Chapter 14
Chapter 14
February – 3,390 BC
Earth: Crash site
NINSIANNA
The bunk across from her was empty when Ninsianna shoved off the covers. He'd finally woken up? Mikhail had terrified her, tossing and turning through two whole sunrises and sunsets, crying out in his sleep. Whatever evil had cast him down from the heavens, it still pursued him, even in his dreams.
She bent to pick up a molted feather and brushed it against her cheek.
Wings!
The goddess had sent her a man with wings!
Maybe, today, he would take her to see the stars?
She left the bed reluctantly, so soft it carried her body like she was floating in the Hiddekel River,
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with its warm, soft blankets and luxurious pillow, so different than the straw-stuffed sleeping pallet she slept on back in Assur.
She wound her shawl-dress back around her body and belted it into place, flipping the end over her back and into her belt to cover her breasts. What should one wear to visit the dwellings of the gods? The land she'd seen in the vision gleamed more mightily than even Nineveh, but the god seated upon his throne had worn a plain, white robe not so very different than hers.
She adjusted the cloth to appear more goddess-like. She touched the discolored linen with dismay.
"Some impression you'll make," she muttered, "with your shawl-dress all dirty and wrinkled."
She stared at the cupboard he'd pulled a clean chest-garment out of two nights ago, after he'd chased off Jamin. She hadn't dared snoop while he'd lain there, tossing and turning, but now that he'd exited the room?
She crept over to the cupboard and glanced surreptitiously out the door. Outside, she could hear him moving about, mumbling beneath his breath in the front most room, the one with all the damage.
With a mischievous smile, she tore open up the cupboard. Inside, a small magic lamp sat upon the ceiling. She pressed the sigil he'd taught her would summon a miniature sun and began to rummage through it like an eager gerbil digging for grubs.
She fondled the five identical shirts, each draped on a curved piece of vine he called a hanger. Folded neatly beneath them were six identical pairs of kilts, well, not kilts, they covered his legs. It was a pity, really, to cover such fine, muscular legs, but who was she to question the attire of a demigod? She caressed the fabric between her thumb and forefinger as she made a tally. Unlike the coarse, woolen Ubaid kilts, these 'pants' were dyed the color of a date palm branch.
Six outfits! Plus the shirt she'd cut off of him to save his life. She owned two outfits, while even the Chief possessed only five! Mikhail must be fabulously wealthy.
At the bottom of the cupboard sat a pair of the sturdy animal hide foot coverings he called 'boots.' Ninsianna peeked out the door to make sure he was still busy, and then lifted one to her nose. It had a peculiar odor, neither tanned hide nor dirty foot, but the same sterile scent she affiliated with the sky canoe.
Gosh! He had big feet. She stuck her own foot into the boot and dangled it off her ankle. She could fit
two
of her feet into his shoes at once!
Next she rummaged through the smaller garments. Six pairs of tube-like foot coverings, and some peculiar garments, bright white. Stretchy. With an even stretchier band which ran along the largest hole. She pulled it over her head, but the two holes on either side were so big they wouldn't keep her head warm. What were they?
She wiggled her finger through a little double-layered flap. It came out the other side. Wiggle. Wiggle. Wiggle. Just like a wiggle worm.
"What are these, Great Mother?"
Whatever they were, he owned six of them, just like the pants and foot coverings. She held them up and peeked through the holes. Perhaps they were some kind of brace to support his wings?
She placed them neatly back onto the shelf. Hidden behind them lay a small, black box, delicately interlay with sacred symbols. She pulled it out, chewing on her lip as she turned it over in her sensitive healer's hands. This box was different than everything else in the sky canoe; warm and wooden, the kind of box someone might carve to place upon their altar. She traced the symbols, unable to decipher them. She glanced back to make sure Mikhail was still in the other room, and then opened the lid.
It was empty.
Ninsianna wrinkled her nose in disappointment. She shut the lid and shoved it back into his cupboard.
