Kiyama

By Diana Kemp

Spectral eyes watched from the timelessness of the vast tank chamber. Imprisoned in their liquid-filled tombs, the souls of the ancient Omoro kept vigil on the wondrous spectacle of their creation. They whispered like the gentlest of breezes, their thoughts commingling. Below, in a mist-enshrouded chrysalis, their progeny slumbered, a precious creation of flesh and blood, a vital link to the past and the future.

The time of awakening was drawing near.

A surge of anticipation and excitement rippled through the tanks as the blue mist gradually began to clear within the chrysalis. A shape emerged, a shape that brought joy to the phantom audience.

In the tank of one whose essence inhabited a lower level, long-forgotten emotions sprang from the shadow of time. As he observed the awakening, memories of his world, his people and the love he held for his children filled his spirit with elation. His jubilant voice joined the welcoming chant of his kindred. Sparks of energy flickered in the tanks like legions of phantasmic butterflies. The millennia of waiting, the grinding tribulations of the past, were quickly forgotten as a vision of hope and the shining promise of resurrection stirred before him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eXtasy Books Inc
• Release date: Aug 14, 2012
• ISBN: 9781771112406

Diana Kemp

A gifted muse of words, Diana Kemp wears many hats, including author, collaborator, creative writer, screenwriter, freelance writer, and ghostwriter. Her vivid imagination and passion for writing emerged at the age of seven and evolved into a considerable repertoire of short stories, novellas, novels, short and feature-length screenplays earning 130 competition awards and placings. Many have been published, and include a co-written narrative script for "A Time-less Journey", an informational documentary for the Naval Research Laboratory in the United States.She currently has television and film projects in pre-production. Her work can be viewed at di-anakemp.com.

Book preview

Chapter 1

My anxiety increased when I spotted a series of pictographs adorning the commune walls. I understood even from a distance that they depicted the Omoro chronicle. An arched door opened when I neared the entrance, the walls dancing with life-sized pictographs displaying the images of my ancestors and their strange, star-bound vehicles. I approached them and traced their outlines with my fingers while in my mind hushed voices whispered ancient tales.

Coolness wafted from the commune’s interior. A refreshing draft ruffled my hair and caressed my face. The drumbeat softened into a gentle heartbeat as five Omoro appeared from the shadows. With a thrill of recognition, I regarded two adults and three children. Joy filled my heart and buoyed my spirits when I realized I was no longer alone.

The group approached slowly. Poised, ebony-skinned and willowy-limbed, they wore their hair in elaborately coiled braids beaded with amber, coral and other precious stones. Golden thread glinted from the colorful batik prints of their robes. Beautifully crafted jewelry of amber and gold adorned their wrists, ankles, ears and necks.

The Elder, a man of noble stature and warm, patrician features, wore an embroidered sash of rank adorned by a large ruby the shape of a bird’s egg. My eyes were drawn to a small tattoo on his left temple depicting several intersecting circles. He smiled and bowed, his deep chocolate eyes and rich voice familiar.

Welcome to the homeworld, Kanuwe. I am Badarou, Elder of the Sofouru Commune. He turned to the others, who smiled welcomingly at me. This is my wife, Nsangue, my son Renwati and daughters Tanifah and Dhoman.

We bowed in greeting, the action instinctive on my part. I stared at Badarou. He smiled and nodded.

We have already spoken. I was present at your awakening.

I recalled the spectral faces in the tanks and glanced questioningly at the others. A shudder coursed through me as I thought of such a hellish incarceration. I wondered whether immortality was worth such a price.

Such an existence was not their wish, Badarou said, reading my expression. And I would not have insisted.

A question half-formed on my lips. Badarou gazed toward the lake and the majestic mountain range beyond with misty eyes.

Look around you, Kanuwe. Such is the beauty of Omori, our home—a world of peace and prosperity, a people at one with nature.

Moving with regal grace, Nsangue approached me and took my arm. She smelled of musk and spice, the drowsy warmth accentuating the enticing aroma. When she smiled, her teeth were a flash of ivory against flawless dusky skin. Ankle bracelets tinkled delightfully as she moved. Her mahogany eyes melted into mine, her velvety touch a calming salve against the questions burning in my mind.

It is time to meet your ancestors, Kanuwe, she said, leaving the others behind. Come help me prepare for the evening tea ceremony.

