It took most of the day for the boy to walk back toward the river and home. The Colri River itself was a wide twisting river of slow-moving brown water. Silt, massive catfish, and crocodilian creatures moved at the pace of the river. The region’s main artery and the border between the Harvest Kingdom and the Delta and Colri Plains frontier lands. His people were native to the area, with shining black hair and mud-brown skin, with bright blue or green eyes being the most common features of his people. Their center of life was at the very head of the delta, where the river spread out into a broad grassy swamp filled with mangroves and other teeming life. The river ran in a sweeping curve from the north turning to the east, with the inside of the curve side being the plains of the Colri and the western side the farmlands of the Harvest Empire. To the southeast was the Delta, home of the lizardfolk. The three folks lived in peace, trading as necessary but mainly keeping to themselves. The lands to the east of the river would be excellent for farming for the Harvest Empire, but the value of expanding that way was too high with more powerful neighbors to their east. The lizardfolk ruled the delta with cunning, and no army could encroach on that damp space. The Colri themselves were largely peaceful people, only fighting with other peoples that brought war to them. Not numerous but powerful in the spirit magics, their neighbors knew better than to bring the fight to the Colri Plains.
He reached the river’s edge and looked across the forty-meter stretch of brown water. He scanned the near shore for the tell-tale ripples of the ambush hunters that waited for prey like him at the water’s edge. Black Tooth Crocs could get over ten meters long and were both aggressive and curious. He noticed one of his village’s long canoes moving up the river. He grinned and let out a piercing whistle. The lone figure on the boat looked over and waved, whistling in return. The boy waited as the boat turned toward him. The nose of the boat shuddered as it beached itself, and the boy grunted as he shoved the boat back into the water and clambered aboard. The old man at the far end of the boat grinned as the current pulled the boat back out into the river. The sun-baked skin of the bald man was like old dark leather. The old man grinned, revealing a trio of remaining teeth. “Well now, young one, what are you doing out here?” He wore only a pair of old leather leggings and a wide necklace of shining blue and black alternating scales. Rope-like muscles played under the pattern of black tattoos, and his bright blue eyes were almost white with cataracts.
“Honored Elder, thank you for allowing this pitiful youth onto your boat.” The boy said as he placed the massive tusk into the bottom of the boat and automatically reached for one of the paddles.
“You are welcome, boy. No need for the paddle, but where did you get that thing?” The old man pointed a gnarled finger at the tusk.
“I have been hunting for a trophy for my Naming Ceremony Honored Elder.” The boy said with reverence. He knew this man well enough. Everyone in the village did. This was Scale Walker, one of the five Elders of the Council of Elders who were the decision-makers within the city. The old man placed a hand on the side of the boat and trailed a gnarled staff into the water behind him. The staff itself radiated power, heavily inscribed with glyphs, inset with chips of bone and polished stones. A trio of black and white feathers hung from the head, which was adorned with a small skull of one of the Black Tooth Crocs. The water surged behind the boat, pushing it forward into the river and toward the village.
“Really? Did you kill that beast yourself? Before your name day? It seems that you will gain a strong name then. The Ancestors and Spirits will definitely reward such a hunt. Tell me of your hunt. I would hear your story.”
“Yes, Honored Elder.” The boy began as he told of how he had hunted a trio of Savannah Boar, one of them a Spirit Beast. The old man cackled with laughter at how the boy had outsmarted the boar and had used the techniques not often used by the tribe’s hunters to kill the dangerous creatures. Usually, the hunters would brace large boar spears, accepting the charge head-on. There would be at least ten hunters, some to take the charge and others to dash in from the sides with the broad-bladed spears to puncture the boars’ lungs. An hour later, the boat bumped against the floating dock of the village. The old man wrapped a line around a post to secure the boat against the current.
