by Rochita C. Ruiz
Image from publicdomainpictures.net
. . . strangers meet on a distant world,
. . . . . . . are they still strangers?
-Hebr Hesni, 10th elder of the Tindugan Council-
It was early in the morning when Fyra saw the stranger for the first time. It was dark and cold, as mornings were on Avikande—made colder still because spring had yet to make its mark.
The soft beeping of the sensors had woken Fyra from sleep and for a moment she’d felt panic grip her by the throat. She’d been dreaming of their final days on Sedulur, dreaming of that moment when Hebr Hesni pushed Dema into her arms and begged her to flee.
She rose quietly and checked on Dema before she walked to the security panel.
She’d woken an hour before sunrise, which meant there was time enough to do her rounds before the others arose. Her limbs cracked and popped as she stretched to her full height.
On the loop display, she could see someone standing at the edge of the southern field. The loop was an old model so the visual wasn’t clear but there was something about the one standing there that made her think of the Welah Asih.
Agitation marched all along the markings on her back. She reminded herself that the Asu had no power here on Avikande. Reminded herself that they were safe and out of reach of those who had sent out the gatherers and harvested members of her commune.
On the loop, she saw the stranger kneel at the edge of their field. Once, long ago, someone had come to their commune in Sedulur in the same way.
“I want nothing more than to learn at the feet of the Hebr Danda,”that Welah Asih had said.
The memory was a bitter one for it was Danda who had breathed life into Fyra. In the early days of the harvesting, Danda had gone to see that Welah Asih their self. They had never returned.
Gone, Fyra thought. And with them, the most vital link to Fyra’s lineage was also gone.
She shut the door on her grief.
How trusting they’d been. Opening their borders, allowing strangers among them, believing in words of friendship, and letting down their guard. They’d learned the hard way, that friendship meant different things to different peoples.
“What are you doing there?” She wanted to ask now. But she didn’t walk out the door. She wasn’t ready to confront the stranger. Not yet. Not now, when it was still dark.
#
By the time Dema woke up, Fyra had completed her rounds. She was in the greenhouse communing with the seedlings. Soon, they’d be ready for transfer.
She’d gone out into the field as soon as the stranger vanished, and walked the length of it. Walking the field was needful. Back on Sedulur, walking the fields meant communing with history embedded in the land by their predecessors.
Here on Avikande, they still had to make their own history.
For now, walking the field simply meant testing nutrient and moisture levels and calculating the amount of time she’d need to strengthen the seedlings before transferring them to the harsher environment that was Avikande’s earth.
Back in the beginning, she’d been impatient to create a new home for herself and for Dema. She’d produced her seedlings without stopping to think that Avikande’s earth might be different than that of Sedulur’s.
And so, her first batch of seedlings perished because Avikande’s soil missed more than the basic nutrients. Nitrogen, potassium, phosphorus levels were only the beginning.
She rested her hand on the surface of the seedling cradle. Through the protective covering, she could feel the warmth of the soil in which the seedlings were nestled, and excitement bloomed inside her.
It had taken her eight years of nurturing the patch of land that had been granted to them by Avikande. Eight years of patiently turning the soil, of blending in mulch and manure, of weaving strands of her own energy into the ground.
There was no telling how many of her babies would take root and grow on this foreign soil, but she still wanted to try.
She was hovered over the tiny plants, gently breathing upon them when Dema entered the greenhouse.
“There’s a new kid coming to class today,” Dema said from behind her. “Tudlo Makon told us about them yesterday. A refugee child bonded to one of the Welah Asih.”
Fyra’s movements stilled, the knobs on the back of her neck stiffened and her fingers clenched around the baby seedling she’d been tending to.
“You’ll crush the seedling, Zizi.” Dema’s voice carried the lilt of the young who were still waiting for life to unfold.
Her nibling had grown taller in the past year. In infancy, it had not yet been clear what they would one day become, but each year, their features grew more defined. Tiny strands of vine dangling over Dema’s forehead provided a clue to their lineage. Soon, they would pass from childhood into adulthood. With each passing day, their resemblance to Hebr Hesni grew more pronounced.
Fyra released her hold on the baby seedling—she brushed a finger over the tiny shoot, hoping the jolt she’d released at Dema’s mention of the Compassionate hadn’t traumatized it in any way.
