As soon as Jeff puts his up, it will be Here.
The idea for this one was a little different. I was to try and write how I thought that my writing partner wrote. He was to try to emulate me. This was by far, the toughest one yet for me. I find Jeff to be a molecular mass of information. A breathing Google. I realized how much I appreciate the instantaneous availability of the internet when working on this one. And as always, play the song when reading.
Apparat - Black/Veil
Golden fibers stood motionless; a barely enduring still life surrounding the dry river bed, smoldering with heat. The sun diffused definitive boundaries between objects, blinding edges together in the fading light. The hollowed fluted notes of an emerald spotted wood dove gently coaxed the sleepy sun to begin its descent.
Adanya had been bred for what lie ahead. It hadn’t been foreseen that she would need to step into her power at the age of eight and a half. It hadn’t been foreseen by anyone except Masha as Adanya took her first breath. It was the duty of a formidable nganga, unparalleled in the fickle art of spiritual aptitude, to indicate a royal child’s duty in the first 30 minutes of life. Masha had seen many an atrocity, and alternately, many a grace. All were accurately pre-told within moments of the newborn’s uncontaminated and fresh life. The old woman stood by, a light squall lifted the feathers attached to her beaded necklace as Khaliqui touched sticks to burst the combustion of alchemy into it’s first sporadic breaths.
The puerile soon to be queen stood by the exhausted river bed. She spotted somewhat recent confirmation that a group of wolves had explored these grounds. .But any such evidence was dehydrated and near nothing more than dust. Adanya squat down with the curious nature of a child to grasp what she could of the hardened, chalky earth. Considering this unceasing and relentless condition, her face quizzically transmuted into the expression of a determined yet disheartened adult. A wildebeest lay on its side, breathing labored, ribs prominent. The fledgling's lamenting mother moaned slightly off concert from the droughty herd. This was to be Adanya’s stewardship. These groaning, despondent beings would be her responsibility. Even the lions could barely summon strength to locate their own prey as this current dearth of aliment cycled along.
Two miles to the east, preparations were being made. The Chokwe would only pass leadership while the moon stood high. The village was famished and in the early stages of dying without enough rain. The elders had come to Masha, requesting guidance, bringing twelve eggs and one runt of a piglet. Masha steeped Rooibos for twelve minutes, creating a bitter but fragrant tea. She took a swill from the tiny clay cup without giving in to any note of aversion and read the leaves. She pulled twelve tiny wooden bowls filled with various powders, herbs and oils down from a slightly unstable mantelpiece. She closed her eyes, chanting before using charcoal to mark the heads of those before her as witnesses. All held hands. King Machupa must be delivered to Kalunga the Almighty God. Upon his noble sacrifice, Adanya would reign, the new energy creating a change in weather and fortune events. Adanya was young, they knew, but the village could suffer no longer.
King Machupa was a man for his people and had lived a long favorable and accomplished life. However, the past few seasons were scarce of good harvests and his people knew that they could trust in him to put their goodwill before his own life. Upon being advised, King Machupa solemnly accepted his sacred duty. As soon as the cherished king’s heart stopped, it was to be removed and placed on a smaller, sacred hearth. The villagers would pray that the Almighty Kalunga would deem this sacrifice adequate. Masha would then place the still warm heart into a heavy iron cauldron, filled with the herbs, the bitter leaves and stems of the Sycamore Fig and the blood of a lamb, slaughtered within the last three hours.
The moon peered down from the voluminous skies. The fire snapped, hungrily consuming all in its contained space. The stars sparkled like rhinestones. King Machupa, adorned in his sacred robes and adornments, proceeded to join his people. Slowly, he walked around the circle of his people, looking deep into their eyes, and locking souls before embracing each one, with few words. As he moved from loved one to loved one, he would remove a piece of jewelry, bequeathing them to his tribe family standing here in the circle. He was not afraid. King Machupa loved his people, his land and the animals that roamed there. Two females wearing impressively large and vibrant lip plates, clad in layers of beads and saris, moved to each side of the King. After bowing, they removed his robes, kissed each hand and helped him onto the altar. King Machupa lie on his back, eyes closed and began his prayer for a swift and effortless transition to the Otherworld.
