Past

My Tourniquet

by Juxtapose Hominid

Hi! This is my first fic, so go easy on me alright. I’ve been toying with this plot bunny for a while
now, and finally have the guts to bring it out into the open. Here’s the full summary:

The start of this story will be rough and shaky, but bear with me, I hate beginning things.

       Once every 100 years(give or take 10), mortals are allowed to enter into the realm of the gods.
Using whatever natural talent they have(ie: art, dance, etc.) they see if they can become “One” with
a god. (You’ll get what I’m saying eventually) (its actually a strange form of seduction)They bar
their souls to the holy council, and, if their lucky, get to become the god or goddess’ consort. An OC
of mine gets in, tries, and succeeds, but has snared the most evil and sadistic god of them all, Seth.
What in the WORLD is she gonna DO!!?? (WAIT!! Don’t go yet!! Its not as sucky as it sounds!!)

Oh, btw, I switch view points a lot(I’ll warn you when I do), so bear with me. I also am bad at
catching run-on sentences, though sometimes I need them to get my point across.

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Prolouge: The Teacher

            Teacher told me on the way to the Sacred Pathway: “When you enter the palace in the
divine realm, girl, don’t even look at your escort. (who will be Joseph, if I know you well enough,
and I know I do) Don’t look right. Don’t look left. Look straight ahead, and act haughty, like the
pharaoh(Ra be with him) himself. Gods like haughty. They ARE haughty. You act haughty, you
have the potential, girl, to become a god, and you have better chance of- ARE YOU LISTENING
TO ME!?”

            Now, I never knew(before I turned 17), or wanted to know, who this JOSEPH person was,
but he seemed to be important to the old witch who was my teacher, so I endured her lecturing. By
witch, I imply the literal and figurative sense of the word. The old crone dabbled in magic, and was
as crabby one of the palace guards when you ask too many questions. Her deep-set black eyes would
stare out at me from dark, tanned pits which were her eye sockets, as her mouth delivered sharp
insults that brought tears to my eyes faster than any whip could, though this only happened when I
blundered in my music, which wasn’t all that often. Her plain, brown robe gave her the appearance
of a commoner, and though she didn’t seem to be well educated, she had a mind more sharp than
any of the pharaoh’s advisors, or so it seemed to my naive ears.

            When the Nile floods, the rich silt fertilizing the crops that the whole city lived on, a festival
takes place. The pharaoh is borne on a litter and rides through the streets, over looking the
screaming people. The year I turned 14, and was finally considered a woman among my people, I
was aloud to venture out on my own during this festival. I screamed like a commoner (though
Teacher always told me I was meant for something more) until I was hoarse. The sights, the sounds,
smells, and above all, the freedom I felt on this day were intoxicating, and I could hardly speak for a
week afterwards. Teacher was not happy.

            “If you lose that voice of yours my hopes for you will be dashed! This training of your
voice will have been for naught, girl! Do you hear me? Dashed! You MUST succeed in what I
have failed to do, and regain my honor! You MUST!”

            Succeed? Succeed in what? And Teacher failing? Teacher would never be able to live with
failure. ‘Better to be dead than to have failed’ was her favorite saying.

            But what was this training for? Ever since my ka [1] entered me at birth, I had lived with
Teacher, and been trained by her. For the first 12 years of my life, I had played the part of a boy, so I
could learn to read and write in the temple, in the way of a proper, distinguished son of a scribe.
Teacher’s training had consisted of legend, ritual, story-telling, and music.

            Though Teacher was harsh, she prepared me well(though I never was told what I was being
prepared FOR, until my 17^th birthday). She taught me how to make stories come to life in words,
though after practicing this form of entertainment for nary a year, she proclaimed that though I had a
“knack” for it, it was not right for me. What she meant by “right for me” I did not know at the time,
but I was soon to learn.                                          

            After story telling, she tried me on dance. Though old, her face as wrinkled as a date and as
dry as old papyrus, Teacher was quite flexible and spry. She taught me dance, how to “free-style” as
she called it, ritual dances, traditional & common dances, and foreign dances. My favorite dance was
called the “Taruna Chaia.”[2], which originated in a far off land called Indonesia. I excelled at this
as well, but it was also “not my thing.”

            After trying me on dozens of other art forms, she discovered my voice, and I discovered hers.
From then on, she taught me control, projection, and how to place emotion in my notes. I lived, ate,
slept, and breathed music. This indeed was“right for me” and most definately “my thing.”

            Teacher also could sing, and well. Her voice was a deep, rich alto that could charm the bark
off a tree, or could calm a lion. Her wrinkled old mouth would curve upward in a smile that seemed
to have never been there before when she did indulge in singing; the only times I had ever seen
Teacher smile was when she or I sang.

 

 

            It was on my 17^th birthday that she told me. The words will forever stain my memory, for
they shaped what I was to become.

            She called me over to the fire in the center of our hut that evening. The hut was small, cozy,
with just enough room for the old woman and me. [3] We had few belongings: only a few earthware
pots and our sleeping mats. There were also, in one corner (for the hut was square) five chests, one
containing my clothes, another hers, and two more containing the things she taught me with. The last
chest was a mystery to me, as I had never seen the contents until that day.

            I looked up when I heard my name being called. I had been playing on a flute called a
shakuhachi, which, along with a lute, had provided the music in our household. I did not know the
origin of either, for musical instruments were uncommon, and quite expensive. The workmanship on
both flute and lute were superb.[0]

            “It is time you knew.” She drew in a breath and looked at me sharply, her raven dark hair
glistening in the flickering fire light.

