He felt their regard and lifted his head from where it had been resting on Take Root’s back. At first he was silent, letting it stretch out until it seemed as though each kin was holding their breath.
Then he spoke.
“We all die,” he began, “and though we are sad to lose our fellow kin at our side, we also celebrate. They have reached the next step of their journey. It is only a brief farewell until our own time comes, for we are but the blink of an eye to the MotherFather.” He took in a deep breath and released it. “Death comes for all,” he paused again, let his sentence sink and then, “or maybe it doesn’t.”
The listeners shuffled, their ears perked, rapt.
“Many, many years ago, when we were still below the earth, stretched out across the caves, in the dark, waiting, always waiting, there was a Zikwa whose true name is long forgotten to time. They had grown up alone, by accident of birth, there was no brood mother to greet them, no family. Only silence and darkness, and eventually, the cave worms. Their first emotion was fear, bitter and dark, like thorns in their soul.
They were already fully grown when they met their own kind, and at first, they were overjoyed to no longer be alone. Unfortunately it was not a feeling that would remain. They were different from the others. They saw death as terrifying, where their brethren saw it as a blessing. They could not believe in reincarnation, of becoming one with the MotherFather and all who had gone before.
‘There is only flesh and blood and bone,’ they argued and the other Zikwa smiled and shook their heads.
Each time a Zikwa died, they watched and listened and despaired, the song that others found joyous, made them sick. When the cave worms came, they shuddered, in revulsion, in terror. What was natural to us, to them was horrifying.”
The listening Zikwa looked troubled, some frowning, unable to comprehend such emotions from one of their own.
Buried Alive continued to weave his tale, passed down to him from his favourite broodmother, his voice hushed, heavy with sorrow.
“‘I will not die,’ they said and none listened for such a thing is impossible. We all die. That is the truest law of our world.
Yet still, they said, ‘I will not die. I will not become food for worms’.
And the others only smiled and shook their heads.
The darkness in their heart dug itself deeper, spread like a disease through every part of them, until they could barely stand to be around their own kin. There had to be a way, they would shout down the dark tunnels, some way to escape death, to escape fate. They were desperate and there are places, places we should rarely speak of, where the MotherFather’s touch does not reach.”
Everyone shifted uncomfortably, only breathing and world around interrupting their still silence. There are some things that should never be spoken of, whether they are truly real or not, and yet they must be shared as a warning to others.
Buried Alive was relentless.
“They left their kin. They could not go up, so they went down. They followed an invisible tug to their blackened heart, down, down, down. They skittered past the cave worms, fearing, always fearing. Down, down, down. They were old, so old now. Down, down, down. So tired, ready to rest but they cannot let go, not now. They will not die.
There is a darkness below, devouring.
They sunk down there, in that place and they uttered their final, defiant words, ‘I will not die’.
And then they did die.
Because we all die.
That is the law.
But in this place, this terrible place, they did not stay quite dead.
They rose again, resurrected by the darkness itself. Not as they were. Oh no. There is always a price. A price for breaking nature, for defying the MotherFather. They returned to this world as something we rarely speak of-”
“Dead and not dead,” the other Zikwa intoned.
The other kin in the huddle shuddered in unison.
“- a monster of the deep abyss-”
“May it never rise,” the other Zikwa chanted louder.
“May it never rise,” Buried Alive agreed softer.
Even in the aboveground, with the trees swaying and the stars above, the words sent the chill right down to their bones, as if it lurked beneath them now, ready to snatch them up.
Take Root spoke then, as Buried Alive seemed to have run out of voice. “The MotherFather allows us many lives and she allows us death. This is her gift. We must never abuse that gift, we must respect both life and death. None may return as they are, none may defy it without consequences and we must be vigilant. Those who smiled and shook their heads were too complacent and we will learn and remember, that is why this story is told.”
There were no more stories after that and very little sleep for anyone who had heard Buried Alive’s tale. But they all would remember and it's purpose was done