We entered the deliciously cool retreat of the commune. Tiled fountains soothingly splashed amidst handcrafted furnishings of wood, metal and stone. Colorful tapestries, basketry and bold sculptures adorned niches and walls, reflecting muted sunlight from artfully angled windows and skylights. The setting was serene and peaceful, an embodiment of the Omoro persona.

This is wonderful, I said as I admired the lovingly crafted décor. My fingers strayed to a mosaic plaque depicting the commune, placed to receive the filtered light from a nearby window. Vivid colors blazed with feral intensity.

Nsangue pointed to a dramatic copper mask displayed over an arched fireplace. Many pieces are forged by Badarou’s hand, she said, retrieving a deep tri-color basket and a small terracotta jug from a wooden cabinet. I enjoy basketry and weaving. The children are gifted in music. Each Omoro has a special talent. It is a gift we honor by bringing it to life.

A glass-enclosed cabinet situated in the corner of the room away from the light caught my attention. Nsangue said nothing when I approached, my eyes riveted to a magnificently carved shield bisected by a pair of spears. Though the detail closely resembled the other artwork in the room, something about it seemed different. It exuded a sense of antiquity that spanned a time longer than I could imagine.

You recognize the soul of the clansmen, Nsangue observed. They were the original tribe. We call them the forefathers.

I touched the glass. Kabila, I said, unsure why the strange word had suddenly appeared in my mind.

Our heritage is long and noble, Kanuwe. Always remember that.

I feelsomething, I said, looking around the room as though seeking an answer to my confusion. This place is a crossroads.

Omori anchors us to the spiritual and physical world. One cannot exist without the other.

I pondered her words as she led me to a central atrium garden. Sunshine filtered through verdant foliage, dappling a natural stream alive with delicate opaline fish and tiny green turtles. Women and young girls tended the multitude of greenery and polished intricately tiled pathways and bridges. A lovely teenager with fawn’s eyes cut magnificent coral blooms from a long-stalked bush and placed them in a basket. Jewel-colored birds flitted from the branches, filling the air with delightful song. A sensation of gentle energy rippled through me.

An oasis in an arid land, I said in wonder. How is this possible?

Nsangue dipped her jug into the bubbling stream. Bells distantly chimed to accompany the lowing of animals. I glanced out a nearby window and noticed a herd of horned goat-like creatures grazing in a cultivated field. Youngsters playfully bucked and charged their indulgent parents, their lush coats mottled with brown and gold. I smiled at their charming antics.

The stream of life heals and nurtures, Nsangue said. It is the spiritual core of our people.

She handed me the water jug. I sipped from it, savoring a pure sweetness that lingered in my mouth. We wandered outside to a lush, grassy area bordering the commune and surveyed a peaceful scene that suffused me with a sense of well-being. I smiled as children and their pets, furry, long-snouted creatures with endearing whinnies, romped while women picked shiny red pods from a surrounding bank of thick, prickly green hedges. In amazement, I watched two of them balance tall baskets atop their heads and calmly walk toward the commune without supporting them. Babies hung in slings across their mothers’ backs, their lusty yawls a triumphant song of their own. Nearby, teams of men and teenage boys prepared the foundation for a new commune.

These are aruna pods, Nsangue said, extending a thorny branch drooping with the weighty pods gleaming with a lacquered red shine. Crushed, they produce the finest tea. The powder also has many medicinal properties. She handed me the basket and set the water jug on the grass. The honor of gathering will be yours. You must remember to always fill the basket. The stream of life provides abundance for all. We must honor the gift.

I reached toward the glossy hedge, the sun a warm kiss on my back. The crescent-shaped pods snapped off easily, emitting dusty red puffs. Nsangue hummed while I stuffed the basket to the brim.

Suddenly, a wet nose snuffled against my ankle. I looked down in surprise as a plump gray furball affectionately nuzzled my foot.

I think he likes you, Nsangue said with a laugh. They are usually quite shy with strangers.

I smiled and reached down to pet the odd creature. It immediately rolled onto its side and emitted the most beguiling purr. My hand sank into thick, luxuriant fur, the little creature’s stubby legs and knobby tail trembling with pleasure. Shiny black eyes regarded me with near-adulation as I caressed a callused paw.

They’re delightful! What are they called?

Mirobi. Or, wandering pouches. Long ago, they used to be a food source until someone decided to tame them. Once that happened, of course, there was no question of eating them.

