ZIGARESH’S NEW BODY

Zigaresh had roamed the earth for millennia, not with the body she was born into, but as a small spray of mist, barely visible to most. She lingered in damp, dark, windless places, avoiding cold environments where she could freeze. To this physical expression she was bound as punishment for past crimes, convicted for breaking divine laws, of which she had not been aware of, or informed. At last, one thousand years later, the date to which another chance at life in a human body of her own, had finally come.

Months before, she had left her dark, damp cave and travelled north, to a land inhabited by humans. Unlike many of the nomadic tribes, still hunting and gathering to survive, some of the people had settled down by the shores of the sea, in small uneven domes of stacked rocks and wood. Hundreds of homes were aligned by the beach, while the rest were built behind in parallelled rows, further inland. Into all these homes went Zigaresh, but found no adequate prospect or opportunity. Her hopes were turning into fears as time passed, edging closer to the date, one thousand years after her imprisonment.

As luck would have it, three weeks before the fatidic date, Zigaresh went to the beach, lingering where waves splashed, hoping to feel the sea’s mist blend with her own. Men, women and children walked on sand, clad in animal skins and furs from head to toe. Winter had ended two weeks ago and the sea water was but melted ice. Walking by the sea-shore, a short distance from the water where Zigaresh’s mist was lingering, a young woman with child came by. She was clad in brown coloured animal skins, seamed together, from neck to foot, and a swath of fur partially covered her head, cascading past her shoulders, nearly reaching the ground, much like her skins, too long for a walk on the beach. The woman pulled the excessive length hindering her feet with her left hand, while she wrapped her right arm around her protruding belly. She stood admiring the setting sun for some time, while taking deep breaths of brisk sea air, until she heard her husband calling out to her. The woman turned her head and shouted back a response. - “I’ll be right there!” - This was the opportunity Zigaresh was searching for, and followed the pregnant woman to her humble abode. Unbeknownst to the young woman, her body would have difficulty giving birth to the child.

Three weeks passed, during which Zigaresh learned many things about the pregnant woman. Her name was Akka, and she was Yahnopar’s sixth wife, the youngest of the six. She was eighteen years of age, all of which had been spent in the same village by the beach. At sixteen, her father sold her to Yahnopar, the best plant-grower of the village. In his parcel of land grew trees laden with fruits and nuts, as well as wheat and an extensive variety of vegetable plants. He would exchange his produce, at a high bartering price, with goods the other villagers had to offer.

Zigaresh studied the family’s ways, comings and goings, but most helpful of all, she managed to learn their language within three weeks, a task she had failed to do, for mere lack of interest, until now. Nevertheless, four days before Akka was due to give birth, general weakness overwhelmed her, forcing her to remain in the comfort of her straw-bed. Julobea, the eldest of the wives, nursed her, urging Akka to eat, but all the latter ate was vomited, shortly thereafter. Four days later, Akka’s health worsened, chills and fever assailed the young woman, when her contractions begun. Hours her labour lasted, but the child would not come out. Akka made one last mortal effort that brought her little girl into life, while her own disappeared as her heart stopped. Julobea held the child about to take its first breath. Seizing her opportunity, Zigaresh sprayed herself onto the child’s nostrils, who then took its first breath, aspirating Zigaresh inside its body. Little time it took Zigaresh to manifest herself within the child’s body, first taking notice of Julobea’s sweet musky scent, and the warmth of the woman’s arms holding her. Akka still lay on her straw-bed, dead and empty, but Zigaresh lived again. She now had her new body.

Yahnopar, his five other wives and all their children combined, were pain stricken by the tragic events. People went to Yahnopar’s home to pay their respects and offer consolation. Nevertheless, on the third night after her death, Akka was cast onto the sea, atop a raft made of tree trunks, flames searing her decomposing flesh. Yahnopar and his wives cried as they saw the flaming raft drift away. In contrast, Zigaresh was relieved to see the collateral damage she had caused, disappear onto the dark blue sea.

Innanil, was the name Yahnopar chose for Zigaresh. A name she took for the time she remained under his guardianship. Innanil saw little of him, her care being left to his wives, particularly Julobea. The latter grew to love Innanil as her own daughter, unlike the other wives, who treated her kindly and esteemed her much, but had too many children already, whereas Julobea’s were grown, some had even left the village. Those first few years were a challenge for Innanil, having to accustom herself to her baby-body.

She was seldom alone, couldn’t walk yet, impeding any chance to test her abilities. Thus, she waited, slowly integrating herself to her new life, forgetting about testing her abilities. Years slowly went forward.

She sat on a branch atop a tree, eating one of its sweet flavoured fruit, recently harvested, while watching Yahnopar at work. At the back of his home, where began his agricultural land, Yahnopar was surrounded by dozens of villagers, come to barter their goods. A scent of dry hay was carried by a fresh breeze, as the villagers shouted and laughed, dealing with Yahnopar.

“Yahnopar! Yahnopar! Look at this fine flying beast I have caught for you my friend.” - Shouted Adoman while he lifted the flying beast by its claws so Yahnopar could see. He then questioned Yahnopar. - “How about two sacks of wheat for this fine beast? How about it friend? Hmmmmm?

