The last song of the ancestors

The climate was milder at the top of the waterfall, where the long river flowed with thunderous force. The soil was stonier. On the right bank of the river, there were three circular huts.

The conical roof was made of dry straw. About sixty centimeters of the wall was made of rough stacked stone, the rest was made up of wooden lattices woven with vines, and covered with layers of clay dried in the sun. They were rammed earth houses, a form of rustic architecture.

In a joint effort, two men kneaded the clay extracted from the lower regions. A third man, covered in a large light brown hooded cloak, prepared lunch. The masses of clay were put together bare-handed by the pair, without the aid of any tools. The workers had black skin dyed red. The clay mixed with their sweat and formed thick crusts on their skin.

The hooded man stirred the clay pot with a large wooden spoon. Around the yard, there were some dry logs that served as seats. Right in front of the fire, in a prominent place, was an oval stone half a meter long, pink in color and looking like a pebble. Several white symbols adorned it. One of them began to glow.

The spoon stopped moving. The hooded man looked at the rock. He smiled and shouted to his companions:

"We have visitors!"

A deep, imperative voice answered the hooded man.

"Put more water in the beans."

An elderly-looking man appeared behind the cook. He had a long, curly beard and his hair flowed down to his shoulders, long and greasy. His face with its protruding forehead was covered with a gray frame. Only his dark moustache broke up the whiteness. He was of medium height, but had a respectable build for his age.

"Gee, we never get visitors, Feruzi. I hope they've brought us presents."

"Lucky for them, we're very hospitable."

Another man came up behind the gray-haired old man. This third man was younger than the others. He had brown skin, a thin face and full black moustaches. His hair was short and straight, the color of the night. Unlike his meditative companion, his eyes conveyed self-confidence, to the point of making him smug.

"We're not finished, Mashal, it's not noon yet. Cut the small talk and come back here, I need a hand… um, who's here for lunch?"

Feruzi turned to his interlocutor and replied:

"My Scratched Point barrier registered the Axé of three people. One of them is a medium. The other two are probably no less dangerous. They could be mercenaries sent by Ilu Nla."

"Don't brag about your magical powers. Ojwang already owns the state, old Feruzi. You don't need that kind of gimmick anymore. Well, my spear is rusty. I need to lubricate it in someone's blood."

Feruzi shook his head. He had made the overlapping circles of protection. He had noticed the presence of the invaders before the others. He felt he had a right to fight.

"Not at all, I'm older than you, seniors have priority."

"Unfortunately, you can't sunbathe, Feruzi. Besides, you're the only one here who can cook. Nyatui and I will decide odd or even who will go down and face our enemies."

The hooded man stood up from where he was and turned to the pair who were mocking him. He raised his fist and argued:

"No, that doesn't seem fair. Let's go rock-paper-scissors, whoever wins will have the right to face our enemies."

The three of them looked at each other. They raised their fists to their chins. Veins began to pop out on each of their faces. Beads of sweat dripped from their temples. A breeze ruffled Feruzi's cape. He swallowed. His fist trembled with tension. Mashal bluffed with a yellow smile. Nyatui gritted his teeth.

They shook their closed fists three times. They shouted the command in unison to reveal their moves. To everyone's surprise, both Mashal and Feruzi played scissors. Nyatui played rock. The losers slumped their shoulders and looked at the ground.

"Ah, screw you old men!"

"It has to be a best of three."

"It wasn't worth it, you waited too long…"

"Not at all, a promise is a debt. Stay here and I'll take care of the rest. I hope to have lunch ready when I arrive."

Before his colleagues could say anything, he ran towards the river and dived into it like a fish. He swam towards the waterfall.

Feruzi let out a sigh and returned to his seat. He picked up the handle of the wooden spoon and went back to stirring the large clay pot. Mashal sat down around him and inhaled the aroma of beans and cooked meat coming from the stew.

"I hate it when he acts without thinking."

"He sits on the Throne of Force, Mashal. We don't run away from the destiny we've chosen."

"I know, it's just that sometimes he seems like a child."

"You shouldn't have said that, old friend."

Three child spirits appeared and jumped on Mashal with punches and kicks. Boys of the same appearance. Their hair was curly and very dark. They were wearing green vests and blue pants with pink stripes. They were under fifteen years old. If they had any differences, it was down to their personalities.

The trio were the Ori Guardian of Feruzi, they were Erês. Ancestral spirits who had not come of age. They kept their childish energy and behavior. This didn't make them any less wise or powerful, it just made them more difficult for the medium to control.

After the attack, Mashal stood up with his eyes swollen shut and a trickle of drool running from the corner of his lip.

"I warned you, Mashal, you know very well how Selassié acts. Ekon, Iregi… even you, Suluhu, stop this childish behavior."

The trio kept their heads down. They bit their trembling lips. They crossed their arms, looked away from Feruzi and evanesced.

Mashal rose from the ground once more. He wiped the drool dripping from his beard. He put an elbow on his knee and propped up his chin with the same arm. He smiled slightly as he saw the flames consuming the sticks.

"Arf… I wish I was in Nyatui's place right now. He must be having a lot of fun. Too bad it won't last."

The bearded man raised an eyebrow. With the help of a wooden hook, he removed the clay pot from the fire and left the lid slightly ajar to slow down the cooking. He looked at Mashal and retorted:

"He won't be here before noon, old friend. He'll probably come back unconscious. The amount of Axé my magic has registered is not small. It's at or above the level of a sage. That's the result of people like Nyatui, who act only through the power of their unconscious. So take your plate, Mashal. Let's have lunch!"