Her people had five commandments.

Never bring shame to your people’s legacy

Never show weakness of character and body

Never dishonor the ancestors and creators through weak or shameful acts

Treat one another as one of the same

Honor and love your creators more than you would yourself

The five commandments had been sculptured in the White Stone—the pale rock displayed right at the heart of their village. A rock that cast shadows even upon the tallest warriors, a monument whose divine integrity was to never be doubted or questioned.

At the dawn of their creation, the first village’s sangoma carved the commandments after being contacted by one of the creators. And even when many summers had passed, they were still known as the most powerful spiritual leader their village ever had.

All those who defiled the commandments were to be punished. They would face a trial, in front of the whole village, and have their sins judged with their creators as witnesses.

The one to decide the punishment to be carried was the village’s spiritual leader.

The one to carry the sinful’s fate was the village’s strongest warrior.

The one to judge the sinful ones was the village’s chief.

She was the village’s Matriarch.

Like her mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother—the woman in her family made sure their village would prosper. That their history would always tell tales of honorable warriors and of a powerful people. Fearless. Mighty. Unmatched.

A tribe whose presence would make their enemies cower and beg.

As the Matriarch, she loathed change. Their creators had set the ways of her people—their traditions had meaning, their customs had purpose. None were to be trifled with.

Changes give space for weaknesses. If you are always replacing the foundations of your home, you will never have something to stand on.

Her mother had been a wise woman. And with all her wisdom, she made her understand the importance of their ways, and how a true Matriarch should rule. For there was nothing more unforgiving to her people than to soil their very own history and legacy.

And a flawed chief made for a flawed village.

From the moment she stepped into the high chair, the woman ruled her people the way they should be ruled. They prospered, they grew, they conquered. She knew herself to be a good ruler, for she knew how to follow the commandments.

She knew how to honor their creators.

Yet then, one day, something happened.

Something changed.

Their Ward, the one who carried the title of strongest warrior, committed a sin. An unforgivable one.

He brought shame to their people.

He hurt his life mate with his own hands, stealing their life and soiling their body. Their own Ward. The one who represented their village’s power and might, the one their people should aspire to be.

That man broke all their commandments.

The Matriarch did not name a new Ward to carry on the trial. Nor did she let their spiritual leader decide on the man’s fate. She called her people and executed the sinful one with her own blade.

She made sure to not let his blood soil their ground, and to take his foul corpse far away from their home, to let the wild devour his tainted flesh. Then she purified her blade and begged the creators for mercy, for the tribe had brought shame upon their name.

She was a woman who loathed change, yet a Matriarch had the commandments to follow.

Never bring shame to your people’s legacy

Never show weakness of character and body

No longer could she trust a Ward to be their people’s strength. And for their strongest warrior to commit such unspeakable sins…it was a sign of their creators. A warning. Something telling they had become too lax. That their people lacked discipline and focus.

No, as the Matriarch, she would allow such shameful behaviors no more.

I shall embrace change. I shall make sure there will be no space for weaknesses.

From that point onwards, the way the village’s trial operated shifted. Transformed.

The one to decide the punishment to be carried was the village’s chief.

The one to carry the sinful’s fate was the village’s chief.

The one to judge the sinful ones was the village’s chief.

And she was the village’s Matriarch.

At first, changes were subtle. As the Matriarch, she would still listen to the advice of their sangoma when it came to punishments—as they were the ones who had the best connection with their creators and the spiritual realm.

Yet she soon realized how much respect and will their tribe had lost by the betrayal of their Ward.

Warriors would sometimes return from their hunts with no prey or treasures. Women would come to the spiritual leader less and less to consecrate their union. Kins were waiting more and more to have the Matriarch bless their children’s chosen path.

Their tribe was growing weak.

And that…

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Was shameful.

So the number of trials began to increase.

Warriors who returned with empty hands would receive ten lashes. Women who failed to consecrate the union would be separated from their mates, with the Matriarch choosing their life mate and having the spiritual leader consecrate their bond. If by their sixth year a child had no chosen path, their kin would receive six lashes each, the child’s path chosen by the Matriarch herself.

For there was no mercy for those who failed to uphold their creators’ five commandments.

Yet the Matriarch failed to realize something. She failed to share the same wisdom as her mother. For the previous Matriarch had warned her thoroughly about the many perils of change.

Change is a disease. If you let it roam too much, give space for it to take root, more is bound to follow. Like a merciless plague.

And more changes did come.

Her people would call her unreasonable. They would say the current Matriarch had lost her path. That the creators walked with her no longer. That it was time for a new chief to sit on the high chair.

And those.

Were shameful words.

When the lashes stopped being effective, she began to use her blade. Fingers, eyes, tongues—whatever the source of their shameful actions was, it would be purged.

Never bring shame to your people’s legacy

Yet when not even purging the source of their sins brought peace and balance to their village, the Matriarch had to take rethink their punishments.

Never dishonor the ancestors and creators through weak or shameful acts

For there was no space for sinful ones in their tribe.

Their numbers began to dwindle, yet that was not something to waste sleep with. She had no interest in ruling and caring for the weak. For those who only knew how to desecrate and soil the image of their creators. Besides, more children could always be born.

Especially if she dictated it so.

Soon, her people came to realize how the first change she made had been necessary. How the changes that followed had been consequences of their own sins and infringements. How the woman, as their Matriarch, had done only what was best for their village according to their creators’ commandments.

