“What’s happening?” Jaga asks, eyes wide open in awe.
“Soul threshing,” I explain. “Wait here. I must help.”
The longer they are trapped in the Well of Souls, the more they will suffer. I let Jaga to her feet and transport myself in a flash of darkness to the second pillar, twin to Nyja’s. These are ancient constructs, runes and blessings carved into their black, polished surfaces. They are what brought the souls here, the magic infused in the pillars an irresistible attraction for the departed.
I raise my arms, letting my magic shine through. I am the Father, the Maker, the one who breathed life into first mortals. My power curls around me, bright silver shot with green, darkness slithering around the edges and promising peace.
“Come to me,”I call, not with words but with spirit.“Come home, little souls. Come rest.”
More and more birds tear off from Nyja’s whirlwind, lessening her load. They hesitate, circling over my head, until finally, a tiny little bird, a nawka of a child not yet born, floats down and sits on my finger, its miniscule claws barely scraping my skin.
“Welcome home, little one.”
I send it back to the level where youngest nawkas live. Nyja’s helpers will take things from here, coaxing the little bird to take the form of a child if it so chooses. It will have friends soon, infinite fields and forests to play in, and maybe the halls of Nyja’s academy where she schools her warriors. It will stay as long as it wants and do as it pleases.
More birds flock to me, encouraged by the first brave little soul. Soon, I’m covered in them, welcoming each one, the echo of my creative breath present in every frantic heartbeat.Though… Not every one. I don’t recognize the brush of magic in one bird, then in another, but there’s no time to dwell on it. With so many souls coming through at once, it’s impossible to focus.
I send them all through, until finally, the Well clears, only about fifty birds remaining. They are calmer now, with more space to fly in, less frantic energy from so many beings trapped together at once.
Finally, I have time to think. I don’t like what I come up with, but it’s the only reasonable explanation.
Someone murdered a large number of mortals at once to overwhelm us. It was done on purpose.
“Nyja, I’ll finish here. Take your best and scout the skies. This was a diversion.”
She hisses, baring her teeth. “You’re right. Those bastards!”
She turns into a flock of wrens, briefly confusing the remaining souls. They calm down as soon as Nyja disappears, and come floating down to me in pairs and threes, until none are left.
I shake off the feathers, close my eyes, and step through shadows to stand back at Jaga’s side. She didn’t move an inch as I worked, watching the spectacle with parted lips.
Now, her bright eyes snap to me, one green, one purple. She’s speechless, searching my face with confusion, maybe frustration.
“What’s the problem, sweetheart?”
She huffs and looks away, her jaw jutting out, and for a moment, she is my Jaga, the passionate, innocent being not yet crushed by my betrayal and being buried alive.
“Is that what happens?” she asks, incredulous and angry. “After we die. Is that what happens?”
A lonely trill comes floating from above, echoing against the stone shaft of the Well. I smile.
“No. Usually, neither I nor Nyja have to come in person. The pillars do the job. Watch.”
The soul flies into the cavern through the wide opening in the ceiling. It’s a large, dappled bird, a bit smaller than a buzzard. It circles for a moment, then settles on Nyja’s pillar. I blink, and it’s gone, sent to its rightful place in the underworld.
“We come out only when there are too many souls at once. They get scared, lost and confused in the crowd. Normally, it’s a steady trickle throughout the day and night. They fly in, called to us by the magic in the pillars. What you saw doesn’t happen often. And almost never with so many nawkas at once.”
She takes a step back, looking around with wide eyes. The Well of Souls is an enormous cavern, tall and wide, and unadorned. Its walls are made of hewn rock, the floor cold stone. It’s empty save for the two pillars and clusters of floating orbs filled with white light. This space is raw and ancient, reflecting the nature of death itself.
“You said someone did it on purpose. Killed… how many pregnant women?”
“Over five hundred,” I say, my heart heavy. “It wasn’t done by mortals. Last I checked, no one was corralling pregnant women for slaughter. No, it was done by someone who has the ability to move fast in the mortal world, covering many villages and towns at once. It was done by gods.”
She shakes her head, anger flashing in her eyes. My chest bubbles with elation, separate from the anxious worry about this new scheme. This is my Jaga, furious and outraged on behalf of the weak.
“But why?” she explodes. “Why pregnant women? If they had to kill someone, why not choose, I don’t know, some scumbags who don’t deserve to live?”
I bite back my smile. “Is that how you would have done it? If you wanted to overwhelm the god of the underworld with aninflux of souls, would you have picked out hundreds of scumbags and slaughtered them?”
