A Spirit of Fate

“What does it feel like?” the lad asked, turning the small amber-coloured vessel in the moonlight with one dirty hand as he studied it.

“Hold on…that’s the first thing you say?” I replied. “Not, ‘Great Goddess!’ or ‘this will change my life!’ or ‘oh, ho! How my enemies will pay!’…aren’t you even slightly excited?”

His expression sank. “Not really.”

Oh. Wonderful…

I settled back, ready for a slog. This kid was, what–…fifteen? And that fabled teenage angst was obviously addling his ability to grasp the situation. Well, in that case, the last thing I wanted to do was antagonise.

Drifting over, I settled beside him on the scarred stone block he’d claimed, wrested like its siblings from the desert sand for the second time in a thousand years, and eyed him.

The youth didn’t look up. He just kept staring at the hole in the sand. A black, gaping maw, surrounded by picks and shovels, all discarded as the sun had set when work in the rock-cut chamber below had ended.

“Are you afraid of me?” I asked. “Is that it?”

No reply.

“I am not what you think. In fact, once, I wasn’t much different from you–”

“I am not afraid of you,” he said. “It’s…it’s Trader Zema.”

“Oh ho. And what's scary about him?”

“He’s going to take you.”

I scoffed. “I don’t see how. You found me first, and as the the saying goes, ‘the first to reach the tree reaps the dates.’”

“No.” He shook his head. “You don’t understand. Zema always gets what he wants.”

“Nobody always gets what they want. Trust me, I’ve watched people for a long, long time, and if there’s one thing humans are excellent at, it’s stopping each other from getting what they want. Sultan, empress, monger or merchant, it doesn’t matter the station. The capacity for crushing one another under the figurative moccasin, deservedly or not, is a universal one.”

The boy kicked at the sand. “How does that help me? Wise musings are not what I need right now.”

“Actually, I’m the least wise of all. And my point is this…”

He looked up.

“If you don’t let the foot crush you — if you play a nail as it comes down — well, then you have a chance.”

He snorted. “Impossible.”

“Why? Because you are small and Zema is big? Because he has chests of gold and people at his beck and call, and you lack both. Is that it?” “Because it is futile.”

“Bah!” I crossed my arms. “Have I not just told you that I have watched humans for ages, now? Your response tells me that you do not truly wish to fight. That you have given in to what some enjoy calling, ‘fate’.”

He kicked the sand again. “What of it? It is impossible to fight the will of the gods.”

I laughed. “The gods have no say in your path! And I tell you, now, ‘fate,’ is an illusion. It is merely a word to describe the story you craft for yourself.” I paused. “Would you like me to prove it to you?”

Still eyeing me warily, he nodded.

And there it was. Finally, the time had come to show this boy what he had in his hands.

In the air before us, I now bade the desert sand rise up. I needed barely any effort to draw the streams of particulates and guide them about, arcing and flowing, to form a tiny scene. Simple, mud-brick houses on a small street lined with palms. A woman with a donkey-drawn wagon jostling past a man carrying sacks on his shoulders.

The lad’s eyes went wide.

“I came from nothing,” I said, confident that I’d now captured his attention. “The son of a penniless weaver her farmer husband. My life began with little, and it would have amounted to just as much, had I not been plucked from my nest by a great falcon.”

Again, the sands obeyed my thoughts, forming a great courtyard with towering palms, stone columns, and a majestic reflecting pool. And standing by that pool was a small figure, gazing at it all in wonder.

“In this falcon’s talons, I was lifted to a new nest. And as the city’s Master of Coin, he had a nice nest, indeed…”

“You lived there?” the lad uttered, lips parted at the sight of such luxury.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. You see, I was young and trusting. And like one fallen into a well who reaches for a dangling rope, I reached for the apparent good fortune before me, thinking my life was now secure. I lacked the wisdom to realise that, like the parents who had sold me away, souls in great need have poor judgement…”

I flicked a finger and the imagery changed.

The sands formed a great room with high ceilings, a vast table of food and wine, and, two grand chairs upon a high dais. In those chairs sat a stately couple, tall and slim with stern expressions, who observed a boistrous party of guests eating, drinking, and revelling below.

Behind it all, I then fashioned another form. A young, lanky man of average height bearing a tray.

“I served dutifully,” I said, “answering every call. Trying to please my new masters.”

“You were a servant?”

“Mmm. Now, that word is well chosen.”

Before us, the tiny, lanky young man crossed the room at a gesture from his lady, bowing his head to receive instruction.

“A servant I was, and every ask from my masters was met. I worked long and hard. Far harder than the others. For my mother had taught me that great work begets great reward.”

“If only that were true…”

The lad’s words were bitter as dried nightleaf, and this caused me to raise my eyebrows. “It seems I have not given you enough credit. Perhaps you see what I did not? The moccasin was lowering itself upon me but my eyes were fixed upon duty, and they did not notice the shadow. Witness, then, my ruination…”

The scene changed. Then changed again. Each time, the lanky figure appeared in different environs, shining metalware or hefting sacks or scrubbing floors. And with each changing swirl of sand, he grew taller, though whatever height was gained was offset by a worsening hunch.