How they should live their lives away from shame and weaknesses.

Yet it came a night when the Matriarch received a visit from the spiritual chief. And the words spoken by the old shaman were words of damnation and ill omens.

I sense a grave disturbance in the land. Our creators are enraged.

The spiritual leader could not see much further as it seemed like the creators were limiting their communication, they explained. The Matriarch told the leader those words should be shared with no other soul. To let her know the moment the creators sent them a message.

And a message was sent, shortly after.

It was the longest rain they had ever seen. One that did not cease for days, one that made the river flood, that chased prey away, that compromised their crops.

Warriors did their best to prevent the flood of reaching their village, yet even with the ditches they dug and walls they raised, water still found its way to their homes.

After the great flood—after the creators took pity on them and ceased the cursed rain—the Matriarch began to reconstruct their village. For she was their ruler, and that was their home. The place where the White Stone had been placed, where their ancestor had breathed and walked.

Yet, just as the previous Matriarch had warned, change was like a plague.

Devious.

Sacrilegious.

Unrestrained.

It was a morning like any other. One when the sun was yet to rise, and her people were yet to awake. The Matriarch left her tent knelt in front of the White Stone to pray. To ask the creators for guidance and mercy. To bring their village closer to their rightful path, once again.

She was the Matriarch. Like her mother before her. And like her mother’s mother before them.

She was no spiritual leader.

And at that moment, the creators gave her an answer.

One she wished they never knew.

After so many days of rain—after the flood—what had once been a steady and firm ground for them to walk on had become a land of mud. The earth so soft, so weak, it was difficult to walk. And as she tried to stand up, the Matriarch slipped and fell.

And when the earth moved, it revealed words beneath the ground.

Words carved in the White Stone.

The Matriarch started to dig.

Even with her hands trembling, with her heart racing, and her mind faltering, she dug more and more through the mud. She cleared the path until all words that had once been concealed were laid bare. Until all the truth the creators wanted her to see was revealed.

And it was hideous.

For the very ground they stood on had hidden two other commandments from their creators.

Never inflict violence upon your people

To defile any of these words is to forfeit life

There were things every person from their village knew.

To go against the commandments is to defy the creators.

To defy the creators is to bring shame to oneself, your tribe, and its legacy.

And for years, for such a long, long time…

They had been spitting and desecrating their creators. In every possible way.

The Matriarch fell on her knees, bracing the White Stone with cold hands. As she dug her fingers into the rock, some nails broke, while others simply bled as her finger scratched those words again.

And again.

And again.

Until the pale stone glistened with crimson, with her own pain.

Suddenly, she felt a presence. She knew one of the creators had descended upon their home. The Matriarch felt it, deep into her bones, crawling into her flesh—an eerie coldness.

A darkness which was never the herald of good omens.

And the creator, who stared at her with amusement and magnanimity, pointed at the Matriarch and grinned.

“An ill fate is soon to be born. A fate that shall be forged and sealed by thy tainted hands.” The creator’s voice called forth her very soul. It brought the tears to her eyes, stole the warmth from her body.

The Matriarch bowed and placed her head on the muddied ground—not daring to gaze upon her creator with such shameful eyes.

“O Ruler of the Abyss, Creator of the Uncalled Shadows. Allow me to correct the mistake of our village. Allow us to join the realm beyond the veil with our spirits unsoiled and our minds unclouded.”

Though the cursed rains had ceased, and the sky was cloudless, the woman heard it tear and growl.

The creator’s voice reached her corrupt ears again, the words far too sacred yet far too tempting.

“If thou wish to avoid thy grim damnation, break the standing stone and forsake its words forevermore. Do so, and I shall obviate all thy past actions. Thou fate shall reek of rot no more.”

The Matriarch stopped breathing.

A creator was willing to forgive them. To let them all start anew.

She glanced behind her shoulder, at the overbearing presence of the White Stone.

The thing her tribe had honored since its creation.

The greatest connection they had with their creators.

The words that had defined for years their values. Their very being.

Right then, the Matriarch knew.

Never dishonor the ancestors and creators through weak or shameful acts

The truth had been revealed to her.

To defile any of these words is to forfeit life

And as the Matriarch, it was her sacred duty to make sure her people lived by their creators’ commandments.

“Creator of the Uncalled Darkness, spread the word to your fellow kin. Let it be known we did not fail the final test. That our people honored your truth. Purged our sins to meet with you untainted.”

The creator laughed, the skies tearing and crackling alongside the almighty being. The Matriarch, however, did not pray or beg for more forgiveness.

She took her blades.

And, as the Matriarch, proceeded to carry their creators’ will.

Tent by tent, she visited her people.

One by one, she made sure none of them would continue to shame their legacy.

And whenever someone tried to stop her, she would show them the truth. Making them realize what had to be done.

In that morning, no rain fell. Yet the skies cried. As the blades cut throats, pierced through hearts and heads, the skies cried and trembled.

As the Matriarch drenched the weak soil with her people’s blood, she felt their creators’ vindication.

As the Matriarch set their own village aflame, she sensed their ancestors’ acclamation.

And when all was done, the Matriarch went back to the White Stone and made sure her blood would be spilled in those words. That all creators would know she, as Matriarch, had set things right again.

Making sure her people’s shameful history would—forevermore—remain forgotten.