WARNING: GRAPHIC SCENES OF VIOLENCE
Fire erupts from the wooden building, flames shooting up into the darkening sky, as men and women scatter about the scene. My brother, Pahua, slowly walks toward the burning home, mesmerized by the devastation in astonishment. I start to run after him, prepared to pull him away from the chaos, but retreat behind the cart when a group of people wearing red cloth across their faces, masking their identity, engage with him with an animated discussion.
Realizing I need to get closer to hear what they’re saying, I locate an entryway to a neighboring building. Though it appears vacant, I can’t determine if anyone is inside, or if it’s being damaged by the flames next door. However, there’s no telling how long the group will be distracted, and sounds of the screams and demolition make it too difficult to hear anything they’re saying.
Seizing the opportunity, I sprint across the street, tripping on an ill-fitting stone from the road, and stumble into the adjacent building. The residents have vacated the property, knocking over furniture and having their clothing and personal items strewn about the floor in their hurried escape from the neighboring fire. I spot a knocked over table and drag it close to the entrance to provide me with a little more cover as I attempt to eavesdrop and identify the people speaking to Pahua. I search for a container or some source of water, but nothing appears to me. I am eager to extinguish the flames, but can’t see how I could immediately help.
After shouting something incoherent to one another, the group charges into the burning home while Pahua stands idly by, gawking at the devastation. I look on with nervousness, fearing for their safety as they run inside, hoping they’re able to rescue anyone endangered by the burning destruction. Onlookers can only stand by helplessly, as we all wait to see if they reemerge.
I’m about to run into the street to grab Pahua and leave the scene, but something within me tells me to wait, to see how this plays out and why those people spoke only to him and not any of the other observers. There’s a sinking feeling in my heart, recalling what I overheard Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel say at the uli-poq match about recruiting my brother into their ranks. Could these people not be rescuers, but insurgents?
No sooner than when the thought leaves me, I receive the unfortunate answer. Dragging a family out into the street, a man, woman, and two children are each bound and gagged, flanked by a person in the red cloth. While the crying children, no older than a half dozen or so harvests, remain relatively unscathed, the mother and father are badly beaten, blood streaming from their heads and staining their clothes scarlet. The man’s eyes are swollen shut, bruises marking his face, and one of his arms dangles and bends abnormally, likely due to being broken. The woman’s clothes are torn, exposing much of her battered body for all to see.
“You recognize them?” one of the red cloth figures says in a deep, ominous voice, looking at Pahua. With trepidation washing over his face, my brother nods, uttering something I can’t distinguish. A crowd gathers around, shouts and protests rise above the roar of the flames. Yet when a few of the figures in red, wielding cudgels the size of a grown man’s leg, stride over to some of the outspoken individuals, their looming presence is enough to stifle the dissent. Despite the light cast from the flaming building, it’s difficult to ascertain whether these members’ arms and legs are painted or entirely tattooed in black, and their heads are all shaved bald and painted black, whether man or woman. Torches in hand, they stand by one man, who I assume is their leader due to being the only person with numerous piercings adorning his ears. Besides the red cloth that covers his face, he wears a black cape draped over his left shoulder and a crimson red hip cloth, and stands much taller than the rest, puffing out his barrel-chested physique.
“Let it be known,” the daunting figure announces, his voice booming like the crashing of waves during a storm, “to go against the Eye in the Flame is to deny the inevitability of what’s to come. We are the keepers of the ancient flame, the guardians of the old ways, and we refuse to be silenced or forgotten. Our ancestors fought for the strength and sovereignty of our people, and it is our duty to honor their legacy. We have seen the rise and fall of oppressive rulers, and we refuse to be the bearers of another’s burden.
“Today, we pass judgment on those who dare to challenge our cause. A family, blinded by false hope and misguided loyalty to a ruler who seeks to eliminate us, has threatened to expose our identities and disrupt our noble agenda. They believe they can extinguish the flame within us, but little do they know that it burns brighter than ever before.
“Let this be a warning that the fire of our rebellion will consume all who stand against us. For those who betray our sacred trust, there shall be consequences, swift and just.”
In unison, the members of the group place their right hand over their heart, holding their index, middle, and ring fingers upward while their pinky touches their thumb, palm side facing their chest. Then, they raise the arm up and out while maintaining the hand gesture, and shout, “by our righteous fire!”
