Adapted from the Screenplay, Act of God by Craig Clyde and Sam Goldstein
Chapter 1
The Valley of the Hunters
In the earliest days of the world, when the earth was untamed and wild, there existed a place unlike any other—a sanctuary of life nestled within towering mountains that stretched toward the heavens. This was the Valley of the Hunters. Its boundaries were marked by tall peaks that seemed to pierce the sky, their jagged summits perpetually crowned with snow, even in the heart of summer. Bright and winding rivers carved through the rock like veins of silver, feeding the valley with their life-giving waters. The land below was green and lush, its soil rich, the grasses tall and waving in the wind. This was a land, fertile and bountiful, blessed by nature, a cradle for the life that thrived within it.
In this valley, the seasons shifted with a gentle rhythm, each transition marked not by chaos but by the smooth turning of a natural wheel. Spring brought with it the song of birds and the budding of flowers, while summer saw the fields bursting with life—deer, hares, and other creatures moving freely through the grasses. Autumn's calmer winds carried with them the scent of ripened fruit, and winter, though cold, was never cruel. It was a time of reflection, gathering around hearths and sharing the stories of the past.
At the heart of this serene valley, however, was a people—a tribe of women who had not only survived in this landscape but thrived. They were not mere inhabitants of the valley; they were its guardians, rulers, and hunters. For generations uncounted, these women had passed down the secrets of survival, hunting, and living in harmony with the world around them. The Valley of the Hunters was more than a home—it was a sacred land where tradition, strength, and the power of the feminine spirit reigned supreme.
The Women of the Valley
The women of the valley were unlike any others. Their bodies were lean, honed by years of chasing prey through the dense forests and across the open plains. Their eyes, sharp as a hawk's, could spot the slightest movement in the underbrush, and their hands were skilled with the spear and bow. They moved through the world with the grace of wolves, their footsteps silent, their actions deliberate. Every woman knew her place in the tribe, every role carefully designed to maintain the balance they had cultivated for centuries.
At the head of this powerful tribe was a figure of legend: Drahna, the Old Lioness. Her name was spoken with reverence and fear, for she was more than just a leader—she was the living embodiment of the tribe's strength, wisdom, and unyielding will. Drahna had ruled for as long as anyone could remember. Her hair, once dark as night, was now streaked with silver, and the lines on her face told the story of a life spent in both battle and peace. But her eyes—those fierce, penetrating eyes—had not lost their fire. She saw everything, missed nothing, and her decisions shaped the destiny of the valley.
Under Drahna's leadership, the valley had flourished. The land remained fertile, the game plentiful, and the women had never been stronger. They trained every day, perfecting their craft, ensuring they were always prepared for the hunt and ready to protect what was theirs. They moved in unison, like a pack of wolves, their weapons extensions of their bodies. There was no softness in their lives, no room for weakness. The valley's peace was maintained through their strength, and they guarded it with a ferocity that left no doubt about their dominion.
Men, in this world, were seen as a threat. No man had set foot in the valley for generations. To the women, men were chaos, a force that disrupted the order they had so carefully built. The last man who had been born into the valley was long gone, exiled as a child to die in the wilderness beyond the mountains. The future was female for these women, and they would not allow anyone—least of all men—to alter the course they had set for themselves.
Yet even within this tight-knit society, some could see what others could not. Krone, the Seer, was one such woman. Though younger than Drahna, Krone's spirit was ancient, her body marked by the goddess herself. The crescent-shaped scar that ran down her face symbolized her power, a sign that she could glimpse the threads of fate that bound the world together. Her visions were rare but never wrong, and they had saved the tribe from countless disasters— famine, flood, and disease. When Krone spoke, even Drahna listened, for her words were the whispers of the future.
The Boy's Birth
The Valley of the Hunters had known peace for many years. It was a peace built on tradition, on passing knowledge from one generation to the next. Mothers taught their daughters the ways of the hunt, the secrets of the land, and the importance of unity. It was a cycle that had continued for as long as anyone could remember—a cycle about to be broken.
One morning, a scream echoed through the valley, a sound that shattered the tranquility like a stone thrown into still water. The scream's source was Tala, Drahna's daughter, a skilled hunter, and the woman many expected to one day lead the tribe. She had been heavy with the child for many months, and now the time had come for her to give birth. The women gathered around her, as they always did when a new life was about to enter the world, expecting to welcome another daughter into their ranks.