“Hahahahaha!” - Yanopar loudly laughed, then gave his answer. - “That beast is nothing but feathers and bones. I’ll give you half a sack for it, maybe one of my wives can make soup with it. Julobea, standing beside her husband, along with the other wives, handed half a sack of wheat to Adoman, while he handed her the flying animal. - “Make sure you come again.” She said as the man left. Having followed their conversation, Innanil laughed loudly, nearly falling from the branch. As she settled herself properly on the branch, her attention was caught by an unusual sight. Still far away, north of the village, a tribe of men approached. Her eyesight focused, reaching the tribe of men as they marched towards the village, still two nights away. The tribe was unlike other tribes that would often come to the village, to spend time by the beach, or to seek shelter during colder months. There were no women or children in the tribe, only men carrying hunting weapons and tools. Innanil could not hear them but, from what she saw, these men were murdering looters, not nomads in search of hospitality. She spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on her branch, thinking of possible solutions to this unexpected event.

The next day, Innanil waited for Julobea and the other wives to begin preparing evening supper, sometime during mid-afternoon, at which point Innanil was sent outside to play. Clad in animal skins, she scurried out braving shilled winds scattering leaves against her, slowing her progress to her destination. Nevertheless, the six year old girl ran to a river, north of the village where the sea had carved itself a path inland. Sunlight still shone upon the river when Innanil first arrived.

She hid behind a great tree bordering the riverside, its leaves beginning to change color, from green to yellow, orange and red, and waited for the tribe of looters. The men had to cross the river where the distance between its shores was shortest, or walk further inland and contour the river, but that was much too far and unnecessary. To pass the time while waiting, she gathered little stones scattered on the ground behind the tree and made figurines.

At dusk, as Innanil had anticipated, the tribe reached the side of the river opposite hers. She observed them as they set the burden they carried on the ground, while some of them set up tools made of shaped-rock, wood and rope. They hammered sturdy wooden picks into the ground, far enough from the river’s edge. Around the wooden picks, rope was securely tied. As for the other end of the rope, a rock had been knotted to it. Two men were sent close to the river’s edge, carrying the rock-end of the ropes. Each cast the rock to the other side of the river by rapidly gyrating it, subsequently casting it around a sturdy tree-branch, on Innanil’s side of the river. Four ropes were cast, fastened to four tree-branches and four rows of men began cross the river, clinging from the rope while quickly moving forward.

Innanil waited until most of the men had crossed to her side of the river, while the few that hadn’t, still clinging to the ropes, were on their way. While waiting to strike, she overheard some of the men revising their own attack strategy, revealing their ill intentions for the village and its people, confirming what she had anticipated. The cohort sheered the last four men, waging on the one who would reach ground first. While the men cheered and shouted, Innanil looked at them, focusing on each one and all, at once. Next, she closed her eyes, simultaneously turned her head away from the men, and opened her eyes staring at the pile of stones with which she had been playing. She focused on the stack of stones, on each and all. Then, she closed her eyes again, at which point all the stones were catapulted simultaneously toward the men. One stone for each man was cast, followed by a brief chaotic blend of sounds; whizzing, then a loud synchronized crack, followed by a brief moment of scattered thuds, the rustling of leaves and four splashes of water. All the men were dead, their foreheads cracked by a small stone.

Without turning her head to see the outcome of her aim, under the evening’s darkness, Innanil ran back to the village and her house, hoping no one had noticed her absence. Breathing heavily , she sped toward the entrance of her home by which Julobea and the other wives were at work, outside, setting the food prepared on a wide stone slab while Yahnopar repeatedly struck two small stones, attempting to spark a fire on a pile of tinder. Julobea caught sight of Innanil as the latter came closer to the house, and shouted a few words to the child.. - “ Dear Innanil, would you please fill the amphoras with water and set them on the slab !?”

Julobea had been so busy with supper, she hadn’t noticed Innanil’s absence and was relieved the girl came running to help. Equally relieved was Innanil, whose little escapade passed unnoticed. She filled the wooden amphoras with water from a circular pool maid of stones, built behind the house, filled with rainwater and went back to her family, at which point Yahnopar had lit the fire. Her brothers and sisters joined in the evening meal, laughing along and sharing stories, as cool wind fluttered the flames of the roaring fire.

She went to bed first, leaving her family outside to their usual glee, while she sought the privacy of her sleeping quarters, presently empty of any of her sisters. In bed she pondered over the day’s, rather, the evening’s events. She had stopped a tribe of murdering looters and practiced the ability to strike, with her mind and eyes; a technique she had last used over a thousand years ago. This evening though, it became clear to her that she must devote herself to her family’s safety which included the village and its inhabitants. Indeed one tribe was dead but, Innanil was convinced there were more, some honest, kind and helpful, while others, violent, brutal liars. Nevertheless, these were Zigaresh’s thoughts as her eyelids closed on Innanil’s six year old face, falling asleep in the comfort of her straw-bed.