A Journey, a Dancer, a Spirit: Stories from the World of Rax

By Alina Lee

When the spirits called, Dawn answered.

 

The day Dawn accepted the role of being high priestess of the Grand Shrine, she was informed of a duty she might never have to perform. When an elder spirit called the Champion emerges early to turn the wheel of ages forward, she is thrust into that role. Now she must undertake a journey across the Spirit Isles, taking her from the Grand Shrine to a place no one can tell her about, to play a part in a ritual she doesn't understand.

 

And learn something about herself along the way.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alina Lee
• Release date: Jan 29, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393678755

Alina Lee

Alina Lee is a fan of the fantasy genre and tabletop RPG player, dabbles occasionally in video games, and watches more educational youtube content than most people expect. It prefers to write the kinds of stories it enjoys reading or things that just strike it as something worth writing. This means it is mostly small-scale, non-standard fantasy. It may or may not be a very private komodo dragon.

Book preview

Dawn

She danced by the light of a red bonfire and the spirits paid rapt attention.

There was a pleasant rustling of leaves and babbling from the stream that fed into the purification fountain of the Grand Shrine, a cocktail of laughter, mirth, and amusement. Passing breezes slipped through the inky thicket of bamboo to watch or join in. Dewdrops moved with her, drawn from their places of rest on lazy leaves and into the path of her spin, kicking into the air with her feet when she hopped. Nature all around her laughed as she snapped her ritual fans open and closed, their delicate strokes and motions beckoning and inviting and teasing all at once.

The world around her beat a drum only she could hear, a peculiar rhythm that guided her movements, with the clacking of her wooden clogs against the cobblestones a mildly dissonant echo. Her cares were forgotten for a brief moment in the motions; she laughed along with her audience. She exhaled as she threw one fan into the air, light reflecting off the polished bronze, before she caught it and released the other at the same time. She spun one more time, a playful smile on her features. She caught the fan and transitioned that into a formal bow, giving the impression the fan's weight pulled her down.

Her audience cheered. Her eyes closed as they made their sounds of appreciation amidst the silence from the heart of the Grand Shrine itself.

The fans snapped closed with the clink of bronze on bronze. The babbling of water quieted down, the breezes moved along their way, the dew found its way back to where it rested, and the leaves only replied when she walked among them. Only a few members of her audience remained, content to linger in her shadow or bask in the afterglow of the performance. There was a faint disgruntled whisper from the bonfire, almost a begrudging request for an encore.

A few members of her audience dared move closer to her as she stood focused on the pallid light that hung above an empty sky. A pale thing with a violet crown against a canvas of empty black. The Void. She glared at it with defiance before she turned her attention elsewhere.

Good morning to you, she said.

There was the slightest hint of a shift in the dying bonfire.

She looked to the innermost shrine in the complex, shrugged, and said: No, not today, looks like.

A faint rustling of bamboo and grass answered her, while a cool breeze rustled against her billowy sleeves.

She chose to humor them, as she always did whenever the topic was brought up. I'm sure it will happen when the time is right, she answered, with her eyes still focused on that place of primordial importance. And not a day sooner.

Another clack, wood that fell from being partly consumed, was the response. Following the tail of that sound was a crackle of wind and fire, and a whistle from the ink-flush grove.

She laughed. She made a motion with her fan, an exaggerated swatting of the air. If I'm the only spirit dancer around, then at least you can look at the bright side: I'm good at it!

The environment around her shared in her mirth and laughter. For a moment, a trickle of light slipped past the choking emptiness above them. A tiny dot of red that faded away just as she saw it for what it was.

A whimpering crackle cut in and had its say.

Of course. She nodded and stepped back before thrusting a clenched fist towards it. A burst of orange flame the size of her fist sparked in the air and crashed into the bonfire. It turned orange for a flicker before it became a pale red again. I'm sorry, truly. It's the best I can do.

The crackling bonfire interrupted her.

You're too kind.

The dancer nodded and tucked her folded bronze fans into her belt. She moved to a broom that leaned against an ancient pine tree with the traditional rope and paper charms tied around it. Fingers ran over the talismans. The paper was worn. The rope was frayed from age, but held on. She took out some paper kept in little pockets in her billowy sleeves and began to fold them in the proper lightning-like pattern and replaced what she could. The rest would need replacing before a dance to rededicate it to the spirit that called the tree home. Or if the old tree itself was the spirit. Or both. It wasn't something she ever thought to clarify.

The slightest rustling of the leaves and branches put a smile on her face.