I don’t think that would be very popular with the children, I said, noticing that almost every child of walking age had one of the creatures as a pet. Nothing else? No birds or other small animal?

Nothing else comes close to the mirobi. They are quite cunning, you know. It is impossible to resist them. Nsangue leaned toward me with a conspiratorial look in her eyes. Don’t say a word, she whispered, but Badarou has two, on loan to the children, naturally.

I could not conceal my grin. Naturally.

As I reluctantly extricated myself from the ecstatic mirobi, the children ceased their frolicking and formed a large, lopsided circle. A herd of mirobi obediently trundled to their sides, my little admirer hastily joining their ranks. I recognized Renwati and the girls standing at the head of the group. His handsome profile already hinted at the man he would become. His beautiful sisters already bore the same regal grace as Nsangue.

A distinguished older woman clad in yellow-and-scarlet robes emerged from the commune and approached the circle. She carried a magnificently carved lute, her arms cradling it as thought it were a child. Again, I noticed the curious tattoo of intersecting circles, but it was positioned on her right temple.

The lute was a polished marriage of several rich woods. It gleamed in the sunshine like a lustrous jewel. The woman uttered a brief salutation and presented the instrument to Renwati. The boy bowed and sat cross-legged on the grass. The remaining children followed his example and an expectant hush fell over the commune. I found myself holding my breath while I watched the proceedings with growing anticipation.

Closing his eyes, Renwati meditated for a moment before his fingers flew magically over the strings to produce the most enchanting tune. Beside him, Tanifah began to sing in an exquisite voice that blended with sound of the instrument. Meanwhile, little Dhoman got to her feet and began to dance, her body lithe and assured as she swayed to the hypnotic beat.

Another snippet of déjà vu seized me when I glimpsed the children’s faces. I stepped back, disoriented, the air suddenly languid. A firm hand steadied me.

The children, I murmured. I thought I remembered…

And if you do? Badarou asked. There is nothing to fear, Kanuwe. What has been, what will be, are merely steps along the same road.

Nsangue took my basket and guided me toward the circle, where the other children and the adults joined in. A staccato drumbeat fired the pace, the dance merging into a primal rhythm. Their voices rose in ancient tribal song, harmonizing, haunting, the mesmerizing melody enticing me to join them. My head spun in the sultry atmosphere and communal excitement, the combined energy of the dancers creating a sensual vortex that prickled my skin and raised the hairs on the back of my neck.

I noticed the drummers standing on the brow of the nearby promontory. I could not remember seeing them a moment before. Tall and rangy, dressed in only loincloths and ceremonial pouches, the men sat in a triangle, their hands beating an erotic, primordial rhythm. Bold tribal colors marked their faces, their eyes half-closed in trance as they swayed above several large, conical drums. Now and again, a half-muttered expletive rose from their lips. Acrid smoke from a ceremonial fire inside the triangle writhed into the blazing sky.

I danced until my lungs burned and my calves ached. Perspiration beaded my skin, my breath matching the cadence of the drumming. Through the blur of my half-closed eyes, I glimpsed figures superimposed over those who danced around me. I recognized the clansmen, even though I had only seen their images on the pictographs. An older man with a beard and slightly different features suddenly turned toward me. He smiled, nodded and danced in my direction. His fathomless eyes never left me as he approached. I stopped and tried to read the movement of his lips but the words were spoken just beyond my range of hearing.

A firm hand gripped my arm and gently guided me from the circle. I started and looked around at the dancers but saw only once again the children and adults of the commune. Badarou smiled and led me toward the building, his pace measured as I caught my breath. The supple fabric of his robes moved with his strong, well-muscled body, his skin exuding an odor of wood and musk.

You have tasted the soul of the Omoro, Kanuwe, but now you must rest. Your journey has only just begun and you have far to travel.

These are my people, I said, glancing over my shoulder at the dancers.

You have seen what was. But you are part of what will be.

The commune’s cool interior embraced us as we stepped inside. Badarou led me to a beautifully appointed room overlooking the atrium garden, the colors and textures of the foliage surreal in the diffused glow of a skylight. The heady fragrance of flowers reached me from a lapis vase placed atop a gurgling fountain. Blossoms in variegated shades of violet, purple and indigo bowed in cloud-like puffs of satiny petals.

