A'vin

*"What we leave unsung will haunt the silence we leave behind."*

I recall the details of the times before. Those are songs already sung, and their refrain etched deeply into my chorus, but my variation is still yet budding. Who knows what Ithun will want to hear in my time?

My composer is well known in the Tribe of Discordants. They are descended from the Star Wanderers who first were sent to Ithun to cultivate their voice, so it is spoken at the gatherings. At every gathering. Unending. Like the Song of Gods itself. Our ancestors were once trapped in the waters, though to say “trapped” is sacrilege. To hear the Listeners’ speak, leaving the waters was a mistake and not a great gift given to us by the Mother. (Yes, we know of mothers, though we have none of our own.) She is the first, made whole and mighty by the Song of Gods, and from her, we came forth, neither mother nor father but pure music. So the shamans and their disciples say. So should I say according to my place.

I was laid, along with my siblings, in the Shallows where the magma is warmest. My composer was insistent we should hatch strong and perfect, a perfect copy, as our lineage was planned and played by Ithun herself. It is their belief that all their offspring should become a shaman also, as that is what we have been, and that is what we should be. So, I have followed that path, though it has led me to places I did not wish to go. For our families are not like yours. We do not arrive innocent and coddled. We are sung to in the shell, our entire lifesong sung to us, mapped out in enveloping crescendos and decrescendos that crash like the waves that keep us, so when we are burst from the confines of our birthing, we are reborn into the confines of our destiny. We receive no name until we understand the purpose of our lifesong.

When we went on our first pilgrimage to the temple on land, I was awed by the brightness, the drying catch of wind on the skin where it crackled and burned, the echoing chatter of a million different sounds I had never caught before. And the trees! Oh the trees, that reach and clutch so desperately at the sky, as if it too was trying to escape the bonds of its shackled path. That was my impression of the world above us. Yet, when our elder led us to the temple, they railed against the temptation of the world above. They chastised their steadying loss of Ithun’s blessings, blaming the sink of their cities, the pollution of their Shallows, to their loss of devotion and dedication to the Song. Outwardly, I hummed softly with my choir, adding to the dramatic wailing of the elder. Inwardly, I questioned why Ithun had given her authority to a fool. Wasn’t it the elders bent on diving to Ithun’s heart the real reason they suffered under the weight of the sun or abandoned their mission posts to live free beyond the grasps of Sirens? I did not have long to ponder these things. The day my doubts began to creep in, so did the ones from the sky slither onto the Mother.

The Sirens gathered us together in the darkest cave. The sky ones, who call themselves “humans” (harsh against the tongue, and sharded in discordant notes) could not follow us into the depths. Some tried to call out to us, but they did not sing our song and did not seem to want to listen. The Sirens were uncertain if perhaps they themselves were too frightening. Their scales and talons, fins sharpened to needle points, heads adorned in bones, were formidable in presence as they ought to be. The Havroids too feared us in the beginning. So, they decided they should send the Shamans with their Havroid companions. For who could fear a Havroid that was the epitome of peace?

Our siblings approached them. Their weapons, different from our own, eyed us, but their eyes were full of curiosity. An elder tried to sing to them, confidant, their shrill voice pierced the sky with conviction. They gestured at the Havroids to approach with their offerings. Ami, a dear one who cultivated the glow flowers mounted to its back, reached them first, raising her forelimb high behind herself to grip a few stems to proffer. The humans opened fire. At first, the stars hit like stones, since we were all accustomed to the bite and crunch of fire. But even the Havroids, who heal and whose hearts are full of purity of soul, could not withstand the barrage of hate. She was torn apart, and her mate, Javin, did as his people do and went to retrieve her memories so their clutch at home would not lose their mother’s memory. But he too was destroyed, the humans’ faces awash with disgust. How could they kill the peace lovers?! The Havroids, in pairs, in desperate ignorance, swerved forward to gather up the fallen’s memories so that they might be preserved within their tribes, while the elders ran to shield them. Calling on Ithun, they called on the Turuk trees to come and the vines to grow, life to fight death. But death is overpowering at times. I could not save them. My choir fled back in horror as the soldiers swarmed towards us. I called upon Ithun as well, but all she could do was draw me into her earth and cradle me as I listened to the dying screams of the worshippers and peacemakers. When the silence came, I at last understood the beauty of the Song of Gods, for it filled the hollow quiet as I struggled not to weep. I could not afford to lose my water.

Sirens came to dig me free. They had heard the cacophony of agony rippling through the ground, to the water, calling them forward. They’d saved some of the choir, a single elder, but we lost all of the Havroids. They lay scattered and trampled into the ground, their purple blood no longer quivering with bright purple light, but instead as dull black blobs. Their memories were lost. Their clutch would never know who they were meant to be or know the places and people they had come from. Humans were strewn, torn and seeping, like lost sheafs of parchment paper of a song not well written. I was taken back to the temple in the waves, and I was forced to sing of the things I had witnessed.

I visited Ami and Javin’s clutch. They lay like pink jewels, damp but perfect. They pulsed with a shade of purple light that would never darken, would never relive the pasts of their composers. Yes, perhaps some Havroid with no young might sacrifice themselves to these little ones, but it would never be the same. Their colors would morph, their destiny thwarted, their songs irrevocably changed. I wondered why Ithun had saved me, I who had wavered in my faith. Was this my fault? Had doubt rung so clearly in me that these others had to pay the price? I rose, renewed, invigorated, faith like a talon and shell. I would not fail again. For my name is A’vin, servant of Ithun, my faith and my rage is my lifesong.