shrieks of incredible agony
Were mingled with growls and ululations of savage triumph;
And it felt as though the entire city was pitching
On waves of fantastic proportions.
Amarava leapt off her floating mat, at the same time calling
To her short green skirt of a second-class citizen,
To wrap itself around her hips.
The apparently living cloth obeyed
And the red girl leapt through the door of her hut,
Only to leap back with greater speed
As a heavy spear from a snarling Bjaauni female
Hummed past her head and rebounded with a clash
From the polished silver wall of her hut.
A mob of ferocious Bjaauni came running towards her hut,
Brandishing bloody axes and swords,
And the prostrate girl with horror noticed
That each one was messing around with an Amarire head.
These they threw like stones at those
Who were trying to escape on their flying mats;
None of the missiles was missing its target
And with screams they plunged back to earth.
Even before they reached the ground
They were impaled on awaiting spears.
A huge Bjaauni, whose body was criss-crossed with many scars
From countless death duels in Za-Ha-Rrellel’s arenas,
And who seemed to be the leader of the mob
Reached the crouching, terrified Amarava first.
He seized her by one leg and lifted her up
Like a small boy would lift a mouse by its tail,
And was about to plunge his sword through her body
When a blinding flash of unearthly silver light
And a shattering, glittering voice rang out from nowhere:
‘No, not her! Put that female down!’
Slowly the hulking savage
Laid Amarava down on the floor
And fell on his horny knees before
The awful silvery apparition
Dominantly towering over him.
The rest of the Bjaauni mob
Fled to the centre of the city
To seek more victims to butcher.
When her vision returned Amarava saw
The most terrifying sight of her life;
Towering above her prostrate form was a luminous silvery giantess,
Standing higher than the highest towers of the city—
The doomed city of Amak-Harabeti.
This giantess looked down at her,
And also the prostrate Bjaauni male,
With flashing golden eyes from which
A strange pity seemed to radiate.
Four heavy emerald-tipped breasts quivered
As she opened her mouth and spoke:
‘All, all are doomed to die, oh Amarava—
But I shall see to it that you are spared!’
‘Who – who are you?’ gasped the breathless Amarava.
‘I am Ninavanhu-Ma, the First Goddess
The wife of the Tree of Life.’
Amarava sprang to her feet and leapt
Over the grovelling Bjaauni who was moaning with fear—
With his ugly face buried in his hands;
‘Ma! Mother of Men! Great Goddess—
So the legends are right – all along they’ve been right!’
Shrieked the Amarire girl with tears in her eyes,
‘Forgive, oh forgive our sacrilege, Great One,
Forgive, oh forgive and spare thy misled children,
Spare the misguided Amarire! Spare us, oh Goddess!’
Crystal tears welled from the golden eyes of the Great Mother Ma
And fell like raindrops on the bloodstained street of the dying city.
A sob shook her tall silver form, and slowly,
As if struck by some deadly unseen missile,
The Goddess sagged to the ground.
Above her lightning ripped like flaming assegais
Through the growling rain-pregnant clouds,
And a howling wind roared through the golden streets
On which lay scattered dead bodies – in heaps,
Like fish in a fisherman’s boat.
The Great Goddess knelt before the startled girl—
A shimmering form of living silver that reflected the golden domes
Of the doomed city like in a mirror of bronze
Or a pool in the bowls of some deep forest.
Her radiant hands clasped the puny Amarava
And she writhed and cried out in agony;
Then with the tip of a silvery finger
She touched both the nipples of Amarava’s breasts.
She caressed her hips, and then lifting her up,
Kissed