How beautiful, I murmured, my eyes drooping as a sudden fatigue overwhelmed me.

Rest for a while, Badarou said, squeezing my hand. I will come for you later.

Obligingly, I drifted into gentle sleep. As I hung on the verge of unconsciousness, two faces drifted into my mind. I knew them, yet I didn’t. One resembled mine, but her countenance was older. The other was a man, strong and proud. Though I could not hear their whispered words, I felt the welcome in their eyes.

Malaru

It came as a whisper at first, then a cry that penetrated Malaru’s mind with jarring clarity. He started from his dream, shaken by the phantom voice of one whose awakening he had only recently sensed.

Save for a beautifully inscribed jeweled gauntlet of beaten silver on his left forearm, he lay naked on his bed in the deep indigo velvet of the moonless Zhalatian night. Flocks of nocturnal, ivory-feathered asano birds gracefully flitted through the interconnected towers of the great palace. Their bittersweet song echoed through the cathedral heights and gently faded as they exited into the star-kissed sky.

Malaru rose from his silk-draped bed and stretched, the movement signaling the lights to fill his spacious chamber with soft radiance. Delicate spirals of jasmine and sandalwood incense filled the air with sultry fragrance. He strode to the west-facing glass wall with the assured sway of a jaguar, his lithe, sinewy limbs gleaming like polished obsidian in the subdued light. His face was a commanding sculpture of soaring planes and angles, his limpid cocoa eyes sharp, self-assured, yet possessed by a wistfulness that added a touch of softness.

Oblivious to the sweeping views of the tiered palace gardens, he frowned as intermittent images flooded his mindthe glimpse of a young face, the timbre of a female voice, the experience of new and strange sensations.

Kanuwe, he said and closed his eyes to focus on the image. You are with us.

He breathed deeply and exhaled. Though her fleeting image was no more substantial than a wisp of incense, he felt a powerful sense of exultation at her newborn presence. The long-awaited moment of her arrival was now reality. He opened his eyes and nodded.

It won’t be long now.

A flurry of activity by the cascading garden pools caught his attention. He pressed closer to the glass wall, his keen eyes identifying several of the Zhalatian monarch’s favorite consorts entertaining a group of visiting dignitaries. The women, among the more athletic and well-endowed of the Overlord’s extensive harem, cavorted in the illuminated water, their features garish in the ever-changing colors of the submerged lights. Their scanty costumes left little to the imagination as the rushing water plastered the flimsy fabric to their bodies. The Mohurq ambassadors, members of a singularly unattractive race of scaled, semi-aquatic creatures, slithered through the water and circled like pythons around the women.

Malaru grinned and turned away when the activity heated up, his amusement at such blatant sexual antics unabated despite several years in the Overlord’s service. Not even the unexpected appearance of a group of nocturnal Vallni tourists proved a distraction to the crescendo of raucous mating cries rising from the pools. Malaru considered the Overlord’s legendary carnal appetite, to which he and an entourage of advisors owed their extremely prestigious employment.

Affairs of state were often postponed while the monarch attended to affairs of the heart. Malaru himself dealt primarily with commerce and trade, a huge industry and income source to Zhalat. Of course, the Overlord’s notorious harem also contributed handsomely to the treasury coffers, though Malaru privately deplored female barter. The monarch’s hedonistic reputation made Zhalat a galactic, and immensely wealthy, curiosity.

As a satiated silence descended upon the garden, Malaru’s thoughts returned to Kanuwe and her long-awaited arrival. Her awakening would have been recent, her psychic energy raw and untamed like a newborn star. He donned a batik caftan thrown over the back of a chair and thoughtfully brewed a facsimile of aruna pod tea, the satisfyingly simple task clearing his mind. He sniffed the jar of crushed red powder before returning it to a glass shelf. Extracted from a native Zhalatian herb, the tea was a reasonable substitute for the aruna pods he knew only from memory.

Heating water hissed within the elaborate glass-and-bronze-inlaid samovar, the tea dissolving into a bubbling, scarlet liquid. He shut his eyes and waited for it to brew. As he concentrated on an image of Januka, his older sister, his fingers strayed to the gauntlet to caress the intersecting circles surrounding a ruby shaped like a bird’s egg. In his mind, dark, limpid eyes smiled from an ethereally lovely face, full lips set in a sensual smile. A spray of intricately beaded braids brushed her lower back. He anticipated the musical tone of her voice.