“Did Tudlo Makon tell you where this child is from?” Fyra asked.
Dema shrugged. “They didn’t say. They just told us a new learner was joining us for a short time.”
Emotion moved across Dema’s round face. They bit their lip and touched a finger to one of the seedlings before moving away. They were not yet fully grown, but already Fyra could see how the seedlings leaned toward Dema’s hand. Even they who could not speak could already feel the presence of Hebr energy in Fyra’s nibling.
“What if it’s someone from Sedulur, Zizi,” Dema said. “I know they’re responsible for what happened to my parent, but it feels wrong to hate a nameless child. I mean, if my parent had done something wrong, is it my fault for receiving life from that parent?”
Dema’s uncertainty was almost tangible. And Fyra was reminded once again of how ill-equipped she was to raise one of the Hebr.
But still, they were family and so Fyra did what she’d learned to do when she had no words to reply to her nibling’s questions. She created space for her nibling to rest against her. Like this, rested against each other, she could twine her energy around Dema’s own, sheltering them, tending to them, sharing with them the memory of their line.
The wounds of the past still felt fresh to Fyra, but Dema was different. Dema was descended from one of the Tindugan’s oldest Hebrs and there was little room for hate or vengeance in the heart of a life giver.
“You mustn’t worry about how I might feel if you decide to befriend someone,” Fyra said. “Your first duty is to yourself. Someday, you’ll be a fine Hebr. Already, I can see the heart of your lineage unfolding inside you.”
#
Fyra remained deep in thought long after Dema left the greenhouse.
She remembered listening to the howls of hunting dogs. She remembered hiding in the swamps, praying to whatever gods still existed that they would not be found.
Dema was all she had left. They’d built a new life for themselves here on Avikande. She’d severed her roots when she left Sedulur behind. She’d cut herself off from the past, from the beloved earth soil that was Sedulur. Her lineage was forgotten, buried alongside the remains of those Tindugan who had nurtured her and given her their remaining strength so she could bring Dema to sanctuary.
Her entire being ached. She longed for the connection with the ancestral grounds.
Gone, she thought. Gone because those who claimed to be their friends had turned away during the most crucial of moments.
She remembered Hebr Hesni’s numerous visits to the Welah Asih court, the disappointment spreading through their commune when they received word that the head of the Welah Asih was not receiving.
“Remind them,” Apo Kopra had said. “Remind them that we answered their call when Sedulur was dying and in need of restoration.”
The elders couldn’t believe, hadn’t wanted to believe that the Welah Asih would forsake them in their time of need.
No. Fyra didn’t want to feel anything other than hate for someone whose kind turned a blind eye while the Tindugan and their Hebr were rounded up for harvest.
#
Fyra came face to face with the Welah Asih during the Temple Dome’s Celebration Day. Daylight streamed through the domes that arched above the park where festivities for the local community were being held. Fyra was one of the five adults who’d volunteered to keep an eye on the children. She sat beneath one of the Buhi trees, carefully keeping track of the small flock who’d been assigned to her care while communing with the tree that sheltered her. Tenderly, she pushed a little bit of her energy into its roots, urging it to stay strong and healthy.
“Hello,” the Welah Asih said. “You’re Fyra Bah’r Ima, aren’t you? My name is Heval and like you, I come from Sedulur.”
She looked up, wondering if her confusion was evident on her face.
“Strange to meet each other here, isn’t it?”
“Strange that you should seek me out,” rage simmered beneath her words. How dare this Welah Asih greet her as if they were friends who’d simply fallen out of touch.
“My six-year-old is in the same class as your Dema,” the Welah Asih continued. And Fyra thought of how Sedulur’s elite tended to be oblivious. No matter how much time they’d spent in the company of the Hebr they never seemed to grasp the subtleties of Tindugan culture.
“He came home babbling about how kind your Dema was,” the Welah Asih was saying. “And I wondered if it was Hebr Hesni’s offspring my child was speaking of.”
Fyra bit back the words she wanted to say. If she spoke now, she would turn incandescent—what kind of example would she be for Dema?
Together they watched the children chase after each other and now Fyra saw the half-Hebr who was chasing after Dema.
“That child isn’t Welah Asih,” she said.
