v-ragies

by Cristiano Cardone

The waters of the dead give life back to the clouds in a verdant reflection.

The neural connection with the ghost pulses with intensity, ready for activation through my horned tiara. My father watches me emerge from the trapezoidal staircase, the sanctuary steps dark as obsidian in his eyes. Some of my brothers wait with crossed arms, fiddling with the tools reachable from their belts. Even some village elders show interest in the ritual's outcome, their cataract-filled eyes following the patterns of their implanted chips; dry lips muttering stories of timeworn legacy. Reaching the ground level, the cold evening grass tells of the time spent during my prayer while my father raises a stiff hand—a gesture serving as a witness to words.
«Priestess, did you speak with the ghost of the dead? Did the artifacts and prayers work?»
«The waters have granted me the vision.»
A nod made the black tips of his beard sway, and the prosthesis of his left hand lit up to show the map of the meeting place.
«Good, they are waiting for us to receive the blessing of the last tomb.»
I glance back at the vestibule behind me, the bronze light adorning the staircase and descending into the underground chamber towards the water source. Some brothers jostle; one returns to the goat pen, teak whip resting in hand. I walk towards my father, my bare stomach tightening with tension. I will not feel the night much longer.

The arched stele of the “tomb of the many” was imposing, the frowning gaze of those present falling on the spot where I was expected, a clearing at the intersection of torchlight. A small smile was the first thing painted on my lips, extending into an arc as I saw the young virgins accompanied by their mothers. The young ones had their hair cut and tied into small irregular tufts by filament circuits. Bluish sparks lit their heads in brief crowns. The firmness of their gaze tested the spirits of those future men as they heard the electric crackle of their headgear at random intervals. Each carried oblong swords in the palm of their hands, their hilts gleaming with natural figures: the deer, the bull, the goat. They looked at me with expectation, their steps uncertain, but their teeth clenched at every eyelid tremor.
«Here we are in Goronna, where the best of us are in communion with the true source of the waters. The waters grant wisdom, life, and death. The waters surround us, and to them, we shall return; our skin cannot defy the eternal erosion that will carry us to the depths. Today, we give thanks to the waters for not engulfing us, for granting us new life, and for commerce. But beyond the waters, there is also the enemy; we pray they protect us from all harm».

In the longitudinal apsidal section, the minor handmaidens began their chant, kneeling and blindfolded. They wore milky tunics that draped over their figures like sheets. Only at the neck did their garments tighten. With each note produced, the color of their capes grew lighter until their bodies became invisible. Those floating heads were each positioned in front of a stone, the bionic eye attached to the blindfolds as a reminder to respect the dead. The eyes were sacred, containers of vitreous fluid, the water through which the world was seen. One could not use their own eyes in the presence of the ghost of the dead.

«Come closer, Priestess Mallena.»

I turned, and one of the warriors handed my father a still-hot ceramic vessel. From it, fumes rose to repel insect swarms. He grasped it with his mechanical hand.

«With this precious metal, you will adorn yourself, painting the coordinates on your face to summon the ghost of the dead. If your neural link is solid, you will feel no pain, and the green of the underworld will shine within you. Now, men, it is time to turn away; it is up to the young ones to delimit the extension network of the ghost. Let us awaken and delineate the underworld with bronze.»

I sat cross-legged before my father in the last patch of earth before the wall. I could feel my heartbeat reverberating in the boys' oblong weapons, their hearts no less agitated. Careful to leave enough space between my arms and legs, holding my breath, I prepared to activate the connection with the ghost. The swords were thrust into the ground, the blades like rays sprouting from the spaces between my thighs, arms, and feet. Link completed.

What I feel is the ghost’s voice, projected beyond the cortex and grazing my cerebellum, commanding me to perform a sacrificial mutilation. I know this is the ghost’s preferred offering, the most excellent demonstration of loyalty, which also entails my departure and the loss of another priestess for the village. I have trained for this, and I cannot allow it. Despite the promises of transforming into a goddess and the shivers of pure joy that throwing myself onto the votive swords would give me, I remain conscious. The true function of those blades is to test my will.