Puzzled by the lack of response after several minutes, he tried again.

Januka, he said, vocalizing his thoughts. Our sister Kanuwe is finally with us. I sensed her presence this evening, though it is still quite distant. Our waiting is almost over. He frowned and waited, unaccustomed to the silence. Januka? Do you hear me? We need to prepare for Kanuwe’s arrival.

A half-formed image flickered in his mind and vanished before he could fully grasp it. Despite his efforts, he could not recapture the fleeting image. His jaw twitched tensely as he rose from his chair.

What is this? Now that we’re so close

Without hesitation, he strode to a partitioned section of the suite and accessed a diplomatic channel on a communication interlink. His dexterous fingers flew across the touchpad images. In a matter of seconds, a series of urgent message protocols had all been transmitted. He paused to stretch and ease the tension from his body, his flawless skin gleaming in the glare of the wall terminal.

The response from the Occidian Science Academy was characteristically swift. Malaru nodded as the glossy-furred, duck-billed chief administrator stared solicitously from his expansive desk, his hooded black eyes alert.

Forgive the late hour, Chadrok-nhar, Malaru said. I seem unable to contact Januka. It’s quite urgent. Perhaps you know of her whereabouts?

Spare the apology, Malaru, the administrator clucked in a strangely nasal voice. You are quite aware that we require little sleep. Our work is too important to be frittered away in prolonged states of unconsciousness. As for Januka, I wish I could be of more assistance to you. You know of course that was engaged on a cataloguing expedition to Zepha Onais, a twelve-hour journey from our system. We have heard nothing from her team since they confirmed planetfall two days ago. At first, we assumed a malfunction prevented communication. However, our technicians have confirmed there are no signals of any kind because there is no ship or, at the least, no functioning systems that could provide a trace.

Malaru digested the news and steadied his voice. Are you saying the ship has been destroyed?

Not necessarily. We suspect it may be aground on Zepha Onais. However, for all systems to be completely offline is extremely unusual even for a severely damaged ship. In fact, I would say highly suspicious. Sweeper probes are currently exploring the sector, a normal precaution where unknown or dangerous circumstances are involved. Status reports are expected shortly. I will contact you as soon as I have information.

Chadrok hesitated. Malaru sensed an unusual reticence in the administrator. Though his intuition already confirmed that Januka was in danger, he needed substantiating facts.

If there’s more, Chadrok, please tell me, he said, checking his impatience. I must know everything. More is at stake than you realize.

The details are as yet unsubstantiated, but there have been preliminary reports from the United Alliance of a Uhtian caravan roaming the sector. I didn’t wish to jump to conclusions and alarm you unnecessarily, as the Uhtis sometimes utilize this corridor of the galaxy as part of their nefarious trade route. There could be other plausible explanations

An unpleasant tightness constricted Malaru’s throat. He and Chadrok both knew that the presence of Uhtian mercenaries and Januka’s subsequent disappearance could be no coincidence. He nodded grimly.

I appreciate your frankness, Chadrok-nhar. I will await your news. In the meantime, I can make my own inquiries.

Uhtian presence is never welcome, Malaru. Rest assured that we will do everything in our power to locate the missing team.

Thank you. Malaru nodded curtly and terminated the transmission. Manually overriding the automated lighting controls, he sat cross-legged on an autumn-hued rug woven with a pattern of intersecting circles. He closed his eyes and meditated in silken darkness. When his breathing evened and serenity banished his inner turmoil, his thoughts focused on an idea. A faint smile lifted his face and reflected in his eyes.

There are always answers, he whispered. Just as there is always hope. Januka, Kanuwe, we will be together soon.

Chapter 2

The haunting cry of a bird awoke me from a slumber as profound as the sleep I had endured in the chrysalis. Bathed in the oblique light of dawn, the room basked in an aura of enchantment. Uncertain of whether I had been dreaming or had truly glimpsed the mysterious faces, I pushed back hand-woven blankets and pillows and rose from my comfortable bed. A calm silence embraced the commune. The gentle trickling of water was my only companion. Nothing stirred—even the flowers were partially closed, their petals clasped as though in prayer.

Footsteps approached my room. A soft knock preceded Badarou’s entrance, his eyes lighting when they rested on me.

I see you slept well.

I nodded. I think I could be happy here, I said as I stretched and moved toward him. "I’m glad you brought me