“Off you go, boy. I’ll see you tomorrow for your ceremony. I’m looking forward to it.” Scale Walker said as the boy clambered out of the boat. The boy carried his prizes with him as he climbed onto the walkways. The village was elevated off of the ground on poles. Thick tree trunks harvested years ago of a dense hardwood only found inside the delta. Black Waxwood was highly prized for the black tarry sap that was both fire retardant and preserved the wood. Built twenty feet above the river’s waterline, the village was a vast collection of elevated walkways, platforms, and multi-story buildings interconnected by an assortment of rope bridges, planks, and rope netting. The ropes were woven from the grasses of the plains, the wood from the delta, and the river. The village had grown and was more of a large town than a village. It was one of the very few permanent settlements of the Colri. Many lived on river barges or semi-nomadic on the plains tending herds of antelope. Nets hung below every home and building, the shaded cellars of those who dwell above. The wood of every surface was carved and embedded with stones, shells, and scrimshaw. Geometric patterns swirled and twisted, showing the overall forms of the totems the families had bonded with. The wood glowed with faint magics of preservation, hardness, and comfort. The totem spirits of exceptionally skilled or powerful could be seen as shimmering translucent spirits moving across the frame of the building.
As both a Foundling and a child, the boy moved freely through the town; he was greeted with waves and smiles. Several of the old hunters giving him whistles of appreciation and nods of respect not often shown to children. No one expected him to bring anything into the community’s stores as one of the nameless children. His role was to grow, learn and survive. Reading, writing, glyphs, and basic maths were taught in the earliest years before the children were even allowed to touch the dirt below. He made his way to the Children’s House, a communal longhouse overseen by four of the community’s oldest members. The Ancients fed, clothed, and guided the children from when they were weaned until their Naming Day ceremony. Then they would move to the House of Guidance, Trouble House, where they would remain until age sixteen. Ancient Cohen, a warrior who had as many scars and missing bits as he did whole, unblemished ones. The gruff old man was as caring and gentle as he was bloodthirsty; woe to anyone who did harm to his little ones. The old man sat on an old bench outside the door to the Children’s House, and his one eye nearly bugged out of his head as he saw the boy approaching. “Well now, young hunter, what do you have there?” The old man asked with a crackling gravelly voice.
The boy stopped when addressed as was custom, “Honored Ancient, I have returned from my hunt for an offering for my Naming Day ceremony. This tusk is from a Savannah Boar, a Spirit Beast that I was able to fell.”
“Where’s the rest of it then? I’d like to have some on the spit tonight.” Unable to help his burgeoning pride in this one talented boy, he also could not help giving the youth a hard time. It was simply his way of things.
“The beast was too large for me to drag back here, Honored Ancient. I would have needed a team of horses; it was bigger than Whitewhisker!” The boy replied with a boast hidden under a thin veneer of respect.
“No beast around here is bigger than Whitewhisker. But I think that one was plenty huge for a minnow like you.” The old man ruffled the boy’s hair with a three-fingered hand. Cohen scowled and looked at his hand. “You need to go wash up before Ancient Nan finds you and scrubs you with one of her bristle brushes.”
The boy blanched and scuttled inside as the old man chuckled. The boy dropped his prizes on the bunk just inside the door. As the eldest of the children, he had the place closest to the exit. He dashed off to the back of the longhouse to the communal bath and began to draw water from the cistern on the back of the roof. He filled a large copper basin and shimmied out of his clothes. With a cup, a brush, and a rough lump of eye-burning soap, he scrubbed himself clean of the red mud and ash war paint, the dark brown flaking blood and dirt. He brushed his hair clean of thistle burrs and tied it back again, still wet from the bath. He scraped and scrubbed his leathers clean before dressing in rough woven fiber pants. He turned and heard the dreaded voice of Ancient Nan clucking behind him. “Nice try, young sir. Make sure you clean up after yourself and know that you’ll be cleansed in the river, and then you’ll be out of my hair.”
“I will Honored Ancient.” The boy said, hiding a smile. Ancient Nan was the taskmistress of the Children’s House and quickly reminded a child with the cane as needed. But she was also the best cook and most patient teacher for the little ones.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
After cleaning up his mess, he returned to his bunk and looked at his trophies. He talked with the other children as they came in; most of them were his friends, if not brothers and sisters. He helped the other two Ancients with the younger kids until Ancient Ogg called them to dinner. Ancient Ogg was fat, happy, and perpetually rosy as the head cook and caregiver for the youngest children.
The following day was much of a blur for the boy. Up at dawn for his ritual cleansing in the river, then the ceremony itself.
