Subject: Storms in Africa - part 2 - Date: Sat, 2 Dec 1995 20:49:23 +0000 (GMT) From: "Pinta Scrumpy" Copyright - Storm is still copyrighted to Marvel comics, and probably will be until they find out they can make more money by selling her. All other characters are still mine, despite various take-over bids by rival companies. Storms in Africa Part 2 The drumming started quietly at first, a single drumbeat echoing out over the still night air, slow and serious in its intensity. At the sound conversation stopped, and all eyes turned to the opening in the circle. There the young boy, Mokawana, stood, trembling and afraid at the sound, unsure of what was to come or what was expected of him. Another drum began, countering the beat of the first in an elegant counterpoint. At this signal the other musicians began, beating their drums in an evergrowing and more complex pattern of sound. The sound was primal, tribal, drawing out the most primitive and strongest instincts in the massed people. Ororo saw the young boy stand taller, prouder, less afraid of what was to come as the music washed over him. Makawe entered the circle, moving to the centre of the space in tall graceful movements. He stood for a moment, striking a commanding presence among the people, his magnificent headgear and dressing drawing all eyes towards him. He held a staff in his hand, as fully decorated with feathers and bones as he was, the sharp tip of metal at its end reflecting the orange flickering of the flames. His white eyes stood out sharly against the deep black skin of his face as he looked down at the young boy in front of him. Then he began to dance. The drummers picked up the rhythmn, beating faster and with greater intensity as he moved. His dance was powerful, frenetic in activity and full of a deep, blood-red intensity. Everyone watching felt their hearts beat faster in accordance with the music, felt the blood rush hot and red through their veins, felt themselves moving in the music as Makawe danced out the ancient and sacred dance of this night. The intensity grew, Makawe's dance getting wilder and more savage with the music, his feathers and beads flying out around him as he twirled and twisted, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the young boy transfixed in front of him. Then, suddenly, he stood still, opened out his arms, threw back his head and let out a long trilling cry. At this signal all the men cried out and moved inwards, joining the dance, screaming and dancing out the red-hot fire in their veins. The dance was wild and frenetic, but with an internal organisation and pattern that came clear as the dancers moved - circles moving around the wild and twisting centre of Makawe, flurries of red painted bodies and brilliant feathers and chains flying everywhere, and behind it all the insistent pounding of the drums, reaching deep down in the soul to the dark and primitive parts of everyone there, the blood and breath of life being played out in the beating of the drums. Young Mokawana stood still, staring at the figure of Makawe, filled with a mixture of fear, awe and, strangely enough, pride. All this was for him, he realised. All this was to signify what he was - a man now, a man of this village. He felt fear, but the music gave him the strength to conquer it, and stand tall in the face of this fear. Ororo watched, caught up in the religious intensity of the ceremony, her heart beating loud as the drums in her chest. This was something new, the power here was incredible. She was seeing the soul of the village come through in the dance, the identity of these people as people of this village. She understood now what Ngana had said when he said this ceremony binds the boy to this village, giving him a place of his own. The dance was the soul of the village, and Mokawana was being accepted into it. She saw Ngana in the dance, his body moving with a wild passion she had never before seen in him, moving as part of the dance, giving voice to the feelings the blood-music was bringing from him. She found herself wanting to join in, to abandon herself to the music as all the men were doing, but no. She was a woman, and this ceremony was no place for the women of the tribe. They had their own rituals and ceremonies, to be performed when the time was right, and they were as closed to the men as this was closed to the women. In watching this dance she understood something more of humility. She was a goddess in their eyes, with powers far beyond anything any one person of this village could do, but she felt as if that were nothing compared to the sight of the people infront of her, the dance they were doing, and the voices they were giving rise to. The dance was as brutal as it was beautiful, as savage as it was graceful, as full of darkness as light. And they were revelling in it, accepting fully all sides of what they were, and incorporating it all into the dance to create something so complete and primitive she could only watch with awe. The ceremony was building to its climax, the dancers driven wild by the song of the night. The young boy was moved to the centre of the circle, and made to lie on the ground. Makawe had stopped dancing, standing over the boy while the dance circled wildy around them. Mokawana looked up, the fear in his eyes all the more evident now. With theatrical splendour Makawe pulled something out from inside his clothes. Ororo drew a sharp breath when she saw what it was. It was a knife, large and covered with decorations and ornaments. The sharp blade gleamed with reflected orange light from the fire, the same light that was reflected in Mokawana's eyes as he stared up at the knife. The music and dancing had reached fever pitch now at the climax of the ceremony, and all eyes were fixed on the activity at the centre of the circle. Makawe had moved round to the boys head, and was kneeling down over him. Makawe put one hand on the boys chest to hold him, and with the other moved the knife in a slow dance over Mokawana's body, taunting him with the sight of it, until at last he seemed to find the right place, and, with surgical precision he cut a smooth circular pattern in the skin of Mokawana's shoulder. The boy gasped at the pain, but did not struggle or cry out, for to do so would have shown weakness, and this ceremony was about strength. The blood ran red out of the wound, mingling with the red paints on his body, hot and pounding like the music around him. Makawe finished the cutting and ran his finger along the wound, wiping up some of the blood. This blood he used to trace a pattern across Mokawana's forehead, the same swirls as were now on his shoulder. When this was done he stood up, and pulled Mokawana