Arriving in the greatest city in Andaliel through one of the many ancient tunnels hewn through the mountain, the caravan stopped in the face of a terrible blizzard, and made ready to part ways. The caravaneers, having assembled out of convenience at the foot of the mountain, now traded their final tips on making the most of the city, and shared their exciting goals for their time in the Land of Opportunity. Though they had met only briefly and traveled perhaps even less together, each treated the other like brother or sister, and hoped to meet again when next the winds of mercantile trade led them close. At the edge of the group, a young Cherubim watched silently from her mount, taking in the alien landscape and the swift familiarity of the merchants. She had been taught to value her own silence, for it would teach her much about the world.

Oomash had few lessons to impart to a young silent girl. In her mind the greatest city in Andaliel was just an icy wasteland that duty compelled her to withstand. Each minute pummeled by the cold air was a test of her composure and dignity. Hailing from the tropical climates of Sargasso, where each day she could see the high sun and breathe moist air, she had never known snow, never felt her eyes tearing up and simultaneously crusting with ice, never felt her breath turned back into her nostrils dry, sharp and cold.

Lesser discipline would have behooved thoughts of hatred, fantasies of abdication. Sister Neela Acharya’s upbringing with the great Order of the Seraphim gave her no compunction for either. She would endure, achieve full honors. She’d earned her breastplate, gauntlets and greaves. Soon she would wear the whole armor.

As the caravan exchanged their final words, she heard the dull, ponderous pattering of the eldest greathorn, belonging to the caravan master, stopping close behind her. The broad man seemed both energized and deflated at once by the view from the tunnel landing, dog-ears drooping but smiling nonetheless.

“This is the place!” He called to her, taking her by the shoulder and physically turning her to face the obscured city below, “Oh if only you could see it Sister Neela, such a picture of society. This view should be the greatest welcome a traveler will see, in all of Adel! But alas, this storm blocks it all. ‘Tis a great pity.”

“Bless,” Neela affirmed through clattering teeth, “it is indeed a pity.”

The grand capital of the Andalian Republic was extraordinary in its antipathy toward her. Though built within a vast hollow inside of the Hetuku mountains, each of the enormous concentric rings making up the city’s five districts was still vulnerable to snowstorms; from whence they came she did not know. Perhaps it was from above; during the day, sunlight came to the city from orifices on the monumentally high ceiling of the cavern.  Though from the way they blew, she thought they must have come not from above, but from the ancillary tunnels all around the city rings.

Regardless, her caravan had suffered the misfortune of arriving just as the weather turned disagreeable. Now the storm brought on a dark grey afternoon. Looking down from the city’s second ring, the view promised to her of the bottom-most center ring was obscured by buffeting winds. She would not get to see, as travelers had rapturously described to her, the seat of government, the great oval Parliament building; nor the vast Military High Command warehouses and barracks. She would not get to see the small crowds moving up and down the great staircases connecting the first and second rings.

She could hardly see one Stride in front of her.

Neela dismounted the great-horned deer she’d ridden, and returned the gentle beast by its leash to the caravan master. She offered a small, chapped smile. The man bowed his head and gave her the blessings of the Spirits, which she returned, as well as offering his fur cap, which she forced herself to decline.

“I am alright.” She said. Taking an old man’s hat in the cold seemed petty.

“I am headed for the markets, right here in the second ring.” He said. “You told me you’re headed to the Academy, all the way overhead to the fifth ring! Please, take my hat Sister. You’ll make better use of it than me.”

Neela shook her head. Powder dispersed from her dark hair and was swept again with the wind. She was turning ever more pale by the moment. The old caravan master returned his hat to his hairless head, took a bow and went on his way.

As the caravaneers dispersed, she began crossing the vast circle to the next staircase. Her journey would be perhaps be thrice theirs, and undertaken alone.

Instruction into the ravages of the northern clime was well underway. The blizzard was at work consuming her form. Dry flakes of ice and snow accumulated on her exposed head of dark hair. Her face began to turn from dark brown to sick pale by much the same process. It took all her willpower to ignore the pervasive discomfort she felt from her armored limbs to her cloth-padded waist to the delicate tip of her nose to the flexible, furry pinna of her fox-like ears. Her tail was stiff too, and curled pathetically around her thigh. The fittings on her sacred armor and the thick robe she wore beneath her flat, ornate breastplate did little to comfort her. The cold was intense.

