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Lost Stories of The Spiral: Song of Lightning, Dance of Rain
Written by Taryn Spiritsmith
Lost Stories of The Spiral: Halloween Edition 2nd Place Winner
I’m not… afraid. I’m… not… afraid.
The phrase was simple—three words, eleven letters, repeating; on their own, free of emotion, and liberating of fear. Upon first glance, it was difficult to pick out any uncertainty, any gray area. I’m not afraid. I have no fear. There seemed to be nothing more straightforward than that.
The phrase should have been simple, that is.
Simple as it may have been, the three words echoed endlessly through his brain, taking on new emotions and new meanings with each lurch toward the wide chasm of faces and laughs and noise, awash in a sea of sound that threatened to send them flying from his grasp. Dark scales and bright patterns swam about in the chaos, heads thrown back in laughter and heads tipped down to give him the same knowing, condescending look as all the rest. You are not like the rest of us. You are afraid of your own shadow, hijo, the darkness of your own scales—how will you ever be brave enough to join us in the light? They all said the same thing, in different ways, in different voices, but to Zazu, their voices were all the same, merged together in one voice, one Smoking Mirror that frowned upon him.
He gritted his teeth. I am not a coward.
Zazu turned his head and shot a glance behind him. The soft glow of his pastel blue eyes cast a faint aura over the glittering black scales of his snout as they scanned the narrow sliver of pale moonlight that streamed down from the mine entrance. Fog swirled lazily around the carved stone staircase, thin silver strands of mist that glided slowly through the air as if strung up by master puppeteers. There was no one behind him. The corner of his mouth turned down.
The Smoking Mirror shouldered his satchel, feeling the worn leather slide over his scales and the shifting weight of the objects inside. It isn’t like I was expecting them to send someone, Zazu thought, unhappy with the hint of dejection he found in his tone.
He wouldn’t have been surprised, if someone from his village (The village, he corrected himself bitterly, not mine) had noticed his absence and sent someone after him, not believing for half a second that he would be able to handle being out by himself at this time of night, knowing he would be too afraid—but on the other hand, he didn’t think it was completely out of the question for them not to have noticed at all, or to have decided to let him go and have him come running back, tail shaking and eyes brimming over with fright. Zazu knew that no one in the village apart from his mother thought very highly of him, and he sometimes wondered if she was just pretending for his sake.
Zazu flexed his claws to steady them against the rising clamor of his heartbeat, and lifted his head slowly to sniff the air. It was stale, aged by the lack of wind in the underground tunnels, and smelled of rain, thick and heavy, he guessed from the river that weaved its way around the golden pyramids and pathways. Just beneath the overpowering scent of rain lay a faint hint of something floral; he hadn’t been back by the tombs before, that he could recall, but if he remembered correctly, many of the Moon Skulls that lived in the underground village would leave flowers and candles for the dead.
Despite the Moon Skull village only a short walk away, all was quiet, save for the murmuring of the river. It was almost too quiet, Zazu thought, but it had been close to midnight upon his descent into the Cenote, and considering it he realized that it would be more unsettling if there was noise.
The paths here were narrow, and twisted and turned like the river beneath the rocks, and were carved from smooth stone cast in deep shades of brown by the shadows that curled like smoke at their edges. As far as Zazu could see, the only natural light that seeped into the underground was the lone moonbeam that shone dimly from Three Points, the city above. Candles lay scattered about the golden paths, their flames soft and yellow as the ground they rested upon, and dim, flickering torches with fires dark but steady left their reddish-orange glows to fall like dying sunbeams onto the damp, dusty floor. The frosted blue eyes of the Smoking Mirror couldn’t help but trace along the trail of dotted lights and up the side of one of the pyramids to the gold-rimmed doors that shimmered at the summit. He swallowed heavily.
He can’t hurt me. The king isn’t here anymore. The dead can’t hurt me. Zazu took a breath. I’m not afraid.
Zazu reached up and checked the strap of his satchel again, to make certain that it was still secure over his shoulder, and exhaled. Flinching, he forced a single foot forward, telling himself to step away from the roses and leave their scent behind, to continue on his path. Standing still wasn’t going to get him the respect that he so desired, nor the reprieve from his reputation as a coward.
He glanced to the left, to the path glowing red with torchlights that he understood led to the Moon Skull village, and with a slight shake of his head darted right and scurried down the opposite path.
Village, he spat, the silent word bitter on his tongue. If he were half as brave as they wanted him to be, as they expected him to be, he might have the courage to ask what village, and go find a new one, or better yet leave for good and live on his own somewhere. That would show them. I’m not a coward.
I’m not afraid.
