Erik Otto - Detonation

“This will be our last stop today,” Ember said while pausing at the edge of the hillock. He turned around to watch the rest of the students catch up. Sweat marred his tunic all the way down to his protruding belly, and the ceremonial green circles around his eyes had long since smudged to bleed down his cheeks. As one of the clansmen leaders most devoted to Essentialist teachings, Ember’s exertions on the pilgrimage were worn like a badge of pride.

Redfern’s eyes burned on Talon as he caught up. He had that wily look, his energetic expression framed by his dreaded locks. He was always watchful, looking for Talon to stumble, looking for him to show fear. Ember’s words from earlier that morning resonated in Talon’s mind. “In nature, sometimes to show dominance is less about strength and more about exploiting the weak.”

When they had formed a quorum, Ember continued his oration. “We have now seen Old World places of business, and we’ve seen their places of worship. Here what we see used to be a place of learning.”

Talon’s eyes followed Ember’s outstretched hand down the other side of the hill. He was pointing at what appeared to be a long, institutional building, several stories tall, with impressive thickset columns in the front. A significant portion of the building remained standing far on the left side, with stone-bound windowsills and resolute brick siding. Unlike many of the other buildings they had seen that day, it wasn’t obscured by dense foliage or weeds growing through fissures in the concrete.

But no Old World structure could withstand the test of time unscathed. The far right side had been completely flattened to the ground. Signs of reclamation were definitely there as well. The columns had earned a marbled yellow color. Vines had gained purchase, pulling halfway up the building in places. A solitary tree was also pushing through a gaping hole in the roof of an offshoot to the main building.

Ember kept his audience in traction with his circulating eyes. “Like us,” he continued, “Old World students learned language, numbers, and vocational trades. But they were not taught to align their actions to the provenance of the earth. By forgetting the gifts of sun, soil, and seed, they lived lives of excess. They were drinking from the slow and sullen river full of silt instead of the mountain stream. The silt bloated them, filled them with ignorance. It sickened their souls, and it contaminated their minds. Remember, they didn’t have a curator to guide them—to remove noxious texts and unnatural procedures from their learning process.”

Ember scratched his chin and then glanced back at the old building.

He turned back to them, nodding. “And so with a corrupted connection to sun, soil, and seed, it was an inevitable conclusion that the earth would levy its retribution. And so it was, that the Detonation came to be.”

He wrung his hands together, glancing about the group. Despite encouraging questions, Ember had a knack for ruthlessly lecturing anyone who posed one, as if the answers were written plainly into the crumbling concrete.

There were no more questions.

“It’s getting late,” Ember said. “Let’s head back to camp. Tomorrow is an important day. We will complete the pilgrimage. Tomorrow we see Clay’s Colossus.”

They backtracked on their route, avoiding all but the well-worn paths of the many pilgrimages. The ruins were to be seen, not touched. They were to be left in peace until the earth reclaimed them completely. The sun fell in the west, flavoring the autumn leaves with amber light. The group was quiet, worn from the day’s travel.

They continued well into twilight, returning over the rope bridge and up to the dozen A-frames and long houses that made up Pilgrim’s Hamlet. Here they washed up in assigned houses and then returned to the array of tables in the center circle.

Talon had no desire to eat dinner, nor did he want to see Clay’s Colossus in the morning. He would rather head back to Grand Caverns that evening. Who knows what sort of neglect his mother had inflicted upon his sisters while he was gone.

But no one left the pilgrimage early. No, he would have to play the part of the loyal Essentialist, at least for one more day.

Thankfully Redfern and Greystone had run into the Summerwind girls when washing up. It looked like they had managed to parlay them into joining them at their table, several totems away, on the other side of the center circle. Hopefully it would keep them distracted long enough for Talon to eat in peace.

Talon sat alone at a table on the periphery. He kept his head down as he whittled the end of several sticks into sharp points in preparation for the morning hunt.

He would occasionally glance up at the totems surrounding the circle. Ember had explained their meaning earlier in the day, but he couldn’t remember the lesson. When Ember spoke of the Essentialist heroes, Talon would often lose interest, and his mind would stray. Too often, his thoughts would linger toward home.

The slow-cooked venison arrived, served by the dutiful citizens of Pilgrim’s Hamlet. The meat was grey and otherwise devoid of color except for the watery pool of blood it was sitting in. It didn’t look particularly appetizing. But it was the ceremonial meal of the pilgrimage, and all must eat their share. He took a cautious bite and found that it was surprisingly moist and flavorful, bursting with rosemary and thyme. His hunger asserted itself and he leaned into the meat, devouring it with a flurry of stained hands and gnashing teeth.

After several bites he looked up and was surprised to see a man sitting across from him. As the only man on the pilgrimage from the Prefectorate, Captain Nobura was easy to recognize. Nobura’s head was so clean-shaven it almost shined, and high cheekbones seemed to squeeze out any emotion from his dark brown eyes. He was dressed in loose-fitting pants and a cotton tunic, much lighter than the heavy leather frocks typically sported by Grand Caverns Essentialists. His eyes weren’t outlined in ceremonial green circles. The only spot of color on Nobura came from his maroon armband.

“You are Talon Clearwater,” Nobura said, scrutinizing the plate of venison being placed in front of him. The scrawny server seemed nervous, her hands shaking.

Talon was unsure if it was a question or a statement. “Yes,” he said slowly, wiping his mouth.

“I will be your Shinogi. I will teach you our ways.”

The Shinogi were still relatively new in Grand Caverns. First there were the Spanish speakers with their pasty food and now there were these Asian people with their peculiar fighting routines. It was hard to keep up.

“But… why is that?” Talon asked. Then he tried to dull the edge of his question. “I’m sorry, but I didn’t ask for any training.”

“The curator has allowed me to select my own pupils. It will be an opportunity for you to learn our ways.”

“But why me?”

Nobura had been organizing his plate, putting the venison in one quadrant, the sprouts in another, the sweet potato in another. Now he began cutting into the venison with his curved knife. He spoke quietly, without looking up at Talon. “You may have potential.”

Potential? What did this man from thousands of miles away know of his potential? Talon tried to quell a surge of frustration. It was yet another commitment he didn’t ask for. Yet another commitment he didn’t have time for.

“Why did you come here?” Talon asked, trying to deflect the discussion away from him. “This is a pilgrimage for the clans of Grand Caverns. I didn’t think it would interest you and your… people.”

“An alliance will not survive if it does not move beyond the paper on which it is written. You must learn about us, and we must learn about you. I am here to understand more about you, so that those of us from the Prefectorate can live in peace with the clans of Grand Caverns and the surrounding communities.”