One member of each party that detained a tied up captive steps forward and, simultaneously, hold up their torches, then rests the flame on each apprehended prisoner, setting the members of the family alight. Their primal screams will echo in my nightmares for the rest of my days, the cries to be heard on every corner of Pachil, their faces twist and contort in anguish. The crowd of onlookers are equally mortified, shielding their eyes from the sight, though it’s too late to prevent the scenes from being burned into our memories—I couldn’t turn away fast enough to protect myself from witnessing the poor, victimized children being burned alive. Some Chalaqta residents, to their credit, attempt to rescue the family and extinguish the flames, but are instantly beaten down to within a modicum of their life by the members of this terrorist group, who seem to relish in bludgeoning those trying to oppose them.
Pahua’s face has the facade of stoicism, seemingly unaffected by the harrowing scene unfolding before him. Yet, beneath the veneer of composure, a discerning eye such as that of his sibling can perceive the sudden flicker of unease in his gaze, the slight twitch of his clenching jaw.
Shouts of commands and the thunderous stomping of an army approaches, warriors clad in the orange and red Tapeu colors with bronze helmets glowing in the light of the fire. Weapons held aloft, they take to the streets and rush fervently at these rebellious fiends. Clashing of metal swords and halberds on wooden cudgels and shields, grunts and wails of combatants, and the mayhem of panicked villagers overtake the roaring flames of the crumbling home.
During the fracas, I dart out from behind my cover and run toward Pahua, grabbing his arm while he stands stunned and stupefied. At my initial touch, he flinches and begins to cower, looking at me with indescribable mortification.
“It’s me,” I say with urgency. “We’ve got to run, now.”
Pahua can only nod, mouth agape and eyes glossed over with fear. Scanning the area, I spot a break in the battle, a narrow opening appearing between batches of combatants. Forcefully pulling my brother behind me, we sprint past the warriors, weaving through the entangled bodies. Blood splatters our faces, causing Pahua to shriek, but I press on, undeterred. The metallic smell of blood fuses with the smokey ash that fills the air and clouds my vision, my eyes stinging from the heat and contaminants. All I can focus on is getting us to the safety of the palace, aiding me in ignoring the gory scenes encompassing us.
Guards shout at us when we approach the gate, halberds and swords pointed at us at the ready. The yelling is muddled, and I can’t understand any direction they’re trying to give us. All I can do is hold my hands up and holler our identities.
“We are the children of Siunqi!” I plead, pointing to my face, particularly my scar and blue eyes. “I am Walumaq! This is Pahua! Please!”
After a moment of more intense yelling, some of the guards recognize me by my features and attempt to resolve the situation, allowing Pahua and me to proceed to safety. Their attention quickly shifts from us to the calamity outside the walls, maneuvering into positions to defend and secure the palace. Once Pahua and I get to a relatively peaceful location on the grounds, I aggressively spin him around to face me, my heart pounding from anger and adrenaline.
“What on Pachil were you thinking?” I scold Pahua, glaring at his pathetic, pouting face. “Are you involved with those people? How could you!”
“I...” he stammers while still trying to exude an air of calm, “I didn’t know that was going to happen. But if that’s the cost of a revolution, then so be it.”
“How can you say such a thing? Are you so barbaric?” While I’ve always known Pahua to be brash and unreasonable at times, this feels entirely out of character as though it were surfacing from the sea’s depths.
Pahua doesn’t respond, scowling and looking off to the side. Guards yell behind us with a lot of commotion at the entrance. He’s about to walk away before I grab his arm to stop him in place.
“Who did you have them execute?” I ask. “Is it someone we know?”
“Just someone who would’ve exposed the leaders of the rebellion,” he says nonchalantly, “and squandered the cause before it has a chance to let the river find its course.”
“Do you even know what their cause is?” I ask. “It seems grotesquely violent. Is that really a cause you want to support?”
“I know,” Pahua says condescendingly, “that the Arbiter and current Tapeu rulers have ostracized the Ulxa and labeled them as evil. If they can do that to the Ulxa, they can easily do that to our people, knowing how the Sanqo have been viewed historically.”
“That is not your decision to make!” I say. “And judging from what I’ve seen today, the Tapeu might have a just cause. And now you’ve given them reason to suspect and distrust the Sanqo!”
Pahua doesn’t get a chance to respond, as more warriors begin flooding the entrance and shouting commands at one another. Some are carrying the limp bodies of the wounded, badly bruised and bleeding. I hear some yell about a Sanqo abettor, and when I look at my brother, his face becomes white as the foam from the waves.
“Quickly,” I say. “We must talk to father about what you’ve done.” Pahua nods, and we hurry back to the guest quarters of the palace.
