echo It has long been foretold that the blood of the Basque people, which holds a sacred power woven into their veins by the gods themselves, shall guard their land against all who would seek to conquer, safeguarding their autonomy as a maroon shield forged by time and destiny. It is said that as long as their blood flows, so too will the strength of their ancestors, ever vigilant, ever unyielding.
The sky rumbled, and flashes of lightning illuminated the dark world. In the distance, thunder rumbled. Nestled deep in the mountainous Pyrenees, a small Basque village was alight with activity, its inhabitants preparing not for the storm but something much, much worse, a siege by enemies who’d stop at nothing in order to conquer their strategically placed lands rich with iron ore.
In the centre of all operations stood a young man, wearing no other armour but a simple chain-mail, directing the villagers on where to set up their fortifications. Iñaki, the chief, stood strong and brave amidst the high stakes, despite having only come into his position weeks before, when his father was brutally murdered in a previous invasion attempt by the Spanish royal soldiers. However, internally he secretly worried that he was leading them to their deaths; after all, they were but a few hundred men, women, and children, and their enemies far outnumbered them. Perhaps he should evacuate the village and save his people, but these were their lands, ancestral lands that their forefathers had given up their lives to protect, and it was his sworn duty to do the same.
After directing a group of women to dig a trap at the edge of their settlement, Iñaki turned to face a wizened man who’d been trying to get his attention. Aitor, the village elder, stood clutching onto his staff, his robes stained with soot, a sign that he’d been up reading through the tomes in his hut that contained the culture and history of their people, his eyes shining with something the village sorely needed more of: hope.
“Haurra (child), I have found the answer to our prayers. There is a book that details an ancient prophecy that has been passed through the generations, The Blood of Ancestors. It claims that as long as we honour our ancestors’ spirits and keep our bloodline pure, the gurasoak will rise from the earth and defend our people when we are threatened.”
“Gurasoak? Our ancestors? How does that even work?” Iñaki asked, puzzled and more than a bit sceptical.
“I too, know not all the details,” Aitor began, “It is said that the power of the goddess Mari, who created our people from the earth, will be invoked in times of peril when the people she so carefully nurtured face the threat of destruction, and that her essence flows through all of us, in our very blood.”
“Mari is a myth, Aitor, and even if she were real, she does not have the power to vanquish our enemies.” Iñaki sighed exasperatedly, turning away in disappointment to work on what he could actually do to prepare his people, but Aitor grabbed onto his arm with an unexpected burst of strength.
“You forget her consort, Sugaar, the god of storms and thunder. Mari might not have the power, haurra, but Sugaar’s wrath is known to have the ability to both destroy and protect. But be warned, although the prophecy possibly holds the answer to all our troubles, it requires great sacrifice. From what I have found, our people must willingly spill their blood in order to call upon them, and once the ritual has been started, it cannot be undone, or the consequences will be our doom. Heed my advice, this is our only hope.”
With that, Aitor let go of Iñaki. Frustrated with the lack of concrete salvation, Iñaki returned his focus on fortifying the village.
Dawn arrived, as did their foes. Thousands of soldiers, clad in polished armour and raising the banner of the Spanish royal coat of arms, marched towards them. The Spanish soldiers, armed with advanced weaponry and experience with military tactics, faced off with the villagers, who used what simple weapons they could scrounge up but fought with the knowledge of their terrain and the burning desire to protect their homeland.
The battle was brutal and dragged on. But eventually, the Basque were overwhelmed and were forced to abandon their village and retreat into the woods, where they regrouped and prepared to launch a counterattack.
That night, while they slept, Iñaki began to dream. A tall woman, dressed in a flowing gown, stepped out of the mountain mist, her eyes glowing with an unearthly light.
“Iñaki,” she whispered. “My child, you have fought hard, but this is not a battle you will win, not without our help.”
“Mari,” he breathed. “Forgive me, for I have not believed.”
“It is normal to want to believe in things we can see, I do not blame you. But if you continue to do so, you will lose not just the land that I have given you, but also your people, whom I love dearly.”
“Tell me, what must I do?”
“Only an act of great sacrifice can awaken the blood of your ancestors, and only they can save your people.”
“Tell me what must be done, I am willing. Even if my body must turn to ashes and my spirit cease to exist, I will do it.”
Mari smiled sadly at him. “It is not your life to give, my child. It will cost you dearly, but you will live.”
Heart sinking, Iñaki asked, “Who must pay the price?”
But she was already fading. “You’re strong, child, but from now on you must be stronger.”
With a jolt, Iñaki awoke, deeply troubled. As their leader, how could he ask anyone to suffer this fate?
Unable to go back to sleep, he left his tent in search of Amaia, the village shaman. He found her with his sister, Lorea, whom she was passing all her knowledge to, in order to become the next shaman.
“Egun on, Amaia. Egun on, nire txiki,” he greeted. Good morning, Amaia. Good morning, my little one.
“Egun on, Iñaki Anai,” Lorea replied, smiling. Good morning, brother.
“Egun on, Iñaki Nagusia,” Amaia bowed. Good morning, Chief Iñaki. “What can I do for you?”
