Clouds of Blood |5|
A serialised dystopian horror story. Flash fiction chapters.
|5|
The scarred face of the earth healed, and so did Cry’s bruises. He grew in wisdom, fed by Shamani’s stories every night when they stood guard.
The clouds ceased crying their tears of blood. The crimson clouds gave way to the starry skies; shining dots of clear light as far as Cry could see. He spotted the dark platforms of the higher human civilizations rolling away with the clouds. He had come from one, that Cry knew.
Shamani took a deep breath.
“Good. The time is right,” he rumbled, nodding to himself.
“Right for what?” Cry asked.
“For life to grow. Look around!” Shamani spread his large arms like the wings of an eagle. The land crawled with life. Dormant plants woke from the rain, all bloomed. Small bushes sprung out the earth in days. Tiny trees grew rustling, and whispering. The birds returned, so did larger animals.
“It’s a good time to sow the seed.”
Cry knew how men were made. Shamani talked about the seed of a man growing in the soil of a woman. Cry knew men. Yet, he had never seen a woman.
“We will send the messengers. The youngest, and the quickest. You and Colt,” said Shamani.
Cry was quick. He had been cloned from the best specimens of the human male. Tall, strong, fast, agile. Colt was one of the youngest men in the tribe.
“You will travel to the women and negotiate the seeding,” Shamani explained.
Cry was excited; he had always travelled with their pack and Shamani. Never alone. Colt didn’t like him much, but nobody did. Cry knew the reason; not only was he different, but also Buck wanted him dead. And Buck was the strongest man, and possibly the next Shamani.
Two days later, Shamani, and the pack saw the two off at a bloody dawn. They had been well instructed about the whereabouts of the female nomad tribe, and how to negotiate the seeding. Messengers were bound to follow a few simple rules; be quick, be kind, do not eat their food, or drink their water, do not stay the night, messengers do not sow their seed. Because the seeding ritual wasn’t simple. The unwritten rules were such; the females provided their best, most fertile women. The men provided their best as well, but to ensure the women of it, the males underwent a fight challenge for the best women. That way the best offspring were made. The contract provided both sides with children – a year later women gave them back any male offspring they birthed. They kept the girls.
Shamani had told Cry - in times long ago, women had separated from men, deeming themselves superior. The men went their own way. Yet, none could get offspring without the other.
“The seed of a man, the soil of a woman,” had said Shamani, nodding his grey head. So, the nomad tribes met when the times were good. Never did they mate with the tribes they’ve met before.
“The blood needs to stay new, and pure,” Shamani explained.
***
The mission was more than important, that Cry comprehended. The last time Shamani’s tribe received male infants, none survived. Cry’s stride was quick, making his way through the freshly grown jungle. Colt could barely keep up. They never spoke, until the night came. Three days and nights they were to travel, as Shamani had predicted.
“Have you ever seen them?” Cry asked, poking the fire with a stick, while Colt chewed on the leftovers of the snake they had cooked.
“Wha..?”
“The women.”
Though Colt didn’t like Cry much, the chirping and rustling silence of the night made his tongue loosen up.
“Yeah, the last mating time. I was too young to sow my seed,” Colt shrugged, and spat into the fire.
“What are they like?”
“Dunno. Different,” Colt shrugged again, and laid on his side to sleep. It was Cry’s turn to stand guard. He gave a heavy sigh, looking into the starry skies.
The dark platform moved across the sky again. It meant the new day was bound to be bathed in blood.
Thank you for reading!