

Through the clearing haze, Cassandra saw a looming beast. It stood within reach of her. As she inched closer, the locust waited to attack. In the distance, she heard the clashing of swords and knew a battle raged. She prayed that Keidon made it out of the desert alive. She swallowed nervously and held the sword out for protection. She had never seen anything this ugly before. The large yellow eyes studied her every move. Cassandra got into battle position and waited for the right opportunity to slay the creature. Without warning, the locust spread its long green wings and jumped.

Cassandra was caught off guard. Her sword fell from her hand and landed in the sand nearby. She screamed in fright as the beast trampled its weight on her. The locust had Cassandra pinned onto her back and used its mouth to nip at her. The sharp legs pierced through the material of her dress. It easily dominated its prey and sank its teeth into her neck.

Cassandra cried out in pain. Through her agony, she glanced over and noticed the handle of the sword within her reach. She strained to move closer. Unable to breathe properly, she felt as if she would suffocate. “The baby,” she gasped. Then without warning, the locust repositioned its body.

Cassandra quickly scurried over in the sand and grabbed the sword. With the blade held high, she plunged the sharp edge into its head. The locust retreated momentarily and let out a high-pitched squeal. Cassandra managed to sit upright and with careful aim threw the weapon directly at the beast. Her eyes widened in fright as it fell over in agony. A green slime oozed from the gash. She managed to rise to her feet and stagger over to the wounded creature. Clenching her teeth, she pulled the sword free and stabbed it again. When she was sure the enemy was dead, she wiped the tip of the blade clean and continued on her journey.

With the sandstorm diminished, Cassandra saw clearly the devastation the locusts had caused. Several soldiers lay dead along the path. As she neared the invisible sanctuary, she caught a glimpse of a battle still clearly in progress. Whisking her sword outward, she jogged along the ruins toward the war zone. From the corner of her eye, she caught a glimpse of Mark Stye battling two locusts. He was truly losing the battle. The insects eyed him hungrily from either side.

The doctor glanced between the two, his stance ready for the unexpected. When Mark noticed her, he yelled something inaudible.

Cassandra approached and assisted him.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted.

Cassandra didn’t have a chance to respond. She took a couple of stabs at the nearest locust, injuring its front leg. While the one locust focused its attention on Mark, she managed to dodge the oncoming pincers of the other. “Where is Keidon?”

Mark swung his weapon at a beast and caused fluid to leak from the wound. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him,” he panted. “I think they’re further ahead.”

“You have to ask for help,” she cried. “The invisible wall is right behind us. Call Tara. Tell her you’ll marry her. Do it quickly, or we’ll die.”

“I feel her close to the wall,” Mark replied. “I know she’s waiting.”

“Then do it.”

The doctor avoided another near hit and ducked as a sharp leg swung at him. “I need to press my hand against the wall. It’s the only way to connect with her.”

“I’ll hold them off,” Cassandra gasped. “Hurry, I’m running out of energy.”

Mark nodded in agreement and moved the fight toward the invisible wall. He waited until he was pressed up against it and then fell to his knees. He pleaded in a loud voice with his hands against the barrier. “Please, Tara. I’ll marry you. I beg you to make this stop.”

Cassandra heard his cry. She struck one of the locusts with her blade, keeping it out of Mark’s reach. The other locust drew near and assisted its ally in the attack. They had her cornered, ready to strike. “I can’t hold them off.”

Mark raised his voice. “I’ll do anything for you. Please, spare us.”

Cassandra suddenly fell to the ground. The two locusts had jumped at the same time and struck her with their pincers. She cried out in pain. Unable to lift her blade in defense, she watched helplessly as the enemy tore through her tender flesh. I’m going to die. She closed her eyes in defeat. The last thing she heard before the world disappeared from sight was Mark pleading for their lives.

My anxiety increased when I spotted a series of pictographs adorning the commune walls. I understood even from a distance that they depicted the Omoro chronicle. An arched door opened when I neared the entrance, the walls dancing with life-sized pictographs displaying the images of my ancestors and their strange, star-bound vehicles. I approached them and traced their outlines with my fingers while in my mind hushed voices whispered ancient tales.

Coolness wafted from the commune’s interior. A refreshing draft ruffled my hair and caressed my face. The drumbeat softened into a gentle heartbeat as five Omoro appeared from the shadows. With a thrill of recognition, I regarded two adults and three children. Joy filled my heart and buoyed my spirits when I realized I was no longer alone.

The group approached slowly. Poised, ebony-skinned and willowy-limbed, they wore their hair in elaborately coiled braids beaded with amber, coral and other precious stones. Golden thread glinted from the colorful batik prints of their robes. Beautifully crafted jewelry of amber and gold adorned their wrists, ankles, ears and necks.

The Elder, a man of noble stature and warm, patrician features, wore an embroidered sash of rank adorned by a large ruby the shape of a bird’s egg. My eyes were drawn to a small tattoo on his left temple depicting several intersecting circles. He smiled and bowed, his deep chocolate eyes and rich voice familiar.

“Welcome to the homeworld, Kanuwe. I am Badarou, Elder of the Sofouru Commune.” He turned to the others, who smiled welcomingly at me. “This is my wife, Nsangue, my son Renwati and daughters Tanifah and Dhoman.”

