Turning Kudra: A Chant for Two Voices
(Adapted from Ketlo: the life of a kudra)
I have raged twice in my life.
We are a race of pretenders; believing that if we wish hard enough we might become something we are not. We cannot do otherwise but we must understand that we are not yet that which we hope to become.
I was five the first time.
When a kuna turns it is because something has gone wrong in his head. Long ago our race was magically altered so that we would not feel the hatreds we were created with. The hatreds were not removed, only buried.
It was at the Great Games.
It’s not a conscious decision. Nor is it a matter of control. Most kudra are never tempted to be other than polite, restrained, and well mannered. In most ways we are still kuna.
I was competing with my age bracket in the foot races.
A kudra never rages except under great stress and only in the presence of non-Ansharok. Even in the midst of his insanity, a kudra will never attack his own people.
I was fast.
Nor do kudra automatically rage at non-Ansharok. There is merely the possibility that this may happen. Most kudra rage only once, perhaps twice, in their lives.
Not fast enough.
Whatever it is that causes the kudra to be the way we are passes from parent to child. For this reason, kudra are forbidden to have children. The parents of a kudra are not allowed to have more. The siblings of kudra are looked upon with suspicion.
I lost to a genasi.
Kudra are considered lesser citizens. We are dishonored. We must defer to kuna in all things. We must wear a band of black cloth on our heads both so that we may be reminded of our limitations and to serve as a warning to others.
She teased me.
I was asked once what it feels like to be kudra. This is an idiotic question. What does it feel like to be male? To be female? To be of any race? How does it feel to be me? I feel no different than when I was labeled a kuna.
I teased back.
The vedra never had the magical blocks put on their race. They do not have the rage. When they encounter a non-Ansharok, they take him captive and torture him for a year and a day. If I were a non-Ansharok given the choice to face a kudra in rage or a vedra, I would choose the kudra.
She pushed me.
There is a moment between sanity and blind rage when a kudra realizes what is going to happen. He hears a sound deep in the back of his head, like the opening of a jar of preserves. A quiet, unassuming, “pop.”
I pushed back.
A ball of white-hot fury forms in the chest and spreads like a fever throughout the body. Yet, in the midst of this, there remains a tiny place of utter calm.
She punched me.
There is a voice that speaks to a kudra from the calm, watching and directing. Punch . Duck. Grab her head. Twist. Here come more. Kick. He’s down. Good. Kick again and again and again. Duck. She’s behind you, swing elbow back into her throat. Still breathing? Not for long. Duck again. Step aside. Trip. Kick some more.
There was shouting and screaming but it was far away from me; I was listening to the voice.
It’s impossible to predict who will turn kudra and who will not. We know the circumstances. The safest bet is to never be rude to a kuna. Never give him reason to become that despised reminder of our brutal past.
An adult had his arms around me. I was surrounded by Ansharok. I blinked. I ceased to struggle. The adult released me. Realization hit. I collapsed to me knees, arms wrapped about myself, shivering. I had turned.
Ketlo: the life of a kudra
(excerpts)
I turned kudra when I was five. I killed four genasi children and a kobold adult who had tried to intervene. I remember the fight very clearly but as though it had happened to someone else. That’s the way of the rage; it’s not you who is breaking necks and cracking skulls and yet it is.
I was given the black cloth to wear. My parents were forbidden to have any more children and so I have only one older sister. Under the law, I may never have children of my own.
My father began to beat me and tell me I was a beast, a monster, an animal. He called me a vedra once. My mother watched and said nothing.
When the neighbors saw my bruises they assumed I had been fighting with others my age and so banned their children from playing with me.
I took to roaming the woods. I bonded with a vor, a large hunting cat, something like your tigers. She taught me to hunt.
When I was eight she convinced me to run away. To leave the people behind who did not love me and to live in the wild with her. I agreed.
We wandered the forests and I became, as the years passed, more and more feral. In my mind I thought of myself as an animal. A beast, a monster. I made companions of other beasts and we hunted together, eating of the raw and bloody flesh of our kills side by side. I threw aside the clothes that marked me as one of them, keeping only a sheath for my knife and the black headband. The mark of a kuna animal.
It was over the carcass of my latest kill that I first met Pikyu. I think I was nineteen. I didn’t keep track of such things then and it’s difficult to count the days looking back.