We maneuver around the guards heading toward the entrance, moving against the current, and find our way to Siunqi’s room. A half dozen of our men are already present, speaking to him with urgency. They all turn to see us enter, and as soon as Pahua’s face is recognized, a few point fingers and scream at him, demanding he tell them what he’s done. Siunqi attempts to abate the accusations, but the passion of Sanqo people is difficult to restrain when they are angered by something.
“Boy!” Siunqi screams at Pahua, grabbing him by the shoulders, then punching him squarely in the stomach. Pahua wheezes and groans, keeling over and clutching his abdomen. “What have you done, besides ruin everything I was working to rebuild?”
Pahua only responds with fits of coughs, dropping to one knee as he regains his breath. The other men speak over one another, demanding Siunqi’s attention among a barrage of other jumbled words. My father paces the room, ignoring the others and contemplating what his next steps will be.
“By the sea!” he eventually remarks, stoping in place and throwing a chair across the room, nearly missing a few bystanders as it crashes into the stone wall, splintering into numerous fractured pieces. “We are in a worse position than we started when we came to this forsaken mainland.”
“What shall we do?” I ask Siunqi, hoping to keep his mind focused on how best to protect us from possible imprisonment, or worse.
“Running will make us appear guilty,” Siunqi reasons, “but staying here puts all of our lives in danger.”
The men gathered stand still, attentively watching Siunqi and eagerly awaiting his command. Pahua sulks as he sits on my bed, arms crossed while looking despondently at the wall opposite of our father. After ruminating for what feels like an eternity, Siunqi finally proposes a plan.
“Seek Atoyaqtli and have him prepare the ships. We depart at once.”
“But father!” Pahua objects as one of our warriors takes off out of the room to alert our lieutenant. Before he can finish his complaint, Siunqi strikes him hard with the back of his hand, the loud smack coinciding with knocking him to the floor.
“If you make it to the ship,” Siunqi says to Pahua, “then so be it.”
“But the rest of of you,” he now says to everyone else, “we must hurry, under the cover of darkness while we still can.”
Everyone immediately bolts for the exit, no other words exchanged—only pointing to directions and guiding the others to where we should escape. Siunqi walks briskly, a mask of determination on his face, and heads to a lesser known gate to the east of the palace grounds. I have only passed by this area once, purely by accident as I was trying to find my way to the dining hall, but I recall there being a significantly small number of guards posted. With the disruptions to the south of the palace, the numbers here are much smaller than usual, which would be concerning if we were to reside here as guests during this time.
One of our warriors darts ahead and ducks behind a cart filled with foods and other items, scouting the way in front of us before signaling that the path is clear. We jog light-footed to leave, each one of us scanning the area to make sure we are, indeed, safe. It’s then that we hear hollers coming from behind us.
“You there!” the young voice shouts. “Stop! Iatuq has–“
“Go!” Siunqi orders, ignoring the demands of the youthful guard. We hurry to leave, and I clutch my satchel to secure it while running through the gate. Our other men, having established camp outside Chalaqta, await us in the distance across the field, their figures barely appearing above the tall grasses.
More shouts, and emerging from the sides, palace guards in orange and red point their halberds at us, demanding that we halt. Running as fast as our legs can carry us, we race to our warriors on the other side of the wall. There are more commands, then a guard accosts one of our men, grappling him as they both tumble to the ground. The Sanqo warrior easily dispatches him, rolling on top of the guard and knocking him unconscious with one well-placed cross to the jaw that whips the man’s head back and bounces off the ground. He then picks himself up and rejoins our band of men.
Siunqi spots something in the distance and, while running at full speed, waves his hands in the air as if signaling something to his men.
“No!” he yells. “Don’t you dare shoot at–“
His command is too late. One of the Sanqo warriors fires an arrow whizzing past us, striking a Chalaqta guard, with a thud as he falls from a height onto the ground behind us. Now the Chalaqta bowmen begin shooting at us, arrows raining all around as we clear the walls of the village.
After a long, tiring sprint, we finally reach our men. A few of the warriors grab ahold of us, hoisting us up to aid our escape. It’s not long after we arrive that Siunqi unsheathes his sword and, holding it out as if the weapon guides him to the culprit, points at one of our archers, who, overcome with fright, stares at him wide-eyed.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Siunqi accuses the young warrior.
