"Tell me a story about your people," you say. Dusk has progressed into night, and the storyteller reaches for more timber to perpetuate the life of her fire. She stares silently at you with her milky compound eyes, impish shadows dancing on her white skin.
"My people have many stories, little one," she replies. "Many things happen underground, where Taá's light cannot reach. Ours is a world of darkness, yet life thrives even amidst the heaviest penumbra. That is what we Tzic are: the children of shade and silence, the keepers of stories past and future. We have our heroes and our villains, our monsters and our gods – all of them we keep forever alive in our memories and the memories of our ancestors. For you must know, child, that as easily as you recall the names and faces of your loved ones, we Tzic recall the doings of the ancients as if we had each witnessed them. That is the gift that my people received in the beginning of time: eternal remembrance, our story uninterrupted until the stars fall and the world returns to dust."
"Who gave you this gift?" You lean closer to the fire, almost scorching your fur. She laughs, her mandibles clicking with amusement.
"Ah, you are truly hungry for stories! We recall His true name, but we are bound to keep it secret: I could not tell it to you even if I wanted to. He, however, has had many different names, many different faces, and many different roles to play. Some revile Him as the Deceiver, for with His forked tongue He spoke all that is and all that is not; He taught both truth and lies, and showed the places where the line between the two blurs. Others have called Him the Adversary, for He stood against those who were unworthy of knowledge; with His fangs, He struck down those who would abuse the secrets of the gods. And others still – others like me – honor Him as the Light-Bringer."
Reverentially, she removes the hood of her cloak and reveals the symbol tattooed on her head, right between her antennae. It is an eye, an eye with a thin, vertical pupil at its very center. It almost looks as if were about to blink.
"He came to us when we were blind and ignorant, when we knew the world only through the aromas of safety and danger, through the touch of our antennae. He parted the shadows of our minds and our dwellings and gave us sight, speech, and knowledge."
"Sight? But—but I thought Tzic were all blind," you quickly regret speaking your thoughts, for you do not wish to offend the storyteller. She however, merely chuckles.
"Not all of us. Just those who are as I am – humble Suyyu, keepers of faith. We all have roles to play, little one, and ours has no use for eyes, for we rarely venture aboveground. No. All Tzic were blessed with sight in one way or another. Through His gifts, we became as we are now; we became more. But child, you must know that no gift is ever freely given, for nothing is without consequence."
She beckons you closer and carves five lines in the soft earth with a stick. Then, pointing at each one, she continues:
"Suyyu are closest to the gods and spirits, and can work great magic, but we are blind and frail. Scithi are mighty warriors who fear nothing, but their lives must always end in bloodshed. Sottei are industrious workers and marvelous artists, but they may never serve themselves, only the needs of the colony. Sann are our brothers and possess the gift of seeding new life, but they will never live to see their children. We are all bound to our role in the great play of life; we live by the philosophy that our stories are nothing but paths set before us, and we can only choose which stones to kick while on the road."
She points to the fifth and last line.
"The harshest fate is that of Sathymena, our queens. They uphold everything we are, everything we have ever been, and everything we will ever be. They are the keepers of our memory, the nexuses between us all. They are our mothers, our goddesses, our home. Through them, the dead live forever, and the story of our people continues unbroken. But the price they pay is more than a mere sacrifice – it is a curse."
They come for Ibi by first light. She does not resist. This was always the way forward, the path set for her. Still, she knows that they are not happy about it; she can tell by the way their antennae fold and unfold with unease, by the quivering gentleness with which they hold her, by the aroma of resigned sadness that emanates from them. The Suyyu priestesses are in mourning, yet they try to hide it; they know that this is not how they should be feeling. After all, this was Ibi's fate from the moment she was born, and who amongst the Tzic has ever wept at witnessing destiny fulfilled? Ibi has, for many days and many nights, and now her priestesses share her grief.
All Tzic are sisters, every member of the colony born from the same Sathymena, but Ibi holds the High Priestess – Odu – closest to her heart. She is her most trusted confidant amongst the Suyyu, her teacher and caretaker, the only one who knows the true depths of her despair. More than an elder sister, Odu is like a mother to Ibi; in many ways, she is her mother, for the queen that gave life to them both knows nothing of caring for her young. Yet even kind Odu, with her warmth and tenderness always by Ibi's side, could never hope to soothe the horror that is her ward's ultimate fate: she is to be crowned queen, and never again will she know herself.
Odu tried, Ibi knows, to ease her fears with tales of their ancestors, with reassurances that her fate is the highest of destinies, the greatest of all honors. "You will be as the gods," she told Ibi on the night when she was first brought before the Suyyu, the seventh night after her birth. "You have been chosen to become Sathymena, to hold within yourself the minds and memories of all who came before us, of all who will come after, and give them life everlasting. One day, another shall come to take your place, and the sacred cycle will continue. This is how Tzic have always been, how Tzic shall always be."