Each step sank her feet into the deep snow, and made every movement a laborious trudge. Her limbs grew hot and tense from the work. She breathed deep, trying to work out her frustration. But soon the heat was not merely from wasted effort. Her supernatural power pricked at her just beneath her skin. Her mind was drawn to the magic. Verses of hymns echoed within her mind, each appropriate, each powerful. Discipline taught her not to abuse it, to always seek the way less traveled. But halfway to the next set of stairs carved from the rock wall, after perhaps twenty minutes of trudging, Neela felt her duty to reach the Academy made spellcasting necessary.

She raised her hands before her, and began to murmur the hymn of vanquishing flames. Her aura became briefly visible, and her voice momentarily not her own.

Melodic and powerful, the few lines she recited were in the spirit’s voice, and called upon the raging flames that once consumed one of the great villains of old Sargassan legends, the snake Agashura. These lines were her magic – this liturgy and hymn, this culture and tradition, a few quick couplets carefully recited, drew great power to her. The rhtyhm was perfect, each word and note delivered, and with a click of her tongue the ritual completed. The aura trailed off from her head and shoulders, and burned red in her outstretched hand. A great gout of flame blasted forth at her command, and turned the snow on the trail into slosh and vapor that slid off the steep edge. Instantly the way was clear and the earth was hot, and the Cherubim could walk again.

Neela took the exposed, rapidly refreezing blue and black stone up to the next tier. The steps were slippery with powder, especially against the smooth underside of her boots. There were no people out on the trail, save one at the very top of steps, looking out over the broad hollow of the cave as obscured by the storm. Neela made it a goal to reach up to this person, counting each difficult step. The watcher came into greater focus, first the cloak billowing in the wind, then hair sweeping with it, then a face, a pair of eyes, watching Neela as she completed the climb.

The young Cherubim kneeled at the top of the steps, bowing her head before her older Sister of the Order, who had been watching her the entire climb.

“You needn’t,” the Sister said softly, kneeling herself to Neela’s level, “I am not a Sister Superior. So don’t call me Mother – I’m not that old.” She smiled.

“Yes, sister,” Nelee stood alongside the Seraphim. She had hoped to catch a glimpse of the older woman’s full and majestic suit of armor, but the woman was dressed much like her; breastplate, gauntlets and greaves under a cloak and over a robe. “My name is Neela Acharya of the Convent of Saint Abeni’s Mercy. I’m here on a pilgrimage.”

“I’m Sister Padarashni of the Convent of Saint Kayin’s Grace.” She held Neela’s hands in both of her own, her pale hair still blowing around her face. “Welcome to Oomash. You can call me Sister Ash.” She pointed at her hair, which was a silvery grey despite her seemingly young age, and her face, which was fairly pale, as if to explain the nickname. “We’ll be sharing lodging, henceforth, and I’ll care for you. Follow me.”

Neela followed Sister Ash up the steps, hand in hand. The support and company made the climb seem easier. The higher they went, the less they could see below, and the stronger and colder the storm became. They passed a few isolated townhouses, large and impressive and likely quite warm, their streetlamps like beacons in the weather-beaten landscape. They saw a few couriers about, their bags stuffed with post that could not wait out any storm, and Sister Ash waved as if with familiarity. Sister Ash soon removed her cloak and draped it over Neela’s shoulders and head, when she got a good look at the cherubim’s discolored face. “Don’t be afraid to make known your discomfort,” She said. “I’m responsible for you, and I know this is nothing like back home. It’s one thing to endure hardship, yet another to simply torture yourself.”

At the top of the climb, Neela found herself faced with a beautiful, multicolored nimbus. She saw the beginnings of a bridge a few strides away, its green lamps swinging in the storm. The bridge as a structure quickly disappeared into the cloud, but its lights were still visible, etching a ghostly path over a chasm. The green path connected to a series of red and purple lights, which she assumed were the Academy’s own lamps. But there was such a depth to each color, their distances rendered in the thick falling snow as sweeps and auroral trails, such that it seemed almost like art.

“That’s the academy,” Sister Ash said. “You’ll see it once the storm has passed.”