In Zazu’s village, he was held with all the rest of the Smoking Mirrors to a certain standard—they expected your eyes to blaze golden with the light of courage, your talons to be quick like lightning and strong like the storm. Smoking Mirrors were fierce, made to be warriors; not little snakes who could barely make use of their limbs for anything beyond scuttling about like insects. Zazu’s mother had given him a strong name in hopes that he would grow up to become strong—Zazu Rain Dance, whose name fell off the tongue like rain, whose words resonated like thunder—the same hopes that each of the Smoking Mirrors had for their children, and it had become hard to tell who was more disappointed: the village in Zazu, for being a let-down, or Zazu in his mother, for her false promises?
Zazu, last he checked, did not have eyes that blazed, nor talons like lightning. His feet struck the ground not with pride, but with a constant skittering that echoed through the caves as the points of his claws scratched the rocks. The sound reminded him of beetles, hissing and darting about the kitchen tiles as his mother tried to beat them back with a broom, not warriors with their heads held high and the sun reflected in their gaze. And that was what they thought of him: his village thought he was worth little more than a beetle, he knew, and only kept him because he was a Raptor, and that knowledge forced them to keep him.
Warriors didn’t leave other warriors behind, but clearly, they didn’t find anything wrong with holding their golden eyes above them and ignoring them.
In the nearly empty tunnels, with the only sound surrounding him being the faint crackling of the torchlights, the noise made by his own clawed feet caused his heart to hop around in his chest, anxiety cranking the tempo higher and higher each second.
I’m not afraid, Zazu repeated firmly. He wished that he were telling the truth, infuriatingly able to see past his own lie—in reality it was taking every ounce of willpower he could find to hold himself back from freezing in place and winding his thick, scaly tail around his legs in fear.
He wondered why, exactly, his first thoughts concerning his cowardice (or rather, his mission to prove his lack thereof) had led him to the mines. Maybe it was because the Cenote held so many things he was afraid of—the dark, the silence, confinement, the idea of the dead rising that he had harbored from a young age—and he thought that if he could conquer these things, just for a night or two, he would convince them that he wasn’t dead weight, that he was good for something. Maybe it was because he didn’t want anyone to follow him, or if secretly they did, they would be impressed at his sudden daringness. Maybe he wasn’t thinking at all.
Zazu forced himself to keep pace with the pounding of his heart, fueled by his anger at the faces that laughed inside his mind, and held tight to his satchel as it bounced around beside him.
Afraid of your own shadow, they chanted, afraid of the darkness of your own scales.
I’m… not… afraid.
He jogged faster, torch flames flickering madly in the wind in his wake as he whizzed past, repeating his three little words over and over again in the silence.
How will you ever be brave enough to join us in the light? they taunted.
I’m… not… a coward. I’m not… afraid.
The Smoking Mirror rounded a corner, turning so sharply that if he had been half a second too late he might have crashed into a wall or lost a few scales on a section of rock that jutted precariously from the side of the tunnel—but just a moment after that it didn’t matter whether he crashed into something, because he stopped so abruptly that he nearly tripped over his own feet, and narrowly avoided falling flat on his face. His bright eyes widened, and once he’d caught himself he froze in place, so still and so quiet that he could feel his rapid pulse threatening to burst. Apparently, the silence wasn’t quite so silent after all.
Scritch scritch scratch.
These new sounds drowned out his three little words, and if the color could have flushed from his scales, Zazu imagined he would be pale gray, with the original black melted into an inky, bubbling mess around him. He began to shake, like a tree rustling in the wind, and focused harder on keeping his tail behind him.
Scritch scritch scratch.
He thought of his own talons, scraping the ground as he ran down the paths and past the torches. The scratching reminded him of his claws, of the insects darting about the kitchen. Zazu, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth around the tunnel, questioned, How far am I from the miner village?
Not too far, he answered himself nervously, unsure whether his guess was accurate. He didn’t think, after what felt like such a long time running further and further from the mine entrance, that he could possibly be so close to where he had started. I don’t know why they would draw out the paths so far from the mines themselves, he added to try and comfort himself, and besides, what other than a Moon Skull would be out here, anyway?
More tombs? Zazu tried.
But nothing inside of those tombs should be able to make noise… right?
The Smoking Mirror strained his ears, listening. Maybe he was hearing things. Maybe his mind was tired, and in its sleepy confusion had conjured up an extra skip to his step.
Scritch scritch scratch.
Zazu jumped, and felt his heart do the same.
Scritch scritch scratch.
The sounds were faster this time, less separated by time and quicker paced. Whatever was making them seemed to be growing agitated, impatient. Zazu did the one thing he had told himself he wouldn’t do—he panicked, and began to run back the way he came.