He told them what Aitor had told him, and recounted his dream. When he was done, Amaia stared at him gravely.
“The blood sacrifice you speak of demands much, not only of the body, but of the spirit. Whoever volunteers must not only understand the sacred bond between our people and the land, but must also be deeply connected to earth; that is, someone who is from the oldest bloodline in the tribe.”
“As the son who has descended from the line of the first chief, my bloodline is the oldest–”
“But you are not in tune with the earth. You do not know its ways. It is true, yours is the oldest bloodline, but you are not the only one in your family. There is one more, one who has a deeper knowledge of our ways, and has made it their life’s mission to maintain our bond with the earth.”
Amaia let the truth sink in. With hollow dread, Iñaki realised what she was saying, and shot up from his seat.
“No! I will not allow that to happen! She cannot–”
“I accept,” came the soft voice of his little sister. “If that is what it takes to save our people and protect our land, I will do it.”
“NO! I forbid it! You cannot, you will not–”
“Brother,” she laid a gentle palm on his arm, her eyes glittering with unshed tears. “I don’t want to leave you, but it’s the only hope for our people, for you. Don’t worry about me, the gurasoak will guide me. Our parents will be with me. I only worry for you, who will be left alone on the plane of the living.”
He stared at her, his heart breaking, and watched as she began to cry. They clung to each other and sobbed, despairing at the inevitable future ahead of them.
The next night, under the glow of the full moon, the clan gathered at the sacred grotto at the foot of one of their mountains, Txindoki, the atmosphere sombre and grave. Led by Amaia, who’d brought a ceremonial sword, an oaken staff, and a chalice of blessed wine, they began the ritual.
Dressed in a simple white gown, Lorea sliced her palm with the sword, letting her blood pour onto the sacred grounds. For a moment, it seemed like nothing happened, but then the sky darkened, the moonlight disappearing. Around them, the wind began to howl and began to swirl into a hurricane, and the earth rumbled. Sugaar appeared from the storm, his midnight blue hair whipping around and his eyes flashing with lightning.
Amaia poured the wine on the ground and said, “Lord Sugaar, we spill this cup of wine to honour you, Mari, and the girl who has chosen to give up her life for her people. We call upon your aid, for our people are in desperate need.”
Sugaar’s voice, deep and rumbling, echoed through the mountains. “You have honoured the pact of The Blood of Ancestors. Your land is protected.”
As Lorea’s blood continued to pour into the earth, the ground shook with greater force. Bright wisps leached out of the mountains, taking on the shape of people. They each wore the armour of Basque warriors, varying with the different styles of the ancient tribes throughout time.
“The gurasoak,” Lorea breathed, her voice weakening but filled with wonder. “Look at them, Iñaki Anai, what a sight they are.”
Not able to watch his sister fade in front of him, he shut his eyes, a single tear sliding down his cheek. “Yes, indeed, what a sight they are.”
Finally, after what seems like forever and simultaneously no time at all, there was a loud thump. Iñaki’s eyes flew open, and saw his sister crumpled on the ground. All around them, the rolling mountains glittered with tens of thousands of the gurasoak, but all Iñaki could see was his baby sister.
He rushed to her side, grabbing her in his arms, helpless as she began to fade, disappearing into the air. All around him, the earth reverberated with the battle cries of the gurasoak as they rushed towards the invaders’ encampment, their spiritual swords cutting through the soldiers’ flesh as smoothly as if gliding through water. Terrified, the soldiers used any methods they could to defend themselves, with bullets and with swords, but to no avail, their screams echoing through the mountains. Totally defenceless, those who were not cut down fled.
When the battle was over, the gurasoak disappeared, leaving behind the clan’s desolate chieftain, screaming in agony, his hands wrapped around the air where his sister had lain, now here no more.
Gently, Amaia pulled him from the area, and used the staff to draw the symbol of Mari on the ground before breaking the staff upon it.
“It is here we mark the sacrifice of Lorea, who died so that we could live. Receive her, Mari and Sugaar, and may her spirit live amongst the gurasoak as one of their greatest warriors.”
In the silence after the battle, the clan picked through the ruins of their village, mourning their losses. Everyone was grieving someone. Not one was spared. No one understood the cost to protect their land more than Iñaki, who not only bore the losses of everyone as their chief, but who’d lost the only family he had left in order to uphold his duty to his people, his ancestors, and the gods.
With this cost, he could never let anything happen to the land of the Basque country. When dawn broke, sending orange streaks piercing the sky in shining fury, Iñaki stood at the peak of the mountain and vowed to honour his sister by honouring their ancestors and protecting the sacred bond between the Basques and their land that Lorea had dedicated herself to, and paid the ultimate price, to guard.
As he said the last words of his vow, he felt a presence in the breeze that blew past him and turned. There, in the distance, he could almost see a figure. He was sure it was Lorea, watching over the land and the people. The blood of their ancestors still flowed through the mountains, and the Basque people remained free.
This story is based loosely off the beliefs of the Basque people, who are an autonomous community in northern Spain, and the Carlist Wars in the 19th century.
Written by: Marinella Lotte
