ȹ
The Day of Akkavan fell on the 33rd of Alicudin, a day celebrated by many throughout Ostior. The holiday had grown in popularity over the last century, especially along the Thorne. Many in the Eivettä heard tales of Okkan bringing prosperity to their home and fertility to their soil. What particularly enraptured those in Ash was the vision of rain, a peculiar idea that the sky would become a battleground from which water would trickle and pour and nourish the soil. Desertfolk, who had subsided only on dirty water that occasionally sprung from the sand, were hypnotized by the tales of rainfall and thunder. They hoped that they could one day cultivate herbs and remove their reliance on the trade that dictated their lives.
Today was Ash’s thirteenth celebration of the Day of Akkavan. For decades before, the Ashfolk who followed Okkan passionately advocated for the commemoration of the holiday. They believed that acknowledgment of Akkavan’s betrayal would inspire Lord Okkan to bestow love on his worshipers. The city resisted this change for many years, hoping their long devotion to the desert god of Ati would return good fortune. But when the traders left and the Great Drought occurred, the followers of Okkan usurped control from the former leaders.
After reconsecrating the temple, the holiday was a massive success, attracting those all across the Thorne. With the influx of Okkan worshippers, the traders returned en masse. Fertility had yet to return to the soil, but this was of little concern, for the holiday had brought back coin to the land. The wealthiest became wealthier and poised to gain even more influence in the coming years. Although some in Ash still looked to the old god, Okkan had brought them prosperity they had never before experienced. The Okkan faithful, both powerful and powerless alike, were certain that his influence would convert the ever-skeptical.
All of this crossed the incredulous old mind of Zaman Urash as he looked over the worshippers around the Temple of Okkan. He had been told that there were two thousand men and women that had come to Ash, though he wouldn’t have been surprised if it was over three thousand now. They were packed together, their bodies oscillating against each other. Many pushed forward to get a better view of the holy temple, but at this point moving was near impossible. It wasn’t uncommon for them to piss and shit themselves where they stood. With that many bodies in such a small space, he expected that at least ten would die from heat stroke or exhaustion.
“Fools,” Urash grumbled. He grimaced at the thought of being squished to death by desertfolk. He stood atop the roof of one of his spice houses, providing him a full view of the square. Nearby mudbrick buildings were adorned with people as well, though they were either sold the space by their owners for exorbitant prices or were as packed as the ground below. The building next to him had at least seventy men and women compacted together, all scrambling up and down the rooftop doing their best to not fall. Urash chuckled at the sight. With the luxury of owning his own building, he had plenty of room to spare, a tarp to cover his head, enough mercenaries to push back any aggressive worshipers, and was surrounded by the richest men and women in the city. At least the ones he liked.
Among Urash’s chosen were Kyösti and Kirashi, his closest companions and fellow Ati worshippers. Although they felt no love for Okkan, they were ecstatic over the profit they had already made. Kirashi was discussing the possibility of opening taverns in Lockwood and Beyshran. Kyosti had made so much coin from his stables that he couldn’t even keep track of how many beasts he hosted. Both made more today than the desertfolk below them would see in their lifetime. They laughed, mocking the emaciated Okkan worshipers while comparing imported wines they had collected.
“Why so solemn, Zaman?” Kirashi noticed that Urash had been uncharacteristically quiet. “Did you not make enough coin from your spices? Come treat yourself to this Thalassian Wine.”
“Bah, at my age? You know I don’t drink anymore.” Urash thought better of himself than to join the younger Heads. It was unwise to be so brazen. He wasn’t concerned with his profit; the addictive and aphrodisiac nature of his brown ash always left Urash with plenty of spare coin long before the holiday even commenced.
His thoughts concerned himself with one person only: Boah Awil-Ishtar.
Kyösti staggered his hefty frame behind Kirashi, his lips stained red from the wine. “Don’t tell me you’re concerned with the jewelry merchant. Let him deal with the stresses of rule. Success for him means success for us!”
“I can’t help but wonder if he’ll show.” Kirashi said. “Urash, have you heard what transpired with his son last night?”