            “I will not mince words, pupil, what I say will be direct, as part of this story pains me to tell.
So listen to what I have to say:

            “Every 100 years or so, a path to the divine realm is opened. Don’t look at me like that, girl,
I’m not insane, what I speak is true.” I had been staring at her in disbelief. She closed her eyes
wearily and continued.

            “People can enter those hallowed grounds if they wish. They will then be led to the great
gods by a lesser god, and I know yours will be Joseph.”

            “And who exactly is this Joseph? No god or demigod is named Joseph!” I cried in
frustration. She’d spoken of Joseph so many times without so much as a description of what he
looked like that I had yelled at her. I quickly looked away in shame. “I’m sorry Teacher,” I
mumbled.

            “Forgiven.” she sniffed, then continued:

            “The common people and priests know him as Onuris.” I gaped. Onuris wasn’t a demigod,
he was the full blown god of war! Seeing my stunned look, she began to elaborate.

            “We know him as the white-bearded god of war, yes, but in reality-“ she broke off,
dreaming. “His form is actually that of a young man, with thick, blonde hair and clear, brown eyes.
He’s beautiful to behold, and kind.” her eyes lost their foreign look. “The personality of the
walker(or you) will be matched by a demigod with a similar personality.”

            “How do you know? How do you know he’ll be like me-“ I trailed off as it dawned on me.

            “Yes, my pupil,” Teacher said. “I once walked with him. And you.....you are just like I was
at your age.” Once again I found myself staring.

            “Why were you in the divine realm?” I asked..

            “To seduce a god.”

            “.........WHAT!!!!!????”

            “I told you I wouldn’t mince words. Seduction is the whole reason WHY the pathway is
opened. Once every 100 years, mortals are allowed to bar their souls to the gods, DIRECTLY to the
gods. If the god likes what he sees (or she, for men try seduction on goddesses as well) the mortal
will...” She paused for effect or for loss of words, either way the suspense was killing me. ”Be
granted immortality, and a life of godhood.”

            “So you tried and..........”

            “Yes,” she looked away in shame, her mouth a thin, deeply tanned line of embarrassment.” I
failed. I was sent away from the realm in disgrace. My parents, who had prepared me my whole life
in the same way I have prepared you, disowned me, for failure was worse than death.” I thought for
a moment, realizing why she so hated failure.

            “So if I were to succeed.......?”

            “I could die in peace.” I didn’t like to hear of her dying. Abruptly, another question floated
to the surface of my mind.

            “Just how old are you?” I asked. She smiled wryly.

            “I lost track somewhere along the line of........86?”

            “Ha ha very funny.”

            Her face grew solemn. “I know you do not understand what is going on. When you are
placed before the council, simply sing the song of your heart, and let what happen happen.”

            “What do you mean?”

            “To bear your soul, you must bring out what your heart puts the most emotion in..You will
understand in time.”

            I sighed. Ever the mysterious Teacher. A silence fell over the two of us.

            Startled at a sudden noise, I opened my eyes, not having realized they had been closed.
Peering through the semi-darkness, I saw Teacher hunched over near the chests. She grunted, and
walked over to me, carrying the chest who’s contents I had never laid eyes upon in her tan brown
arms. She bent, and set the chest down in front of me, its pale, rough wood standing out in the
gloom.

            “Open it, and watch for splinters.” Teacher said gently, settling herself next to me, legs
folded under her.

            I slowly untied the rough leather straps that held the wooden box closed, excitement building
in my fingertips. I pulled back the lid gently, hearing a small ‘clunk’ as it hit the ground. I could see
nothing but folded brown cloth. I looked at Teacher, puzzled.

            “Remove the cloth.” She said patiently, as if she was speaking to a small child. Slowly I
pulled back the rough cloth, gasping as it fell away from its contents.

            Teacher smiled, and pulled the dress from the box, standing up as she did so. I did likewise.
The dress was of a fine material I could not name, a pale pale lavender color that was almost white.
She held it up to me, muttering, and bade me strip. I did, unashamed, sliding out of my brown
garment as she slid the pale fabric over my head. It fit perfectly, from its sleeveless shoulders
<AN.- it has straps that are 3 finger width apart> to the length of the gown itself.

            “You look beautiful, but you need something.”

            Underneath another layer of fabric was a box of cosmetics. Teacher regarded them
thoughtfully.

            “We won’t put them on today, save them for when you go.”

            Placing the cosmetic box to the side, she pulled what looked like a small scythe from the
box, along with what appeared to be an iron chain connected to it.

            “A sickle and chain.” I breathed. I could use one fairly well, though it was a homemade
wooden one and a rope. Self defense had been another aspect of Teacher’s teaching.

            “The day you leave, I will wrap this ‘round your waist. You’ll be in that dress wearing these
cosmetics, and some of the jewelry in that box, as well as some fine sandals. All this was mine, I
wore it on my journey, and you shall wear it on yours.”

            The gown rippled like the fire light, sliding over my skin like water. I changed out of it
eventually, noting that the fabric of my usual robe was more coarse than I remembered.

            “When do I leave?’ I asked.

            “At dawn.”

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                                    HA!!! DONE!!! SEE YOU SOON!!!!           (we sees the elusive Joseph
next time)

 

 

                                                My notes:

 

            [0] that rhymed!!

            [1]- KA-what ancient Egyptians believed was the life force or soul, acquired at birth

            [2]- TAR-OONA (rhymes with skoona) CHAIA (Rhymes with Gaia in Gaia the fierce
knight)

            [3] that is proper grammar.............