“All the years of youth were spent in service, answering ever more demanding asks. And I never wavered, nor spoke out of turn, nor made any ask for myself. I kept silent, hoping that sooner or later, my masters would see the effort I was giving for them and reward me, perhaps with a better position, or another to work beside. Perhaps, if I were very lucky, they might even introduce me to one close to their own station whom I might marry. Then, my life would be better. Then, one day, I might return home and tell my parents what had become of me, a simple boy made great…”

The sand swirled and revealed the stern couple from the dais, again, walking through a pleasant garden while beyond in a pit, a hunched figure wiped his brow, then continued placing mud-brick after mud-brick.

The next whirl showed the couple beckoning a young woman towards a beautiful little house, her strides betraying joy as she entered and closed the door while behind herself, while the hunched young man ploughed a field behind it.

“I vaguely recall realising when it was too late.” I said, conjuring the great room with the chairs upon the dais, again. This time, the stern man’s beard had grown long and the woman’s posture, bent, while before them stood a cloaked figure.

It seemed some kind of deal was being made.

“It happened when my last possession, a bracelet from my mother, was given to a stranger. An old man with white eyes…”

The tiny lady made of sand handed something to the old, robed guest, who scrutinised it carefully. In the next whirl of sand, this robed man cast the bracelet into a bowl and, raising his arms, seemed to speak to the sky.

A burst of flame erupted from the vessel, followed by a blast of wind that ruffled his clothes.

The scene dissolved in a puff.

“Soon after that day,” I said, “the recitations began. Morning, noon, and night, I was made to proclaim unending loyalty to my masters. That I would shoulder my duties tirelessly, fulfilling any wish I was given. That my bond to my masters would last for eternity, unless they wished me free…”

The lad beside me stared in awe at the swirling images I conjured, one after the other. But now and then, I noticed that he turned to study me, eyes tracing my black hair and sinewy torso, landing finally on the swirling mist that began at my hips and trailed through the air, connecting to the small vessel he held.

“I realised I was changing,” I said, ignoring that gaze. “With every recitation, and each passing day, my own thoughts grew distant and their voices, stronger. I felt myself fading until I was little more than a shadow. I wasn’t even aware of when I ceased sleeping on my floor-mat and instead began to stand, simply stand there in the dark, each night, awaiting the next summons. Yet, I do remember when that stranger returned.”

The final scene I conjured showed a wiry, gaunt figure, with ribs that betrayed hunger and who stood alone in the darkness, eyes staring vacantly ahead.

Once again, the cloaked man stood before him, and now he raised a small vessel and spoke some more words to the sky and the scene rippled. Like water down a spout, the young man whirled through the air, vanishing into the small object.

“In that new form, I witnessed my masters eventually die,” I explained. “Yet I endured, and that desire and ability to fulfil asks only grew. To carry them out, I drew on a new energy I felt in the air, in the earth, in the sun and the stars, and it didn’t take long for my next owner, the couple’s daughter, to recognise my potential. She used me ruthlessly, and soon became ruler of a great city. And when she died at the hand of her best general, he did the same.”

I stared into the hole in the ground, aware that it had been my prison for many hundreds of years, now. But emotions like fear or dread were no longer part of me.

“After that, I was lost and found, time and again, each new master employing my power as they saw fit.” I turned to look the young man in the eyes. “You see now, that I was the best servant. And a servant, I remain. Until my master wishes it otherwise.”

The lad didn’t reply but I knew he understood. And now came the moment I feared most. The moment when one saw what I offered, and greed, jealousy, revenge, and hatred took over. When one’s deepest desires fought for their tongue, and I was made once again to honour my agreement.

He turned to me.

“Trader Zema is powerful. If he takes you, I fear the worst for the city of Mitam. Surely, you cannot wish for that. To become his weapon.”

I lowered my head.

“And you have still not answered my question,” he added.

“Which, then?”

“What it feels like…”

“You mean, how it is to be light as air, yet be weighted by ball and chain? To endure forever regretting that you did not have the courage to forge your own path? Or to be sought after and yet eternally lonely?”

“No," he said. " I want you to consider what it has felt like to seek favour by grovelling. To seek honour by giving yours all away. To mutely absorb ever more gruelling demands in the hope of liberation.”

Strange, that sudden coldness to his voice. By now, a new master was usually consumed by possibility and ignored me…

Perhaps this one was different. In which case, perhaps I should be honest?

“It is not my place to wish,” I said, remembering vaguely what being nervous felt like. “Though if I could, I would wish to never answer another ask from woman, man, or child.”

At that, I saw a flicker of satisfaction.

“There, then, is the lesson, T’jani. I quake at what you have endured. Truly, I do. But to grant one such tremendous power is to risk everything, and you, like those before you, must experience humankind’s unquenchable thirst. It is the only way to understand the unending torment that interfering or even turning our ears to their kind risks.” He nodded. “Now, take your own path at last, bearing a title worthy of your gifts. As Guardian of Winds and Storms, you are free to use that power as you see fit.”

Eyes paling to a sandy white, the lad’s guise finally melted away and I found that old man before me, ivory robes brilliant in the moonlight.

“Come,” he said. “If you wish it, the pantheon is eager to meet you.”