“Nothing gets by me,” Urash spat. “The boy was playing with fire. He was bound to get seared at some point.” The news of Juddken’s injury inspired much gossip that morning, though few understood the details. Most knew that it had to do with the Healer and his involvement with the witch. Still, no one knew more than that, or how Boah would have reacted. He had not been seen since the night prior.
“I still can’t believe the healer fooled us,” Kyösti added. “To have your hand cut off yet still get away! He's a tough son of a btich... More than I would’ve expected.”
“You dare acknowledge the strengths of a heretic?” Kirashi teased.
“Oh, fuck off.” Kyösti lifted his cup and gulped more of his wine. “We can thank him that we don’t have to deal with Boah’s lunatic seed anymore.”
Urash laughed. “Be careful with who you condemn. Juddken still breathes, and he still has allies.”
“Bullshit,” spat Kyösti. “He was shot through the throat! No one can survive that.”
“You clearly aren’t familiar with old magic.” Urash furrowed his wrinkled brow, continuing to scan the worshipers. “You know of Eanna: the woman advising the cordons? Where do you think she cultivated her knowledge of herbs? She is familiar in forces unnatural, not too different from that woman we forced into the desert recently.”
“You mean to say she’s a shaman?” Kirashi asked.
“She possesses abilities far beyond what she has shown to us. Unlike the witch, however, she knows how many perceive those who worship the lesser gods… Juddken was taken to her before he could pass on, and he had his throat sealed thanks to the help of shaman magic.”
This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
“Unbelievable… So he’s recovered then?”
“I said his throat was sealed, not healed. Old magic can make tissue, but it is a disorganized and imperfect tissue. Eanna knows little of the human body, unlike our recalcitrant healer. She was able to close his airway, but not much else. His wound is ugly and malformed, and the very act of breathing pains him. He will never speak again.”
Kyösti laughed, spilling some of his wine. “Shamans… truly fuckin worthless… If I were Juddken, I’d just… fuckin kill myself.” Kyösti stumbled into one of Urash’s mercenary guards. The crimson guard shoved Kyösti, hissing as the Head fell backward. Kyösti bellowed with uproarious laughter as if the altercation were the funniest thing that had ever happened to him.
Urash waved the guard down, turning to Kyösti in frustration. “Can you at least pretend to have dignity? Hold yourself upright, you monumental fool… Forget the coin for a moment. Can you not see who holds the real power here?” Urash pointed at the crowd; they were holding their hands outward, murmuring their prayers to Okkan in unison. At the second story of the temple stood Enlil in his scarlet robe, orchestrating the crowd. As Enlil’s hands moved, the crowd swayed with him. The oscillating wave had been tamed. Urash held his arms out as well, trying to capture the wave itself, failing to guide it. Kyösti and Kirashi simply watched the crowd past Urash, continuing to drink their wine.
As Enlil continued his swaying, applause erupted from the side of the temple. As he came into view, Boah arrived with the admiration reserved for conquering heroes returning to their homestead. Absconding his usual gold robe, Boah instead donned a cream robe, intricately adorned to weave in a spiral pattern down to his shoes. He wore no jewelry, preferring a simple wooden necklace. Boah smiled, but it was tempered with determination.
Urash gazed at his foe from his rooftop. He folded his arms, seething with contempt. How he longed for that applause. It died down as Boah reached the center of his platform. Enlil’s preachings mellowed into a simple hymn, which the crowd followed in unison. Boah held his hand to his chest as his booming voice verberated through the crowd.
“Praise be to the one who will deliver us the fertile soil!” Boah yelled.
“PRAISE BE!” the crowd shouted back.
“Praise be to the most powerful! The most forgiving! The most generous!”
“PRAISE BE!”
“Praise be, to that one who guides us. May we plant the seeds that bear the fruit of blessings!”
“THAT IS FOR UKKO TO KNOW!”
Boah hushed the crowd. He paced on his platform, darting his eyes from person to person. He was confident in his tone and purposeful in his gestures. “Blessed be those all who have shown today, for you are the most fortuitous of men. You have come to Ash in a great moment of need. You have come despite everything that has passed in the last few moons. Because you believe!”
