The aftermath of magic’s death
Was quiet, dour, grim.
The once-proud zebras now had lost
All vigor and all vim.
Their medicine, defensive spells,
Talks with their family tree:
A small selection this was of
What could no longer be.
The gulf that kept the tribes apart
Had only ever grown.
An isolation crossed the plains
That none had ever known.
The only good that one could claim:
No longer did they fight.
There were no spells for fighters hurt
That could set wounds aright.
Yet this was but a comfort small,
A trifling consequence.
Against outsiders, bandits, thieves,
They now had no defense.
Their magic had once been the way
Their land had been secured
And without magic, safety now
Could never be assured.
The aftermath of magic’s loss
Upended Maele’s tribe.
Their chief, and many of her heirs,
Had in that battle died.
They picked apart their bloodlines,
Finding who’d they follow now.
And by her rank, Kiburi was
The best one to endow.
Her mother once had been the second
Ranked within the tribe;
Inheritance now said to her
All power was ascribed.
Kiburi, though, had never planned
On being the tribe’s head.
She’d thought that ’fore this came to pass
She’d be, more likely, dead.
And so she’d never given thought
To skills of leadership.
And that was why, once she was chief,
She was so ill-equipped.
She only watched out for herself
Upon the battlefield.
To manage an entire clan
Was very far afield.
It was to her a struggle great
To rule well every day.
Mistakes still slowly piled up;
Her strength was chipped away.
And Maele should have seen the stress
As it ate at her friend.
But she had other tasks with which
She was forced to contend.
As all her shamare skills were gone,
She had to start anew.
She vowed to learn whatever skills
For what she had to do.
She talked with zebras of all castes
And learned all that she could.
She wasn’t quite so strong again,
But her progress was good.
Repairing tents, preparing food,
And sharpening old swords.
She did all tasks that needed her
And never was she forced.
She saw Kiburi’s struggles great
And offered her some aid.
But with her mother’s death still raw,
Kiburi turned away.
Their outlook was a gloomy one
As they trudged ever on.
And yet more shakeups to their life
Were not in coming long.
One day, some unknown people crossed
The tribe as they did roam.
They looked like zebras with few stripes;
They were as quaggas known.
These equines came from further south
But never had encroached
On zebra lands, for if they did,
They’d earn a strong reproach.
But without magic, things had changed;
They came and went at will.
And with this ease, some quaggas saw
Some greater chances still.
Kiburi just ignored this group
Until it was too late.
The quaggas circled all the tribe
And brandished spears ornate.
The zebra tribes still had much wealth
Some quaggas did desire
And if they turned to banditry
That wealth they could acquire.
The quaggas ordered woven robes
Be given unto them.
Outmatched, the zebras did just that
Along with some few gems.
Though Maele pleaded with the thieves
To leave some for the young,
The bandits simply laughed and left them
Standing in the sun.
The plains were very cold that night;
All had some comfort lost.
But none of them had lost their lives;
They thought it a small cost.
Kiburi ordered Maele never
Interfere again.
For had the bandits been more violent,
What would happen then?
She also said they could attack
Foes taken unawares.
Then Maele did concede these points
And hoped this day was rare.
But soon more stories trickled in
From all around the plains.
More bandits were seen in the land,
Conducting further raids.
The zebras were defenceless now
And seen as easy prey.
They had no magic, tribes were small,
And it would stay that way.
So quagga bands did often merge,
Outnumbering most clans.
Through numbers only, they’d defeat
Most tribes across the land.
A single bandit group could beat
Most any tribe they met.
And when the zebras e’er fought back,
All sides were soon beset.
Some quaggas were not satisfied
By things the zebras gave.
They slapped on zebras fetters strong,
Collecting them as slaves.
And so a game of cat and mouse
Was played across the land
As quaggas hunted zebras down
And zebras hid their clans.
But bit by bit and drop by drop,
The zebras were bled dry
And slowly did their death approach
Beneath the bright blue sky.
Against this turmoil, Maele still
Did throw herself at work.
She would be useful, she had vowed;
No effort would she shirk.
As Maele learned survival skills,
She saw their zebras few.
“There’s strength in numbers,” she recalled,
And thought up something new.
The tribes still kept a distance great
Between them at most times.
The old ways said, “That’s how it’s done.”
But those old ways had died.
So Maele thought, what harm could come
If two small tribes combined?
Against the quaggas’ pillaging.
All zebras were aligned.
And more than once did Maele meet
A tribe left gutted clean,
Its zebras hanging on by threads.
Such wrecks she’d never seen.
And time and time again she begged
Kiburi take them in.
“We cannot leave! They need our help!
Those zebras are our kin!”
To the old ways, Kiburi clung,
Rejecting Maele’s words.
“Those refugees would slow us down.
I’m sheltering this herd.”
The friendship that once been so strong
Did finally seem to fray.
To reconcile their separate views,
There simply was no way.
It never blossomed into hate
But still their friendship died.
The other’s way of doing things,
They never could abide.
Yes, this was how the zebras lived;
They’d fallen in but weeks.
With strength so quickly stripped away,
The once-proud now were meek.
In their own lands, they found themselves
The lowest of the low.
But soon another change would shake
This grim new status quo.