Plainswalker

by Burraku_Pansa

Rating: everyone
Tags: Original Character, My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Adventure
Length: 2884

The Zebrican shamans' views on their duties are as varied as the shamans themselves, but the most zealous have always found their way through great peril.

In the Zebrican tribes, for those zebras who have the talent, becoming a shaman is not a duty, not a responsibility, and certainly not a choice—it is a necessity. Some adjust to the role differently than others.

Entry for the World-Building Alliance's March writing contest, where it tied for first place alongside Educated Guess's excellent The King of Kings.

Published 2013-04-01 06:10:01 UTC
Last updated 2013-04-01 06:10:01 UTC

Zenna, Bane of Night

“To Plains Beyond do I now reach,

For someone strong and fit to teach.

Ancestor past with knowledge deep,

Awaken from your deathly—eep!”

What? Where am… Oh! Ah, that outfit certainly brings back memories. Is it time to take your journey, young one?

“Um, y-yes. I am called Zeru, a shaman soon to be. Might I call upon your knowledge? P-please, would you aid me?”

You sound so nervous, Zeru. I assure you, there is no call for that. There are many dangerous realities for a shaman, yes, but a simple spirit can do you no true harm. And of course I will help you.

“Oh, this is excellent! Please, teach however you feel best. I will take any knowledge that will help me pass my test.”

Well, in that case, I suppose I would like to simply share an example—the story of an important time in my own experiences as a shaman. It would not be a stretch to say it set the path for much of the rest of my life. Interested?

“Our charge committed now to soil,

Free from his mortal care and toil.

His hoof to rock and hair to sand,

The body will become the land.”

I have always hated reciting that part. It never made much sense to me, the glorification of the burial itself. Beneath the shroud now being lowered into the ground was nothing but a bitten husk. If I were to display beautiful flowers in a simple earthen vase, and the vase were to crack and fall apart, would I care what happens to it next? I would be far too busy concerning myself with the flowers, I should think.

My disinterest may perhaps have been too apparent in my voice. Some of the family of the deceased were looking up from the burial and giving me stares. Of the harsh variety. I livened my voice up for the next few lines—as much liveliness as is appropriate at such a service, of course.

“The life once in him now flows free;

His energy becomes the sea.

His breath, the wind, his mind, the sky,

His joining with the world is nigh!”

My feigned interest then became genuine—the good part was coming up. I sped up my dance, the painted wood and bones of my ceremonial attire clacking together wildly.

“Our charge has lost his mortal bond;

His spirit’s bound for Plains Beyond!

May our Chief of the Other Side,

Deign now to speed our charge’s ride!

Guard spirit’s path, guide spirit’s flight,

Warm spirit from the chill of Night!

Move spirit towards its final fate;

Our charge’s ancestors await!”

I moved then to the bereaved, gyrating all the way. From one of my pouches I withdrew a white powder—ordinary maize flour, though I doubt they knew that—and blew, sending a cloud of it cascading over the deceased’s mate and gathered family. All of them shut their eyes, crinkled their noses and bore it. I would never take someone breathing powder in my face, personally, but I am no fool for symbolism. That makes it all the more fun for me that they put up with it.

I danced back to the grave, then, and withdrew a hooffull of dirt from another pouch. It was ordinary, again, no different from any of the miles and miles of dirt that shot out all around our chosen burial spot. Though, I am sure most zebras think that I imbue it somehow—it would not be proper to tell them otherwise. I blew this over the shroud, and two of the family’s nearby stallions immediately set to piling more dirt back into the grave.

Where I stood, I reared back onto my hind legs and clopped my forehooves together. I murmured indistinct nonsense and held the pose for as long as my balance lasted, then fell back onto all fours. The ceremony finally concluded, I walked to over to the gathered zebras.

“Thank you, Zenna,” said one mare. She looked fairly old, so I hazarded that she must have been the deceased’s mother. “We had been so nervous; Zeph had gone so long without a service.”

The mare looked close to tears. A stallion next to her said, “Do not fret now; the deed is done. The ancestors are with our son.”

That served to set the mare off, blubbering for all she was worth. The tactless oaf of a stallion walked his wife away, stares of ice from the rest of the family—and one of amusement from me—boring into his back as he went.

The mare I knew to be the deceased’s mate turned to me next. “For what you’ve done,” she said, “I am truly grateful. No zebra deserves a death so fateful. If this had been put off any more, no doubt Zeph’s forebears would have been sore.” She smiled weakly at me.

I managed to force a smile of my own. “I appreciate the sentiment. Such untimely ends do I, too, lament. Yet still, all loved ones must someday leave; lonely is she with no cause to grieve.”

The mare nodded and turned to walk off towards the tribe, the rest of the family following behind. I stood motionless until I could see them no longer.