“His father was a mariner on one of the arks,” the Welah Asih said. “It hardly seems possible, but a cross-species offspring managed to survive. I call the child Daesk, after their parent who entrusted him to my care.
“You think you can raise one such as he,” Fyra said. “Your lineage is foreign to him. . . .”
“It doesn’t make him any less mine,” there was no missing the defensive note in the Welah Asih’s voice.
A scattering of laughter rose from where the children were, and they looked to where the children had fallen over each other in a tangle of giggling bodies. It was faint, but even from here, Fyra could see how the younger Hebr’s energy rose and reached for Dema.
The Welah Asih laughed softly.
“How carefree they are,” she said. “Isn’t it a blessing to see them like that?”
“Why would you care?” Fyra’s reply was sharper than she’d intended. “Why would you care, Welah Asih? You think that just because you took in that child . . .” she stopped and then continued. “Do you think we should see you as a saviour because you took in a child who should be one of ours?”
Her voice shook with rage as she turned to face the Welah Asih. “Just because you saved one child from a life of servitude. . . it doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”
She couldn’t keep her resentment at bay, couldn’t keep the words from pouring out of her. “You belong to the Welah Asih,” she said. “I know your kind and what your friendship means. Don’t presume you know me and mine just because you decided to rescue one child whose life was already doomed because of your betrayal.”
“I’m sorry,” the Welah Asih said. “I thought…I mean… you have every right to be angry. I didn’t mean to presume–”
Fyra didn’t give them time to finish. “It’s time for the children’s refreshments.”
She turned away and called out to the children. When she looked next, the Welah Asih was walking away with the young half-Hebr chasing behind them.
#
“My Zizi, your feelings are all topsy-turvy,” Dema’s voice sounded from behind her now. “I can feel the topsy-turviness of you tumbling all around in the air.”
She turned and saw the look of worry on Dema’s face.
“Did something happen?” Dema asked.
“No,” Fyra replied. “Nothing happened. Nothing’s wrong.”
“Daesk left suddenly,” Dema said. “He’s the new student I told you about and I thought you’d want to meet him, too. He told me that he’d been rescued by one of the Welah Asih and that they also had to flee. It made me think, what if the Welah Asih were powerless to keep the Asu from doing harm? What if they, too, lived in fear for their lives?”
There was a look on Dema’s face that caused Fyra’s heart to quake.
How time had flown, she thought. Here was Dema, not yet come into the fullness of their power and already, they were filled with so much light. Hebr Hesni must have known that this child could save the future of their kind. Could bring into being the future they all dreamed about.
Even now, she could sense the strength that was Dema’s inner core, could sense the warmth that reached out and embraced those around them. One day, Dema would be stronger than Hebr Hesni. One day, Dema would breathe life on their seedlings, and they would rise. They would make the world see possibilities the Hebr of old could only dream about.
Cut off from her roots, Fyra’s own strength, her ability to tend to the land and share energy with living things were paltry compared to what Dema could do, and she worried about what would happen once Dema came into the fullness of their power.
“You should be more careful,” Fyra said now. “Remember what I told you. There are those who won’t hesitate to take advantage of you.”
Dema shrugged. “We’re among friends, aren’t we?I don’t see any reason for worry.”
Fyra’s gaze sharpened. “What do you mean? You haven’t gone and done anything rash, have you?”
Dema snorted and looked away. “If you’re wondering if my friends know what lineage I come from, then: No, I haven’t told anyone.”
“Some things don’t change,” Fyra said. “You don’t remember it because you were still a baby. But I remember how it was before the hunt. I remember your elder giving and giving and giving until there was nothing to give. When the Asu came for them, they were desperate. They didn’t want that kind of life for you.”
Fyra choked on her words. Dema folded their self into a sitting position, leaning a shoulder against the bowl that was Fyra’s seating nest.
“Tudlo Makon says all creatures deserve to be treated with kindness and compassion,” Dema said. “Holding on to suspicion and fear only hurts us.”
“Our eldest used to say that too,” Fyra replied. “Before the hunt, our commune was open to everyone. We didn’t think to hide the ones among us who were most likely to be used up because of their gifts.”
Dema hummed softly and the sound soothed Fyra’s grief. “I wish you were growing up with your parent,” Fyra said softly. She rested her cheek against Dema’s spiky hair. Wondering when this child had grown so tall.
