2200 Blues © 2024 by G.R. Nanda. All rights reserved.
Steve’s funeral was a long affair. When Nickel met the Thraíha again by the rock island where the row men had sailed him, they had prepared a long tribunal and death ceremony for him. His body had been recovered and brought inside their wooden tribunal. The Thraíha hadn’t been on this island in over a century, but it had remained their ancestral burial ground.
“Raised from the Past World,” intoned Akela, standing at the berth of the funeral circle surrounding Steve’s casket, “and passed through the Huntsman’s eternal journey, the man known as Steve has returned to the stars, having lived a journey jeweled by the touch of the constellations of life whence he came.”
Nickel stood in tribal Thraíha attire, adorned with ceremonial hawk feathers encircling his neck as a necklace, marking his torso. He stood, somber and reflective, listening attentively, alongside everyone else standing in the circle surrounding the funeral pyre space.
Having finished his speech, Akela stepped into the circle, ushering women in ceremonial tan gowns, their heads covered by hoods. They moved toward Steve’s casket, carrying it in a slow procession to lay it afloat on the currents of the Rinkwik River.
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A day later, the Thraíha resumed their long march away from the landmass of their ancestral settlement, continuing their journey away from the oncoming glacial melt. It marked the resumption of the Thraíha pilgrimage to Hedonim, which had been ruled to take place only after the tribe found a new home to settle.
Farrul had decided to leave for Hedonim with a small band of hardware technicians who were working the few docks stationed around the island. They were there to take full advantage of the mass population movement—the largest presence of Thraíha seen in generations. Usually, only rogue game hunters or lone pilgrims seeking Hedonim were seen.
Nickel felt his relationship with Farrul fraying more than ever before. While they held a bond, a special connection forged through their loyalty to one another and their mutual survival, it was, in the end, just that—a product of their shared circumstances.
Farrul wanted nothing to do with the woes of Thraíha culture. He was still preoccupied with his own internal demons, seeking a different way out.
“So long, Nickel,” he said, clasping Nickel’s hand as he prepared to leave with his band of bandits and technicians. “I hope we meet again,” he muttered. “And I hope that both of us make it through Hedonim. Maybe we’ll see each other on the other side.”
Nickel murmured agreement, wishing Farrul farewell. As his hand slipped from Nickel’s grip, he felt as though he were losing a piece of his world—the world he had known for nearly a year. Farrul turned away, walking down the hill where trees with craggy leaves stood. He was heading back into the world of orange fog. Nickel wasn’t so sure he wanted to return to it himself. A deep sadness and pang of loss swept through his chest, weighing on his stomach as Farrul disappeared into the forest.
A conch blew in the distance, marking the start of the Thraíha’s long march. Nickel’s eyes widened, and he bolted in the opposite direction, rushing through the trees. Breaking through leaves and foliage, he stumbled into the clearing where he had last stood with the Thraíha.
A group of young women were about to board a long grizard-drawn circular carriage made of wood. Nickel had waited for the last conch to blow because he knew it would announce the departure of the last batch of Thraíha—including Kythria.
She looked bleary-eyed, throwing Nickel off as he stumbled into the clearing. Tear marks glistened on her face as she hugged the remaining Thraíha before stepping up onto the tree-stump leading into the wagon. Her friends were already seated inside, waiting for her to join them.
Talk to her! Nickel’s mind screamed. But she looked ready to leave. The conch blew again, this time in successive bursts, over and over, announcing the final departure. The grizard leashed to the carriage stomped its large, scaly legs and swerved its giant anvil-shaped head, its beady black almond eyes darting every which way.
Talk! Say goodbye!
Nickel was frozen in place, watching as Kythria stepped into the carriage. As she turned to sit down, her eyes met his. Frozen, unsure whether to speak or move toward her, he quickly looked away—and she did too, settling into the carriage, leaning against her friend’s shoulder, wiping tears from her face.
The conch blew continuously, an unceasing call, as the grizards were whipped into motion. They howled before breaking into a steady trot, carrying the Thraíha away and leaving a trailing wave of dust and dirt afloat in the air.
Nickel sighed, closing his eyes and lowering his head.
“Why don’t you go with them?” came a cool, austere voice.
Nickel looked up, frowning. He stared through the haze of floating dust without turning toward the direction the voice had come from.
“You won’t go with your friend Farrul into the depths of a computer hacking world because you don’t want to get lost in Hedonim, but you won’t go with the Thraíha,” the man said. “Even though they hold the lore and sites of a reality beyond what they call the Past World.”
Nickel’s eyes widened, and his frown deepened, but he still didn’t turn around, feeling a prickling sense of alarm and confusion. This man wasn’t a Thraíha. Then who was he, and how did he know so much about Nickel?
“Will you look at me,” the man said, taking a few steps closer, the crunch of leaves underfoot carrying through the air, “if I told you I am a disciple of the man you know as—Rishi?”
Nickel gasped, finally turning to face the stranger standing calmly behind him, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Prove it,” Nickel muttered, turning his whole body to face him fully.
The man was broad-built, dressed in robes like Rishi’s, but equipped with a utility belt and a strap of survival tools. His hands were gloved. His long black hair was tucked into a bun, and a long black beard flowed freely before him.
He watched Nickel, moving his fingers under the folds of his robes, pulling out an orb with a sigil, all the while keeping his eyes trained on Nickel.
Nickel stepped closer, his frown deepening. The man waved the orb in the air, revealing a circular sigil with a jagged line crossing it.
Nickel inhaled sharply. “He said to look for those with the sigil of his monastery.”
The man chuckled, returning the orb to the folds of his robe.
“Nickel, you’ve shown tremendous strength, bravery, and resilience. You’ve escaped the clutches of the Ether, first by accident, then by your own volition. That is a destiny not oft attained by men of your generation.”
“My name is Venkar, and I was the disciple of Rishi’s held hostage by the Thraíha. The Death Riders intercepted Rishi’s message and played the bluff with the computers in the Thraíha temple. It was meant for me, but you stumbled upon it instead. They captured you when they meant to capture me.”
“There are not many who know the ways of a Rishi, who wander the lands to watch nature and guard the sacred arts of human consciousness—not of a spirit world like the Thraíha, but of all the worlds that were and can be.”
“Then why won’t he teach me these ways?” Nickel asked. “I can’t live with the Ether! But I can’t leave my old life completely behind! I feel like I’m trapped between two completely different worlds!”
“Which is why I can show you another,” Venkar said, stepping closer. “One that people like me, an underground operation, are working to build. We are armed with a consciousness few hold, and we have been running covert missions in Hedonim. We are the only people outside of the Technocracy who can pass between Realms. And for that reason, we are hunted.”
“But you know the ways of the Rishi,” Nickel said.
“Our group’s founders, and myself included, were taught by Rishis. But our work is more political. We’re trying to subvert the hold of the Ether Realms on the world.”
“Then count me in,” Nickel said, holding out his hand to shake Venkar’s.
“I’m warning you,” Venkar said, eyeing Nickel. “You will be hunted.”
“I don’t think I have any other real choice,” Nickel said, keeping his palm out.
Venkar watched him silently, unmoving, his cold and calculating expression unwavering.
Nickel kept his hand out, waiting for Venkar’s response.
Finally, Venkar reached out, clasping Nickel’s hand tightly and shaking it firmly.
G.R. Nanda 