Treason Part One

History

 

 

Cold water dripped down through the leaves and hit he scrawny boy’s face and bare back.

He’d long since given up looking for any better shelter, satisfied that a few tattered banana fronds strewn over a few branches that had fallen across some rocks was the best he’d get.

He didn’t mind the cold, the wet, or the constant, gnawing, hunger that such berries, roots, and small rodents as he could find wouldn’t entirely chase away. He’d been that way for as long as he could remember. It was his lot, he figured, so why waste time hoping for better?

He watched as a man walked down the rough path. He smiled slightly. The man was a Tree Person, a citizen of Q’uahatemoc who lived in the trees. And Tree People, while they may not be the highest ranking members of society, were FAR better off than the Stinkards who were basically demigods when compared to people such as himself. He wasn’t even considered a person. People like himself were Non People.

The Non People lived on the forest floor, and were outcasts of society for various reasons. Some were murderers, some arsonists, some thieves, some rapists, and some, he cringed at he thought of the one he’d killed a few suns ago, some had been banished because they preferred children to grown women or men. And some, like himself, were simply born to Non People.

But even among the Non People, he was an outcast. They avoided him because he was vicious. He didn’t speak, just growled, hissed, and bit. They claimed he was closer to an animal than a person.

He crouched as the man approached.

The man was wearing a green kilt of the style that the Ancestors wore. His Egyptian ancestors.

The boy waited patiently for the Tree Person to get close. He could smell the man’s fear.

Tezcat Poca had never been this far from the trees. He’d been born and raised in Tenoch’tlan, nad had never been far from the gardens where he and his family had worked for generations. He was proud to be a farmer, and plied his trade as diligently as any craftsman. And while he wasn’t the wealthiest of the Jaguar clan, he was still a citizen, and that meant something. Namely that he didn’t have to travel on the forest floor.

The forest floor was the most disgusting and humiliating place to have to be. Only Non People lived here. People who were even lower on the social ladder than a leprous Mutant refugee.

"Disgusting," the man’s disdain was thinly veiled as he stepped a fallen log. That type of debris was never seen in Tenoch’tlan. The people there had more respect for themselves and their homes than to let debris pile up like that in the walkways.

The boy watched, fascinated. The man had a language he’d never heard before. It wasn’t snarls, growls, grunts, or gestures like the Mutants used. Nor was it snarls, growls, and mewling like those of the pack that had raised him. This was a civilized language. A spoken language.

The man was close enough for the boy to touch him.

Without warning, the boy launched himself at the unsuspecting traveler, and tore into him with a vicious growl.

The man’s screams were quickly silenced by the boy who stripped him of his belongings, then vanished into the dense jungle.

Soon, the boy found a quiet spot, and examined his spoils. There was the cloth that the man wore around his body. The boy sniffed it, tasted it, then tossed it aside. There was a knife. It was made of shiny stone that couldn’t be broken like his own could.

He buried his knife and kept he new one.

There were some shiny bits of stone in various shapes. They too, were cast aside.

"YOU!" a voice barked at him as a hand grabbed his shaggy, matted hair. "Follow."

He fought as the man dragged him. He hissed, growled, and bit, but all to no avail.

A large hand crashed against the side of his face. He fell face down in the mud, soaking wet.

Jaga sat up with a soft growl. He was soaked with sweat despite the chill night air.

Beside him, his wife, Q’elog was still sleeping. He looked down at her and smiled despite how unnerved he was by his dream. He touched her soft, graying, red hair. She was beautiful despite the fact that she was human. His large hand slid down her face and over the rough, uneven scars that she had received at the hand of her first owner.

Mozan had been cruel. Even for a mutant, he was cruel. He had thrown ligted lamp at Q’elog when she was small, and had laughed as she screamed in pain.

It was the first of a million reasons why Jaga hated the mutants. Anyone who harmed so innocent and delicate a creature as Q’elog didn’t deserve to live. Mozan was the first mutant that he’d ever killed.

Unable to sleep, he slipped out bed and went to the washroom for a shower and shave. For some reason, he growled. Was this REALLY what he’d become? Civilized? The soft rumble became a deep, rumbling snarl completed by bared fangs and narrowed eyes. He turned and stalked out of his room.

"Master?" Razoul bowed politely. "Have I offended?" He couldn’t remember seeing Lord Jaga in such a bad mood in all his years in the man’s service.

Jaga looked at Razoul. The taller man was definitely of the Lion clan, but was a slave in an Onca house. HE was big, brawny, burnished wheat in color, clean shaven, and bald.

"No, Razoul, you haven’t." Jaga shook his head slightly.

"But you are angry. Have I failed?"

"No, you haven’t. I’m just in a bad mood. Where is my razor?"

"I will find it."

Jaga dismissed Razoul with a wave, then went into the washroom. He’d laid out his uniform the night before. Now he was glad he had. He was tired of being a ThunderCat. True, they were a good lot, but they were a bit…tame. Too tame for his taste. They were, in his opinion, domesticated.

While he had no objections to Islam, he wondered if the entire planet converting to it was as good a thing as it seemed.

Ever since Islam had been adopted as the Thundera’s official religion, the planet had been at peace. There were no wars, virtually no hate, and crime was basically non-existent. The whole planet was peaceful and safe. The only problem, if anyone was asked, was that his territory still followed the Old Ways.

Q’uahatemoc was still an independent territory, and he had no intentions of changing that.

After he was clean and dressed, he studied his reflection.

"Your razor, Master."

"Thank you." Jaga took the razor and soap, and proceeded to shave.

Razoul, meanwhile set out his master’s things, wondering why he was up so early. While Lord Jaga was an early riser, this was early.

The lion shrugged. He was a slave, so what was it to him if what his master did? As he set out the required equipment, sword, knife, utility belt, etc., he wondered what would happen if his master ever decided to free him. He picked up the collar, pausing when he saw the Udjat inlaid in black enamel in the gold tag. It reminded him that the Renewal was drawing near.

Razoul bit his lip. The Renewal was a hallowed, week-long celebration in Q’auhatemoc. It occurred every fifty years, and was a special time for all Oncas and Jaguars. It symbolized a new beginning.

He liked the Year End celebration, and looked forward to the Renewal. It was supposed to be a spectacular event, especially on the Last Night. His only concern, however, was the Day of Freedom. It was the fourth day, and was when all slaves and servants were freed to honor the Ancients who had been prisoners, servants, or slaves of Humans.

Unlike Ammon, Razoul didn’t want to be freed. He enjoyed his place in his master’s home. Itw as by far better than anything he’d had in Nagada. And being in his master’s service was better than anything he could ever hope to get in Nagada as well. In his master’s house, he never went hungry, was never mistreated or abused, and, on occasion, was even allowed to visit his female friend when her master allowed it.

"Better," Jaga said as he walked out of the washroom.

Razoul’s eyebrows went up. His master had cut his hair and shaved. He looked like the Onca he was. "Your sword."

"Thank you," Jaga took his sword and put it in its scabbard. He slung it across his back. Properly shaved and cut, he was ready to begin his day as an Onca.

Razoul followed dutifully while Ammon grudgingly dragged himself along.

Ammon couldn’t wait to get back to Addys, his homeland. He eyed Jaga’s sword and swore that he wouldn’t leave the Low Lands empty handed. When he returned to Adys, he would have something that would make Lady Sheba VERY happy.

Razoul glanced at the Cheetah slave and decided to stay near his master. He didn’t fear for his own safety, he feared for his master’s. Ammon was, by far, more dangerous than even the most poisonous of serpents. He was, in Razoul’s opinion, a shomita waiting to strike.

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