The gentle sounds of the harp rang through the highlands. The rains left their mark on the Kazane highlands. The grassy mountains glistened in the afternoon sun. From one of the many troughs within the landscape, emanated the blissful sounds accompanied by the subtle beating of the drums. The lush slopes met their demise in the serene lake Tanak.
A medium-sized crowd gathered near the vegetated banks of the lake. Those responsible for the music were among them. But not of them. The crowd encircled the musicians like a crescent moon.
The harp player was a young boy with a white cloth wrapped around his head and dusty blue robes. Despite being in his sixteenth year, he handled the harp with great dexterity. The drummer was months older than the harp player but just as shabby as his companion.
He sat on a short smooth bolder from which he gently taped the batter head of his wide drum with his fingertips.
A beautiful adolescent girl with braids zig-zagged across her scalp, dressed in a single white dress with traditional Church designs on her wrists and chest, danced gracefully in front of the audience as she clapped along to the notes of the harp.
Without warning the pair broke out into song. They sang in an ancient language known as Gezal. A language whose transcription has been forbidden throughout the empire.
Their hymn was a simple one; they praised the three great saints of Gadar and asked for their blessings before thanking the almighty God Orian for blessing them.
Under a small guava tree near the spectacle sat a young boy, the youngest of his peers. He wore the same robes as his peers but his were well kept. He transcribed the official Gadari Script on dried goat skin. He too called upon the saints and God. But his form differed. He wrote incantations and spells on four sides of an image of the three saints pointing their spears at a serpent beneath them.
Each stroke of his stencil landed meticulously on the canvas. His focus would be interrupted from time to time by the sight of the songstress dancing in the distance.
This time he would be reminded of his task by the sight of the couple descending upon the crowd. A middle-aged man and a slightly younger woman walked along the beat of the drum. They both wore the whitest clothes they could find. The man's beleaguered face feigned some sort of smile. The woman looked down in shame. Her left arm, tucked within her robe was mangled into a knot, the skin was rigid with pimples that resembled the spikes on a cactus. The left side of her face was no better, the skin drooped onto her face like wax on a melted candle.
The man held her tight as they walked through the crowd that parted as suspiciously as could be imagined. Tears started to stream down her face as she reached the lake shore. The musical trio would have none of that.
The songstress grabbed the woman from the man's arms, swinging her around into a dance. The man instinctively attempted to interject but was halted by the harp player who cheered him on. Jeering him into dance as well. Even some of the reluctant crowd joined in the clapping.
After initial moments of awkwardness, the couples lost themselves in the jubilation.
A loud chime came from the lake. The sound came from the metal casings on a wooden staff. Its owner was an elderly man. His long beard flayed on his pristine blue, white, and gold-trimmed robes.
He uttered a word in Gezal and raised his staff. The chime returned. Only this time the songstress began to usher her jubilant dance partner into the lake, unbeknownst to the husband who had entered some form of trans as he danced his ills away.
The man opened his arms and motioned her towards him. She approached giddily. They embraced as though she were his long-lost daughter. He whispered something into her ear. She nodded obediently. Put both her hands together as best she could and gently fell into his right arm. His arm deceivingly let her fall directly into the lake. The cold waters immersed her entire body only to spit her out seconds later.
She gasped gently but still maintained her smile. The old man smiled back as he nodded for her to repeat the action. She did. More than a couple of seconds this time.
Gezal was spoken. The staff was raised. Another chime was heard. She emerged once more.
Her happiness was lost in the shivering and gasps. Yet again the old man smiled and nodded to her.
Yet again she submerged herself in the clear waters. This time even deeper as the old man's left hand was now tucked behind his back.
He spoke more Gezal.
The lake began to glow. Its blue overtones would be overshadowed by a bright yellow that darkened the very sky above them. The lake's calm waters became agitated. Ripples turned into mild waves. The old man and the submerged woman were at the epicenter of all this chaos as the water surrounding them seemed to boil.
The entranced crowd started to notice that the sky was dark in the afternoon. The last among them to notice was the husband. His childish smile turned to astonishing horror as he gawked at the sky with his mouth open.
But the musical trio persisted with song and dance as if none of this was abnormal.
The old man raised his staff and kept it raised. As if he was waiting for a signal. Perhaps a note.
After the harp churned its final tune, the staff came down. At that moment an explosion of water pushed the woman's upper body out of the lake. She landed on her feet right in front of the old man. Thousands of droplets rained onto the vicinity.
The sky returned to its blue color and the lake went back to sleep.
The woman gasped as she attempted to catch her breath. The old man rubbed her back and said 'Breath my child, breath the almighty gods' air'
She instinctively put both her hands around her arms to warm herself. And this was good until she noticed that her left arm was healthy. She then panicked and touched her face which was also healed.
The crowd awakened from their stupor and noticed her as well. Last but not least the man who accompanied her. His face tired from all the emotions now bore a blank expression.
She screamed in joy and hugged the old man. His somewhat brittle stature could barely take it but he held onto the staff with his left and gave her gentle pats on the back with his right.
'Shebana !!!' shouted the man from the lake shore.
