Simpa stood in Father’s mud shed; she had lost the battle against the rage she felt and now proceeded with her plan with anything but a clear head. Town hall meetings usually ended around sunset so she had till then to complete the creation of her family’s freedom.
Her mother’s huge clay pot stood in the centre of the shed. She had drawn outward projecting circles from it using five native chalks, one for each section, representing each royal family. The circles, although wobbly courtesy of her angst — a conjuring no no — formed a star shape around the pot. They would have to do.
Simpa squeezed the tiny salt pouch tied to her waistband and ran her fingers around the comforting shape of the daggers that filled the harness around her chest. The likelihood of this ending badly was high, for that she was at least prepared.
Careful not to touch the circles, Simpa retrieved the sac she had placed in the clay pot. She removed a pouch of nail clippings of the royals and began to drop them in the circles allotted for them.
“What are you doing?”
Simpa jerked up. “Vareshe! Do not touch the circles, is the meeting over?”
“No. I know you are not sick, Sister. What are you conjuring?”
“Freedom.” Simpa retrieved a pouch of royal hair strands and began dropping them in their allotted circles. “This raining season would be the tenth one since I began to bleed, after it I cease to be eligible for royal marriage. The chief’s pressure on Father is unbearable now, in the coming days—”
“The royals do not control the entire village!”
Simpa dropped pure white owl feathers in their allotted circles. “They control enough of it… we will not make it past this year if Father continues to refuse them.”
“Those idiotic royal offspring! This village is filled with cowards! What do the royals even do for us that not enough people dare to stand up to them?! How can they want to marry the girl who everyone knows is going to be the village’s best conjurer — how can I help?”
Simpa switched to cowries before handing Var a pouch of kolor, dried skin, blood and bones grinded to powder. “Mix with water in the pot till there is a good shade of brown—like our skin or darker. You have to knead it with your hands.”
Var moved for the pot. “Do I want to know what we are bringing to life?”
“Probably not.”
“Okay.”
Together they worked in silence until all circles were full and the pot was heavy with essence mixture.
Simpa’s rage continued to cloak her like a second skin but she had no release for it. She motioned for Var to step out of the star. She moved within the star, avoiding the circles and chanting in the animating language of the gods she was tethered to. When she felt the power fill her, she circled to the pot and twisted her body to release it. At the smell of sulphur she knew she was some level of successful; she slid outside the star and stood next to Var.
Simpa’s eyes narrowed when the circles turned pitch black with what had to be her rage because peace settled over her. “Crap.”
“Bad?”
“Probably.”
A grey mist circled the pot and stretched upwards. The mist began to clear from the bottom of the pot, two human feet stepped out of the pot.
Var gasped. “A man?”
“He was supposed to be a royal mate.”
“But he is not born of them.”
“He is of them; it is forbidden to reject one’s own blood.”
Simpa’s eyes went wet as the mist lifted, months of agonising preparation brought to nought by anger at having to go through it at all… an anger she could not control. Her one shot was blown to pieces. The creature was only human looking up to its knees; its entire top was a wet roundish blob of skin, several mouths, eyes and limbs that ended in lion like claws.
Var swallowed. “Simpa—”
Simpa slid out two daggers. “It is the manifestation of my rage—”
The creature let out a shrill cry and bolted from the shed. Simpa ran after it.
A little distance from the shed, the objects of her considerable frustration stood with Father. They were the reason why the creature had been able to draw enough power to escape the star; they had no doubt come to check on their ‘bride’.
Some Chiefs fled while the others attempted to squeeze themselves into Father.
Not willing to aim high and hurt a human, Simpa flung a dagger into each leg of the creature. The creature fell; it dug all but two of its limbs into the ground and crawled for the chiefs with impressive speed.
Simpa retrieved two more daggers and flung herself across the space between her and the creature. She sliced off a limb that had the edge of a chief’s wrapper in its grasp.
She jumped up and sliced at angry limbs that had thankfully only managed to scratch grooves into the chiefs. She raised her pouch of salt and emptied the contents over the creature. She jumped atop its back and slid a dagger into it.
“I release you, Creature, your duty here is fulfilled.”
The creature burst outward in a sea of decomposing flesh.
“Abomination!” a chief shrieked at Simpa. “A creator of monsters and a woman who kills!”
Simpa raised a brow as smelly and scratched up chiefs spat at her feet and called her varying forms of abominations before wobbling away. Surely they knew that conjuring sometimes went sideways… did they not?
Father held her. “It appears your marriage proposal has been rescinded.”
“I… yes.”
“What were you making?”
“A royal husband of my liking.”
Father snorted. “I suppose the gods gave you what you needed.”
“Yes… yes they did.”
Simpa held unto her Father and cried tears of relief.
Oiza Zuriel breathes fiction and enjoys turning random thoughts into stories. She loves animation and dreams of her work getting turned into one. Every week she puts out a piece of fiction on her substack blog; to check this out, visit oizazuriel.substack.com. You can find her on twitter and Instagram @oz_zuriel, Tiktok @oizazuriel and YouTube @oizazurielstories.
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