“I’m growing up with you,” Dema said. “I wish I could have known my parent, but when I connect with you like this, I connect to your memories of them.”
These were the moments Fyra cherished. Sitting together and communing in the Tindugan way. Mind to mind and heart to heart. There were things one could not put into words, memories and feelings which could only be passed on by allowing the other to link into the self.
If only, Fyra thought. The longing for the circle which nourished and sustained their community life flowed through her.
“I don’t want to hide my true self,” Dema whispered. “I want to share my strength, to let my friends know me as I truly am. Someday, I want to be a home and a shelter to many.”
“You’re still young,” Fyra said. “Wait until you’re a little bit older. I can’t risk losing you. Not yet.”
#
Dema’s readiness to open their self to the world frightened Fyra. At the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder if Dema was right. Could they take a step forward? Could they trust in the friendship of the Avikande?
She thought back to when they’d arrived on Avikande. She’d been so tired of hiding, tired of not knowing who to trust, tired of carrying a weight of grief along with the child she carried in her arms.
“You’re safe here,” she remembered the words even if she could no longer remember the face of the person who’d said them. “You’re safe. You’re among friends.”
What did that word mean?
She thought about it as she walked with Dema to the temple building where the young ones studied under the guidance of the Tudlo stationed there.
Dema’s words from the night before rang in her mind and she wondered if her nibling was right. Had she been living in fear?
On the greensward in front of the temple building she could see stone mounds that had been raised as a memorial to Avikande’s past. She thought of Avikande’s own history. They’d struggled too, hadn’t they?
When other more powerful worlds turned a blind eye to the troubles of the Tindugan, Avikande chose to open their gates to those in search of refuge. Was it because they remembered that once long ago, they too had been uprooted from a place they thought was home?
She stretched her hands out before her, imagining what it would be like to sink their self into this earth, what it would be like to give her energy to this world that had provided a welcome and shelter for beings like her.
What would it be like to allow herself to also become strong enough to one day let her roots sink into the soil and allow herself to become something close to Hebr.
When she lowered her hands, she saw the Welah Asih looking at her from across the green.
#
In the matter of wrongs, ask yourself this question: what do I gain by keeping a catalog of errors?
-Hebr Hesni, 10th Elder Tindugan Commune, Sedulur-
Summer came with its long days and hot dry winds. It meant work for Fyra and for Dema. For all its advancements, Avikande’s irrigation systems still depended on ground water being tapped and brought up from the deep. Winning water from the air, pulling it from the ground, tapping into the underground systems of the world that became their home, these were all part of Avikande’s history.
Fyra was worried about her seedlings. If the soil dried out, they would die of thirst. She spent time working on an irrigation system that allowed her to spread moisture through the ground so her plants wouldn’t dry out.
Today, she’d gone to the communal park to visit the Buhi trees. They were hardier than Fyra’s own seedlings, but then they were indigenous to Avikande. They’d been there when the first settlers arrived, and the first settlers had been careful not to interfere with where the Buhi trees elected to grow.
Fyra wondered if the first settlers had been aware of the network that existed beneath the surface. Had they known the trees were sentient? Were they aware that the respect they’d afforded the trees was why Avikande continued to thrive? How different things could have been for the Tindugan if the Welah Asih had chosen to intervene when the Asu came for them. How different if they’d been true to their words of friendship instead of just looking the other way.
“Friends,”she grunted the word beneath her breath.
As she laid her palm flat on the bark of one tree, a shock flashed through her. She blinked and pulled back sharply as the Buhi tree rejected her touch.
She shivered and it seemed to her that she could hear Hebr Hesni’s voice echoing in the quiet around her. The trees seemed more ominous now.
“What?” she said out loud. “It’s not my fault. I’m not the one who turned away when my help was needed.”
Of course, there was no response. Sentient though they were, the trees reserved their speech only for their kind.
“Why should I forgive that Welah Asih?” she said out loud. Staring at the tree in frustration. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
She laid a hand on the tree and moved back sharply when the tree refused her touch yet again.
“Fine,” she muttered. “Have it your way.”
Above her, a lone flyer cast their shadow over the ground. It was midday, but this one had chosen to brave the heat and find a current that would lift them up and help them soar.
