Callisto

May My Hands Forget

A billowing snake of smoke coiled itself around Father-Mother's shaking form, their breathing heavy and knuckles clenched with concentration as they parsed the vision that swam behind their twitching eyes.

Through the azure flames that burned beside them, Father-Mother saw the vision they had beheld in the days before Rain-Born left the tribe. Once again, they commanded the voice that emanated from the flames to reveal the mystery held within the two figures that appeared before them, wreathed in fire.

In the Forest of Iron, the voice intoned, A snake will crawl on her belly through the trees towards a golden apple.

Father-Mother nodded their sweating head.

A black dragon will come, soaring upon wings of fire, the voice continued. Within its mouth rides a scarred wolf.

Here it comes, Father-Mother thought.

Below the golden apple, the snake will challenge the dragon. She shall feel the claws of the wolf. And the wolf will taste her poison fangs.

But who shall prevail? Father-Mother demanded, their tone harsh and guttural within the dream world where they were nothing but voice and ear.

The vision clouded.

No! Father-Mother called out again. They reached out their hands involuntarily to stop the vision from dissipating and then heard themselves cry out in pain in the waking world.

Father-Mother's eyes opened, and they looked at their burned hands slowly. They clenched their fingers and squeezed their new burns as though trying to absorb them into their ancient skin.

The vision's final images were still clouded to their discerning eyes. They listened to the voice and tried to peer through the mists that obscured the form of both snake and dragon entangled in combat, each reptile wounding the other in equal measure. But the moment of victory was still kept hidden from Father-Mother. The fires of the future became wrapped up with the mists of memory as the Elder tried to glance upon the end of what they had set in motion. They saw the death of the Old World – all the agonizing, the screaming, and the great battles between the Old Worlders' technological horrors and the creatures of the Deadlands that they had unleashed upon their realm. The old kingdoms fell, and Father-Mother saw themselves standing amidst the ashes. And the Hanakh crowded around them, looking for answers. Father-Mother had found them in their visions, and their people had venerated these sights and soon came also to worship Father-Mother as their first Elder.

Then Father-Mother's mind flew to the day Rain-Born came into this world. They had looked at the furious eyes of the child as she lay upon the desert sands and saw that this one was of purpose. Their visions upon that rain-swept night told them this child heralded change. This tiny babe, taking its mother as its first victim, would be a valuable instrument. But the death of the mother was a bad omen. The Great Spirit was warning Father-Mother with each bolt of lightning that struck the scarred plains of the earth upon the night of the girl's birth.

This one would be strong. In body and mind. But what did a strong mind really mean? Strong in the Tribe? Or strong in the Self?

Father-Mother thought back to the vision – that of the snake and the dragon embroiled in mortal combat amidst the reignited flames of an iron graveyard. She swallowed hard as she recalled with fear the lack of clarity in the conclusion. It was like a puzzle without its final piece. It was a painting that required but one last brush stroke they could not provide. Everything hinged upon this vision, the Elder knew. But they could not wait for the smoke to dissipate within their mind. They could not leave the fate of their people to chance.