“I-I-I–“ he stutters, dropping his bow and arrow and raising his palms up as he pleas. “I didn’t mean to–“
Siunqi doesn’t allow him to finish his excuse, driving his sword through the boy’s stomach, then kicks his body until it slides off his blade. Stomping into the sea of tall, tan grass, he marches on, heading back the way we first came when we arrived at Chalaqta. No other words are exchanged as we swiftly return to the ships sitting on the coastline.
We traverse the rocky shoreline and approach our men, who, at Atoyaqtli’s command, prepare us to set off back to Sanqo. Men mount their shields onto the sides of the watercraft and leap in, immediately grabbing ahold of an ore as they simultaneously get seated. Pahua, chasing us down and out of breath, finds an empty space on one of the vessels and climbs aboard.
“What happened? What took place in Chalaqta?” some of the men ask us. None of the arriving members of our party answer them, keeping Pahua’s sins to themselves.
“Get the ships ready for departure!” Siunqi orders, his mouth foaming as he furiously commands his men. One of our warriors, carried by another, was struck by an arrow and grimaces in pain. When Siunqi checks on the man, he gets waved off, the warrior stating he can make the journey home. The arrow has gone deep into the shoulder, blood trickling out of the wound.
I locate a pouch and, realizing it’s empty of all contents, rush to the waters. I open the mouth of the pouch and collect as much sea water as I can before returning to the wounded warrior.
“I sincerely apologize in advance,” I warn him. “This is going to sting.”
I pour the salt water onto the wound, and the man lets out a stifled grunt before fighting off the pain.
“Do we have any provisions remaining with healing herbs?” I ask around. Siunqi loudly repeats my question, and two men run to one of the ships, pulling out a sack of various leaves and plants. I find some aloe vera and try to extract some gel from the leaves, applying it to the wound while another crushes yarrow flowers to aid in the clotting. It’s the best we can do under the conditions, and I can only hope it’s enough to ensure he arrives at Haqiliqa to be treated more properly.
I can’t discern any torch lights or Tapeu guards when looking back toward Chalaqta from these shores, and I hope we’ve got a few moments of reprieve. I turn back to face our warriors, the wind whipping my hair around my face, and I remain frozen in place as the ships are pushed off the rocky beaches and float out to sea, the men hurrying to jump aboard the moving vessels. They are ready to brave the open sea while here I stand, my feet rooted to this land, unable to take that final step towards the waiting boat.
“Walumaq!” Siunqi yells. “What are you doing?”
What am I doing?
Xasiq’s words repeat over and over inside my head, as if the old woman stands beside me, whispering in my ear.
The Uniter.
Pachil is unstable.
You can save it, or you can destroy it.
The Atima warrior knows.
You will show them.
Start with Qiapu.
It begins.
If I return to Sanqo now, I may never get to Qiapu. Will going to Haqiliqa bring about the destruction of which Xasiq spoke? Or will it save the world? Am I meant for something greater? Or is this just the rantings of a lunatic? I once scoffed at her prophetic ramblings, dismissing them as mere whims of an old crone’s imagination. But as I watched her eyes gleam with an otherworldly light, something inside me stirred.
I see the uncertainty in father's eyes as he looks back at me, and my heart aches with the pain of parting. But I know I must stay, for I can no longer ignore the calling, pulling me towards a higher purpose. It’s as if the threads of fate have entwined themselves around my being, binding me to this moment.
At first, I begin fearing for my safety, as I must traverse Tapeu lands. However, something within me—my instincts, a higher calling from the gods, or naïvety—tells me I am going to make it to Qiapu. From there, who knows, but I’m overcome with a sense that I’m supposed to go to those strange, foreign lands, the weight of destiny pressing heavily on my heart.
“Walumaq,” Siunqi shouts, his command tinged with perplexity.
“Father,” I say, tears flooding my eyes as I fight back the overwhelming sorrow, “you have to trust me for what I’m about to do–“
“Walumaq!” he screams.
“–but something compels me to remain on the mainland. There’s a greater purpose that calls for me to be here.”
“Walumaq!”
“Forgive me, father. I will return to you and mother when I have weaved the tapestry of my destiny.”
“Walumaq!”
Forgive me, father.
Raising my hands, a wave lifts and carries the vessels out to sea. The ships have begun their journey to Haqiliqa, back to the safety of Sanqo. Once they become nothing more than specs on the horizon, a mixture of sadness and determination fills my heart. I turn to face away from the waters, behind me the tide crashes into the shores. I may not fully understand what awaits me, but I know that this is where I am meant to be. Qiapu is south of Chalaqta, to the edge of Tapeu lands, so I take off running toward the south.