Fyra had never dreamed of flight. Her dream had been to one day become as the Hebr. To be a shelter and a refuge, a nesting place, a place of warmth and welcome. But she hadn’t been born with that gift and those who might have taught her to grow it were now gone.
Up beyond the flier, she could see the shadow of a ship approaching. Even from below, she could make out the graceful line of an ambassadorial ship.
#
. . . there is, of course, the matter of reparations . . .
-Senator J. J. Loe.Nen, during the Avikande Peace Conference-
When the invitation came, Fyra didn’t know what to do about it.
A delegation led by Sedulur’s leading Welah Asih had come to Avikande and requested a meeting with the young Hebr Dema and their guardian Fyr’a Bah’r Ima.
The newly raised leaders of the Asu plead humbly for your presence, the missive read. Together with the Welah Asih, we express our hope that you will attend the talks that will take place in Baleh Kalinaw.
“We should go, Zizi.” Dema’s voice was soft.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to go,” Fyra replied.
She felt Dema’s touch against her shoulder blades, then the gentle touching of their crowns as Dema leaned towards her.
When had her nibling grown to be so tall? Now, Fyra was the one who had to look up at them.
“If it becomes too much, you can always step aside,” Dema said. “No one will blame you. Least of all, I.”
“What if they ask us to return to Sedulur?” Fyra said. “What if the Avikande say we must go back?”
“Trust, Zizi,” Dema said. “Haven’t the Avikande proven their selves to us already? We may not yet be a thriving commune, but no one has disturbed us or our work on this field.”
It was true, Fyra supposed.
She looked out at the fields where her young were growing into fine saplings. Soon, they would know who among them could be raised up from the earth. The possibility of new life gave Fyra a sense of satisfaction.
Perhaps it was time to face the past, she thought. She couldn’t think about big words like reconciliation or forgiveness just yet, but maybe she could just listen to what the Sedulur delegation had to say.
#
Dressed in long linen robes, the Welah Asih delegation walked in step with the long-limbed Asu down the lane leading to Baleh Kalinaw. Here among the oldest of the Buhi trees was the house of peace which had been established by the Avikanders. Here mediators and peacemakers ensured that balance was kept in the Coalition of Worlds.
She could feel Dema’s hand shaking in hers—or was she the one who was shaking?
“Thank you for agreeing to this meeting,” one of the Welah Asih said. “The Asu have dealt grave harm to the Tindugan and when they heard of your presence on Avikande, they asked for permission to come and beg for your forgiveness.”
“We come as plaintiffs, not only on behalf of the Asu, but also on our behalf as Welah Asih,” the other said. “We come to plead before this court. To open ourselves for judgment as we acknowledge the wrongs we have inflicted on your kind. We laid claim to friendship, but in the time of need, we were not friends. We too ask for forgiveness for what happened to the Tindugan.”
“And you expect us to just forgive? Your words won’t bring back those we lost on Sedulur. They won’t bring back the Hebr whose strength was harvested. None of your words mean anything compared to our loss.”
“You’re right,” the Welah Asih said. “Words won’t atone or erase any of the harm that was done. The Asu and the Welah Asih have harmed the Tindugan. We failed to be what we claimed ourselves to be.”
That the Welah Asih would acknowledge their betrayal—that they would one day acknowledge how they’d wronged the Tindugan was something Fyra had never imagined would happen.
She stood there, not knowing what to say.
It was too soon, she thought. Too much, too soon.
She turned to the Avikande mediator.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t do this right now.”
“Zizi,” she could hear the plea in her nibling’s voice, but she didn’t want to acknowledge even that.
“I’m not like you, Dema,” she said. “I’m sorry. My heart isn’t ready to be Hebr just yet. I left that dream behind when we ran from Sedulur.”
She didn’t look at the Welah Asih. She didn’t look at Dema or any of the others who were gathered there.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated as she turned and walked away.
#
It was quiet in Baleh Kalinaw’s gardens. She sat with her back against the trunk of one of Avikande’s oldest Buhi trees. How many beings had sat under its branches before? How many had felt as miserable as she now felt.
Sorrow for all that had been lost welled up inside her.
She thought of Hebr Danda who’d given her life and she wept for the link to her lineage that had been lost when Hebr Danda didn’t return from their visit to the Welah Asih court.
She thought of Hebr Hesni. Emptied of power, consumed from inside and out, still hanging on to what little was left so she could ensure that the next Hebr would live.
