The Devour
Amanda Nordstrom
Long ago, in the shadow of the hills near the Kendra Valley, there lived a creature that had no form, yet consumed everything it touched. Before the Reckoning Stone was inscribed to foretell the coming of the Emissary, and before the Prophets first breathed into the Orbs, the valley already existed and within it, mist and shadow dwelt. Over generations, it had been called by many names, when Bajorans fought other Bajorans, when families were divided, when brothers spilled the blood of brothers. Eventually, peace settled in the land, and the valley became known as Kendra - the Valley of Harmony.
In the valley, the descendents of warriors, those left behind when the battles raged and the blood soaked the valley floor, nourishing the verdant carpet that grew there, lived their lives, but somehow, a hollowness took seed. It implanted within the hearts of the residents, burrowed deep, quiet and unseen, and soon began to grow. Life, once filled with hope and meaning, soon became dull, and where joy once flourished, numbness took its place.
Over time, strange events occurred. Livestock disappeared without a trace. Not a cry was heard in the night, no evidence of a struggle. They simply vanished. Eventually, fields that had once been verdant and from which once sprang rich crops turned black and brittle, and eventually weeds choked the harvests. Orchards that once bore sweet, fragrant bounties, were soon overrun, their fruit stunted, and tasteless. In homes where once the joyous sounds of laughter could be heard, silence settled, and the night filled with the cries of children who had no cause. In the night, tools would rust, and in the hearths, fires refused to light.
It was the elders who first gave it a name. “D’vo’krel”. The unshaped hunger. The shapeless void.
“The Devour.”
D’vo’krel was never seen. Although some might claim it appeared like smoke which flew
against the wind. Others murmured of a glimmering heat in the air, as if light shimmered off of water. Still, some told of whispers heard in the night when it came. The stories shifted from storyteller to storyteller, but they all agreed on one thing - it consumed.
D’vro’kel did not eat. It did not taste flesh like Bajoran and beast did, nor did it feed on root or grain. Instead, it feasted on only that which could not be touched and fed on the unseen threads that tied the village together. Although it touched no walls, homes collapsed. Even though it struck no crops, the fruits did not yield. It was said that as the Devour passed through, one could feel it, not as cold or heat, but as a hollowness that left a gaping wound inside one’s chest, as if something precious had been carved out of their very being. Hope. Warmth. Community. Faith.
In response, the villages tried to fight against it. Lanterns lit every door in an effort to push back the darkness. Yet, the Devour continued to come, and each time, more was lost.
All suffered.
All, save one.
On the outskirts of the village stood a shrine, almost forgotten. It sat beside a small spring that bubbled happily beside it. Once, many had flocked to its shelter and passed through its doors to pay homage and pray to the prophets. Over the generations, fewer and fewer came. Now, the shrine was tended only by a single young woman, Selai, who was the daughter of an herbalist who had passed away several years prior. She was alone, for she had no mother, no siblings, and she spoke very little. Every day, however, she brought to the shrine offerings and songs to the Prophets. From her meager garden, she offered the best that she had. The first ripe fruit from the moba tree. The first blush of vegetables. From the wild field from which she gathered grain, she offered the first batch that she harvested.
More than this she gave without hesitation, for when she opened her mouth, she did offer the first sounds of her soul, tunes of joy that lifted up to the heavens. She would never speak, never utter a word from the moment she rose until she lay her offerings at the shrine and poured out her song.
Over the years had left many things at the shrine. The locket left by her deceased mother. The earring from her father. The first and best of anything traded to her, taking away from what was to be hers to give at the shrine. She did the same of her music, and every day she offered something new and joyous in its praise of her gods.
Her neighbours watched and shook their heads, ridiculing her, for they clung to what they had, unwilling to give up what was precious to them. They mocked that she would relinquish such precious things, both in value and in sentiment. They scoffed that she would use such talent and gift only to sing to beings who peered down at them but did little to aid, for the Prophets had not intervened when her father grew old and her mother grew sick and they perished. Yet, when the Devour came again, the village trembled and hid, but the spring continued to flow, and the shrine remained untouched. Selai was not afraid.