A golden cock was held over the King. Deftly, cleanly, his throat was lacerated. The rooster’s startled cry ebbed within seconds. Blood drained downward onto the King’s chest, narrow, impatient paths deviating and creating multiple paths, then alternate paths. The blood formed ribbons down his sides as it seeped downward. The King’s passion and love for Kalunga swelled with each repetition of prayer.
Faraj, the eldest of the younger warriors, gave an impassioned howl. It was time for the ceremonial dance before King Machupa would be offered, neck broken and body warm.
The dance began. The women sang fervently. . Hands clapped in rhythm to the slapping of the djembe. The men leapt and swayed with precision and control, embellishments slapping against their taut, bare chests.
Half a mile down the road, Adanya headed toward the village. An audible change came into her surroundings as the drums rhythmically aroused the mercy of the heavens. The scent of the fire stirred her indigenous sensibility and her stride quickened. She knew she would be saying goodbye to King Machupa, who had raised her from the moment Masha had appointed her the aspiring new queen. Adanya stopped for a moment, feeling a drop of perspiration on her forehead. She looked up at the dark and scopious sky. The stars were obscured. She had felt rain on her face. Adyana lightly dabbed her finger in the tiny driblet and brought it to her lips.
Rain.
Adanya could hear the drums quickening and knew she had very little time before her power would be instated. She was ready for it. But it wasn’t time.
Adanya thundered at the pitch of her own breath with joy as she thrust herself past the Bushwillows, satiated with Warblers and Thrushes who would sleep until dawn.
Faraj put the ceremonial blade into the fire that would be used to remove the King’s heart.. King Machupa continued to pray as Abrafo, the tribesman with the most physical strength, stood behind him, readying himself for the necessary but somber duty that lie ahead. Abrafo bent down over King Machupa’s forehead, kissing him gently.
A howling burst befuddled the drummers and set Abrafo off of his direction. The ceremony paused at Adanya’s insistent presence. Breathlessly, she delivered news about the rain she had felt. Her people went from wary to inspirited as a few more drops fell. It started to pour, cleansing the blood from King Marchupa, reversing his departure..
Adanya looked at her beloved King, putting out her open and expectant hand to the nearest villager. The recently inherited adornment was released to Adanya’s tiny hands which shook ever so slightly. She reached her arms over his head, placing the royal endowment around King Machupa’s neck, kissing his cheek with exaltation.
Golden fibers stood motionless; a barely enduring still life surrounding the dry river bed, smoldering with heat. The sun diffused definitive boundaries between objects, blinding edges together in the fading light. The hollowed fluted notes of an emerald spotted wood dove gently coaxed the sleepy sun to begin its descent.
Adanya had been bred for what lie ahead. It hadn’t been foreseen that she would need to step into her power at the age of eight and a half. It hadn’t been foreseen by anyone except Masha as Adanya took her first breath. It was the duty of a formidable nganga, unparalleled in the fickle art of spiritual aptitude, to indicate a royal child’s duty in the first 30 minutes of life. Masha had seen many an atrocity, and alternately, many a grace. All were accurately pre-told within moments of the newborn’s uncontaminated and fresh life. The old woman stood by, a light squall lifted the feathers attached to her beaded necklace as Khaliqui touched sticks to burst the combustion of alchemy into it’s first sporadic breaths.
The puerile soon to be queen stood by the exhausted river bed. She spotted somewhat recent confirmation that a group of wolves had explored these grounds. .But any such evidence was dehydrated and near nothing more than dust. Adanya squat down with the curious nature of a child to grasp what she could of the hardened, chalky earth. Considering this unceasing and relentless condition, her face quizzically transmuted into the expression of a determined yet disheartened adult. A wildebeest lay on its side, breathing labored, ribs prominent. The fledgling's lamenting mother moaned slightly off concert from the droughty herd. This was to be Adanya’s stewardship. These groaning, despondent beings would be her responsibility. Even the lions could barely summon strength to locate their own prey as this current dearth of aliment cycled along.