She gave the old pine the slightest of nods as she swept. There were leaves all over the stones and the grains of sand that marked the space between nature and the cobblestone paths. She kept to them and deemed the clacking sound more tolerable than the thought of sand being stirred by her clogs.

She turned towards the entrance, to the muted hues of the gates. There was something missing to make them feel alive. A bright and festive visual element, something that made them stand tall as they marked the line between the land that belonged to mortals and the land that belonged to the spirits. There were many smaller gates around the Grand Shrine and all of them were similarly lacking that detail, a missing piece of their visual identity. Every shrine she'd visited throughout the Spirit Isles lacked it. Her mentor once lamented that everything lacked it, but most never noticed because the inky presence of the Void bled into the gaps.

A single leaf landed on her shoulder.

I know, Grandfather She didn't force a smile, but she didn't want the old pine to think her morose. You and Thunder and Lightning have said it more times than I think even you three can count.

A melodic rumble cut through the silence after she spoke, followed by the sound of creaking ancient timbers.

I'll give their statues a good dusting after. She smirked. But I think they enjoy being cleaned a little too much.

Distant sounds seemed indignant. More so after a breeze and the low crackle of the bonfire seemed to laugh at its expense.

I like being clean too, but you don't see me asking every pretty face for a scrubbing! The Spirit Dancer teased. Don't get too upset, Thunder. You're a beautiful creature and I have no doubt Lightning would volunteer if she could move.

There was a flash in the sky. Bright but brief against the impossible black. The thunder that followed was a loud whimper.

You two really need to sit down and just talk things out. Or just be locked in the storehouse together to talk for a while. Or stand, whichever works better. She smirked before she resumed her sweeping routine. I'm sure Grandfather would agree with the idea.

The wood creaked as the branches swayed without the touch of a breeze. Leaves were shaken from their perches, with a few landing gently on the dancer's head and shoulders.

They're just lucky I don't have the strength to push them into the storehouse, she said. And I don't have the key and don't know where to find it.

A whiff of incense slithered in the air, brushed against her nose. Things deeper into the complex requesting her attention. It happened once in a while, but not often. Something about the flavor of it was different that time, though. Just the smallest hint of insistence.

The shadow of the old tree seemed to bend just so, almost a nod.

I'll remember to get new ropes for you later, Grandfather.

Nature around her, from the rumbling sound above to the laughter of the nearby spring, made her feel content. The insistent incense was put aside for other concerns. She resumed her sweeping, moving away from the ancient pine and deeper into the complex, where the heart of the Grand Shrine was.

Farther from the faint light of the bonfire, the Spirit Dancer snapped her fingers, bringing forth a wick of orange flame. She took in a sharp breath and exhaled over a slow pace. Her finger-flame brightened enough to be a suitable torch against the dark.

It took more steps to get there than she expected every time, and she'd taken to counting them. A mere handful to the bonfire and back, but it stretched to almost a hundred and fifty during her customary sweeping after a dance. But always, always, it never looked any more distant than usual. An effect of the spirits being stirred by her dance, she assumed once, though not the ones that saw fit to converse with her.

In the distance were a pair of half-distinct statues on pedestals of stone. One was a woman with the facial structure and throat of a man, her hands beating on a pair of drums. The other was sleek and tempting in their androgyny, swords in each hand, with arms and legs poised in half-dance, half-battle stance. Both had wild hair, flowing and weaving as if blown by a fierce wind. Masks carved to fit the counters of their faces were dotted with specks of something muted and dulled, the drummer with a wily grimace and the swordsman with an icy glare. They faced ahead, rather than each other.

Thunder, Lightning. She gave a respectful incline of her head. You still haven't answered my question from yesterday.

As she put the broom aside, the clack-clack of wood against stone began. It moved closer to her, until a wooden bucket filled with water came into view. A rag hung limp from the rim.

That can't be the only answer, she said as she clapped her hands and thanked the bucket. The finger-flame died out. I think you're just keeping secrets from me.

Worked, calloused hands wrung water out from the rag, counted five drops. Once. Twice. Three times. Always the same little ritual before she began to scrub the base of Thunder's statue.

There was the faintest shift, a rumble just barely within her ability to sense. And a hint of lightning above, a sudden but dim flash. There, again, was that insistent incense.

Honorable guardians of the Grand Shrine, protecting this sacred place. She put a little more effort into it, scrubbed against a stubborn new stain that wasn't there the last time. Not that I've ever seen anything come here that this place needed protecting from.

She glanced up at the masks. There was a change in the shadows, impossible to see with only the eyes.

You two are probably the only spirits here that think that way.