One night, D’vro’kel crept through the fields and found the girl, Selai, kneeling at the shrine. Pressing her hands upon the floor, she dipped her head. Once again she opened her mouth to sing and lift music up to the sky. Once again, she voiced a tune fashioned from her lips, something of her own. Once again, she carried words upon a melody. In them, she offered praise to the Prophets who were over all of Bajor. In them, she cried for their protection from all the sorrow that had come upon her village. In them, she offered all that she had, her harvest, her home, heart, even her life, if they would but save her people from the thing that haunted and consumed.
A wind blew as D’vro’kel came, and it swirled around her, intent on consuming the girl, her life and her soul. It opened its great maw and prepared to swallow her and draw her into its darkness, to feast upon her and her devotion. Then, around her, the air shimmered, and the Devour found its mouth closed, unable to take the girl, its hunger unsatiated. The girl sang on. Furious, it opened its mouth and lunged at Selai, and again the air shimmered around her, like starlight falling from the heavens, and D’vro’kel was thwarted. Unable to take her, it raged andscreeched, howled and moaned. It writhed and lashed out. All around it, D’vro’kel thundered in a formless rage, but the girl remained unharmed, untouched, and unmoved, her head still bowed to the Prophets. And the girl sang on.
Hearing the cacophony, the villagers peered through their windows and peeked out their doors in awe and fear. There, upon the hill, at the shrine, the D’vro’kel provoked his wrath, but she remained unmoved. Still, the girl sang on.
A third time, D’vro’kel tried to strike and consume the girl, and a third time it failed. All around her, rage stormed about, the wind blew, the trees bent over in agony as the Devour clawed at the earth and twisted into a cyclone of dark smoke. D’vro’kel grew larger and larger, a blackness that got bigger, and bigger, and threatened to consume the girl, the shrine, and the village in their entirety. It howled and growled, demanding that the girl give it all to him, but she remained unmoved, unyielding in her devotion. Above her, in the sky, D’vro’kel blocked the moon, and the worked plunged into darkness, blacker than blacker, but still, the girl remained uncowering, unyielding. Through it all, the girl sang on.
Her song ran through the hills, echoed off the mountains and reverberated through the valley. Her voice trilled with devotion, danced with the delight of her gods, and breathed with fervent prayer for their mercy. Her voice lifted high and sweet, cutting through the cacophony of the tempest that swirled around her, unwilling to tremble, unwilling to wane, unwilling to cease. She sang with a heart filled of love, joy and peace. She sang a song of sorrow of things lost, but hope of things to come. She sang the song of the hills, of the mountains, and of the valley, and of all creation and of the glory of the Prophets who reigned over it all.
Then, suddenly, the air shimmered again, and with a mighty yowl and a screech that echoed throughout the entire valley, D’vro’kel bent and twisted, writhed and rolled, and finally folded in on himself, becoming smaller, and smaller, until finally, he was gone.
The next morning, the sun rose brightly, and birdsong greeted the villages who stepped slowly out of their houses, blinking in the bright sunshine. All eyes turned to the shrine, and everyone gave homage to the Prophets, and to the girl who refused to give in to D’vro’kel. When the Elders rose to meet her, they begged her to explain and wept in joy at their salvation. They asked of her, “What was the secret?” Selai smiled sweetly, and she sang to them, “Store your joy in your pagh, for the Devour takes only what can be replaced.”
From that day forward, harvests grew, cattle gave milk, and trees blossomed. The darkness that had lain upon the hearts of the people lifted, and all was well again. Moreover, the people brought gifts to the Prophets, not of precious metals, or fine cloth, but of gratitude, love, and forgiveness, and as years passed, they continued to seek the wisdom of the one who had known the truth all along, the one who became the first Kai, Kai Selai. It was not the things that the Prophets desired, it was not the bountiful objects of the mortal coil, but the hearts and devotion of those who dwelt beneath, and the songs of those whom they love.
-- Commander Katsim Peri Chief Science Officer USS Octavia E. Butler M239008AD0