Sister Ash led her around the chasm that seemed to separate the Academy from where they were standing, to a fair little concrete house against the cavern wall. The door swung violently open once unlocked, and was a struggle to get closed again. Inside was a large homely room with fur carpets, a burning hearth with a cooking pot and sticks upon which vegetables and tofu were skewered, and table and chairs. There was a rack, upon which Sister Ash’s weapons and the rest of her armor pieces were arrayed. Two openings led out of this central room – one presumably to bedrooms, and another cut into the cavern wall itself, leading down somewhere.

“Have a bite to eat and relax. I’ll be back up shortly.” Sister Ash said, smiling pleasantly. She descended into the tunnel, while Neela dropped her cloak and sat by the hearth, taking one of the skewers. The vegetables were still a little wet inside, having cooked slowly, raised off the the hearth and touched over many hours by only the faintest licks of flame. The tofu was simple, soft cubes with salt and a bit of dark sauce. Sister Ash must have left this here when she went out to meet Neela. The feeling of warm food sliding into her body was simply divine after over an hour in the blizzard.

When Sister Ash returned, she began to remove the plates of her armor and arranged them on the rack. Beneath the armor she wore a thick and simple civilian’s robe, split down the middle, worn with the left side over the right and tied by a sash in the center. Once finished arranging the rack, she looked over Neela, and nodded to herself.

“I think we’ll both fit.” She said. “I’m preparing a hot bath – I’m not fond of the crowded baths at the Academy so I procured a barrel that I can fill here when I want.”

Neela understood and nodded. While Sister Neela checked on the bath again, she removed her own armor pieces and placed them on her own little rack next to Sister Ash’s. Beneath her armor, she wore the white and blue robe of a Saint Abeni sister. The neckhole of her robe was broad, bearing the shoulders. She hoped Sister Ash hadn’t discarded her own convent robes, and that she wouldn’t have to. It was impractical to think after all this time Sister Ash could keep wearing the same robe, but Neela had stitched her own convent robe, and was fond of it.

Soon Sister Ash led her down the little tunnel to a rocky room, where supplies were stored. In the middle was a red steel barrel sitting on some blocks, filled with lightly bubbling water. The fire beneath it had been put out, and now only a few consumed black sticks occupied the space. The two undressed and climbed carefully into the bath. They hardly had room to stretch their legs, but both fit in a fairly relaxed manner. Soon the color had returned to Neela, while Sister Ash’s pale gray skin became a little rosier.

“Lovely, isn’t it?” Sister Ash said, almost to herself. “Bless, bless.”

Neela nodded in silence. She felt woozy and sleepy in the warm bath water, and a bit flushed given her current company. Beneath the robe, Sister Ash was tall, had strong shoulders and a lean build. She had a face like royalty. Neela wondered if in time Sister Ash would grow, whether taller or more muscular, or if this was it for her; she wondered the same about herself. She’d seen all kinds of Seraphim, from women who’s arms and legs were like sinewy trunks, to wispy sisters who looked like they had never left girlhood behind. Sister Ash was well in between, while Neela felt below standard. She would have to train harder – she had an ideal to match now.

“So you’re a Scout, are you?” Sister Ash asked.

“I’ve been scouting before,” Neela replied, “All Saint Abeni sisters do.”

“Bless. I’ve met many Saint Abeni sisters before. I’ve always been fond of them. So amicable and energetic. I had to endure a Dakara up here once. It was a slow, silent year.” She smiled, and ruffled Neela’s wet hair. “I hope we’ll get along better than that.”

“You’ve been here long?” Neela asked.

“Going on ten years now. It’s my job to help the sisters they send up here to Oomash for pilgrimage.” Sister Ash replied. “There’s a reason for it too.”

Sister Ash started to turn around the bath, splashing the water a bit, and causing an awkward tangle with Neela’s legs. With her sinewy back turned, she took Neela’s hands and had her feel down the older sister’s spine. Neela felt something odd near the bottom, near where Sister’s Ash’s tail swished slowly in the water.

“I have a problem there. You know how people’s bones work?”

“I learned a bit of it in the prayer school.” Neela replied.

“You’re touching down the spine. It supports the whole body. It’s a series of different bones down your back, and for me, the bottom-most bones have become malformed.”

Neela drew back her hand, suddenly horrified. She felt afterward as though it was an offensive thing to do in light of Sister Ash’s predicament, but she knew so little and was genuinely scared. “That can happen to a person? It can’t be healed?”

