The sun beats down on a town holding its breath. The usual rhythms of Chicaza are gone, replaced by a quiet, purposeful tension. The reports from our southernmost trackers are hours old, but their message is branded onto the mind of every warrior: the Shining Ones are at Mabila.
I could not bear the stillness of my own lodge, the silent work of fletching arrows that felt both vital and useless against an enemy of metal and thunder. I sought out the small, secluded fire of an old Mingo, one who is said to speak with the spirits and read the turnings of the world in the casting of stones and the flight of birds.
He was not casting stones today. Before him lay a special quiver, made from the hide of a panther, holding arrows reserved not for war or the hunt, but for questions. He nodded for me to sit as he began the rite, his eyes closed, his voice a low chant. He reached into the quiver and drew out a number of these divining arrows—some fletched in the white feathers of peace and diplomacy, some in the black feathers of sorrow and loss, and the rest in the stark red feathers of war.
He laid them on the ground before him. I watched, my heart pounding in my chest, as he arranged them to devine their meaning. From his sacred quiver, he had drawn seven arrows in total. I saw that for every one arrow fletched in the white feathers of peace, he had drawn twice that number fletched in the black feathers of sorrow. The remaining arrows, the most numerous of all, were fletched in the red of war.
He looked at the arrangement for a long time, his face grim. He did not tell me what the spirits whispered to him. He did not have to. The grim tally of the arrows spoke for itself. He gathered them, his movements slow and deliberate, and returned them to the panther-skin quiver. He met my gaze and said only, "Sharpen your remaining arrows. The night will be long."
To Be Continued…