I regain my senses, feeling the viridescent shadow take form from my belly, stretching and towering over me, projecting itself onto the tomb door with its four arms. Its four vigilant, unmoving, and deep eyes serve as a warning to all those adjacent to the ritual. From the corner of my eye, I see some of the busy women to my right. Their wounded and calloused hands place the effigies of the warriors on the hill, along with statuettes forged by their men from precious metal. To my left, the infertile women clutch artifacts from which cables and bronze jacks emerge, symbols of everything that has had value for them. Only those with metal prostheses stand before me, confident that their limbs can echo my command to the dead. The entire village seems to want to offer their wishes in hopes of a positive omen. The ritual space is devoid of men. My consciousness is protected by the tiara, its lugubrious mechanism extending with the ghost. The two horns transform into the gods: one elongates, towering above the other with a sharp bull's tip; the other branches out, growing into right-angle branches to honor the stag god’s antlers. Those horns were the motherboard; the hardware developed thanks to the sacrifice of many priestesses before me to connect the ghost’s signal to the voice of the living. The steaming bowl before me has lost its heat, and with my fingertips, I dip into the sacred liquid and paint the circles of the fathers, the ν-ragi, on my face. The floating handmaidens around me change their chant to harmonize triumphant notes; even the distant spectators seem ready for the resolution.

“Show me the future of our people.”

Suddenly, arched over me, all four arms of the ghost pointed forward, indicating the high probability of the prediction. The fingers transduce the ghost’s signal into my head, converting that energy and making me comprehend the terrible meaning. After this revelation, I feel the ghost detach from me in a disjunction that causes me to jolt, caught in the excitement of independence. It then disappears, entering the small opening in the stele, leaving behind silence and apprehension.

«There are wars greater than us; an insurmountable enemy will come to our island from the sea.» «The waters have gone to your head; you’ve misinterpreted the voice of the dead!»

I had finished bathing in the meeting hut before nightfall and had washed away the ceremony’s marks with lustral waters; now, the family hut seemed hostile to me. The plastered stones no longer represented a comfortable niche where one could sit sheltered from the weather; eyes lost in the holograms projected around the fire's flickers at the center of the room, the soft voice of a mother or willing brothers. Now, only my father’s shadow stood against it, eating away at that whiteness with the roughness of contours tempered by weather and toil. The metal hand smoked along with the loaf of bread it held, and the mechanical grip was used to extract food from the laser oven.

«The dead do not err; we must not lose the desire to speak with them. I am a priestess; I know what I am saying, Father.»

«3,500 years we have prospered on this island. Despite how the world has changed out there, we have managed to stay strong and keep the right connections. Your great-great-grandfather worked on building the EMP barrier that still protects the island. Your uncle Istèvene wired the anti-air neutrino system, which is still installed on the sacred ν-ragi. And I...»

My father turned that hand 360°, making the bronze fingers snap.

«...trusted them too much during my trades. The Carthaginians are unpredictable; do not forget how they tried to invade us. You were but a child when your brother Jacu had to draw the knife of bronze nanofilaments, and I had to throw several ultrasonic spears not far from where you established the neural link today.»

As he recalled the wartime past, his hairy arms tensed, and the black tips of his beard seemed to sharpen in the hut’s dim light.

«We are strong, but we are few, Mallena. If the enemy were indeed to penetrate all our defenses, if the Carthaginians were to land on our island, not even the sacred warriors could save us. Then that task would fall to the dead and the waters they command.»

Father placed the loaf of bread on the table next to the wall, making no sound as his large figure exited into the inner courtyard. He was a tired man; my words had brought restlessness to someone who only wanted to enjoy his hut. At every ritual, I could always catch a hint of satisfaction on his face. Perhaps some admiration could also be discerned from those curls; his family had the honor of producing a priestess. But, my mother had been very clear about the responsibilities that entailed, about the risks I ran with every contact with the waters and the ghost.

«Do you really think the Carthaginians might return?»

From the outer tent, Asile appeared, always with the usual half-smile and slightly raised eyebrow, as he usually started every conversation.

