What comes up from underground? The youngsters would ask when starting their long journey to the ritual grounds. Their hooved steps beat the ground. Drying mud marked their large torsos, and they all carried a makeshift weapon. The oldest were barely turned ten seasons. But if they could hold an axe or a spear, they were ready to face the world.
The ritual grounds were deep in the forest, past the Scar Gully with its sharp, stringed metal spikes. Then through the dense, leafless understory. The Elders would tell them that life left those trees way before their time when the world was drowning in unbreathable air. Even now, in certain places far from here, the gases choked anything alive and stupid enough to venture there.
But there was hope. As they weaved their way between the grey, cracked trunks, some of them noticed colours on the dark forest floor, fighting against the thousand-year death.
And so they carried on, soon leaving the dreadful place behind. The lush green shades of the woodland welcomed them. Many found the earthy smells of decay much better than the wind freely brushing over their bare backs. Yet, each of them gripped their weapon tighter the further they entered into the shadows.
The Elders stopped where the canopy stretched high above their head that it looked like a second sky. Their skin was even whiter in the absence of the sunlight.
Go, the Elders swung their hands, shooing the youngsters away. Their hooves stomped at the ground sending bits of earth flying as some continued to linger around. The Elders’ voices were rising into a war cry. There was no turning back.
Go, the Elders shouted, beating their chests. Go and destroy the evil that comes from beneath the ground. Protect our world and protect yourselves. They may be our history, but they are not us. They are nothing but maggots, reeking with infections.
Eventually, all the youngsters scattered. There was no huddling together for warmth. There was no group hunt. They all had to find the evil themselves, defeat it and bring back proof.
They ventured through the dark forest, looking for holes. Some were plugged with heavy doors that no weapon could penetrate. Those weren’t yet ready. Others were cracked open with the stench of unwashed bodies and rot rising from within. And so the hunt began. The woods rang with cries. Some bloodthirsty, others frightened, others like the shriek of an unleashed devil.
Some youngsters never returned. Others took days to find their way back. But without a fault, they all dragged the proof behind them, leaving trails of blood in their wake.
The Elders stood and laid down their weapons, regarding the four-limbed lifeless bodies with disgust. They kicked the carcasses for good measure. The bones of the evil snapped. The soft flesh was too weak to protect it.
If it is dead, it does no harm, the Elders said and looked at those who passed.
Of those who returned, only a few broadened their chests and held their heads higher. Those were going to grow into strong gallopers with wide antlers. They were going to fight to become chieftain one day. The others, with their empty eyes and hunched backs, were forever going to be haunted by the incoherent screams of their trophies as they tried to crawl away into safety. They were going to live out their days in submission.
But they brought the proof and cleansed the world. Now they were youngsters no more.
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(Photo: The Woods/ Walt Jabsco/ flickr.com/ CC BY-NC-ND 2.0)
- From Beneath the Ground, by Janie Krahulcova - August 12, 2021