“Please take my offspring,” Hebr Hesni had said. “You’ll find a home. A place where you can put down your roots and bring our own children into the world.”
She’d never thought of planting her roots here on Avikande. Had always been afraid they would one day have to flee just as they had had to flee the ancestral grounds where so many of their kind had perished.
“I always thought—if I don’t allow myself to put down roots, when the blow comes it won’t hurt as much,” she said out loud.
She wanted to feel betrayed, wanted to hang on to her outrage. What right did Avikande have to call the Tindugan to Baleh Kalinaw? What right did they have to allow the Asu and the Welah Asih to come and make their plea in the presence of the peacemakers?
She leaned her back against the tree, reaching out to it, longing for the comfort that came with connection.
“You can’t keep holding on to your rage,” Dema said from behind her. “Even common Tindugan can be consumed. If you allow yourself to rage, you’ll become one of those who feed on the offspring.”
“I know,” Fyra said softly. “The Buhi trees won’t take anything from me anymore and the seedlings only thrive because you feed them.”
She looked up at Dema.“When did you grow so tall?”
Dema smiled and reached up, resting a hand on one of the topmost branches of the Buhi tree. Fyra could feel the tree respond to Dema’s touch, could see the connection between tree and Hebr in the way the tree’s leaves reached out and brushed against the fronds that abounded on Dema’s head.
Dema radiated serenity, the same calm acceptance of life, the same quiet sense of assurance that the world was as it was meant to be.
“You’re becoming more and more like your elder,” Fyra said wistfully. “Hebr Hesni would be proud of you.”
“What about you?” Dema asked.
Fyra laughed. “Do you have to ask? Of course, I’m proud. I’ve always been proud of you.” And then more softly, “I’m also more than a little bit envious.”
Dema tilted their head back; their look was questioning.
“I’m envious of how you’re able to look beyond the past,” Fyra said. “I know I should be able to. I’m your elder. I should be wiser. But I keep getting stranded in my grief and my anger. I tell myself I should forgive. I should open my soul and allow myself to trust. Now, I can’t even trust my own self. What if I poison everything with the anger that’s still inside me?”
Dema lowered their self to the ground, their shoulders nudged and Fyra made room for her nibling. Dema was quickly becoming an adult, Fyra realised. No longer were they the small infant Fyra had sheltered in her arms so long ago.
“Don’t think I’m not angry as well,” Dema said. “When I think about what was done to our elders, when I think of what could have been. . .” Emotion clogged their voice and they fell silent.
Fyra reached out her hand and grabbed hold of Dema’s hand. How long ago had it been since she’d avoided that connection, she wondered? Now, she could feel Dema’s emotions flowing between them. Anger and sorrow—longing and a deep, deep sadness.
“I thought about it,” Dema said. “And I thought of the memories you’d passed on to me, the seed thoughts of our elders—the commune that was on Sedulur. I thought of it all and I thought that if I saw one of the Welah Asih or one of the Sedulur, I would kill them.”
The ferocity of Dema’s thought drove through to Fyra’s being and she gasped.
“Yes,” Dema said. “I thought I would kill them.”
They looked sideways and met Fyra’s gaze. “For a long time, I was angry. When the Avikande allowed the Welah Asih to be here in this place we made our refuge, I couldn’t understand it. Didn’t the Avikande know what kind of traitors the Welah Asih were?”
“You never told me,” Fyra said.
Dema shrugged.
They sat there, shoulder to shoulder, listening to the leaves rustling in the wind, sharing warmth and connection with each other.
Finally, Dema continued. “Zizi, I’ve thought about it and I’ve decided to return to Sedulur. I’ve decided to return. To look for any who might have survived, and to rebuild the communes we lost during the gathering.”
Fyra closed her eyes. Of course, she’d known what Dema would say, but it was still hard to hear them say the words.
Dema continued, “If we keep holding on to our anger and our fear, we can’t move forward. We’ll be stuck carrying the wounds of our past until our wounds grow bigger than all the joy and the triumph that come to us. I didn’t want that for myself. I think you also know it’s not what our elders would want for you.”
She could feel the hesitation beneath Dema’s resolute words, and she reached out and joined hands with her nibling.
“I knew,” Fyra whispered. “Even if you didn’t say the words, I already knew what you would say.”