“Bless. Seraphim are very strong. I can be shot in the head, or badly burnt, and I can survive and get back up. But there are things that can happen outside of anyone’s control, and anyone’s ability to heal. That, I think, is part of what I’m supposed to teach you too. If it isn’t, well, consider it an extra.” She said solemnly.

The very thought was still stunning to Neela, that Sister Ash was here taking care of her, because her spine was incurable, because she could not fight. That Sister Ash trained for many years, and was invested with the holy Freija Ritual, the power of the spirits residing in her body since childhood, and yet this malaise could not be healed. Neela had always been taught that she was strong, stronger than normal people, and that it was her duty to protect them. Yet injury still made them all equal.

Sister Ash turned back around, and rested herself against the warm metal of the barrel. Neela found herself scrutinizing the Sister’s every moment – and found that she did cringe just a little when she rested her back. Nonetheless she kept smiling.

“That’s why, little cherub, you should not be so quick to endure every agony thrown your way.” Sister Ash said. “You don’t know what the ultimate result might be.”

The temple ruins were older than the forest by several thousand years, and older still even than its current invaders. Automata DC-70785 first learned of their presence when they crossed the exterior columns delineating the temple space, the building itself having long since sank beneath mud, moss and the gnarled roots of rainforest trees. The visions it received were at first blurred, grain-spotted, and the cracks on the ancient lenses cast lines of throbbing color across the subjects. DC-85’s mind quickly set about correcting the images, tearing and twisting and refocusing the footage, correcting the color, balancing the movements of the beings recorded.

Once thoroughly edited, all images were stored. DC-85 never forgot an image once it had been corrected to its satisfaction; it was not within its logic to overlook trespass upon the temple. Ancient mechanisms within its body readied to repel the intruders.

Deep underground, the spherical machine unfolded eight legs, each akin to a switchblade with a sensitive footpad. The red central eye upon its hull was the only source of light within the ruined expanse, cast upon rubble and rust, upon seeping water, sprawling moss. DC-85 crept over the soft, slimy vegetation, across a room splintered by broken iron beams and mounds of displaced steel plates and intruding topsoil and mud. It navigated this terrain expertly, its body close to the ground and its legs bent outward, each of its pads touching the ground lightly and quickly rising again for the next foothold with unbroken precision.

At the end of the room, the automaton reached its front legs carefully and with its footpads wiped mud and filth from a portion of the wall. Soon it saw its glowing red eye reflected back at it on a spot of glass, beside which several control pads hung by their mechanical entrails. The Logic Engine was injured, but at least it was not wholly buried. DC-85 cleansed the object daily, hoping its glass face may someday shine again. This resting object still served, providing the images with its many eyes that DC-85 picked up over the network and acted upon.

Nature crept ever further into the once pristine, sterile, perfectly mechanical world the Humans had tasked DC-85 with protecting. The engine was buried daily, and beset with gushing mud in storms, and frost formed within its entrails in the cold months, so far away were they from the sun. These were the only threats to DC-85’s duty. Time and decay, the encroachment of those enduring, breathing green things that sought to consume all that was machine. This was the true challenger to its domain.

A group of hapless Adelian lifeforms, it could handle.

DC-85 crept up one of the steel beams that had collapsed the roof to the control room, finding itself in a black, dusty gallery. Though it despised the asymmetry of this particular collapse, it was a useful way to reach closer to the surface. All other paths out of the control room were buried shut. As it advanced, it played and replayed the footage it had captured from the struggling logic engine and its spy network.

The lifeforms were Adelian indeed. It did not wholly know when this term had entered its lexicon, or what harbinger had planted the information. But that was what the people in this strange place were called. All their features were anthropic, save for their strange ears and tails. The anthropometry was almost perfect – they were just a tick shorter and with seemingly less body hair than Humans. These Adelian lifeforms all belonged to the most diverse, common and intrusive group of invaders, known as “Iomadi.” Using what it knew about Human biology, DC-85 had surmised that the Iomadi were probably some sort of offshoot, tainted with those select animal traits by the atmosphere pollution (carbon dioxide, sulfur and radium levels in the atmosphere were at an all time and very alarming low). DC-85 detected patterns in their clothing, weaponry, as well as a uniformity in the color and texture of their furry ears and tails.

