Chapter 43
It was not long before the colour of the guards’ eyes returned to a cold purple shade. I didn’t know what do with this information, and knew there was no time to give everyone a lesson concerning Zikalic eye-colour. Time was not something we had much of. Before I could string two coherent thoughts together, a portly-looking Zikalic dressed in eye-searing red and purple garments, long, puffy robes that looked several sizes too big for him, appeared on the first level. He signalled to the guards with a high-pitched whistle, and each guard responded to his call by removing a cord from his belt, before skilfully swinging the twine onto the first tier’s railing. As it looped and locked into place with what appeared to be a small metallic clasp, the guards climbed up off the dusty arena ground with adroit swiftness.
After they unhooked their cords and took up sentry positions around the first level, the tubby, sartorially-challenged Zikalic did the weirdest thing. Lifting an amphora-like jar over the guard rail, from which puffs of smoke bellowed, he flicked sizzling, hot drops of liquid down onto the arena floor while singing some Zikalic chant. Even though I felt my brow crinkle with curiosity, I didn’t have time to ponder the cause or consequence of the uncanny ritual.
For a moment later, the first Zikalic began to enter the third level of the stadium, rushing in eagerly from multiple access points out of our field of vision, positioned on the ground as we were. Pushing and jockeying to secure front-row seats, their frenzied clamour to savour our slaughter, like Raptors swarming a kill, was utterly terrifying: the scooting and shuffling of thousands upon thousands of hasty feet and the overly-excitable click-clack of countless strident, alien voices, blood-curdling. And within minutes, the upper tier of the stadium began to burgeon to capacity making the huge arena feel smaller, even suffocating. With each and every Zikalic that crammed into the stadium, my people grew more anxious, more tense, more afraid.
“What do we do?” I heard people ask in every shade and tone of terror. Empty questions for which there were no answers. None.
“Ristan,” Matthew called my name.
“Yes?”
“What should we do?” He scratched the small space between his bushy eyebrows, standing alongside the other four Mzees.
“Er, I don’t know,” I answered, caught out that he would direct the question at me. “I don’t have any inside information that will get us out of here.”
“Matthew didn’t ask you because he thought you’ve got information we don’t have,” explained Sarah—having now regained her composure; her grace and dignity meant that when she spoke, people listened; I listened—“Matthew asked you because you’ve got to lead us, Rist.”
“Whuh? Sorry, what?” My eyes still scanned the arena, looking, searching for clues; any inkling that might afford us an advantage.
“The courage you showed earlier … we need that courage now,” said Deborah, her face warm and kind, as always, belying the chronic stress she was without question feeling.
“Ristan, when it comes to decision-making processes,” continued Matthew, his voice strained, “the collective counsel of all the Mzees is crucial. However, when it comes to daring, exemplar leadership in the heat of battle, we need one clear voice. And that voice is now yours.”
My head lolled on my neck. “No,” I said in a half-chuckle, half-wheeze. I had too many thoughts buzzing around in my head to concentrate on what he was saying.
A clue or two would do!
“Yes,” said Sarah sternly. “Scott was once that voice, and he always said he hoped to one-day hand that responsibility over to you. You have no idea how highly he and Victor thought of you.” The mention of Scott and Victor got my attention, and my focus.
Keep it together! No time for more tears.
Full of common sense as usual, Lee cleared his throat as his eyebrows pinched tightly together. “It’s too much to put on his young shoulders.”
“No, he’s ready,” said Deborah, with unbridled confidence in me. “Rist, just be yourself. I think you already know what we should do.”
“So, um, what … what do you think?” asked Matthew again, this time the shortness in his voice betraying his consternation.
Even through the jeers that began to rain down upon us from the Zikalic amassing on the third level, every human eye was on me, and every human ear waited for the sound of my voice. It was absurd; off-the-wall batty. Has everyone lost their mind? I really, really didn’t want the attention, or the responsibility, and I doubted my ability to offer anything resembling—what did Matthew say?—“daring, exemplar leadership.”
Tsk! Can nobody hear how loudly my freaking knees are knocking?!
Still, Deborah’s unabashed belief in me made me feel as tall as two trees. And I imbibed the template of Scott and Victor’s example. Closing my eyes, I felt a shiver run up and down my whole body. I tuned out the noise, and exhaled the pressure building on my shoulders. Locking my knees together to stop them shaking, I closed my fists tightly to thwart the tremble starting in my hands. And taking in another chest full of air, I held my breath.
