Page 34 of The Merciless Ones
Keita nods. “Later, then.”
“Later,” I agree, turning towards the platform, where one of the priests is addressing the crowd from beside the three sleeping alaki, who now have only the barest vestiges of gold on their bodies. They’ll wake within the next two hours, if not sooner.
Just the thought of it has me clenching my fists.
“Evening greetings, loyal worshippers of Oyomo,” the priest calls, his pale pink face deepening in colour from the exertion of shouting so loud.
“Evening greetings,” the crowd returns.
Even from a distance, I can see there’s something strange about his eyes: his pupils are too dark, and they take up too much space in the whites. Less knowledgeable onlookers might take them as a result of spending too much time reading scrolls in the darkness, or even an overindulgence in hallucinogenic herbs, but I know better. This priest is no mere human; he’s a true jatu, as are all the other priests around him, all of whom have those distinctive eyes as well.
Someone hands him a metal horn, and he nods his thanks. “Honoured followers of Oyomo,” he shouts into it, the horn amplifying his voice. “May the blessings of the Infinite Father shelter and deliver you.”
“May we be sheltered. May we be delivered,” the crowd intones.
I haven’t heard such recitations since the day of my Ritual of Purity, but I follow along easily, the words ingrained from years of worshipping at the village temple.
“Today begins a most auspicious period – the eve of the Festival of the Half Light, the celebration of Oyomo’s descent and the arrival of the dark months of winter. As is our sacred tradition, we will remain in fellowship until the festival is ended. But we must not lose our vigilance while we celebrate the Infinite Father’s journey. Demons walk Otera.”
Tension grips the crowd now, soldiers glancing at each other, some spitting on the ground to signal their disgust. My fists clench even tighter. It always enrages me to hear my kind spoken of with such venom, such hatred, as if we were the actual demons they said we were. All we’ve ever done is try to survive – just as every other creature in Otera does. And yet, the humans despise us for it.
The priest nods approvingly at the crowd, his bald head gleaming in the evening light. “The Gilded Ones have risen, spreading their monstrous filth and perversion, turning innocent girls into alaki and forcing youths to debauchery. We must not fall prey to their vile temptations.”
“We must remain firm,” a masked woman calls out beside me, clutching her children closer.
Nods of agreement all around.
The priest’s smile of approval almost beams from his eyes. “You have heard at length from Elder Kadiri, honoured high priest of Oyomo!” he shouts. “Today, he has brought with him another chosen of Oyomo: the Wumi Kaduth, the Lady of the Heart!”
Cheers ring out, roars of approval so loud, they drown out every other sound. I quickly join in, even though tension grips my muscles, making them as rigid and unyielding as iron. I can feel that strange presence growing again, an oily slickness in the air that surges with every round of applause the crowd makes. Something about the pattern of its surges niggles at me, and it takes me only a few moments to understand why. It’s almost like the presence is…feeding off the applause.
Worship… The word jolts into my mind, but I quickly shrug it away. Only the Gilded Ones feed on worship.
When quiet descends, I return my attention to the scene in front of me. Elder Kadiri is making his way to the centre of the platform, each of his steps slow and deliberate, the light from the bonfires flickering over his skin. Even without ever having seen him before, I know exactly who he is. The aged cleric is slight and leather-skinned, his yellow robes tattered and his feet so heavily calloused, they’re almost as thick as hooves. The only thing that differentiates him from the beggars calling for alms at the side of the crowd is the kuru, the sacred sun symbol, branded in gold on his forehead.
That and the fact that his skin is dark blue.
The colour gleams every time the firelight moves over it, illuminating the shades making up the rich darkness. A shiver rushes over me. Elder Kadiri is Mombani, one of the rarest tribes of the Southern provinces – of all Otera, for that matter. The One Kingdom may stretch entire continents, only the Unknown Lands to the far South and East free from its reach, but even among all the vastly different groups that inhabit its Southern, Northern, Eastern and Western provinces, the Mombani stand out as unique. For only they possess skin of such a jewel-like hue.
Elder Kadiri’s deep-blue cast almost makes him look like a creature from mythology. But he’s here, and now he’s at the very edge of the platform, a figure looming over us, except he’s not actually as tall as he seems. In fact, he stands at least a head shorter than the priests all standing behind him, their mouths moving in rapid prayer.
Prickles of unease creep down my spine as the sound drifts over the crowd, a low, insistent hum. Each time it rises, that strange feeling – that strange presence – rises again. Finally, Elder Kadiri motions for silence, and the priests turn, almost as one, towards the back of the platform. That’s where a woman in light-yellow robes is being helped up onto the boards. The Wumi Kaduth. She doesn’t have to be introduced for me to know it’s her. She’s the only woman on the platform, after all – barring the girls in the gilded sleep, that is.
I stare up at her, fascinated. She’s very slight, the Lady of the Heart – body fragile and bird-like thin beneath the layers of ceremonial yellow robes that cover her from head to toe. Although I assume she’s elderly, she could be any age from twelve to sixty, not that I’d be able to discern the truth; a wooden piety mask hides her face, the sheer black cloth under the eye and mouth holes concealing even her eyes from view. I can see it very easily despite the rising darkness, my heightened senses allowing me to cut across the distance as the Wumi Kaduth shuffles cautiously towards the priests, then kneels, offering absolute submission to both Elder Kadiri and the gathering of men stretched out before her.
My lips curl in disgust. All that fanfare about a female priest, a Lady of the Heart, and they bring out this frightened, cowering thing. But that’s the point, isn’t it? I force myself to relax as I remember Melanis’s words: this woman isn’t a priest but a lure for human women – visible proof that if they submit fully enough, if they give themselves so completely that there’s nothing left but devotion, they too can be chosen by Oyomo to be his special messenger. The manipulativeness of it all blisters me. Before, girls could look forward to being pure and marrying as a reward for their subservience. Now they can also look forward to being designated false priests and serving the other priests for their troubles – just as this priestess is doing.
Elder Kadiri pats the woman’s head in a sickeningly patronizing gesture, then turns to the crowd. “Blessed followers of Oyomo,” he says in a surprisingly booming voice, “you have heard me speak, time and again, of the power of our Infinite Father, of His love and dedication to us – a dedication so pure, He has transformed himself into His most powerful aspect, Idugu, as a way to combat the influence of the Gilded Ones.”
The crowd is absolutely still now, captivated by his voice. It resonates deep inside my bones, a tangible power even I can feel.
The effect of it combines with his blue skin, turning him into something almost mystical as he continues: “Those demons are a stain upon our beloved One Kingdom, as is their despicable offspring, the alaki they have christened their Nuru, Deka. May she burn in the Fires.”
“May she burn in the Fires,” the crowd intones.
My stomach lurches. This isn’t the first time I’ve heard this sentiment – the wish that I burn in the Fires of the Afterlands – nevertheless, it still stings. Keita tightens his arm around my waist, but his nearness doesn’t banish the disgust, the dread, simmering inside me.
Elder Kadiri nods piously, continuing: “Time and again, I have spoken of our god, of his monstrous enemies. It is time for other mouths to speak. As you all by now know, Oyomo, in His infinite mercy, has seen fit to ordain certain hallowed women, to give them the power to move past their fleshly infirmity and absorb the strength of the divine. On this sacred evening, I give you the first of His chosen daughters, the Wumi Kaduth, the Lady of the Heart.”