This suggested organization – DC-85 increased their threat rating accordingly.

From the gallery DC-85 climbed the walls and entered a jagged crack in the ceiling, weaving through rubble and dirt to finally emerge from a muddy pit outside the temple clearing. Hidden by the rainforest tangle and the filth that had collected on its chrome surface during its climb, DC-85 crept unseen, magnifying its view of the surroundings to better spot the intruders with its eye. The Iomadi had tarried – rather than digging through the mud, into what was left of the temple entrance, they had chosen to remain around the esplanade (or what remained unconsumed by rainforest), admiring the columns. DC-85 adjusted its audio channels, trying to translate the alien gibberings of its foes. The one talking appeared to be male, though with its long hair, rounder features and slight frame, common to Iomadi of all kinds, it was difficult for it to tell.

“…characters are beyond even my knowledge of the Old Tongue. All I can do is take pictographs of the columns and see if the archivists can make some sense of this writing.” He said. He quickly added, “You’ll be paid regardless though.”

One of its partners wagged its fox-like tail furiously, brushing its chin and staring deep in thought at the columns. The suggestion of monetary exchanged seemed not to trouble it or draw its attention. When it spoke, it still sounded deep within the muddle of its own alien thoughts. “I wonder why this culture would put writing on their columns though. Surely, words would not be as timeless as images for this purpose? Our temples are all decorated with vast portraiture to the spirits, that would be obvious to anyone.”

“Arrogance.” Said a third Iomadi, standing behind the other two with a dour look on its face. “The people of the Lost World thought they would outlive time itself. For them, probably the very idea of us three standing around their temple, unaware of their intentions, was madness itself. Yet here we are, and where are they?”

The first speaker rolled his eyes. “You don’t have an ounce of curiosity do you?”

“No. By the way, I want extra pay for going out here to do nothing.”

“Well, you’re not getting it.” The first speaker replied, its ears dropping low.

DC-85 had no capacity to be infuriated, and hardly understood the context or purpose of their discussion. All it knew was that the Adelians weren’t technically humans and so they had to be exterminated as part of the Directive – and that in the short term this would keep the temple safe. Had its heat sensors not been damaged, it might have analyzed their body temperature for signs of alertness. For now it waited only for an opportunity, calculated with no data but what its single red eye now witnessed.

The first Iomadi removed from over its shoulders a leather bag, from which it drew a tormented piece of technology that seemed to be a box with scribbled lines upon it. He applied a powder into the object, and placed a small roll of paper within. Its face twisted in a wickedly satisfied smile, the Iomadi prepared to unleash the object.

DC-85 did have a capacity to be alarmed – and it believed this device to be explosive. Disregarding all stealth, the machine bore down along the jungle floor at the intruders, one of whom now raised the object to his face for whatever monstrous purpose. A spray of heat from now exposed miniature turbines seared a line across the mossy jungle floor, and DC-85 leaped, switchblade legs ready to eviscerate its foes.

The automaton soared past the column; the object flashed suddenly, blinding DC-85 mid-flight. DC-85 toppled over the Iomadi, its legs thrashing blindly, slicing the air, cracking the scattered cobblestones on the ground and splashing the intermittent pools of mud. It tumbled along with the Iomadi, its senses baffled by the explosion. They suddenly settled unto level terrain, and the warm, alien being beneath it squirmed. DC-85 raised its legs for a final, fatal thrust, when suddenly it heard the roar of an Adelian gun, and its eyesight never returned. Its red globe shattered, and the primitive’s pelleted round struck deep into its logic cortex. DC-85 was instantly snuffed.

“Professor!”

The younger mercenary rushed to her employer’s side, mere moments after he had taken the pictograph with his camera, and the metal beast had lunged from nowhere and taken him to the mud. She put down her gun, which, spirits be praised, had been powerful enough to put out the creature’s malevolent eye. The professor feebly reached out his hands, and she helped him to his feet. His side was red with blood, as were his shoulders, but while the cuts shed freely, they were not fatal.

“He’s not responding!” She said, trying to prop him up. The professor gasped for breath and his whole body shook, but he was otherwise rendered mute.