up with him. He turned Mokawana round, displaying him to all the people watching, and held up the knife high in the air. A great shout went up from everyone. The ceremony was over. Mokawana had gone through the pain, and was now accepted as a man of the village. And then the celebrations began. * * * Ororo woke early the next morning, shortly after sunrise. She performed her morning rituals as ever, leaving the village on foot and rising high into the already hot air to fully wake herself. She flew on for a time, once more enjoying the feel of the air around her, the feeling of fluid weightlessness that she got when she commanded the winds in this way. The sky was clear, the ground dry and cracked beneath her, and she remembered Makawe had asked her to provide rain for them that day. She was thinking about the events of the previous night, how Mokawana had seemed so proud when the ceremony was over, not so much proud of his newly attained manhood, but more of the fact that by being marked in such a way he was now truly a part of the village. She thought about the village, how well it had prospered since she arrived, and remembered her question to Ngana the previous night - 'Do other villages have their own goddesses to provide for them?' She spied her destination and moved downwards, landing gently in a shaded glade. It was a waterhole, one of the few supplies of water for this area, and she came here often to swim in its waters, cleansing herself of the dust and grime of this land. Slipping free of her few items of clothing, modesty no concern of a goddess, she slipped into the cool waters. Making rain today would be easy, she thought. There was a lot of moisture in the air, even though it was so hot, because the seasonal storms would be coming soon. Sometimes, when she made the rains come, she had to search harder, drawing water from far further away across the land. Diving deep down into the water she soaked herself fully, luxuriating in the cool water on her skin. Mokawana was now a man of the village, truly part of that tribe. She, as a goddess, would never be part of them. With few exceptions, such as Ngana, the people of the village treated her with to much respect and awe for her to every truly be at home there. She began to wonder what it would be like to go somewhere else, to see how other villages lived, and to find out if there were others like herself, blessed by the Bright Lady with gifts such as hers. She had thought such things before, but after witnessing the power of the ceremony the previous night the thoughts began to take more shape. Mokawana had undergone the ritual that bound him to the village. As a goddess Ororo was above such things, and would never be bound to the village in such a way. 'If I am not really part of them,' she mused ' why do I choose to use my gifts for them only? Why do I not provide for others in the same way?' She continued swimming for a while, lost in her thoughts, before returning to the village. When she returned she found Makawe waiting for her. 'Lady, you promised us rain today' he said flatly, with the usual tone of respectful awe in his voice. Once again Ororo found herself feeling a distinct dislike for the man. "Of course, Makawe' She lifted her arms and raised herself from the ground, pulling the moisture in the air towards her to work her magic. The air grew heavy, thick with promise of rain, and high above a few wispy clouds began to form. With unnatural speed they grew in size and darkened in colour. Within seconds the sky was overcast, and the wind was whippin up. The dark clouds rolled and boiled above, heavy with water as she continued to pull moisture from the air. A few drops of rain appeared, hesitently at first, but then faster and with more intensity. They began to fall thicker, faster, until the air was full of water, a tremendous downfall of rain crashing around the village. Streaming with water she returned to the ground. 'I trust that will suffice?' 'Of course, Lady. The village thanks you.' He bowed low and turned to leave. 'Makawe,'Ororo called after him 'Will there be anything else required of me? I plan to leave for a while.' 'Leave, my Lady?' Makawe turned back to her. 'Yes. I wish to go elsewhere for a day or so. There are things I wish to see.' 'Of course, Lady. Thank you, no. These rains will suffice.' Already the ground was turning to mud beneath their feet under the continuous downpour. Satisfied that all was well, she took to the air once more. Once high above, floating through the clouds of her own making, she began to think about where to go. She had decided to answer some of her questions, and find out about other villages, and perhaps see if she could provide for them aswell. Up here in the black clouds, feeling the strength and power that the Goddess had given to her, she began to wonder why she had only provided for that one village, and a few others incidently, when it was no more her home than any other village in this country. The storm was self-sufficient now, continuing itself under its own power. She was not needed here. Choosing a direction at random she set off. * * * In a village not very far a young woman stood watching the distant storm. She was thin, painfully thin, and was obviously badly undernourished. In her fragile arms she held a young child, wrapped in a small piece of cloth, its stomach bloated with lack of food. She was starving. Her child was starving. All the people in her village were starving. She watched the distant storm with a bitter feeling in her heart. There was never rain here. The grounds had been dry and harsh for far too long, leaving the people with no means of food, or more importantly, water. She was a strong woman - she had done much to ensure her childs survival, but with no rain for such a long time there was little she could do. Once more she saw a storm on the horizon, the same place it always was, giving the vital much needed water to others. She saw the storms giving what was most precious to other people, and was bitter. The child began to struggle in her arms, weakly searching for food, but she had none to give. 'Hush, my child' she spoke gently. 'Soon you will have food. Soon our troubles will be at an end'. She looked longingly at the distant storm. 'Soon some of our people will be travelling there, asking for help and for water. Surely the village that lives there cannot refuse us, for they must be prosperous indeed.' A wind blew past her, blowing the dust up around her. 'Soon, my child. Soon we shall have food and be prosperous once more.' Many thanks to Anjuan Rey Simmons who is kindly archiving this story in his stormpage at http://nesc.me.utexas.edu/~asimmons/stormpage/docs/index.html