Not finding anything of further interest, she visited the room with the magic chamber pot, and then moved into the galley. Yesterday she'd found cups, platters, and eating implements and put them back into their cupboards, but found nothing that looked like a cooking crock, storage baskets, or food. She was all out of dried
bastirma
meat. She would have to hunt her own.
Her stomach growled.
"How can a man cross the stars and not provision his sky canoe with food?"
She'd gone out yesterday to dig for roots, but this was enemy territory, and Mikhail's sky canoe had lit up the entire sky.
Would
the Halifians come down into this valley?
"Don't worry," she reassured herself. "Now that he's awake, his firestick will summon lightning."
She chewed her lip, pondering how aloof the winged one had treated her when she'd settled him into bed. While polite and thankful, he showed no emotion whatsoever, not even when she'd disrobed for sleep. He certainly didn't treat her the way the Ubaid men always had. Normally, when the women disrobed to swim, the men gathered around.
"Do you think he finds me unattractive?" She furrowed her brow with worry. This was the first time she'd ever been interested in a man who had no interest in
her.
Would he take her into the heavens if he thought her ugly?
She worked silently, rummaging through the galley, searching for something to cook the man breakfast. Within her culture, a woman was only as valuable as her ability to cook his food and bear him children. What were the females of his species like?
Did they even
have
women?
She closed her eyes, hoping for a stronger answer, but while sometimes it felt like She-Who-Is stood at her side, most of the time, the goddess half-listened the way a mother might let her offspring chatter.
She finished tidying up the galley, and then moved into the ruined room Mikhail called the bridge. While debris still lay helter-skelter, he'd cleared a path to a wall dominated by a large, shiny black square. Laid out carefully on the altar in front of it were a variety of sacred implements. A two-handled scepter? Small, silver cloths. And a sacred knife, some kind of tiny spear? Over the altar, he'd rigged a string of magic suns. He sat on an elaborate stool with thick padding and a short back, his magnificent dark wings shielding him from her view.
He lowered his good wing and met her gaze.
"Good night," he enunciated clearly, the last thing she'd said before he'd fallen unconscious.
Ninsianna froze, her heart beating in her ears. The man who faced her this morning was clear-eyed and conscious, not the wounded creature she'd woken up several times to force him to drink some water.
Should she bow and pray? Or lift her hands in ablution? Maybe she should do both? How was one supposed to treat a demigod?
"G-g-good … morning," she stuttered.
The man tilted his head.
"G-g-good morning," he enunciated meticulously.
"No, uhm—" she gave him a sheepish expression "—it's just good morning. Not, uhm…"
Her hands flew towards her mouth. Whenever she was nervous, sometimes she giggled. A vacuous, girlish gesture she'd always despised.
Mikhail watched her, studying her carefully, missing nothing. Thankfully he didn't mimic her giggle, which meant he
knew
she acted like an idiot.
Her heartbeat thumped, screaming how very awkward she must appear, an eighteen summer girl too frightened to talk to a powerful man.
How would Mama act?
Mama would act confident, whether or not she felt it.
She gave Mikhail the same healer's smile she'd given Jamin after Papa had ordered her to go to the Chief's house and change his bandages.
"It's just good morning—" she forced her voice not to warble. "Good morning. As in, the sun has risen." She arm-gestured the sunrise, and then pointed at the golden sunlight which streamed through the crack in his roof. "Morning."
"Morning," he nodded. "
Maidin.
Yes—" he pointed at the sun. "Good morning. Yes?"
"Yes." She smiled to accentuate he was correct.
"Yes, good morning." He stared at her, as though waiting for her to do something amazing. Or maybe he was just waiting for her to cook him breakfast? What did demigods eat, anyways?
"I, uhm—"
She gestured for the crack she'd been using as a doorway.
"Why don't I fetch some water?"
"Water." He held up one of the containers she'd used to fetch water yesterday from the stream.
"Deoch.
Drink?"
"Yes," she said. "Water.
Deoch.
Drink."
Mikhail shook his head.
"No water. You—" he pointed at the crack "—you no go—" He struggled for a word. "You no go
taobh amuigh
."
He flared his wings.