Um… came a voice that was both from behind me and from all around me. What… What is happening?

I turned around, and there, floating above the freshly filled grave, was one of the finest specimens of spirit that I had seen for weeks. He was an almost perfectly defined sphere—with none of those rough edges that come from living a hard life—of that beautiful, sickening shade of ghostly green. No ugly face, no awkward legs, no visible vestiges of any kind from that mangled thing he had left behind. He bobbed gracefully in the air a few hooflengths up, pure perplexion and worry radiating from him deliciously.

“Greetings, Master Zeph!” I said, the first real smile I had worn all day plastered on my face. “I’m your shaman—Zenna’s the name. You’re dead amongst the living, and yes, that is a shame, but follow me back to my hut, and dispel all your doubt. I’m certain that the two of us can work this whole thing out!”

Um… Zeph echoed again. A good portion of the perplexion he had been letting off was now replaced with fear, but as I turned and trotted merrily away, he followed all the same. They always do.

“A-are you really Zenna? ‘Zenna, Bane of Night’?”

…Possibly?

“‘High Spiritfriend’, ‘The Hermit Mage’, and ‘Warrior of Light’?”

Slow down, child. All I can say for certain is that those were not titles I ever held in life. Though, I daresay they sound fairly appropriate, if a bit loftier than I might have chosen for myself. At any rate, I am certainly your elder, so let us not have any more irrelevant interruptions, alright? You brought me here to teach you something.

As you will no doubt come to find, there are so very many myths perpetuated about shamans and our work that have little to no basis in fact. Perhaps the most useful, at least as far as I have experienced, is the myth that the performance of funeral rites “drains a shaman’s spiritual power”, and that we must be left in solitude for hours—sometimes even days—at a time to recuperate. It made doing my actual job far more convenient.

Zeph and I reached my abode on the outskirts of the tribal settlement just after the Great Chief’s Son had fled to rest, and his Daughter was beginning to wake and peek over her covers. Approaching my simple hut of earth and wood and grass, I drew out my rock and firestone, then spent a few long moments setting my nearby standing torches ablaze. Satisfied, I pushed aside the dried-leaf curtain in my doorway and entered, Zeph no doubt passing right through it behind me.

Um… said that mass of green again, just as he had been saying over and over the entire way there.

Paying him no immediate heed, I set about lighting my candles. Zeph busied himself bobbing to and fro, hovering for a while by my “fortune” bones or my “blessed” paint or my grandmother’s skull. The constant Uming was finally beginning to grate on me, but I finished lighting up my home soon enough.

“Now, Zeph, if you please,” I said, seating myself on a simple woven floor mat, “give me the story from the start. Details may shine light upon what help I must impart.”

Zeph ceased his flitting about and turned to me, mentally more than physically. I’m… I’m sorry? he said haltingly. Story? Details?… Help?

“The story of your death, of course—what lead from your life to me,” I said, gesturing to myself and my shaman’s outfit. “Despite your death, you are now tethered here. I mean to set you free.”

My… Wait, you said it earlier as well… said Zeph, sounding as worried as I had yet heard him. You… You say that I am dead?

I raised an eyebrow at him. “Zeph, you have been dead nearly a week. You were unaware?”

Zeph’s glow darkened indignantly. Why would I be asking, otherwise?

I held up a forehoof. “Please, I meant you no offense! It is just that that is rare.” His glow slowly returned to its normal bright green, and his air of confusion came back in full force. I sighed, and continued, “So you remember nothing? No last wishes to address? I doubt we would make progress if I had to sit and guess.”

Last wishes? No, I… Oh. Zeph’s sphere began to shiver, and no small amount of icy fear began to drip from him. Yes. There is something you must do for me.

I stood quickly. “Zeph, I ask you calm yourself—there is nothing to fear.” He was shaking violently now, looking less like a sphere and more like a roiling storm. Anger and worry and pure, seething hate were flowing freely from him now. I said, almost yelling, “Just tell me what the problem is! Make your request clear!”

Zeph suddenly halted his shaking and flew right at me. It was all I could do not to rear back or strike at him. You have to kill him! he boomed.

“What are you saying!?” I shouted back. “‘Kill’? I do not understand! Explain now, or I will not honor that command.”

Kill what killed me! His voice itself sounded scared, now. I had never before heard a break in a spirit’s monotone. I remember my death, Zenna. What he did to me… You have to end him!

I held up a forehoof again, trying to pacify him. “Zeph, most spirits ask that I pass down something they hold dear, or confirm a loved one is alright, to allay their fear.” I gave him a harsh glare. “But to crave revenge as a final plea? I have never had that asked of me.”