WARNING: GRAPHIC SCENES OF VIOLENCE
Fire erupts from the wooden building, flames shooting up into the darkening sky, as men and women scatter about the scene. My brother, Pahua, slowly walks toward the burning home, mesmerized by the devastation in astonishment. I start to run after him, prepared to pull him away from the chaos, but retreat behind the cart when a group of people wearing red cloth across their faces, masking their identity, engage with him with an animated discussion.
Realizing I need to get closer to hear what they’re saying, I locate an entryway to a neighboring building. Though it appears vacant, I can’t determine if anyone is inside, or if it’s being damaged by the flames next door. However, there’s no telling how long the group will be distracted, and sounds of the screams and demolition make it too difficult to hear anything they’re saying.
Seizing the opportunity, I sprint across the street, tripping on an ill-fitting stone from the road, and stumble into the adjacent building. The residents have vacated the property, knocking over furniture and having their clothing and personal items strewn about the floor in their hurried escape from the neighboring fire. I spot a knocked over table and drag it close to the entrance to provide me with a little more cover as I attempt to eavesdrop and identify the people speaking to Pahua. I search for a container or some source of water, but nothing appears to me. I am eager to extinguish the flames, but can’t see how I could immediately help.
After shouting something incoherent to one another, the group charges into the burning home while Pahua stands idly by, gawking at the devastation. I look on with nervousness, fearing for their safety as they run inside, hoping they’re able to rescue anyone endangered by the burning destruction. Onlookers can only stand by helplessly, as we all wait to see if they reemerge.
I’m about to run into the street to grab Pahua and leave the scene, but something within me tells me to wait, to see how this plays out and why those people spoke only to him and not any of the other observers. There’s a sinking feeling in my heart, recalling what I overheard Teqotlo and Aluxeqwel say at the uli-poq match about recruiting my brother into their ranks. Could these people not be rescuers, but insurgents?
No sooner than when the thought leaves me, I receive the unfortunate answer. Dragging a family out into the street, a man, woman, and two children are each bound and gagged, flanked by a person in the red cloth. While the crying children, no older than a half dozen or so harvests, remain relatively unscathed, the mother and father are badly beaten, blood streaming from their heads and staining their clothes scarlet. The man’s eyes are swollen shut, bruises marking his face, and one of his arms dangles and bends abnormally, likely due to being broken. The woman’s clothes are torn, exposing much of her battered body for all to see.
“You recognize them?” one of the red cloth figures says in a deep, ominous voice, looking at Pahua. With trepidation washing over his face, my brother nods, uttering something I can’t distinguish. A crowd gathers around, shouts and protests rise above the roar of the flames. Yet when a few of the figures in red, wielding cudgels the size of a grown man’s leg, stride over to some of the outspoken individuals, their looming presence is enough to stifle the dissent. Despite the light cast from the flaming building, it’s difficult to ascertain whether these members’ arms and legs are painted or entirely tattooed in black, and their heads are all shaved bald and painted black, whether man or woman. Torches in hand, they stand by one man, who I assume is their leader due to being the only person with numerous piercings adorning his ears. Besides the red cloth that covers his face, he wears a black cape draped over his left shoulder and a crimson red hip cloth, and stands much taller than the rest, puffing out his barrel-chested physique.
“Let it be known,” the daunting figure announces, his voice booming like the crashing of waves during a storm, “to go against the Eye in the Flame is to deny the inevitability of what’s to come. We are the keepers of the ancient flame, the guardians of the old ways, and we refuse to be silenced or forgotten. Our ancestors fought for the strength and sovereignty of our people, and it is our duty to honor their legacy. We have seen the rise and fall of oppressive rulers, and we refuse to be the bearers of another’s burden.
“Today, we pass judgment on those who dare to challenge our cause. A family, blinded by false hope and misguided loyalty to a ruler who seeks to eliminate us, has threatened to expose our identities and disrupt our noble agenda. They believe they can extinguish the flame within us, but little do they know that it burns brighter than ever before.
“Let this be a warning that the fire of our rebellion will consume all who stand against us. For those who betray our sacred trust, there shall be consequences, swift and just.”
In unison, the members of the group place their right hand over their heart, holding their index, middle, and ring fingers upward while their pinky touches their thumb, palm side facing their chest. Then, they raise the arm up and out while maintaining the hand gesture, and shout, “by our righteous fire!”