Outside?
Yes. He wasn't afraid of Jamin? Was he?
"He wouldn't dare come back," Ninsianna scoffed. "If he does, you'll hit him with lightning!"
She pointed at the deadly black weapon strapped to his hip.
Mikhail's expression remained unreadable as he held out one of the silver packets he'd placed on the altar. It rustled as he reached inside and pulled out two small, white squares. He held them out in the palm of his hand.
"You eat?"
He picked one up and held it up to his mouth, and then gestured for her to take the other the way one might lure a skittish cat.
Ninsianna stared with disbelief.
Mikhail had made her breakfast?
Awareness tingled through her body as she stepped toward the winged man who towered over her, even seated. She forced a smile as she touched the small, white rectangle. A pleasant tingle warmed her fingers as she took the heavenly food from his hand.
Her head swam with emotion, images, and
feelings.
Fear. Worry. Doubt.
His face said nothing. But his lowered wings said something different. Mikhail felt every bit as anxious as
she
did.
"Eat?" he said.
"Okay," she said breathlessly.
She put the heavenly ambrosia into her mouth.
Her teeth crunched on the hard, square biscuit. It didn't
taste
like food from heaven. In fact, it rather reminded her of Mama's cooking.
Mikhail gave her an apologetic look.
"Food
briste,"
he said.
Briste. Briste?
Hadn't he used that word to describe his sky canoe?
"Broken?" she guessed.
"Yes," he said. "Food broken."
Broken? How could food be broken?
She forced a smile as she choked the substance down. Crunchy clumps of rock scraped down her throat. But he'd cooked it for her. Or fetched it, perhaps? Because now that she stood next to him, she could see he'd set out
two
silver packages onto the altar, perhaps to bless the meal?
Mikhail nodded approvingly.
"You stay
taobh istigh
?" He gestured at his altar. "Help Mikhail? Yes?"
She stared at the wall he'd decorated with hundreds of colorful spiderwebs. No. Not decorated. Taken apart. She leaned forward, fascinated by a box beneath the shiny, reflective square, filled with a tangle of peculiar looking objects.
"What is this?" she asked.
"Computer." He tapped his temple. "Help Mikhail
cuimhneamh.
"
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"Cuimhneamh?"
"Yes.
Cuimhneamh.
" He made a gesture as though something flew out of his forehead. "No
cuimhneah.
No…"
Behind his unearthly blue eyes, she caught a glimmer of fear.
A faint sheen of sweat glistened on his too-pale skin. He might
look
neatly dressed, but his ghastly pale complexion warned he was still dangerously low on blood. For all his size, his strength, his magnificent wings, just three days ago, he'd tumbled out of the heavens to suffer a mortal wound.
"Let me look at your head." She touched her own head, and then pointed at his.
He bent his neck as though he bowed to
her.
A creature of heaven, even fallen, still filled with far more grace than any mortal man.
Her hands tingled as she touched his short-cropped hair and felt along the skin to gauge the extent of his injuries. One wing twitched as she touched the place she'd given him seven stitches, but though she sensed it hurt, the man did not make a sound.
Ninsianna stepped back.
Mikhail met her gaze. His eyes reminded her of the desert sky.
"You hit your head pretty hard—" she banged her own head for emphasis "—but I don't think it's permanent."
"Mikhail be okay?"
His face remained stoic, but by the way his feathers rustled, his memory loss terrified him.
"Yes," she gave him a reassuring smile. "Everything be okay in two—" she held up two fingers, then made the same gesture she'd made earlier to mimic the sunrise "—maybe three days?"
"Okay."
He turned back to worship his god.
"Computer," he said,
"cad é an t-ordú deiridh a thug mé tú roimh an timpiste?"
[46]
His god didn't answer him. With a sigh, he picked up a small, ceremonial spear and stabbed it into the nest of spiderwebs.
"Computer broken," he explained. "Mikhail
shocrú
."
"Heal?"
His forehead furrowed, as though he knew that wasn't the right word.
"
Shocrú.
Yes. Mikhail heal computer."