Zeph calmed, some, the air of anger leaving him but the fear remaining. No, not revenge, he said. Not really. The monster that killed me is just that—it was no rogue lion or wandering sphinx, but a demon! If he remains amongst the living, only more deaths will result. You must put a stop to it!

I made to respond, but all of the candles I had lit suddenly began to flicker desperately. In seconds, they were extinguished, and I could no longer hear the crackling from the torches outside of my hut.

I had a fairly good idea of what that all meant. In the dim Zephlight, I made for a corner of my hut. Lifting up a buried floor panel, I got out the real blessed paint.

A kuri. I had heard of these. Like hyenas, but with bodies thrice as large and fur as dark as the blackest starless night.

And hellish, horrifying eyes.

A mare was screaming her head off when I reached the rest of the tribe. In the moonlight, I saw the Beast of Night standing above her, staring intensely. The mare was collapsed on the ground outside of her home, paralyzed but for her vocal cords and no doubt very confused as to why. The Beast opened his mouth, jagged yellow teeth lining lips that almost seemed to smile.

I ran for all I was worth, and just as the kuri’s teeth met the zebra’s neck I collided with her, carrying the mare and myself into her home. As quickly as I could, I drew a paintbrush out of one of my pouches, squeezed paint on it from a waterskin, and painted sigil after sigil of healing and protection on the mare.

Ignoring the angry howling from outside the curtain as best I could, my eyes scanned around the mare’s home. I saw a heavily polished silver plate on a nearby shelf and smiled wolfishly to myself. Grabbing it, I rushed back outside.

The kuri was waiting for me, his jaws snapping at me as soon as I came into view. I narrowly dodged, feeling the rushing air of his closing mouth against my coat.

I manoeuvred myself behind the Beast, faced him, and held up the plate. As he turned, his eyes met the polished silver, and his own reflection within. Then…

Nothing. I recited the poem of expletive under my breath.

The Beast turned his eyes to me, and I felt the plate fall from my hoof. Despite all of the protections I had painted onto my ceremonial bones—a hasty job, yes, but still potent—those blood-red slivers seemed to stare right through my flesh and root me to the spot. He walked slowly towards me, mouth agape and gushing drool and stink.

He angled his head, aiming to take a bite of my neck. The moment his eyes left mine, though, the effects of his gaze and his presence were weak enough in the face of my protections that I could feel life flow back into my limbs. As his mouth reached me, I reared back, smashing my hooves into his snout and jaw.

The demon backed quickly away, screeching freakish, otherworldly noises and writhing where he stood. I took my opportunity, rushing forward to his exposed side and painting every negative sigil on him that I could manage and remember—weakness, exhaustion, and at least three kinds of pain. The screeching became more intense, and just when I swore I could feel my brain beginning to melt, the Beast of Night turned away from me entirely and started running.

I followed. I had to.

We were out of the tribe in under a minute, running madly through the plains. My muscles were burning, but ahead of me I could hear the creature’s ragged breathing, and his steps seemed heavier and heavier as he went. I forced a final burst of speed from my legs, and I was upon him. Hoof impacted spine, claw tore through flank, elbow collided with muzzle, and tooth punctured stomach.

In a moment that seemed at once agonizingly slow and horrifyingly fast, I had won. I felt myself sinking into the body beneath me as it all but dissolved, black fleeing in particles on the breeze or ooze seeping into the ground.

That was the first Beast of Night I had ever met. From then on, I made sure that it was far from my last.

“…Thank you for the tale, Zenna, but I have a slight concern: what, exactly, was all of that supposed to make me learn?”

Oh, take from it whatever you will. Knowledge of signs that might signify the approach of a Beast of Night, perhaps? The dangers of underpreparedness if you do have to face one? Though, likely the most important thing, Zeru, is that you learn where I feel your responsibilities as a shaman should be focused.

“You would have me retread your hoofsteps? To combat Beasts of Night? To shirk my duties to the living and choose instead to fight?”

No, not exactly. You exist to help the dead, Zeru, not the living—I do feel that any comfort your presence offers living zebras is strictly a side benefit, yes, but know that all who live will one day die, and so all beings fall under your purview at some point in the cycle of their existence. Thus, the prevention of harsh life and violent death—at the hands of a Beast of Night or otherwise—is something I feel all shamans should accept as a responsibility, as even though lives exist in this world for but a moment, that moment defines an eternity for which we shamans are the guardians.

“Shamans? But what of the Chief of the Other Side? Is it not Him we call on to guard and to guide?”

Prayers or no, do not allow yourself to be blinded—it is not the Great Chief who guards and guides and warms a spirit, but us. I sincerely hope you take this truth to heart, young initiate, and come home from your journey a wise and responsible shaman. I wish you luck.