Ancient Nan, Ancient Cohen, Elder Scale Walker, Elder Wolfthistle, Shaman Thorns-in-the-moon, and the Spirit Talker gathered around the boy on the ceremonial stone wheel. The boy had no direct family to claim him; he was a Foundling. A babe found in a simple wicker basket floated on the river. This was not unique; there were three other Foundlings in the Children’s House. People from the Harvest Kingdom’s town of Bramble would send the unwanted or bastard babes downriver, knowing they would be cared for by the Colri. The Colri accepted everyone; it was their way. There were people of all sorts in the Colri village. Beastkin, lizardfolk, and even Elder Willow who was an elf. The ways of the Colri were not exclusion or xenophobia but acceptance and peaceful coexistence.
All stood on a broad flat expanse of black stone. In the center was a short round pillar about waist-high, the Totem Stone. The sides of the pillar teemed with carvings of the Totem beasts of the Colri. The carvings moved slowly around the pillar, slithering, swimming, crawling, and running, each in its own way. Surrounding the Totem Stone was a ring of nine white marble tiles, each had a single glyph. These represented the Aspects of the Body. A ring of glyphed blue river stone tiles surrounded the white marble tiles; these depicted the nine Internal Aspects. The nine External Aspect glyphs on the third ring of red ceramic tiles surrounded that. The last round of tiles was black volcanic glass with glyphs marking the nine Aspects of Power.
Each of the thirty-six aspects represented a base concept of magic, one of the thirty-six letters of the alphabet of true magic. Every soul carried at least one of these letters, an Aspect. The Aspect did not limit the amount of magic one could learn or wield but only indicated a natural talent for that Aspect. If one was gifted with more than one letter, then the more base magical power one could summon and put forth into the world. Each letter was in itself a discreet Word of Power or Glyph. Linking one glyph to another created more complex Words of Power, generating more powerful and complex effects. This was the basis for all magic in the world. The greatest mages were beings that knew and could speak the language of magic as if they were born to it. Most commonly, a person held only a single glyph and used that talent subconsciously. One marked with the Glyph of Fire could have that talent manifest in many ways. A baker could tell exactly how hot the fires were or could handle scorching things, while a hunter may be able to touch a piece of tinder and will it to light.
The six adults stood in a ring outside the colored tiles. Each of them began to sing quietly. Their words meshed, and the boy’s arms and neck hair rose. Power was being summoned here. He stood on the edge of the ring between the two Ancients dressed in a simple linen breechcloth and the Blood Crystal necklace. He held the massive tusk in his arms. As the song’s volume and ambient power rose, Ancient Cohen nodded to the boy. The boy watched as blue light began to shine up between the tiles. Each tile was outlined in dim blue light. The boy recited the lines he had been working on memorizing for years.
“Great Totems of the Land, I come to claim a Name.” He said loudly and firmly. Across from him, the Glyph “Fra” or Spirit lit up in the ring of External Aspects. The ring of tiles rose slightly and spun clockwise so that the glyph was closest to him before setting back down. The adults shared looks at this. The boy stepped forward onto the tile.
“Great Totems of the Skies, I bring a sacrifice to thank you for your protection and your gifts.” The boy said as he lifted the tusk, struggling to press it over his head. The tusk suddenly had more weight. It was far heavier than it had been outside the ritual circle. As he finally got it above his head, the weight was gone. The tusk began to smoke and flake away with no heat. The smoke and flakes swirled up into the air, and the stream of smoke swirled around the Totem Stone. This excited the totemic beasts there before twisting up into the sky. Three spaces over on the Internal Aspects ring, the Glyph “Wa” or Clever lit up. The circle of tiles again rose and slid around to place that tile before him. As he stepped forward, the adults’ song rose in pitch and intensity.
“Great Totems of the Waters, I wish to share my thanks to my Honored Tribesfolk for raising me and providing for my childhood.” He said with conviction. This time the Glyph of “Er” or Heart lit up, and again the ring of tiles rose and rotated around the central Totem Stone. The boy stepped forward onto this tile and stood before the now brightly glowing Totem Stone. The song stopped suddenly as the ritual came to a close, each of the adults in the outer ring carefully watching the boy. Three runes coming alive when a person passed into adulthood at the age of 25 was rare; three runes on a child’s naming day was unheard of.