“He will live,” said the older mercenary, putting down his own pack and taking from it vials of elixir and palm-leaf wrappings. “He’s just shaken, anybody would be. He was just attacked by angel! Just hold him steady so I can dress his wounds.”

“Why did that thing even attack us? We weren’t doing anything to the temple.”

“How do you know we weren’t? You two had no respect for this place.” The older mercenary said. “This is a terrible omen. We must report it to the Archeological Society.”

The older mercenary approached and kicked aside the small metal frame of DC-85, consigning it to a pool of mud, and dabbed elixir on the  professor’s wounds with a cloth. The man’s eyes still looked like they were blinded by his own pictograph.

Amala always rose with the sun, crawling out of bed when the first lights of the day slipped through the window of her room. Because she slept on the third floor of the temple, and her room faced the dawning sun, she was usually the first one to awaken. Thus she had morning duties for the temple. She donned her simple brown robes, tying them right over left with a black sash, and clipped her hair to the back of her head, readying herself for garden work.

Atop her bedside drawer, her almanac was open to the center page, folded out into a calendar that was nearly completed. Red ink circled the day’s date, the 27th of Darkmoon. Amala closed the almanac. On her way out, she dropped it into the bags outside her room. She had spent the night preparing those bags. With her almanac, they were at last full and ready for the trip.

She made her way down the brown brick stairs to the temple’s ground floor, and exited the structure through an open-air hallway lined with sculpted columns. Amala departed the pilgrim’s way, out the front of the temple. Already she took in the air of the sacred grounds with nostalgic feeling, peering into the forest as if an eternity had passed. She had yet to leave, but she already felt gone, a far-away visitor to her own home. Halfway to the hill when she noticed her mistake. She was not headed for the gardens – she was leaving the grounds. Silently she chided herself for exiting the wrong way.

Around the side of the pilgrim’s exit a little stone path led her to the morning exit, distinguished by its fountain and the watering pump, and the stone path to the gardens. Amala took one of the watering cans hung outside for use by the Oblates, and filled it with water from the hand pump. The orange dawn crept upward. She ambled to the garden, water sloshing in her can as she traversed the stones down the hillside, taking in the sounds of the cicada in the trees.

Amala wondered if Sargasso’s mornings would be this peaceful and pleasant.

The temple garden, arrayed within a fenced-out clearing in the nearby wood, was starting to wilt. Only the hardy strawberries along the ground, oblivious to the events above, seemed impervious to the stalking winter. The tomato plants were turning dark, and the herbs were shriveling. The final buds of the citrus plants, tiny and vulnerable fruits, rotted prematurely. They would never be squeezed into Rasa over cups. The squash vines were coiling into little dark springs. All of the garden was shrinking into the earth. Precious little green remained to bid Amala farewell.

Nonetheless Amala watered them as she had since she first became an Oblate.

She knew the winter had taken her plants, not anything resembling sorrow at her departure. Nonetheless, they were dour to be watered by her for perhaps the final time. Would the next Oblate give them the care that she had? Water trickled out, and it felt like the last remaining seconds of her presence in the temple were trickling out as well. She watered the citrus, the strawberries, the squash. Her can half-empty, Amala turned to the hill, when a familiar voice gave her pause.

“Not going to water me? And I’m the only thing still alive save for your foolish strawberries.”

Amala, turned swiftly back. She pressed her hands together before her chest and bowed her head at the finely-clad spirit emerging from behind the citrus tree. Dressed in bright red and gold robes, with many layers of fine silk, and bead necklaces composed of hundreds of different seeds and fruit bulbs, this spirit was their guardian. The large hibiscus growing from her long pale hair suggested a connection to plants, fertility and aromas. Her grinning face suggested her nature.

Her sweet scent was so muted this morning that Amala had overlooked her.

Amala tipped her watering can, pouring a gentle stream over the spirit. “Sorry, Chattah.” She said.

The spirit’s bright, colorful eyes closed with satisfaction, and her lips spread into a gentle smile. Both her eyes and her lips were fancifully colored with natural dyes. These were unmoved by the water, as it trickled down her smooth, bark-brown skin. Amala felt herself grow relaxed, and her skin felt tender in the familiar presence of the Spirit.

“You leave tomorrow, don’t you? Where will your pilgrimage take you?” Chattah asked.

“To the Keralian falls,” Amala replied, “From whence Rashine has been said to spring, if a wish is made.”