I thought of my encounter with Shumbalic; replayed my meeting with Miltredic. About what I knew of them, and what they’d told me of the Zikalic. Slowly, I opened my eyes. And exhaled unhurriedly. The words just seemed to come to me.
“We mustn’t show any fear,” I heard myself say out loud. “If we show courage … real courage and yes, show our humanity … our humility … and if we have the chance, our compassion … we might just turn the heart and will of the Zikalic. Whatever happens, we must not show fear. We cannot retreat into ourselves; stand your ground no matter what. Yes … let’s gather in our clans. We’ve lived as clans, let’s stand as clans.”
Instantly, everyone moved into clans, and once positioned (even Ruzzell was playing ball); we all stood tall. Did I just say all that? Maybe I imagined it, but there seemed to be a renewed resolve in our ranks. And I was sure the taunting from the Zikalic people was perceptibly reduced as a result. Anyway, that was my story, and I was going to run with it.
With the third tier full and bulging with a great press of eager spectators; the second level began to fill. It was then that I caught sight of a human pet entering with her owner. I didn’t think they would bring their pets to the arena. I was wrong. I left my group and bolted to the front of the clans.
“Can I have your attention, please? … Please, if I can ask you to look at me … and only at me for a few minutes.” My request immediately arrested their interest. I knew I had to explain what had happened to our captured women before they saw it with their own eyes.
How do I do this quick?
“As you all know, our younger women have disappeared over the years. Turns out, our enemy, the Zikalic, have captured them as part of an initiation rite for their youth … please, please look at me!” I dragged a few troubled, wandering eyes back my way. “This is going to come as a shock to you, and it is important that we don’t allow it to weaken our resolve.”
“What?” gasped a hundred anxious voices in disjointed concert.
“The Zikalic have captured our women to serve as … as domestic pets … easy now, please, look at me!” I raised my voice louder to ensure I had their unbroken attention. “The good news is that they are alive, and according to someone I trust, well looked after. Of course, they’ll be traumatised, and some have been captives for a long time. But they are alive. I didn’t think they would bring them to the arena, but it seems they have. Apparently, they are the privilege of the wealthy and the royalty. Please, we must keep our resolve.”
My words seemed to restrain the restlessness that had started to filter through our ranks. Barely. Just.
“If you’ve had a daughter or a sister, or a friend, taken captive by the Zikalic, refrain from looking at the audience. Keep your eyes down. Resist the temptation to look for them in the crowd. If we survive this day, then we can rescue those taken captive. Our only chance of survival lies in keeping our resolve.”
Just about ev
ery eye looked down; everyone had lost a friend, or a sister, or a daughter. Each one of us harboured an acute, mortifying sense of loss.
With my throat tight and throbbing, I was about to return to my clan, when Sarah yelled out: “Stay, Rist; stay upfront! Lead us.” I reluctantly remained upfront, recognising the practical wisdom in her words. If I needed to give more advice, I couldn’t keep running back and forth. Plus, I was relieved. I needed to be away from Gellica if I was going to think straight, and keep my own resolve.
Just then the air reverberated with the raking roar of a Sabre, out of sight and presumably caged somewhere, the sound booming through the east-side arena entrance—threatening to blow the doors down and the portcullis off its hinges. Zikalic on both the second and third tier squealed in a mixture of giddy terror and dizzy delight. I felt many of my own people flinch and cower even as I just about swallowed my tongue.
“Easy now! Keep steady,” I said is a rasp, forcing my own terror away. “We’ve got a long way to go. Every minute we stand tall, we win another Zikalic heart.”
And we did; we all stood tall—despite fending off repeated reminders that there were at least three raging Sabres waiting for us behind those closed doors; now spurring each other on, each roar louder than the last, each expecting a feast of flesh. Our flesh.
With the second tier now packed and the stadium three-quarters full of Zikalic keenly anticipating the commencement of the carnage to come, two trumpeters appeared on either side of the enormous throne on the south side.
The trumpets’ blast blew straight through me. It had the desired effect; a stilted silence fell upon the arena.
Geez!
“Must be forty to fifty thousand of them in here already,” I heard myself speak out under my own breath. “And it’ll top out at sixty when all in.”
Yes, twice the number on the Ark when we arrived.
Despite being well-drilled in all manner of fear, I had never felt so terrified in all my life.