Gods & Thieves

4. Cute and Angry

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When another hour bleeds away with no news and evening shadows stretch long across the floor, I'm getting less and less scared.

More and more annoyed.

And angry.

Who do these shamans think they are, leaving me here hanging? I'm not a dog to chain me up, and even dogs are fed at least once a day. Have they forgotten about me? Got carried away, reading the nerd's books? Or it's their plan: once I get bored and famished, I'll agree to anything, even to the fate of being a sacrificial pig, and then publically, they'll say it was my choice to come and die here. Shamans once again will get what they want.

I tried to like shamans, I really did. I idolized them when I was a kid, they seemed so...supreme. Exquisite clothing, formidable powers, wisely long lives--who doesn't want to be like that? Or befriend that? But like many childish dreams, this one shattered one day, too.

I don't remember how old I was exactly, but I guess I was pretty small because only when you're small, you can find a new toy to be more important than the rest of the world. For me, it was a tiny vial of colored water--no magic, just some science--that sparked and changed colors when I shook it. I liked trying to predict which color it'd be next as I waggled it. It made me feel like I could be a shaman, too.

But I wasn't. Not for the real ones.

Some boy--a shaman boy, about my age--walked toward me while I wailed for my big brother Cale who stood in a line to buy cupcakes. That boy didn't say anything, didn't ask. He just reached out with his grabby hand and tore my new toy from my hands. When I argued, he laughed and ran off. When I followed and tried to take my vial back, he shoved me, throwing me off my feet with a magical wave of his hand, and when I screamed and his mother and my Cale found us, he said I'd been the one who jumped in his way. Nobody remembered about the toy by then--which he'd hid in his pocket--because his mother blamed both Cale and me for attacking a shaman. A shaman! How dare we? Isn't it an indirect insult to our empress? Do we want to attack Her Divinity, the oldest--and therefore the wisest--being alive, who protects us from the horrors of the magicless rest of the world wallowed in corruption and chaos, too?

Long story short, Cale paid a fine to the police. For the toy I got deprived of.

Now, vegetating in the sultry Grand Temple's vestibule of that exact empress for the whole day, I think it wasn't about the toy, or that woman's son, or gods. It was about magic. Power. It twists your mind when you hold too much of it for too long--especially when you're born with it. You forget that others have feelings, too. Stop worrying about inflicting pain upon others. Because when you're stronger, others deserve to be hurt, right? They're born weaker, therefore they're born to be hurt.

We will never be anything but inferiors in the shamans' eyes. Not blessed with magic. Not worthy. Not important. Expendable. Only good enough for serving them--designing their robes, mining the gems for the gemcoins, cleaning the floors in the temples, and dying too quickly for their blessedly long lives to remember our names. And for being humble servants, the shamans graciously grant us the chance to live among them and use their magic with aura rings. That's alright because even with those rings, we're no match for even the weakest shaman. Shamans channel aura from its natural source, have unlimited reserves, and aura rings can barely ignite a spark before they require a recharge--which only a shaman can provide. But you should work first--clean the floors--earn a loaf of bread and that new spark.

And if you say one word of criticism...well, your right. But don't be surprised if your house gets burned down by a horrible accident the next day--with you inside. Or if you catch incurable stomach flu a week later--if you miraculously survive the fire.