She let go of the old man and looked at him. As if she needed permission to leave. He simply nodded and moved her along. She ran towards the man, lifting her white dress to the knees as she trudged through the water.
He said her name again. This time with a slight whimper as he too rushed towards her. They met on the lakeshore with a warm embrace. Clapping erupted from the crowd. Some even wept at the sight of the miracle. All except two. An elderly man with a wooden cane and his adolescent caretaker both wore bitter looks on their faces. Seemingly offended by the happiness in the air.
Under the guava tree, the scriptures glowed light blue and made a subtle but audible whining sound. The artwork came alive as the three saints punctured the serpent repeatedly with their spears as it hissed at them. When the hissing gave way, the serpent lay dead with three spears in its belly. The glowing stopped and the artwork returned to its static form.
The young scribe exhaled before wiping the sweat from his forehead. He looked off into the distance to see the musical trio bowing, deferring all the praise to the lord. Like good little acolytes. He couldn't help but smile. The job was done.
The next 30 minutes were spent listening to a sermon by the elderly pastor Hamot. He reminded the onlookers that what they witnessed was only possible because the almighty God made it so. The trio handed out small wooden star crosses to the members of the crowd as it slowly dissipated.
Among the last to leave were the disgruntled elderly man and his attendant.
'Get that garbage outta my face!' He screeched to the songstress as she handed him the pendant.
Abana, a deferent woman, shriveled in reverence.
'You…..you and your damned cult ….' He pointed at the trio with his shaking finger.
'Drove all the men out to war…. banished all the Sheban temples'
'Many here may be too young or dead to remember…. but I do'
'Sheban priests healed my mother's blindness, my aunts cursed back…'
The exasperated old man took a slight break to catch his breath.
'IN THAT VERY LAKE' he exploded
'With dark sorcery old man' cited Masaki, the scribe, who descended the mountain with a wooden staff in hand.
The few on-lookers remaining gasped in shock. Undoubtedly taken aback by the tone of the young man towards an elder. Not the trio, they stared at one another with unanimous fatigue. They knew what was coming when Masaki entered a conversation uninvited.
'What did you say boy?' The old man spat
'The Shebans practiced dark magic, outlawed by the church, disdained by God' Masaki continued as he marched down the stone steps built into the slope.
'For years Shebans cursed this town with dark sorcery, which is why your crops never grew, your women were infertile…'
'LIES…All lies' Shrieked the old man.
'It was the imperials that….'The old man tried to continue. Perhaps he would have. Were it not for a sleuth of coughs moved his frail body around. His attendant took out a small flask of water and handed it to him.
Unconcerned by the entire situation Masaki carried on.
'The Church is the only path out of the darkness. Away from eternal damnation. Towards salvation.'
The old man having wet his throat was about to retort when Kassa, the harp player, interjected.
'What are you taking for that cough Uncle?' Kassa inquired. He gave Masaki a look that said 'You just couldn't help yourself' as he escorted the elder up the slope away from theological debate.
His attendant stayed for a moment. Staring at Masaki with a mixture of disgust and bemusement.
'How do you know?' He asked earnestly.
'Because lies have many forms but the truth is singular, like our God' Masaki responded with the same smugness he began with.
The young man took a minute and went along his way. His absence left the songstress and the drummer staring up at Masaki with the same look Kassa gave him.
Masaki shrugged his shoulders inquisitively.
'I'm sure your little speech will bring in a lot more converts, mouthy one' Jeered Meno, the drummer.
'You were off beat a couple of times during the cleansing, be better midget' Masaki blasted back. Meno's face crumpled up in anger as he stomped off. Retorting in an inaudible lingo.
'He's an elder Big head, it's always harder for people like that' explained Aishat, the songstress.
'All the more reason for him to repent before he meets his maker' Masaki jested.
Aishat just stared at Masaki with a quaint smile.
'Oh Saki, always something to say' She said as she gracefully waltzed her way up the slope.
Masaki didn't respond to that, but he did wonder what her reaction would be if she knew that his treatment of the elderly man was a direct result of his outburst towards her.
The last group to come up the slope was the couple accompanied by pastor Hamot and close family members. The pastor took the dried goat skin canvas from Masaki and presented it to the couple. Telling them to place the canvas on their window sill and come to the church immediately if the serpent ever disappeared. The pastor took great pride in introducing Masaki as his likely successor in the church.
The couple and their family thanked the pastor and his prodigy incessantly. One of the family members handed the pastor a basket of different dry foods they were able to collect. A meager gift but more than should be expected by benevolent followers. He handed them over to Masaki and lauded blessings upon them once more.
Masaki zoned out through the whole interaction. He often did when he felt the interaction had no implicit intellectual value. His mind kept drifting to the lake. Just how many pagan rituals had taken place there? What would it take to purge the memory of the pagans from this land?
The afternoon sky had given way to the evening one. This was the last miracle of the day for the troop and it was time to head home, almost half a day's walk from the lakeside.
The infamous lake was left alone once again. Its serene waters were suddenly disturbed by intermittent bubbling from the very spot where the ritual had taken place.