«I...I am certain I received the correct signal through the tiara; the ghost's fingers pointed beyond the green of the hill. They pointed to the sea.»

Asile placed the sack with the harvesting tools on the door sill, sighing heavily to release the day's stress from the fields. He was slimmer than my father but also many years younger and with lighter hair. His shoulders were those of a man, developed for the use of the vibrating scythe, but the rest of his body was still that of a boy.

«Mom is with Jacu by the goats. I hope they bring some milk; I've seen her milking since you completed the ritual. My arms are destroyed...»

«Doesn't that worry you?»

«I am not trained like Jacu; the most I can do is continue producing for the village. Father makes too much of it. The sacred warriors could defend us. There are some in the other villages. I mean – I've heard stories from the old blacksmith; he has traveled the whole island, you know? He says Jacu might even become one of them.»

«Do you even work? You neither came to the sacred well nor the tomb! When did you have time to waste listening to what old Uombro...»

The inability to enjoy family moments, small instances of satisfaction, and everyday life must be a characteristic of transitional times, where needs arise to block every thought and remind us what the desperate cry of the dead is: change.

She was beautiful, her soft features falling on a slightly prominent chin. Her eyes, though small, fell into the depth of the island's caves, framed by the sea green. Her eyebrows were arched in a wave that filled her petite forehead with some arcs of worry. Her brown hair described the movement to the inside of the hut, right on the threshold, where she leaned to embrace the doorposts and let her maternal bust protrude for a single message. I would have hurt that woman’s feelings.

«Someone has landed! That ship...I don't recognize it. They landed on the coast armed, but they haven't attacked us.»

My mother's words echoed in the courtyard where my father rested, but I was the first to head to the fields. The warmth of the hearth tore away from me, leaving just a hint of inner tranquility. The fire ceased to give me comfort and instead began to flicker in blood-red photons that illuminated the hillside: the LED torches erupted to signify the connection to the intranet defense system of each cluster of huts.

He did not have to speak, I noticed Jacu's presence on my own, right there a few meters from me. He was immersed in shadow, his back to me. The teak whip at his belt had been replaced by a carved bier, forced between the unforgiving press of his fingers. His shoulders towered over me and merged with the rumbling thoughts that shook my chest; his fury was a wind that beat where my voice was supposed to be born. The body of an indomitable herdsman hid his true being with a daily task, but from the inflexibility of his intentions, I understood why Uombro might consider him a future sacred warrior. He was poised, hips rotated as if ready to strike the first blow, eyes covered by multiparticle fiber glasses, the murderous pupils barely visible. The bristly hair was touched by the wind. His shoulders and back contracted; with a bite of the air, he unsheathed the blade and pointed it at the beach. The knife of nanofilaments cast a faint purple shadow in the massive night.

«There, look there. Remember that face, Mallena. Look who dared to set foot across a boundary and end all this peace.»

My eyes followed his directions, and it was easy to find the culprit. There, above a stretch of soft sand, a vessel was increasingly glowing, its golden light not casting beams in the dark but blinding if observed. Just ahead, away from the sails and bow, a figure looked boldly towards us. Helmet in hand, glory in his eyes. His armor shadowed and lit up, in a shapeshifting movement. It took on the appearance of increasingly different predators each time the waves broke the silence of that tension.

At that moment, I realized that our metal technology could do nothing anymore. The Bronze Age had long ended, and now the clash with reality gave us the violent backlash of backwardness.

*** “v-Ragies” is an Ethno-Futurist fiction based on a cyberpunk/occult Sardinia that never evolved from the bronze age but implemented magic to enchant their bronze technology. ***

Photo of Cristiano Cardone

BIO: Cristiano Cardone, born in Naples in 1997, has published two novels—Fecola di Neve and Etimasia. In 2019, he published his first comic, CFBT, a thriller cyberpunk trilogy. He is currently publishing short stories in Don’t Submit and Apocalypse Confidential, with more on the way. Another novel is slated for release in summer 2025.

Cardone earned his BS in Literature in 2019, then moved to Norway, where he completed an MS in Ibsen Studies in 2021. He is now finishing a second master’s degree in Library and Information Sciences at OsloMet