Around twenty children, skin the shades of chocolate from dark to milky, sat on a rug made of soft wool. The rug had drawings of planets and animals, alien scenes to the sitting children from a faraway place that might have never existed. They gathered in a large room with rich brown and green walls.
Around them, no less than double their number of adults and teens, stood silently, their eyes reverently fixed at the middle of the room. At the center of the room, a gnarled tree of around ten feet tall with a trunk as thick as four men standing together threw a shade over the people standing and sitting.
A dark woman, skin like shining ebony wood, in a flowing white dress, older than most the adults standing at attention, touched the tree softly. “This tree is as old as our home.” She caressed the trunk as a lover would their beloved. “If she could tell the story of our people, it would have wept floods to drown our home, Spaceship Nile Jewel.”
“The ancients told us about how we once lived among trees, hundreds of them, thousands, millions.” Her voice rose as she chanted the words, her audience of children exclaimed in awe at the truth of the words. “It is true, our ancestors lived on the banks of great waterways, and they called them ‘Rivers’.”
“The names of our three surviving spaceships, The Nile Jewel, The Congo Diamond, and The Zambezi Gold, are all derived from names of ‘Rivers’ in our homeland Africa.” The adults started to hum, and she swayed as she chanted. “But that home died, along with our planet, Earth, long ago.”
Tears slid slowly over her cheeks. “We were many, escaping our dying planet, twenty-two ships left, but only three stand today.” She stopped swaying and bent by the tree trunk. “Oh, mother, we lost so much.”
The adults called after her. “We lost so much.”
“We need to heal.” Her hands caressed the trunk from both sides. “Hear us, mother.”H
“We need to heal!” cried the assembled adults.
“But we stand before you tall, proud, and we will endure.” She threw her head back and finished her words with a hum. The adults started to beat their chests in a fast rhythm. “We stand tall!” They cried as one.
“Stand children, stand tall and proud.” She stood and ushered the children to join her. “Stand tall as those before you.” She swayed, and the children followed suit.
Between the humming and the chest-beating, she started to jump from leg to leg, then her hands beat the air along with the rhythm of the standing men and women. The children followed her dance, move for move.
Some adults shifted from humming to short rhythmic shouts. They called the names of the children one after another. Each child would turn upon hearing their name and blow a kiss to the adults, then turn back to dance with the others.
The room seemed to pulsate to the rhythm of the dancing children and the older woman. Then she slowly stopped her dance and kneeled on the floor. “Oh mother, let these children sent today to be apprentices, endure and stand as tall as their forbearers.”
“Oh mother, hear us.” All the children cried as one.
“Oh mother, hear them.” The adults stopped humming and beating their chest, and they intoned while panting.
“Hear them and accept my offering.” The older woman pulled a pin from her hair and plunged it into her thumb, then she smeared blood on the tree trunk. “I give life’s blood for acceptance.”
The tree branches rustled to a wind that was not there, perhaps the memory of the wind on the dead planet they left behind.
“It is done.” The woman finally stood and faced the gathered children. “The mother has accepted you as her own.”
The children all cheered.
“I, Ayaba, servant of the mother, bid you farewell in your new life.” The older woman kissed the tips of her fingers and pushed her hand toward the children.
The children ran to the adults, some hugged them fondly, some whispered fast advice, most held to each other with tear-filled eyes.
Two men in long brown robes opened the door and signaled for the children to follow. The children moved to form a column and filed out of the room.
The adults’ eyes followed the children as they marched on through the long metallic corridor past the room door.
“Parents,” Ayaba called to the adults. “They are no longer yours. Let them take their pass in life with fond memories.” Some turned and nodded to Ayaba, yet some still looked forlornly at the receding forms of the children. “Let them remember this day as a day of joy, not sadness.” The rest turned and faced Ayaba.
“We will miss them so much.” A woman with tears flowing down her cheeks nodded as she faced Ayaba.
“Only for a time.” Ayaba approached the woman and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Just three years, Janah, then you will see them around the ship going about their duties.”
Janah nodded and kissed Ayaba’s hand.
“Anyone want to ask the Mother for a favor?” Ayaba searched the surrounding faces.
None came forward.
“Then depart and remember that the Mother has accepted your offering.” She smiled a radiant smile. “She will bless you for your efforts. Be sure of this.”
One after the other, the adults kneeled and kissed the hem of Ayaba’s dress, then they filed out of the room.
After the last one left, Ayaba slid down with her back to the tree and sighed. Another day on their long journey through space. She remembered being in the place of those children, and before her, her mother.
That was thirty years ago, seventy-five since the ships left the dying Earth. She sometimes tried to imagine how Earth looked like. She gazed at the scenes of the strange trees on the walls. Earth must have been very crowded if it had many of those undulating trees.
She gathered the hem of her dress and stood. She took the small broom and shovel and swept the dirt that fell on the carpet, and placed it back at the tree’s base. She walked to the corner of the room, pushed a panel in the wall, and sprang out. She grabbed the coiled hose from inside and returned to the tree.
She smiled as water sprouted from the hose, dousing the tree with life in its simplest form. It was peaceful and fulfilling. Watering the tree was a ritual she didn’t have to share with anyone. Not until she picked an apprentice to replace her in her duties to the Mother.
Ayaba wiped a tear that found its way from her eye to her cheek without her permission. Thinking of finding an apprentice always did this to her. She should have passed the mantel to her daughter, only she was not graced by the Mother to have any of her own.
She finished watering the tree and walked as she rolled the hose to place it back.
The doors opened violently and crashed against the wall. A man in guard clothing rushed inside and stared at her for a long moment.
“May I help you?” Ayaba ignored his raised battle stick and the blood dripping on the rug from it.
“I am searching for Harridi.” The man said in calm tones. “Did he come here?”
Ayaba wondered why a man with a bloodied battle stick searched for the commander of the ship. “No, he didn’t come here, not today.”
“I see.” The men turned without another word as a group of men dressed in the same manner rushed into the room.
“Captain Zuberi.” One man saluted the man who questioned Ayaba earlier. “He is not in the storage of the temple.”
“Move out.” Zuberi signaled forward with his bloodied stick. “The day isn’t over yet. We will find the traitor before the day ends.”
Zuberi and the men left as fast as they came, leaving Ayaba to ponder about what was happening on the ship.
She placed the hose back, closed the panel, combed her long hair with her hand, and kneeled by the tree. “Oh Mother, let it pass.”
Ayaba gathered the dirt from the base of the tree and put it over her head. “Have mercy on your children Mother, please let it pass.”
I hope you liked this story, this is the first scene from a new book, new series, and it is sci-fi. If you liked it, be sure to check those as well: Broken Fighter, 5, Goddess, The templars bleak friendship, and Rowida, in the land of the dead
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This story begs for more telling. What an interesting begining.