#
Tindugan Remembrance in Bale Kalinaw
Fyr’a Bah’r Ima, Advocate for Tindugan Rights presented a petition for the establishment of communes dedicated to the restoration of refugee cultures on coalition worlds.
The eldest of two survivors of the Sedulur cleansing, Fyr’a recounted the massacre they witnessed as an adolescent and presented an account of their harrowing escape from the homeland to the sanctuary on Avikande. They expressed their gratitude to Avikande for granting them safe harbour and for Avikande’s agreement to oversee the implementation of the pact signed between the Tindugan remnant, the Welah Asih and the Asu majority.
“With the land that has been granted to us, we can begin to think of establishing a place where Tindugan culture can take root and flourish once more.”
Fyr’a Bah’r Ima was joined by Hebr Dema N’agPaskil, of the lineage of the great Hebr Hesni, by Daesk Asih, half-Hebr and legal child of Heval Welah Asih, and by Hebr Sam-wel, from the Brolis commune.
– Sio. B. Han, Ab.Sell and J.J. Loe.Nen, in The Manun-o Journal-
It was the close of a season and the opening of a new one.
Fyra raised her head as a shadow passed over the stretch of land where she was at work. In the distance, she could see Bhlo Gi’pon. Bhlo had been born to a Tindugan commune on Ikyas.
Dema had found him on one of their walkabouts. Bhlo had been hiding in the desert and when Dema found him, he was almost at death’s door. Dema had sent Bhlo to Fyra, saying that they were confident Zizi Fyra could help Bhlo recover and return to their self.
It was worth celebrating that Bhlo had decided to participate in encouraging the seedlings and that they were now willing to walk out onto the land and join with Fyra and the others for the first rite of the season.
On the far side of the field, she could see Dema bending over to share of their self with the green saplings. Each time Dema came to visit, Fyra’s heart lightened a little bit more.
True to their word, the Welah Asih had overseen the restoration of confiscated ancestral grounds. Fyra had witnessed the twining of a sacred pact between Dema’s self and Sedulur’s foremost Welah Asih. A dedicated line now stood guard at the gateway to the first commune Dema had chosen to revive.
The Asu who had come to Avikande were part of the new order established on the sibling worlds of Sedulur and Ikyas. They had restored the confiscated ancestral grounds to Dema’s supervision and signed a sacred pact to protect the Tindugan communes for generations and generations to come.
Someday, youngsters grown from Fyra’s self might want to travel to Sedulur and settle there, but for Fyra, this fledgling commune on Avikande felt like the safest place in the worlds.
As they sank their selves into the earth, Dema’s voice rose in the traditional hymn. There were many layers to that hymn—remembrance and recollection, the past linking to the present, the wounds inflicted by violence gentled by the reminder that they carried their elders within them.
Dema wove new verse into the old hymn. Unfolding a tapestry that only they could see.
I was not meant to survive but still I survived. I was not meant to rise, but still I rise. I was not meant to see the light of day, but here I am opening my eyes. Here I am bringing into being a new lineage for my self and for the selves that are to come.
The air vibrated with their intention.
Memory hurt, but Fyra was sure that one day, they would look back to this as a point of new beginnings.
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Your power lies in the future you dream into being.
-Fyr’a Bah’r Ima, 1st Elder, 1st Tindugan Commune on Avikande-
About the Author. Rochita C. Ruiz currently lives and works in The Netherlands as a creative artist, musician, and workshop facilitator. A graduate of the Clarion West Writers Workshop, Rochita was the recipient of the 2009 Octavia Butler Scholarship, and the first Filipino writer to attend Clarion West. She also attended the Milford Writer’s Workshop as a recipient of the Milford Writers BAME scholarship. Rochita’s fiction and non-fiction work have been published in a variety of online and print publications and she is currently in the process of creating a collection of her short fiction and non-fiction work. Rochita published “Song of the Body Cartographer” in Philippine Genre Stories in 2012, which was inspired by the painting “Creation of the Birds” by Remedios Varo. Rochita returns in 2025 with “Hymn to Life” which she originally wrote in Dutch as Hymne van de Overlevers for the science fiction anthology De Komeet edited by Martijn Lindeboom and Vamba Sherif, and published by Uitgeverij De Geus in February, 2023.