Back then, Ibi held no doubt that this was the truth, that her responsibility to her people and their memory outweighed any individuality that she might treasure. To become queen was both an honor and a burden, and she had been born for it. But as she began exploring the remembrances shared by all her people, as she delved deeper and deeper into the untold ages, her resolve began to crack. She had seen it; she had seen it countless times: the anguished and terrified last seconds of the Tzic who became Sathymena, the cruel transition from mortal to goddess.
It was like being torn apart, ripped piece by piece into an unrecognizable myriad of disperse thoughts and emotions, uncountable voices clamoring to be heard. She felt as if she were drowning and burning alive at the same time, every grain that constituted her being separated so far from each other that they were no longer a singular cohesive being, but a legion of disparate fragments – all screaming incessantly. She saw it all, the achievements and sins of every Tzic to ever tread upon the world, their struggles under the sun and their wonder at the first sight of the planet above them. She tasted an unending maelstrom of colors, a distinct pheromone for every intent and emotion, for every thought that the colonies ancient and new had shared amongst themselves. She experienced numberless births and deaths, one after another and at the same time, and was grateful to find nothing waiting before or after.
Then, amidst the nothingness, came hunger, came thirst. She was immobile, defenseless, incapable of even speaking or screaming or weeping for help. Her own weight dragged her down, her breathing heavy as she wiggled her atrophied limbs uselessly. All she could do was emit pheromones, simple supplications for the others who watched over her, never able to express anything but base necessities of her queenly form. Food. Water. Scratch. Bathe. Breed. Breed. Breed.
Though this was simple remembrance, her mind frayed and almost shattered, and it took a panicked Odu and the other priestesses a tremendous effort to break her out of the trance with a concentrated dose of pheromones. When she came to, her body still shook with violent spasms, and she sobbed on her caretaker's lap; though Tzic have no tears, they know to cry in dread and sorrow.
"What is that which I have seen?" Ibi asked.
"Destiny," Odu said curtly.
Ibi continued weeping until Odu gave her a potion for a dreamless slumber. She rested for three nights, and when she awoke, one thought dominated her mind.
"I do not wish to become Sathymena."
Odu looked at her sternly and clicked her mandibles with disapproval.
"Do not run from it, child: it will hunt you down somewhere along the way."
"I do not want to give myself up! I do not want to be a mindless thing!"
"You will not be mindless," Odu replied. "You will be the single most powerful entity amongst our kind. You will lay numberless millions of eggs, be the mother of life unabated. Within you will reside the minds of all who are now alive – myself included – and the minds of your children who outlive you. Your descendants will be empire! You will not be as a god: you will be a god!"
"A blind, idiot god!" Ibi screamed.
Odu did not strike her for blaspheming; she only emitted a flurry of furious pheromones, and lowered her head. She was sad, Ibi knew, and she could tell that for the first time the Suyyu was questioning the fate that she and the other priestesses had placed upon Ibi.
But what could Odu do? What scheme could she come up with to save Ibi from her destiny? She could not return her to the Sottei caste from where she had been selected; Sél, the ritual feeding of fine foods and sacred herbs meant to transform Ibi into a nuptial Tzic, was already midway through – the changes to her body were too evident now, and irreversible. Neither could Ibi use her newly-grown wings to escape; the Scithi patrolled every corner of the colony and watched over every possible exit with five times the usual soldiers – the advent of a new queen required the utmost security to ensure she fulfilled her role. Even the Suyyu, though sympathetic to Ibi's plight, were more loyal to the colony and their way of life than to the queen-to-be; they would turn on them at the mere suggestion that they may try to defy fate – Ibi would be held prisoner until the day of her crowning, and Odu would be ritualistically executed for treason and heresy. And so, Ibi waited with mute dread for many days and nights until the time came for her to give up her individuality, her own self, for the good of the many.
Fear gave way to despondency, a broken resignation at what was inevitable. Ibi ate because she was told to, slept because she was told to, and asked only for the potion that kept the nightmares away. She almost had no strength to perform her royal duties before the cheering crowds of workers, soldiers and priests, and only through a fear equal to her death of self – the horror of being remembered forever as the queen who faltered – did she put up an effort to appear content and proud.
One night, after welcoming foreign dignitaries who presented a Sann drone as a potential mate, Ibi sat in her chambers and drank the intoxicating nectar that grew from the great aphids her colony reared and exported to other Tzic societies. Despite her best attempts at numbing herself with the liquor, however, she could not forget what she had seen: the empty look in the eyes of the one who could very well become the father of her children, the shattered remnants of his will to live. He knew that his days were numbered, and had fully submitted to the sole purpose of his existence; once he had given her his seed he would shrivel and expire, his body disposed of in a lavish ceremony but his name soon left to time and memory. He would be dust, and she would be a mindless incubator of future generations. He had been born to die, and she had been born to keep him and countless others alive forever at her own expense. She could not yet decide whose fate was worse.
Odu walked in and snapped her from her lamentations.
"Come," she said to Ibi.