Whether or not he was considered a true Smoking Mirror by his village, Zazu possessed the grace and agility of his tribe, able to run far and fast and stand steady on his own two feet—but it seemed now that nearly all of this skill had left his body, drained out with the melting colors of his scales, and it became a miracle at all that he could even stand. Zazu’s legs grew weak and wobbly, tired out from running and fraught with swelling fear at the noises around him, and his knees shook as his legs strained to propel him forward. His talons scratched against the rocks with the same insect sounds, loud and echoing and painfully quiet against the rising tempo of the scratching around him. Was it his imagination, or were the sounds growing louder? Faster? Closer?
Zazu bolted weakly around the corner, panting for breath, tail smacking into the wall behind him—he hadn’t turned quite in time for the motion to be smooth and uninterrupted—and when his eyes met the path before him he stopped once again. He sucked in a breath as his claws scraped the dirt, and leaned backward, stepping back a few paces.
Their scales were dark, the colors dulled to deep pastels, magentas and violets and greens, the patterns radiating blue and casting an eerie light over the now lightless hall; the torches had been snuffed out. Some of their heads lolled to the side, tongues hanging from their wide-open jaws, and their arms hung loosely at their sides, nothing more than dead weight. Some stood with their tails waving passively behind them, disregarding anyone who might have been behind them as the thick masses struck the legs of the rest of the horde. Their jewels hung from their necks and wrists royally, glittering with a bluish-green tint against their scales, clinking together like ice in a glass as they ambled slowly forward. Zazu could hear the shuffling sounds as they dragged their legs forward along the ground, much slower, much larger beetles heading for a small, frail ladybug. A bright, swirling emerald color glowed in their eyes, brighter than the sun, and coated them like an additional eyelid. They didn’t appear at first glance to be focusing on any one thing, but as Zazu looked closer in his frozen state, he realized something.
They were all Aztecosaurs.
And they were all dead.
Scritch scritch scratch.
Their talons dug at the walls of the cavern rapidly—whether this noise had a purpose, Zazu didn’t know—but none of them that he could see were looking at the rocks as they scooted forward ever so slightly.
You said they couldn’t hurt you, he thought to himself, wide-eyed in disbelief, you said the dead couldn’t hurt you, and look now, they’re heading right for you.
I thought they couldn’t hurt me, Zazu argued, shaking his head. They shouldn’t be able to; they’re dead.
Shouldn’t, Zazu. Shouldn’t. They shouldn’t, yet here they are.
But—
Why are you still standing here? Go, run!
Zazu spun on his heel, heart beating wildly in time with the scratching of the reanimated Aztecosaurs behind him, and didn’t bother to check his satchel this time as he shot forward down the tunnel. He became an insect riding the wind, soaring on gauzy white wings atop the breeze and past the dull sunbeams of the torches, and the scuttling of his claws became white noise to the clawing and scraping emitted by the tunnels he had left. He had no choice now but to keep on his path, unsure where he was going and unsure of what he would find when he got there.
He darted down corner after corner, corridor after corridor, feeling the adrenaline spill quickly into his veins like a gushing waterfall, leaping over this rock and that, just to get away. Zazu heard the voices ringing through his mind yet again, screaming this time over the wild pulse in his chest.
Afraid of your own shadow, they shouted, afraid of the darkness of your own scales!
Scritch scritch scratch, came the sound of the reanimated Aztecosaurs.
Afraid of your own shadow! the voices cried, louder than before.
Scritch scritch scratch.
Afraid of the darkness of—
I AM NOT AFRAID! Zazu shouted back, voice booming like the thunder he was named for above all the rest. I AM NOT A COWARD, AND I AM NOT AFRAID!
He felt the lightning sparking in his talons, the rain rolling off of his tongue, and turned around yet again. Zazu would find a way out, past the undead, instead of cowering before them like a child and hurrying to find another way. He would be a warrior. He would be one of the Smoking Mirrors, not just by default as a Raptor, but because he was truly like them. Zazu wanted to show them his worth, and what better way than to stand up to his fears?
Their bright green eyes were specks in the darkness they had created, glistening eerily in their blank stares and strange silence as they shambled toward him. He felt his stomach turn, feeling the weight of his cowardice settle deep inside him, but he ignored it as best he could. This wasn’t the time.
Scritch scritch scratch.
Zazu felt the noises wash over him, drenching him to the bone, but he stood his ground and began to hear a more familiar rhythm amid the scritch-scratching—those three words, those eleven letters, that repetition rising up above the sound of their claws and the thrumming of his heart.
I’m… not… afraid.
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