“Don’t hold your breath for him.” Chattah replied, chuckling. “He is not one to take requests.”

Amala soon dribbled the last of her water over the spirit’s head. The can was empty, and Amala’s time was certainly spent. But Chattah would not let her go yet. The spirit lay back against the citrus in an almost meditative state, relaxed as a recently fed babe. Amala sat beside her. This was their routine, their relationship, begun over the rivulets from a brass can and strengthened by years of mutual dedication. Chattah was the garden – Chattah was what Amala worked so lovingly for.

The sun was well on its way up, its rays intermittently lighting the garden. Soon the automatic wagon would arrive to take her. Amala breathed in Chattah’s magical aroma, as though it would be the last time in all of her life.

“Why were you hiding your aroma before?” Amala asked.

“I’ve been practicing how to keep it in check.” Chattah said. “It’s not easy. For a Spirit, our whole body and existence is the magic we impart to the mortals. Taking that back from the world requires practice.”

“To what purpose?” Amala asked. Chattah’s perfumes made the garden so much more homely.

“They’re only for you.” Chattah said. Her hand wandered unto Amala’s, and her fingers twined with the Oblate’s own. “You are the only one to whom I owe this scent. This garden is our dedication, Amala.”

“I see.” Amala said, smiling. She lay further back, brushing against the Spirit’s silks. “I feel so blessed, Chattah. But I am leaving on a journey, and I know not when I will return. Must the garden lose your touch? “

“I know you will return.” Chattah calmly said. “I will save my strength, and the garden will be exquisite upon that day, as it never has been before. All who near it will say that you and I have worked a miracle.”

The spirit’s hand squeezed on Amala’s own. Her fear and worry vanished then. She did not look upon her journey with trepidation. It was already settled that she would return, just by those words. She looked forward to embracing Chattah as something more than the little gardening girl that she loved. They would surely work miracles together then.

Aruvinda turned his back on the first rays of the sun, coveting every moment of sleep he could glean before the day’s labors began.  He was meant to wake at dawn, but the past day’s work overtook him, and the cold dawning breeze whittled away his strength. He pulled the cover of his sleeping bag as far tight over his head as he could, and returned firmly to his dreams. Though he felt aware of footsteps and felt the steaming of the family’s pot nearby, nothing woke him. When he finally opened his eyes, and knew that they would not close again until nightfall, the sun was high over his square tent. He had slept tight in his bag until the afternoon, and soaked himself in sweat.

Despite his newfound lucidity, Aruvinda found himself troubled to stand, his whole body recalling past exertions and beginning to throb and twist with dull pain. He reached for his sister’s little writing table to help boost himself to his feet. On the table his hand grasped something soft, and he seized it. His sister had left him a message on old parchment. She always wrote in large, curled, carefully-sketched characters that were recognizable even to Aruvinda ‘s hazy morning eyes.

“Brother, you have overslept,” she had written, “I have gone to the river for our wash water. I left you some dahl and naan. Please remember to pray.”

At the opening to their tent, beside the long-since cold bowl of lentil soup and the limp flatbread floating on it, was a large wooden bucket of water, a tiny beetle crawling around its rim. Aruvinda ‘s dog-like ears bristled and drooped, and he felt a great shame. His sister had come and gone twice already, while he stayed in and slept, and did not even eat the meal she’d left while it was warm.

Though his arms and legs continued to ache, Aruvinda stood from his sleeping bag and knelt by the door of his tent, praying over his cold dahl and soggy nan, and eating it quickly. He washed his hands and his face and left the tent, taking a clean, dry sash from a hanger and tying his robe tight. Right over left – like she’d taught him. This whole week he was tasked with chopping firewood, and he prayed that his sister hadn’t had to do too much of his work. After all she’d done, this was unforgivable of him.

His little wing of the village was deserted – everyone had vacated the wide circle of tents in the forest clearing, leaving for the day to engage in their work or play. There were dozens of footsteps in the sandy clearing, leading out into the wood past the forager’s tents and toward the fields of amaranth and beans were the farmer’s tents were laid up. From that edge of the forest, the village carefully collected its supply of firewood.