His movement was a mere flicker at the edge of my sight but I sprang to protect my kill, knife raised. The Ansharok stepped out before me and from his dress I could tell he was not kuna. Kuna do not dress in the skins of other races.
If I had been in my right mind I would have fled, as would any kuna. But I was not in my right mind and I was not kuna. He stepped closer and I raised my knife higher and began to growl. He smiled and raised a bow. I signaled my companions to attack but I never saw the outcome of this; the last I remember was the arrow speeding in my direction.
Not all vedra kill every kuna on sight. The tribes that protect the Orma and Fot temples will usually turn kuna away with a few warning shots. Sometimes they will take kudra into their tribes and sometimes they will not.
I awoke to find myself lying in a tent of animal hides, tied hand and foot. I began to gnaw my way through the ropes. I had not gotten very far when Pikyu returned. He spoke to me but I did not understand his language. He sighed, pointed to me, and said, “kudra.” He then pointed to himself, repeated the word, and added “vedra.” I understood. This kudra had turned vedra. He pointed once more to me and asked, “vedra?”
In an ironic twist of fate, it was the vedra who taught me to be civilized again. When I refused to wear the skins of other races, they taught me how to cure and tan hides so that I could wear the skins of my kills instead. Pikyu taught me the language of his people and he taught me the magic of the transitioner as well. They also taught me about fear and torture.
Despite the words of my father I came to realize that just as I am not wholly kuna, nor am I wholly vedra. I am kudra. I am myself.
After six years, I left the vedra to return to my forests.
Though I was not one of them, I think they had a soft spot for me; they allowed me to live on their borders and, on occasion, to visit their campfires. This was a good time. I had finally found peace in myself. I even visited kuna cities from time to time, content to bear the gawks and stares that followed me.
This bliss ended with the invasion.
We had heard rumors of them from refugees fleeing the great wars in the north. They hit the golem and genasi territories first, wreaking havoc and destruction. Their armies were sweeping in, hoping to crush the forest elves between them.
Now they had come to our lands as well.
The invaders had landed on the eastern borders of the kuna and had begun to push steadily westward, spreading southward into the vedra territories as well.
I fought for three years in guerilla actions, leading raiding parties behind their lines, and scouting for both the kuna and the vedra. Though the kuna and the vedra shared supplies, weapons, and information, neither would cross the other’s borders to lend the aid of their armies.
The vedra died in droves; most of the Fot temple tribes were wiped out. Vedra do not surrender. They fight and they die. Even their women and their children will die rather than give in.
The kuna are not so intent on death. Though they fought ferociously to protect their lands, they slowly gave way to the inevitable. The invaders were slowly pushing us back.
We had learned of an enemy supply depot that would be temporarily weakened while the invaders repositioned some of their armies. I volunteered to lead a small team to find and destroy the depot.
It was a trap.
We found ourselves surrounded by archers with the twang of string, the hiss of the arrows, and the fall of a comrade the only clues we had to their hiding spots. I had just triangulated the position of one of them when I heard the death yelp of my vor companion.
The soft pop of air. The rising pit of rage. The voice. Leap into the tree. Good. Break his neck. Leap to the next tree. Careful there’s two here. Push one out and knife the other. The one on the ground is still alive. Throw the knife. Jump to the next tree. On and on but there were too many of them.
I was kicked awake.
“We know you understand our language so don’t fake like you don’t. Commander wants your name.”
I opened my eyes and saw two of the invaders, the one who had kicked me and one standing behind him, arms crossed. I continued to stare at the two, silent. The subordinate kicked me again. “Your name!”
The name given to me at birth was Ritter, meaning starlight. It is the custom of the kuna to choose a new name when they reach the age of maturity at seventeen. There is a grand ceremony followed by much celebration and merrymaking. I never chose a new name for myself.
The vedra called me Azik, little ghost brother. The kuna called me Ketlo, a kind of play on words in their language. Kethlow, ferocious beast. Et’l, shy boy. I didn’t care; I didn’t call myself by any name and neither did my hunting companions.
I shrugged.
The subordinate brought his foot back to kick me again but the commander raised his hand and the soldier subsided. “This is the one who killed eight of our archers?” When the soldier nodded the commander frowned for a moment before saying, “Then this must be the one we’ve been looking for.” He turned to me and asked, “You are the one who leads both man and beast? The one known as Ketlo?”
Ketlo. Beastboy. I nodded. “That is me.”