There was something different that flickered across the eyes of Lightning's statue. It distracted her from the rumble from Thunder that joined it. She hadn't seen anything like it before from the statue and she stared long after it was gone.

The smell of incense grew more insistent, but still just as faint.

What? Go inside? She dropped the rag, almost gagged on her own breath. No one's supposed to enter the sanctum. You two know that! You two told me that!

There was a sudden pressure, an unsubtle pressing that lingered between the shadow of the statues.

Her smile left, replaced by a furrowed brow. I'll check, fine. Is it because of that incense I keep smelling? I didn't even know we had any.

She walked to a nearby waist-high fence that guarded the cave she always felt was the entrance to the underworld. The Sanctum of Night, Grandfather called it once. Stones that were cut and shattered littered the threshold, and Lightning told tall tales of the mountain that once blocked the entrance being smashed and hacked to pieces. Neither spirit claimed the credit and she never asked who did the deed.

There were times she heard a quiet humming coming from within but Grandfather told her to pay such things no mind. She called up flame to be her lantern and to soothe the worried clacking and splashing of the bucket and rag behind her. She chided them, motioned for them to stay still before she stepped inside and found the ancient wooden steps that led down into the deep darkness. Camphor wood. Someone placed them there long ago to help guide the path towards the sanctum.

Her flame was held high, to better light further ahead of her at the cost of leaving the ground she trod upon dim. It was dry in the cave. Quiet. Dark. That last one she expected, but it made her less sure of her footing. A thin mist that smelled of incense lingered, clung close to the ground and made every step feel like one that led into the abyss. Even holding on to the railing was a poor defense to it.

There was a little arch-gate of moss-covered stone, with space for a plaque carved into the center of the uppermost beam. The plaque itself was missing. The stone arch had small fox statues at the base of either pillar, silk scarves with hints of something vivid and alive wrapped around their necks as they sat in watch of everything ahead of them. She breathed in, breathed out and let the flame float just above her palm.

She sensed their presence. Spirits lingered there, eyeing the new arrival. Their words were a background murmur, like whispers that were just loud enough that people could hear something was being said but not the exact words. Their accent was different from the ones on the surface, more guttural and coarse. Some sounded like blocks of grinding gravel mimicking words. These were spirits not accustomed to mortals able to hear them, to understand and respond in kind.

How long ago, she wondered, had the Champion delved to this underworld sanctum to wait for the right time? Had the Champion sat there in wait for the right someone to act as herald for the triumphant return?

The innermost sanctuary was a structure of wood and white plaster, with stones placed to fulfill both an aesthetic and structural role. The tiled roof seemed a third or even half the height of the shrine itself, with an outcropping area that was supported by pillars. No one had been down there in ages, but the structure remained stable and sound. It almost looked new in the poor light of the flame. Mercifully free of dust, by the will of the spirits.

She stepped closer, saw the rope and paper talismans in front of the door. They were set just under her bust, as the old traditions demanded. She never touched them before, never knew of any of her predecessors to have done the same. Pristine, like everything else. The incense-mist stopped there, hesitant to move any closer.

She slid the doors open, surprised that she didn't catch any smell from within as she did. Crouching down, she held her breath and crawled inside, dusting herself off as she stood back up. Something with a faint white glow coming from within that she couldn't make out. She whispered a request for protection before she slid the doors closed behind her and moved towards the weak light.

It was warm inside. The closer she stepped to the light, the more she saw it had no source other than itself. She squinted and almost saw a figure within, seated with palms on their lap. Without realizing it, her hand and its flame reached towards the figure. Within was a woman bathed in luminosity, features obscured save for a pair of dark eyes. Ears with pointed tips. A telltale sign of a powerful spirit taking a form of physical material.

You're beautiful, the Spirit Dancer whispered, drawn towards the figure within. To those dark eyes so full of something she couldn't find a word for. That thing missing from the gates and everything else.

She bit her lip, tempted to indulge herself at the suggestion from earlier. Almost, almost she began to loosen her robes. An audience of one, but radiant – she could think of no better word – enough that it didn't matter.

The woman in the light blinked, and turned her head to look at the Spirit Dancer. There was appreciation there. Interest. Words were almost spoken, but silence pushed them back.

Are you...the Champion?

The light shimmered.

My Champion. She paused to let the words stir in her mind. What that meant. I was expecting someone bulkier.

There was silence, but the dancer bit her tongue at the spirit's response.

"No, I meant...it's not that I wanted my Champion to be some hulking mass of muscle. But you don't look like you could punch a