The crowd roared. Many of them had heard stories of the ‘Big Man for the Little People.’ The man who had brought Okkan for all those in the Eivettä, the ones who were abandoned by Ati. When Boah spoke, the worshipers forgot all their pain; both now in the crowd and their life in the desert.
“We face many enemies in our humble city. We are suppressed by nonbelievers. Witches who hail from wicked lands transpire to have this land fade away into desert. They mock us with curses and tricks, and oh how they are relentless!” The crowd booed.
“I must confess… I myself am a victim to their evil. Last night, my own blood was wounded by conspirators to witchcraft. They attacked him without cause, and were it not for the will of the god of fertility I would be without my kin.”
“If only they knew about the shaman,” mocked Kirashi, “I wonder if they'd still be so forgiving.” Urash paid little attention to her slight.
“I will not be distracted!” continued Boah. “I will forgive my enemies, for they hold no power over me. I will not waiver from the duty to bring Okkan to this beautiful city, and from here his will shall spread across the Eivetta to the coasts of Ostior! We shall not let our oasis become a swamp! Let us consecrate ourselves to Okkan's will!”
The crowd erupted. It was long and sustained. Despite his growing deafness, the applause rang clear in Urash’s ears. He craved that love and devotion, but his influence was long gone. He only had the snide Kirashi and the oafish Kyösti now. Gizzal had been missing since his non-committing vote, but Urash assumed the coward was hiding in the shadows. He couldn’t even command the other Heads, let alone the people of the desert. It was inevitable that Boah would attempt to remove them all from what little power they still commanded. He was far more ruthless than Mendalla ever was.
Thankfully, Urash still had his mercenaries and the money to pay them. Boah would have to kill him before that happened.
As Boah finished his speech, the edges of the crowd dispersed to the sides. The next phase of the holiday was to begin. At each side of the temple, about forty paces away, were cylindrical stone wells covered by a large marble slab. At this point, the strongest of the guard corps positioned themselves to lift the slabs off of the wells. The well water, which had been preserved from the masses for more than a fortnight, was as purified as the Eivettä would allow. The worshippers moved their congregation from the temple to the wells, fighting their way to the pure and clean water that only an untouched well could provide. Thirst, whether for pleasure of the body or spirit, drove these men and women rabid. The guards did their best to keep them organized, but inevitably each well would be overpowered by the masses. Despite the best efforts of the corps, the wells remained purified only briefly before the dirt and disease of the desertfolk would pollute it and spread to the others.
On the northern side of the temple, a fight broke out between the guards and a few worshipers from the Steppe. In the chaos, a young feral boy made his way to the well. He had been awake for three moons. His thoughts were chaotically bouncing off himself, and his itching had grown so bad that it never left his mind. He hadn’t eaten or drank in so long, but the thought of it revolted him. Still, when he witnessed the wells open, he saw an opportunity to clean himself. He needed to wash his face of the sand and dirt that covered him like an extra layer of skin. Maybe it could even soothe his ever-present itching.
The boy approached the well. It was the cleanest water he had ever seen, despite the masses of people splashing it in an unstoppable desire to imbibe. As he looked in the water, through the ripples and the splashes, he made out his bloodshot eyes and gaunt face. He could barely remember who he was anymore. He tried to remember the hugs and kisses his mother gave him and his brother before she became a monster. Or how right before his father disappeared he was the happiest he had ever been, jumping up and down because of a purple rock he had found. They were all vague shapes now.
The boy splashed the water on his face. The moment it touched his tongue, he spat it back into the well.
The boy was only at the well for a moment before a guard pushed him aside. The boy stumbled, catching himself, and promptly forgot why he was even there. The guards were back in control now, and the people were lining up to take turns dipping their hands into the water and drinking it, bathing in it, and collecting it. They fought over and pushed each other, but in the end, they all got their part of it.
The boy was so angry at himself. He couldn’t even remember his name. He wanted to scream.