How did one heal a god?
He did that thing that all men do when they are chewing on a problem, disappeared into his work and completely ignored her.
She picked up the small, silver packet he'd taken the food out of.
"I'll just, uhm, clean up."
She backed away.
Mikhail gave her a distracted nod, but already he'd forgotten her. She slid the silver packet into her leather pouch. She would make her
own
altar to She-Who-Is.
She wrung her hands, not sure what to do next. She'd learned the hard way, after pushing Jamin too hard, that men pushed back if a woman got too bossy. The
last
thing she wanted was to be left behind like Jamin had done after she'd begun to make demands. So what
did
women do where Mikhail came from? She doubted they just stood around, looking pretty.
How could she make herself indispensable?
Her eyes fell upon the place she'd found him impaled through the chest. While she knew little about sky canoes which flew between the heavens, even she could see he'd have to clean up this mess before he could take her anywhere.
She glanced at the heavenly creature who prayed furiously to his god, Compyoota, stabbing the sacrificial knife into his god's altar, uttering prayers to give him back his memories.
She picked up a large square which had fallen from the ceiling. She dragged it over to rest against the wall, and then picked up the next one. Mikhail looked up, his expression curious.
"Thank you," he enunciated meticulously.
It was as close as she'd ever seen him come to a smile.
She dug into the pile, sorting ceiling mats, the odd spears, and other types of debris by type until she could see the floor. She stared down at the enormous, red-brown stain.
"How can any creature lose that much blood and live?" She'd seen entire herds sacrificed for a feast that had bled out less than he had.
'Great Mother?'
she prayed. '
What should I do next?'
A male voice floated through the crack.
"Nin-si-anna!"
The hair rose on her neck. No! Not
him!
Mikhail lurched to his feet.
"Nin-si-anna," the voice called out again. "It's Papa. I know you're in there."
Mikhail pulled his firestick and aimed it at the doorway.
"No!"
She leaped in front of the crack, her arms flailing.
"It's just my father!"
The hum which preceded a bolt of blue lightning shrieked higher and higher pitched. His good wing flailed as he fought to keep his balance, but the hand which held the firestick did not waver.
"Céim ar leataobh,"
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he said.
Ninsianna held up her hands, trembling.
"It's okay," her voice warbled. "It's good. Papa is good."
Thank the goddess her father had the sense to not step into the sky canoe!
Mikhail's skin turned clammy as the blood drained out of his face. From the way he hyperventilated, he fought off passing out.
"It's okay?" his voice lilted upward.
Can I trust you?
She understood what he really meant.
"It's okay."
She put down her hands.
She took a deep breath and forced herself to stand straight, as though she were the most confident woman in the world.
"It's okay. Papa good."
Feathers flew as he half-sat, half-crashed back into his seat like a tired old woman. He fought to stay conscious. A bright red stain blossomed outward on his clean shirt, salty and copper, so pungent she could almost
taste
it.
She glanced between her patient and her father. Mikhail needed attention, but if her father stepped through the crack, Mikhail would hit him with a bolt of lightning.
"I'll go get him—" she gestured. "Papa good. You stay here."
She bolted towards doorway before Mikhail could tell her
no.
She held her hands up, ready to deflect any arms that tried to grab her, but none came. There was only her father. His face appeared red and covered with sweat, his grey-streaked hair helter-skelter above worried, tawny-beige eyes. He stared at the shiny silver sky canoe, owl-eyed.
"Why have you come?" She positioned herself in the crack, ready to dart back inside.
"Jamin said you'd been kidnapped."
"Kidnapped? The only fool who tried to kidnap me was
him!"
She jabbed a finger at her father, her body shaking with fury. Behind her, the high-pitched whine of the firestick warned that Mikhail sat, prepared to defend her.
"Ninsianna, be reasonable," Papa said.
"Reasonable?" she shrieked. "The bastard tried to drown me in that pond!"
She scanned the steep walls which surrounded the oasis, positive Jamin sneaked around somewhere behind her. She could almost
feel
him. At least a dozen pair of eyes. Papa hadn't found his way out here alone.