Aruvinda hurried past the line of shrubs and into the forest, careful not to trip over the roots of the tall sabera trees forming the vast canopy overhead. Not a minute into his dash, he was already tired, and in the distance he could see a gaggle of smaller boys and girls returning from the fields, having partaken of their usual lunch of the locusts and beetles that had dared harass the village crops that day. They soon spotted him, and they all ran up, tails and ears wagging, and tumbled into him, laughing and cheering as he dropped to the ground along with all of them.

“Spirits defend! Everyone, please,” he begged, when they began to try to tickle him, “I need to get out to the fields! You little devils have more than proven your guile!”

All at once, the children stopped, raised their heads and stared at him, their many and varied ears and tails all raised in unison and alertness as well.

“Is something wrong Aruvinda?” One girl said, alarmed, “Did we hurt you?”

“No, no! I’m fine.” Aruvinda replied. “I just have something to do and I’m in a hurry. I’m an adult now, and I can’t just sit around and play anymore.”

A very small boy holding on to his leg let go of him, looking very disappointed. His little winged ears hung. He put Aruvinda’s sandal back on his foot.

“Oh, don’t be that way. I’ll play with you all again on my rest days.” Aruvinda said.

“Is this about your sister?” Another boy said. This one had no ears nor tail, for he was a Cuporo and not a Iomadi like Aruvinda and the rest. He was older than the others, but about the same size nonetheless, and a small red flower grew from his dark hair. How it grew was fairly perplexing. “We saw her out in the fields.”

“Is she chopping wood?” Aruvinda asked, helping himself stand again.

“She has been chopping wood.” An older girl said, old enough to understand what was transpiring. “She’s been there practically all day Aruvinda, thanks to you.”

“You’ve been naughty!” Said the little Cuporo boy, following her.

Aruvinda dashed past them, not giving them another instant to jeer.

He made it out of the trees and unto the village’s fields. The crops were grown in an ancestral clearing that had been kept for generations. The farmers laid their tents here, and because of the village’s covenant with the forest, it was here that they chopped for firewood, despite the loggers living scattered about every wing of the village. Aruvinda and his sister lived in the artisans’ circle, and had been since their parents passed. Aruvinda’s sister was the finest potter in the village.

And there she was – that most familiar woman, tall and thin with a round, friendly face and long brown hair, her spirit markings reminiscent of a dog, like his own, her flesh brown as an acorn, like his own also. She was standing by a pile of split logs, heaving an axe with expert precision. Her cheeks and nose were red with exertion, but nonetheless, she had almost completely done his work. Her tail stood straight as she raised the axe overhead, and curled when she brought it down upon a log. The halves fell to either side of the felled trunk she used to support them.

Aruvinda could hardly approach her. None of the villagers noticed him. They were too busy with their own tasks, watering the gardens, distributing firewood, discussing the season and the weather, and for some, singing prayer hymns to lift the general spirit. Aruvinda squirmed at the edge of the treeline.

Suddenly, she turned around to face a cool breeze, which swept up her hair. In that instant she saw him in the woods, and gave him a dull look. He was caught, and sent a chill down his spine, and he felt as though his throat had been seized.

“What are you doing there Vinda?” She called. She set down the axe and ambled over to him, straightening out her robe, which was near to falling off her shoulders. Aruvinda cast his eyes down to her feet – he’d have to look up to meet her eyes.

“Nothing, nothing Rajni. I just, well,” He paused, unable to say anything. Other villagers cast glances over, some waved, most didn’t seem to pay attention.

“Did you eat the breakfast I left you?” Rajni said.

Aruvinda nodded quickly, closing his eyes.

“Did you remember to pray?” Rajni said.

“I did.” Aruvinda said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Rajni mussed her little brother’s curly hair with a smile.

“That’s good then.” She said. “You should always pray over your food.”

Rajni stretched her arms up, yawned, and patted his shoulder again. She then took his cheek gently, and raised his face so that their eyes met. She smiled. “You can go finish up those logs. I have some pots to make for the foragers.”

With that, she walked past him, humming a common spirit hymn.

Aruvinda watched his sister’s back until she became a shadow in the distant wood.

“Thanks, Rajni.” He whispered, still struck dumb. The wind blew again, and the axe fell off the stump, reminding Aruvinda of his duties. He took it up, and felt motivated to ignore his sore limbs and get to work. He had to do at least as much as Rajni had done for him, or he would not be able to look past her feet again at dinner time.