"But it's late," Ibi blurted out in protestation. "The guards will not–"
"I have talked to the Scithi and convinced them that this is for your own good. A good queen-to-be must know her destiny firsthand."
"How did you–"
"They are young and naïve," Odu shrugged. "I am much older than they are, for soldiers do not live long. Age brings wisdom: I know how to lie."
"Where are we going?" Ibi asked as they made their way through the tunnels that led from her chamber. No soldier tried to stop them.
"To see Mother," Odu said.
Mother was colossal – twenty times the size of any Tzic. She was glorious, bloated, magnificent, pitiful. Her eyes were empty, devoid of all thought or reason but what her instincts dictated. She ate, she drank, and she laid an egg every five seconds.
"Witness her," Odu gestured after the soldiers had left them alone with the queen. "Witness her as she is, not as others tell you. She uses almost every instant of her existence to give life to her children. She is as we are: dependent on others for her survival. Without us, she dies in silence. Without her, we are lost in the darkness."
Ibi approached the queen, the Sathymena, her mother. She placed a hand on the goddess' forehead and gently caressed her between her unmoving antennae, past her unseeing eyes, down her quiet mandibles. She felt the creature who had given her life – a beautiful gift, albeit a cursed one – and sighed.
"Why must this be?" Ibi asked. "Why must we be bound to fates we cannot control?"
"These are the consequences of the first gift, child," Odu responded, and she embraced Ibi with her six arms. The queen-to-be breathed heavily into the priestess' thorax. "We made a pact with Light-Bringer for knowledge, and in exchange we must keep the secrets He bestowed upon us. Such secrets can never be held by a single being, and thus we are many whose minds are melded into one within her. This is a shared burden, though it may not seem so to you or to any of us. So it is, so it shall be."
"Why me?" Ibi asked. "You chose me from amongst all my sisters, Odu. Why me?"
"I… I do not know," Odu answered honestly. "I followed the lead of something wiser than myself, something primal within and beyond me. I thought I made the right choice."
"And now? What do you think now?"
Odu did not answer for a long time. When she spoke again, she gave her own gift.
That was many seasons ago, Ibi thinks as she walks to the mouth of the colony. It all happened long before the Distant Prince unfurled his red flag across the heavens once again, before a drone was selected to be her mate, before the day came to consummate her destiny. Ibi now knows what she must do; she is ready.
She is barely responsive to the festivities that surround her – the words of praise and worship, the many hands that reach out to her and stop short of touching her regal form, the chants and dances and wild revelry. She is not drugged, merely absent, elsewhere. She does all she is supposed to do, says all the prayers and ceremonial recitations Odu taught her, and even emits pheromones to indicate her readiness to fulfill her duty. Everything is as it should be.
The only thing out of the ordinary – though none seem to notice it – is that she once takes her eye off the cheering colony and looks at the sky. But who could blame her on this very unusual day, with the Distant Prince cleaving his way through the firmament in all his glory? The Suyyu and the High Priestess insisted that this must be the date for Ibi's coronation; it is an auspicious occasion, Odu said, a most blessed day for a young Sathymena to fulfill her sacred purpose. Ibi agrees. Strange things happen when the red comet passes. Everything is not as it should be.
A representative of each caste gives praise to Ibi, the queen-to-be who will today be not herself ever again. They come before her and give her their final blessing one by one – a Sann, her brother born to breed and die; a Sottei, to whom she once belonged and now belongs not; a Scithi, mightiest amongst her sisters; and a Suyyu, the one closest to her. Odu can barely speak the last blessing upon Ibi; her voice breaks midway, and it takes a stern look and a kind caress from her little sister – her child – for her to finish. Ibi is Sathymena now; Odu must obey.
Then, with the great ritual of Sél completed and her groom waiting somewhere in the desert, with her path clearly set before her, and with one last look at her colony – her people and her most beloved sister – Ibi flaps her fully-formed wings and takes to the sky.
Odu gazes at her until she vanishes into the dawn, until she is nothing but the memory of all the Tzic who have witnessed her coronation. Though she is nearly blind, she can see Ibi; hers is a sight beyond sight, beyond mere biology, beyond herself. She holds within the hope that what she spoke to Ibi in her time of need will come true. Odu, High Priestess of the Suyyu caste, hopes the way only a mother can hope and weeps without tears.
Above the assembled Tzic – both jubilant and mournful – the comet tears the sky asunder, and the threads of fate itself strain and unravel. Onwards soars the Distant Prince, the Crimson Herald who has witnessed it all.
"What happened next?" You ask with withheld breath. "What happened to Ibi?"
"With the Distant Prince's blessing, she ended her flight very far away, where no one seeks to impose fate upon her," the storyteller responds wistfully. "A mother can hope."
"Do you think you will ever find out?"
Odu smiles and clicks her mandibles with joy.
"Of course," she responds. "We are Tzic. We always return to each other, in life or in death. I will see Ibi again, and she will tell me of the life she lived: her own story."