One member of each party that detained a tied up captive steps forward and, simultaneously, hold up their torches, then rests the flame on each apprehended prisoner, setting the members of the family alight. Their primal screams will echo in my nightmares for the rest of my days, the cries to be heard on every corner of Pachil, their faces twist and contort in anguish. The crowd of onlookers are equally mortified, shielding their eyes from the sight, though it’s too late to prevent the scenes from being burned into our memories—I couldn’t turn away fast enough to protect myself from witnessing the poor, victimized children being burned alive. Some Chalaqta residents, to their credit, attempt to rescue the family and extinguish the flames, but are instantly beaten down to within a modicum of their life by the members of this terrorist group, who seem to relish in bludgeoning those trying to oppose them.
Pahua’s face has the facade of stoicism, seemingly unaffected by the harrowing scene unfolding before him. Yet, beneath the veneer of composure, a discerning eye such as that of his sibling can perceive the sudden flicker of unease in his gaze, the slight twitch of his clenching jaw.
Shouts of commands and the thunderous stomping of an army approaches, warriors clad in the orange and red Tapeu colors with bronze helmets glowing in the light of the fire. Weapons held aloft, they take to the streets and rush fervently at these rebellious fiends. Clashing of metal swords and halberds on wooden cudgels and shields, grunts and wails of combatants, and the mayhem of panicked villagers overtake the roaring flames of the crumbling home.
During the fracas, I dart out from behind my cover and run toward Pahua, grabbing his arm while he stands stunned and stupefied. At my initial touch, he flinches and begins to cower, looking at me with indescribable mortification.
“It’s me,” I say with urgency. “We’ve got to run, now.”
Pahua can only nod, mouth agape and eyes glossed over with fear. Scanning the area, I spot a break in the battle, a narrow opening appearing between batches of combatants. Forcefully pulling my brother behind me, we sprint past the warriors, weaving through the entangled bodies. Blood splatters our faces, causing Pahua to shriek, but I press on, undeterred. The metallic smell of blood fuses with the smokey ash that fills the air and clouds my vision, my eyes stinging from the heat and contaminants. All I can focus on is getting us to the safety of the palace, aiding me in ignoring the gory scenes encompassing us.
Guards shout at us when we approach the gate, halberds and swords pointed at us at the ready. The yelling is muddled, and I can’t understand any direction they’re trying to give us. All I can do is hold my hands up and holler our identities.
“We are the children of Siunqi!” I plead, pointing to my face, particularly my scar and blue eyes. “I am Walumaq! This is Pahua! Please!”
After a moment of more intense yelling, some of the guards recognize me by my features and attempt to resolve the situation, allowing Pahua and me to proceed to safety. Their attention quickly shifts from us to the calamity outside the walls, maneuvering into positions to defend and secure the palace. Once Pahua and I get to a relatively peaceful location on the grounds, I aggressively spin him around to face me, my heart pounding from anger and adrenaline.
“What on Pachil were you thinking?” I scold Pahua, glaring at his pathetic, pouting face. “Are you involved with those people? How could you!”
“I...” he stammers while still trying to exude an air of calm, “I didn’t know that was going to happen. But if that’s the cost of a revolution, then so be it.”
“How can you say such a thing? Are you so barbaric?” While I’ve always known Pahua to be brash and unreasonable at times, this feels entirely out of character as though it were surfacing from the sea’s depths.
Pahua doesn’t respond, scowling and looking off to the side. Guards yell behind us with a lot of commotion at the entrance. He’s about to walk away before I grab his arm to stop him in place.
“Who did you have them execute?” I ask. “Is it someone we know?”
“Just someone who would’ve exposed the leaders of the rebellion,” he says nonchalantly, “and squandered the cause before it has a chance to let the river find its course.”
“Do you even know what their cause is?” I ask. “It seems grotesquely violent. Is that really a cause you want to support?”
“I know,” Pahua says condescendingly, “that the Arbiter and current Tapeu rulers have ostracized the Ulxa and labeled them as evil. If they can do that to the Ulxa, they can easily do that to our people, knowing how the Sanqo have been viewed historically.”
“That is not your decision to make!” I say. “And judging from what I’ve seen today, the Tapeu might have a just cause. And now you’ve given them reason to suspect and distrust the Sanqo!”
Pahua doesn’t get a chance to respond, as more warriors begin flooding the entrance and shouting commands at one another. Some are carrying the limp bodies of the wounded, badly bruised and bleeding. I hear some yell about a Sanqo abettor, and when I look at my brother, his face becomes white as the foam from the waves.
“Quickly,” I say. “We must talk to father about what you’ve done.” Pahua nods, and we hurry back to the guest quarters of the palace.
