Torchwood: Exodus Code

proof to the Cuari that she was indeed their guide, their star scout, the sacred spirit described in the ancient prophesies as the one to come before, the one who would prepare the way for the deity when he returned to begin the end of times. For the High Priestess, such affirmation had never been necessary. For she had known that Gaia was a spirit guide since the night of her birth, which she had witnessed: Gaia’s first howl, her mother’s last breath. Gaia had burst from her mother’s womb, limbs and tail first, encased in a thick membrane.
    The Priestess, an old woman even at Gaia’s birth, had become her guardian and her teacher. From early in her childhood, Gaia could hear when the crops should be harvested, could taste the wind before it blew, and feel the rains from the sea before the clouds scudded the storms inland. Gaia felt pain when she was not hurt, heard singing when it was silent, and at night she travelled beyond the mountain to the stars.
    Gaia had learned divination from the rocks and the birds and even as a child she had demonstrated her quick wit and her eidetic memory. The old Priestess had taught her to read the ancient scrolls when she was barely able to walk to fetch them. Gaia could hold the Cuari’s stories in her head, glyph for glyph as she read them, remembering the names of every child born in the village since the conquest.
    How many nights had the old woman bathed her in oils to quiet her spirit when it raced across the heavens, her body convulsing against the ground, her being so sensitive to the material world that her screams could wake the gods.
    Perhaps they finally had.
    For her part, Gaia knew her place in the Cuari was a special one, but she also knew that her place in the cosmos would be even more acclaimed. Gaia and the old Priestess had been watching the signs from the mountain since the winds had sheared off its crown during the cold season.
    If this man who had fallen from the heavens was the being prophesied since ancient times, then the oracle had told the truth and Gaia must prepare to fulfil her purpose. Gaia could barely control her excitement as she finished dressing, sticking wax plugs into her ears, her excitement filling her head with music.
    The old woman placed her rough hands, the hands of a farmer as well as a holy woman, gently on Gaia’s shoulders. Even a priestess had to work to sustain life in the tribe. No matter how sacred their purpose, they still had to eat.
    ‘The elders will go with you to bring him back. Can you manage the climb?’ The Priestess looked at Gaia’s feet.
    Gaia nodded, quickly braiding her hair and pulling her cowl over her head, leaving only her dark eyes and dimpled chin visible.
    ‘If this fallen man is the prophesied one,’ said the Priestess, ‘then he must be sacrificed to the mountain as has been foretold, but, Gaia, if he is not…’
    The Priestess did not finish voicing her doubts, fearing what it would do to Gaia if this man was not the one from the prophesy. Gaia’s quick mind had no space for uncertainty in this matter, no crevices for doubt. This was her destiny. Her reason for existing. The Priestess sighed. Gaia may have been born an ancient star guide, but in the old woman’s eyes she was still a child.
    ‘Remember what you’ve learned. He must be examined on the mountain, Gaia, and if he is not the one, you must do what you have been trained to do. He must not return here with you. We must not be discovered until the prophecy can be fulfilled.’
    The Priestess lifted down a long wooden case from a stone shelf. Her knees popping as she bent to lift a sword that rested inside on red satin, its silver hilt carved in the image of the puma with jade for its eyes and a collar of pure gold.
    The Priestess eased the heavy sword into a leather sash fastened across Gaia’s chest. ‘If he is not the one, his head must return to the mountain.’
    Gaia nodded. ‘But if it is him?’
    ‘Then as it has been foretold, you will assist his return to the stars.’
    ‘And mine?’ she asked, lifting her head, her eyes blazing, her hand resting on the hilt of the sword.
    ‘You will be his guide,’ the old woman replied.

9
    A COPPER BELL forged at Chavin de Huantar had once hung over the entrance to the temple. Its chime would have brought everyone immediately, its particular pitch heard by a Cuari no matter where she was on the mountain. But when it had last been rung, a decade earlier, its chimes had sent Gaia