Two miles to the east, preparations were being made. The Chokwe would only pass leadership while the moon stood high. The village was famished and in the early stages of dying without enough rain. The elders had come to Masha, requesting guidance, bringing twelve eggs and one runt of a piglet. Masha steeped Rooibos for twelve minutes, creating a bitter but fragrant tea. She took a swill from the tiny clay cup without giving in to any note of aversion and read the leaves. She pulled twelve tiny wooden bowls filled with various powders, herbs and oils down from a slightly unstable mantelpiece. She closed her eyes, chanting before using charcoal to mark the heads of those before her as witnesses. All held hands. King Machupa must be delivered to Kalunga the Almighty God. Upon his noble sacrifice, Adanya would reign, the new energy creating a change in weather and fortune events. Adanya was young, they knew, but the village could suffer no longer.
King Machupa was a man for his people and had lived a long favorable and accomplished life. However, the past few seasons were scarce of good harvests and his people knew that they could trust in him to put their goodwill before his own life. Upon being advised, King Machupa solemnly accepted his sacred duty. As soon as the cherished king’s heart stopped, it was to be removed and placed on a smaller, sacred hearth. The villagers would pray that the Almighty Kalunga would deem this sacrifice adequate. Masha would then place the still warm heart into a heavy iron cauldron, filled with the herbs, the bitter leaves and stems of the Sycamore Fig and the blood of a lamb, slaughtered within the last three hours.
The moon peered down from the voluminous skies. The fire snapped, hungrily consuming all in its contained space. The stars sparkled like rhinestones. King Machupa, adorned in his sacred robes and adornments, proceeded to join his people. Slowly, he walked around the circle of his people, looking deep into their eyes, and locking souls before embracing each one, with few words. As he moved from loved one to loved one, he would remove a piece of jewelry, bequeathing them to his tribe family standing here in the circle. He was not afraid. King Machupa loved his people, his land and the animals that roamed there. Two females wearing impressively large and vibrant lip plates, clad in layers of beads and saris, moved to each side of the King. After bowing, they removed his robes, kissed each hand and helped him onto the altar. King Machupa lie on his back, eyes closed and began his prayer for a swift and effortless transition to the Otherworld.
A golden cock was held over the King. Deftly, cleanly, his throat was lacerated. The rooster’s startled cry ebbed within seconds. Blood drained downward onto the King’s chest, narrow, impatient paths deviating and creating multiple paths, then alternate paths. The blood formed ribbons down his sides as it seeped downward. The King’s passion and love for Kalunga swelled with each repetition of prayer.
Faraj, the eldest of the younger warriors, gave an impassioned howl. It was time for the ceremonial dance before King Machupa would be offered, neck broken and body warm.
The dance began. The women sang fervently. . Hands clapped in rhythm to the slapping of the djembe. The men leapt and swayed with precision and control, embellishments slapping against their taut, bare chests.
Half a mile down the road, Adanya headed toward the village. An audible change came into her surroundings as the drums rhythmically aroused the mercy of the heavens. The scent of the fire stirred her indigenous sensibility and her stride quickened. She knew she would be saying goodbye to King Machupa, who had raised her from the moment Masha had appointed her the aspiring new queen. Adanya stopped for a moment, feeling a drop of perspiration on her forehead. She looked up at the dark and scopious sky. The stars were obscured. She had felt rain on her face. Adyana lightly dabbed her finger in the tiny driblet and brought it to her lips.
Rain.
Adanya could hear the drums quickening and knew she had very little time before her power would be instated. She was ready for it. But it wasn’t time.
Adanya thundered at the pitch of her own breath with joy as she thrust herself past the Bushwillows, satiated with Warblers and Thrushes who would sleep until dawn.
Faraj put the ceremonial blade into the fire that would be used to remove the King’s heart.. King Machupa continued to pray as Abrafo, the tribesman with the most physical strength, stood behind him, readying himself for the necessary but somber duty that lie ahead. Abrafo bent down over King Machupa’s forehead, kissing him gently.
A howling burst befuddled the drummers and set Abrafo off of his direction. The ceremony paused at Adanya’s insistent presence. Breathlessly, she delivered news about the rain she had felt. Her people went from wary to inspirited as a few more drops fell. It started to pour, cleansing the blood from King Marchupa, reversing his departure..
Adanya looked at her beloved King, putting out her open and expectant hand to the nearest villager. The recently inherited adornment was released to Adanya’s tiny hands which shook ever so slightly. She reached her arms over his head, placing the royal endowment around King Machupa’s neck, kissing his cheek with exaltation.
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