The boy picked up a flake of obsidian that lay atop the smooth, shallow dome at the top of the Totem Stone. As he drew the impossibly sharp edge of the flake of volcanic glass across his palm, he said, “Great Totems I dedicate myself to grow and learn. I dedicate myself to be one with the world and my tribe.” Blood pooled in his small calloused hand, and he rubbed his hands together and placed two bloody hand prints onto the dome of the Totem Stone. The boy shuddered once as the air around him was suddenly filled with the numerous calls of every animal in and around the Colri Plains. The bellow of the water buffalo, the calls of birds, insects, hissing snakes and reptiles, roaring big cats, howling wolves, and the like all at once. In that cacophony of noise, the boy heard a Word. That Word imprinted on his heart, and the boy began to shudder as he fell unconscious, slumping to the sun-warmed stone.
The adults moved forward then as the power of the ritual winked out, the ceremony complete. They moved toward the boy. Elder Scale Walker arrived first. He bent down over the boy reaching for him when the Spirit Talker spoke. His voice was deep and rumbly, with a tone of authority and age. “Wait, the spirits still move within the child. Do not touch him. He will be fine. I will take him from here if you could arrange for his things to be moved to the Trouble House.” If the Colri had a true leader, it was the Spirit Talker; the mage had been the same for generations upon generations. Centuries old and still hale as far as anyone knew, he was a private man with few personal connections. The others nodded and moved off to go about their tasks. Ancient Cohen would see to the boy’s belongings. As they moved out of earshot, the Spirit Walker looked down at the child, “Who are you little Foundling? Where did you come from?” He asked the unconscious child.
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As the boy pressed his bloodied palms against the ageless stone, his mind went white. The cries of the Totem spirits carried his spirit up and away from the child’s body.
Wallace felt strange as he saw from above the scene play out; he felt the spirit of the boy slide seamlessly into his own. It filled a void he had not felt, but now he was whole. The memories, experiences, and skills of the last ten years of the boy’s life were his memories now—a continuation of his own life and experiences. Around him, the swirling mass of the Totemic Host moved. They made a bubble of spiritual power around him. Slowly they split off the pack, disappearing one by one until only a pair of Totem Spirits remained. One was a massive boar, and the other was far stranger. After a moment, the boar snorted and trotted off. The remaining creature was strange to Wallace. One moment it was a hare, the next a spider, then a fox, then a raven, then something he did not recognize, then a coyote. Each changing image was accomplished between a blink, and Wallace did not notice the change until a moment after it happened. The spirit of Wallace was unable to keep up with the rapid changes but somehow accepted each change as if it had not happened at first.
The Totem Spirit spoke to Wallace, not in the words of man but the songs of the animals. Wallace instinctively understood. The Spirit spoke to him on a level far more profound than simple words. “One who is both young and old. One who is from this world and not. You have called for a Name, but you already have one. You carry it on your soul already. We cannot name you again.” The songs were a susurration of noises not entirely made and musical in rhythm.
Wallace, who had been in an odd fugue state before the ritual, was now somewhat overwhelmed by the conjoining of memory, the reunification of self. He paused and said, “Who are you Great Spirit?”
“There have been many names for me and mine. You would know me as Anansi, Loki, Coyote, or Iktomi. Here I am known simply as Trickster.”
“Like the myths from Earth, like the ones who stole the sun?”
“Yes, those are my stories. The truth of those actions has been twisted by time and mortal memories.”
“So what happens now? Am I all right down there?” Wallace looked down on the tableau below of the Spirit Talker and the unconscious form of the boy…no that wasn’t right; that was the body of Wallace himself.
“You will wake up, you will feel quite different, and you will be changed. First of all, the mind of that body cannot manage all the memories you bring. Not until you are grown will you be fully able to be fully integrated. A whole self, as it were. I will be with you from now until you die. The offering is given, and the Glyphs that mark you were powerful enough that Father Boar himself was called to be your Totem, but I led him astray to keep you for myself. You are kin to me, sharp of wit, taking dangerous risks and overcoming them with cleverness. We are bound together now.” The Trickster said. “I know you were once an atheist, a lost soul. You can remain an atheist here in this world, I am one of the old gods here, but I do not need nor want your soul.”
A wave of relief washed through Wallace; he did not want to be forced to give his soul up to this Trickster.
“Now go; it is time for you to grow into something more.” The Trickster said, and Wallace felt like he was falling.