We maneuver around the guards heading toward the entrance, moving against the current, and find our way to Siunqi’s room. A half dozen of our men are already present, speaking to him with urgency. They all turn to see us enter, and as soon as Pahua’s face is recognized, a few point fingers and scream at him, demanding he tell them what he’s done. Siunqi attempts to abate the accusations, but the passion of Sanqo people is difficult to restrain when they are angered by something.
“Boy!” Siunqi screams at Pahua, grabbing him by the shoulders, then punching him squarely in the stomach. Pahua wheezes and groans, keeling over and clutching his abdomen. “What have you done, besides ruin everything I was working to rebuild?”
Pahua only responds with fits of coughs, dropping to one knee as he regains his breath. The other men speak over one another, demanding Siunqi’s attention among a barrage of other jumbled words. My father paces the room, ignoring the others and contemplating what his next steps will be.
“By the sea!” he eventually remarks, stoping in place and throwing a chair across the room, nearly missing a few bystanders as it crashes into the stone wall, splintering into numerous fractured pieces. “We are in a worse position than we started when we came to this forsaken mainland.”
“What shall we do?” I ask Siunqi, hoping to keep his mind focused on how best to protect us from possible imprisonment, or worse.
“Running will make us appear guilty,” Siunqi reasons, “but staying here puts all of our lives in danger.”
The men gathered stand still, attentively watching Siunqi and eagerly awaiting his command. Pahua sulks as he sits on my bed, arms crossed while looking despondently at the wall opposite of our father. After ruminating for what feels like an eternity, Siunqi finally proposes a plan.
“Seek Atoyaqtli and have him prepare the ships. We depart at once.”
“But father!” Pahua objects as one of our warriors takes off out of the room to alert our lieutenant. Before he can finish his complaint, Siunqi strikes him hard with the back of his hand, the loud smack coinciding with knocking him to the floor.
“If you make it to the ship,” Siunqi says to Pahua, “then so be it.”
“But the rest of of you,” he now says to everyone else, “we must hurry, under the cover of darkness while we still can.”
Everyone immediately bolts for the exit, no other words exchanged—only pointing to directions and guiding the others to where we should escape. Siunqi walks briskly, a mask of determination on his face, and heads to a lesser known gate to the east of the palace grounds. I have only passed by this area once, purely by accident as I was trying to find my way to the dining hall, but I recall there being a significantly small number of guards posted. With the disruptions to the south of the palace, the numbers here are much smaller than usual, which would be concerning if we were to reside here as guests during this time.
One of our warriors darts ahead and ducks behind a cart filled with foods and other items, scouting the way in front of us before signaling that the path is clear. We jog light-footed to leave, each one of us scanning the area to make sure we are, indeed, safe. It’s then that we hear hollers coming from behind us.
“You there!” the young voice shouts. “Stop! Iatuq has–“
“Go!” Siunqi orders, ignoring the demands of the youthful guard. We hurry to leave, and I clutch my satchel to secure it while running through the gate. Our other men, having established camp outside Chalaqta, await us in the distance across the field, their figures barely appearing above the tall grasses.
More shouts, and emerging from the sides, palace guards in orange and red point their halberds at us, demanding that we halt. Running as fast as our legs can carry us, we race to our warriors on the other side of the wall. There are more commands, then a guard accosts one of our men, grappling him as they both tumble to the ground. The Sanqo warrior easily dispatches him, rolling on top of the guard and knocking him unconscious with one well-placed cross to the jaw that whips the man’s head back and bounces off the ground. He then picks himself up and rejoins our band of men.
Siunqi spots something in the distance and, while running at full speed, waves his hands in the air as if signaling something to his men.
“No!” he yells. “Don’t you dare shoot at–“
His command is too late. One of the Sanqo warriors fires an arrow whizzing past us, striking a Chalaqta guard, with a thud as he falls from a height onto the ground behind us. Now the Chalaqta bowmen begin shooting at us, arrows raining all around as we clear the walls of the village.
After a long, tiring sprint, we finally reach our men. A few of the warriors grab ahold of us, hoisting us up to aid our escape. It’s not long after we arrive that Siunqi unsheathes his sword and, holding it out as if the weapon guides him to the culprit, points at one of our archers, who, overcome with fright, stares at him wide-eyed.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Siunqi accuses the young warrior.