"He was just worried." Papa soothed her. "He said a demon put you under some kind of enchantment."
"The only enchantment was
you,
trying to force me to marry your best friend's son!" Ninsianna snapped. "Did you think I wouldn't notice the sigils you kept putting underneath my pillow, trying to make me predisposed to him in my dreams?"
"It's a perfect match."
"Not if I don't want him!"
She looked up at the cliff which had collapsed onto the sky canoe.
"Do you hear that, Jamin?" she shouted at the top of her lungs. "I don't
want
you! So take your warriors and go away!"
A pebble tumbled down the cliff, clinking and bouncing, betraying the warriors' presence. Ninsianna pointed upward.
"Tell them to back off, or I'll let Mikhail kill them."
Papa glanced up, not sure whether to perpetuate the ruse. Ninsianna backed fully inside the crack. Behind her, the rustle of feathers warned Mikhail was prepared to fight, whether or not he was in any shape to actually do so.
The last thing she wanted was her beloved, if misguided, father, and the man who had fallen from the heavens, getting into a fight to the death over her.
Now Jamin? That was a different story…
"I'm going back inside now," Ninsianna said, "before he punishes you with his magic. He doesn't speak Ubaid. All he knows is Jamin attacked me right in front of his sky canoe."
"Is it true?" Papa's expression grew eager. "The warriors said he looks Angelic."
Ninsianna hesitated.
"An Angelic?"
"Yes."
That was what Mikhail called himself, part of the symbols on the talisman which helped him remember his name. Jamin didn't know that, so how did Papa?
"Maybe," she evaded. "We haven't really discussed it."
Papa raised an eyebrow.
"You've been here three days. What
have
you been doing?"
She snorted with disgust. She
knew
what Jamin thought she'd been up to with the beautiful, winged man. She wasn't about to reveal Mikhail was too weak to stand, much less make amorous advances. With his firestick, he didn't
need
to stand as long as she wasn't stupid enough to step out of lightning range.
"I'm going inside now—" she backed into the shadows "—and
you
are going to live with your decision to tell your only child it was
your
way, or banishment! As you can see—" she bowed mockingly "—I have found a more
respectful
tribe."
"Ninsianna! Wait!" Her father lurched forward. "Let me see him?"
"So you can betray him?"
"No," Papa said. "I just wish to talk to him."
"Why?"
"We have legends about a time the winged ones shall return."
Ninsianna's eyebrows furrowed with suspicion.
"Why have you never told such tales before?"
"Please? You must show him to me." Papa glanced up the cliff behind the ship. "Before Jamin does something rash."
Ninsianna stared at her father's spirit-light. Her Papa, who she loved more than anybody in the world. The father who'd always indulged her. The patriarch who'd betrayed her when he'd refused to let her back out of an arranged marriage.
Papa wouldn't leave until he'd done what he'd come here to do. With Jamin to back him up, the only way to resolve this peacefully was to let him see.
"Fine," she said. "But first let me tell him you're coming. He's not sure who he can trust."
Ninsianna ducked back inside the sky canoe. Mikhail had regained his composure, or more likely it was fake, but Papa didn't know that.
"It's just Papa," she smiled. "He wishes to come and meet you."
Mikhail gave her an unreadable stare. He wasn't buying it. The man was perceptive enough to read her body language.
She made an exaggerated gesture as though inviting somebody into your house.
"Papa? Meet?"
She stood between Mikhail and the firestick. Her heart pounded as she prayed he understood.
"Oh-kay," he said.
"Okay!" she smiled too brightly.
He laid his firestick flat upon his thigh, but from the way he kept his hand over it, he remained ready to smite his enemies.
Backing up, she led her father inside the sky canoe. Mikhail flared his wings like a raptor about to pounce, one magnificently curved, and the other stiff and straight because of the splint.
"Great Goddess be praised!" Papa exclaimed. "It is true!"
He threw himself to his knees and bowed his face all the way down to the floor.
Papa began to sing…
…in the
same
language spoken by Mikhail...