We bowed in greeting, the action instinctive on my part. I stared at Badarou. He smiled and nodded.

“We have already spoken. I was present at your awakening.”

I recalled the spectral faces in the tanks and glanced questioningly at the others. A shudder coursed through me as I thought of such a hellish incarceration. I wondered whether immortality was worth such a price.

“Such an existence was not their wish,” Badarou said, reading my expression. “And I would not have insisted.”

A question half-formed on my lips. Badarou gazed toward the lake and the majestic mountain range beyond with misty eyes.

“Look around you, Kanuwe. Such is the beauty of Omori, our home—a world of peace and prosperity, a people at one with nature.”

Moving with regal grace, Nsangue approached me and took my arm. She smelled of musk and spice, the drowsy warmth accentuating the enticing aroma. When she smiled, her teeth were a flash of ivory against flawless dusky skin. Ankle bracelets tinkled delightfully as she moved. Her mahogany eyes melted into mine, her velvety touch a calming salve against the questions burning in my mind.

“It is time to meet your ancestors, Kanuwe,” she said, leaving the others behind. “Come help me prepare for the evening tea ceremony.”

We entered the deliciously cool retreat of the commune. Tiled fountains soothingly splashed amidst handcrafted furnishings of wood, metal and stone. Colorful tapestries, basketry and bold sculptures adorned niches and walls, reflecting muted sunlight from artfully angled windows and skylights. The setting was serene and peaceful, an embodiment of the Omoro persona.

“This is wonderful,” I said as I admired the lovingly crafted décor. My fingers strayed to a mosaic plaque depicting the commune, placed to receive the filtered light from a nearby window. Vivid colors blazed with feral intensity.

Nsangue pointed to a dramatic copper mask displayed over an arched fireplace. “Many pieces are forged by Badarou’s hand,” she said, retrieving a deep tri-color basket and a small terracotta jug from a wooden cabinet. “I enjoy basketry and weaving. The children are gifted in music. Each Omoro has a special talent. It is a gift we honor by bringing it to life.”

A glass-enclosed cabinet situated in the corner of the room away from the light caught my attention. Nsangue said nothing when I approached, my eyes riveted to a magnificently carved shield bisected by a pair of spears. Though the detail closely resembled the other artwork in the room, something about it seemed different. It exuded a sense of antiquity that spanned a time longer than I could imagine.

“You recognize the soul of the clansmen,” Nsangue observed. “They were the original tribe. We call them the forefathers.”

I touched the glass. “Kabila,” I said, unsure why the strange word had suddenly appeared in my mind.

“Our heritage is long and noble, Kanuwe. Always remember that.”

“I feel¼something,” I said, looking around the room as though seeking an answer to my confusion. “This place is a crossroads.”

“Omori anchors us to the spiritual and physical world. One cannot exist without the other.”

I pondered her words as she led me to a central atrium garden. Sunshine filtered through verdant foliage, dappling a natural stream alive with delicate opaline fish and tiny green turtles. Women and young girls tended the multitude of greenery and polished intricately tiled pathways and bridges. A lovely teenager with fawn’s eyes cut magnificent coral blooms from a long-stalked bush and placed them in a basket. Jewel-colored birds flitted from the branches, filling the air with delightful song. A sensation of gentle energy rippled through me.

“An oasis in an arid land,” I said in wonder. “How is this possible?”

Nsangue dipped her jug into the bubbling stream. Bells distantly chimed to accompany the lowing of animals. I glanced out a nearby window and noticed a herd of horned goat-like creatures grazing in a cultivated field. Youngsters playfully bucked and charged their indulgent parents, their lush coats mottled with brown and gold. I smiled at their charming antics.

“The stream of life heals and nurtures,” Nsangue said. “It is the spiritual core of our people.”

She handed me the water jug. I sipped from it, savoring a pure sweetness that lingered in my mouth. We wandered outside to a lush, grassy area bordering the commune and surveyed a peaceful scene that suffused me with a sense of well-being. I smiled as children and their pets, furry, long-snouted creatures with endearing whinnies, romped while women picked shiny red pods from a surrounding bank of thick, prickly green hedges. In amazement, I watched two of them balance tall baskets atop their heads and calmly walk toward the commune without supporting them. Babies hung in slings across their mothers’ backs, their lusty yawls a triumphant song of their own. Nearby, teams of men and teenage boys prepared the foundation for a new commune.

“These are aruna pods,” Nsangue said, extending a thorny branch drooping with the weighty pods gleaming with a lacquered red shine. “Crushed, they produce the finest tea. The powder also has many medicinal properties.” She handed me the basket and set the water jug on the grass. “The honor of gathering will be yours. You must remember to always fill the basket. The stream of life provides abundance for all. We must honor the gift.”

I reached toward the glossy hedge, the sun a warm kiss on my back. The crescent-shaped pods snapped off easily, emitting dusty red puffs. Nsangue hummed while I stuffed the basket to the brim.

Suddenly, a wet nose snuffled against my ankle. I looked down in surprise as a plump gray furball affectionately nuzzled my foot.