“I-I-I–“ he stutters, dropping his bow and arrow and raising his palms up as he pleas. “I didn’t mean to–“
Siunqi doesn’t allow him to finish his excuse, driving his sword through the boy’s stomach, then kicks his body until it slides off his blade. Stomping into the sea of tall, tan grass, he marches on, heading back the way we first came when we arrived at Chalaqta. No other words are exchanged as we swiftly return to the ships sitting on the coastline.
We traverse the rocky shoreline and approach our men, who, at Atoyaqtli’s command, prepare us to set off back to Sanqo. Men mount their shields onto the sides of the watercraft and leap in, immediately grabbing ahold of an ore as they simultaneously get seated. Pahua, chasing us down and out of breath, finds an empty space on one of the vessels and climbs aboard.
“What happened? What took place in Chalaqta?” some of the men ask us. None of the arriving members of our party answer them, keeping Pahua’s sins to themselves.
“Get the ships ready for departure!” Siunqi orders, his mouth foaming as he furiously commands his men. One of our warriors, carried by another, was struck by an arrow and grimaces in pain. When Siunqi checks on the man, he gets waved off, the warrior stating he can make the journey home. The arrow has gone deep into the shoulder, blood trickling out of the wound.
I locate a pouch and, realizing it’s empty of all contents, rush to the waters. I open the mouth of the pouch and collect as much sea water as I can before returning to the wounded warrior.
“I sincerely apologize in advance,” I warn him. “This is going to sting.”
I pour the salt water onto the wound, and the man lets out a stifled grunt before fighting off the pain.
“Do we have any provisions remaining with healing herbs?” I ask around. Siunqi loudly repeats my question, and two men run to one of the ships, pulling out a sack of various leaves and plants. I find some aloe vera and try to extract some gel from the leaves, applying it to the wound while another crushes yarrow flowers to aid in the clotting. It’s the best we can do under the conditions, and I can only hope it’s enough to ensure he arrives at Haqiliqa to be treated more properly.
I can’t discern any torch lights or Tapeu guards when looking back toward Chalaqta from these shores, and I hope we’ve got a few moments of reprieve. I turn back to face our warriors, the wind whipping my hair around my face, and I remain frozen in place as the ships are pushed off the rocky beaches and float out to sea, the men hurrying to jump aboard the moving vessels. They are ready to brave the open sea while here I stand, my feet rooted to this land, unable to take that final step towards the waiting boat.
“Walumaq!” Siunqi yells. “What are you doing?”
What am I doing?
Xasiq’s words repeat over and over inside my head, as if the old woman stands beside me, whispering in my ear.
The Uniter.
Pachil is unstable.
You can save it, or you can destroy it.
The Atima warrior knows.
You will show them.
Start with Qiapu.
It begins.
If I return to Sanqo now, I may never get to Qiapu. Will going to Haqiliqa bring about the destruction of which Xasiq spoke? Or will it save the world? Am I meant for something greater? Or is this just the rantings of a lunatic? I once scoffed at her prophetic ramblings, dismissing them as mere whims of an old crone’s imagination. But as I watched her eyes gleam with an otherworldly light, something inside me stirred.
I see the uncertainty in father's eyes as he looks back at me, and my heart aches with the pain of parting. But I know I must stay, for I can no longer ignore the calling, pulling me towards a higher purpose. It’s as if the threads of fate have entwined themselves around my being, binding me to this moment.
At first, I begin fearing for my safety, as I must traverse Tapeu lands. However, something within me—my instincts, a higher calling from the gods, or naïvety—tells me I am going to make it to Qiapu. From there, who knows, but I’m overcome with a sense that I’m supposed to go to those strange, foreign lands, the weight of destiny pressing heavily on my heart.
“Walumaq,” Siunqi shouts, his command tinged with perplexity.
“Father,” I say, tears flooding my eyes as I fight back the overwhelming sorrow, “you have to trust me for what I’m about to do–“
“Walumaq!” he screams.
“–but something compels me to remain on the mainland. There’s a greater purpose that calls for me to be here.”
“Walumaq!”
“Forgive me, father. I will return to you and mother when I have weaved the tapestry of my destiny.”
“Walumaq!”
Forgive me, father.
Raising my hands, a wave lifts and carries the vessels out to sea. The ships have begun their journey to Haqiliqa, back to the safety of Sanqo. Once they become nothing more than specs on the horizon, a mixture of sadness and determination fills my heart. I turn to face away from the waters, behind me the tide crashes into the shores. I may not fully understand what awaits me, but I know that this is where I am meant to be. Qiapu is south of Chalaqta, to the edge of Tapeu lands, so I take off running toward the south.