But as Tala's labor progressed, something felt wrong. The air in the birthing hut grew thick with tension, and the women exchanged uneasy glances. Krone stood at the edge of the circle, her eyes distant, as if she could already see what was to come. The birth was difficult,
more so than usual, and when, at last, the child emerged, a collective gasp rippled through the room.
The child was not a daughter. He was a boy.
For a moment, there was only silence. The boy's cries echoed in the stillness, a sound that seemed almost alien in this place. No boy had been born in the Valley of the Hunters for generations. His very existence was an anomaly, disrupting the order the women had fought so hard to maintain. And yet, there he was, tiny and fragile, his skin slick with the blood of birth, his cries full of life.
Tala, exhausted but triumphant, cradled her son to her chest. She looked down at him with love in her eyes, the fierce protectiveness of a mother already taking root.
"He is mine," she whispered, her voice hoarse but filled with conviction. "He is my son."
Drahna stood nearby, her face unreadable. She had expected another daughter—a future leader, a continuation of the line she had so carefully nurtured. But this... this was something new. Something unthinkable. Her eyes flicked to Krone, seeking guidance, but the Seer's face was as impassive as stone.
"The boy will bring change," Krone said quietly, her voice low and measured.
"The balance has been shifted. The winds of fate are stirring."
Drahna's jaw tightened. She was not a woman who welcomed change. The valley had survived so long by adhering to its traditions and maintaining the balance that had kept it strong. This boy threatened all of that. And yet, as she looked at Tala, at the fierce love in her daughter's eyes, she knew that casting him out would be a risk of its own. To deny a mother her child could sow discord within the tribe, and Drahna could not afford division.
"Let him live," Drahna said finally, her voice stern. "But he will never be one of us. He will never hunt with us, never lead. He is a boy, and boys do not belong here."
The women murmured their agreement though unease still hung in the air. Tala bowed her head, but the defiance in her eyes was unmistakable. She would not abandon her son, no matter what the others thought.
Krone's gaze lingered on the child, her expression unreadable. "This is only the beginning," she whispered, though no one heard her. "The winds will bring more than just a boy."
The Aftermath of the Birth
In the days following the boy's birth, the valley seemed to hold its breath. Life continued as it always had, but the tension was palpable. The women whispered among themselves, their eyes full of suspicion whenever they saw Tala and her son. Some believed the boy was cursed and that his presence would ruin the valley. Others feared that he was a sign of the goddess's displeasure, a warning that their peace was ending.
Tala, however, remained steadfast. She named her son Ralo after the sound of the wind that swept through the valley at dusk. She cared for him as any mother would, and though she continued to hunt with the others, she never let Ralo stray far from her side. The boy proliferated, his curiosity boundless, his energy untamable. He was different from the other children, not just because he was a boy, but because of his wild spirit. Where the daughters of the tribe were taught to be disciplined and reserved, Ralo was a force of nature—unrestrained, full of life, and impossible to control.
He ran through the fields with abandon, laughing at the birds in the trees, chasing after the deer that grazed in the grass. He was fearless, his joy infectious, yet his very existence troubled the tribe's women. Drahna watched him closely, her eyes always looking for signs that he would bring the disaster so many feared. Krone kept her distance, though her thoughts were inscrutable, her visions clouded with uncertainty.
The Winds of Change
As the years passed, the valley's peace grew increasingly fragile. The birth of a boy had shaken the very foundations of the tribe, a society that had thrived on the strength and unity of women alone. Ralo's presence reminded them that the world beyond the valley was not as simple as they had once believed. He was a living, breathing reminder that their way of life could be challenged, that the balance they had so carefully maintained could be disrupted.
Krone's visions grew more frequent, though she shared them with no one. The future she saw was uncertain, full of shadows and doubt. The winds of change were blowing through the valley, and the women could feel it in their bones. The time of the old ways was coming to an end, and something new—something unknown—was on the horizon.
The tension between tradition and change would come to a head in time. The women of the valley would be forced to choose: to cling to the past or embrace the future. And at the center of it all would be Ralo—the boy born into a world that had no place for him, yet who would become the symbol of everything yet to come.
Once a place of unchanging strength and unity, the Valley of the Hunters was now teetering on the edge of something far greater than any of them could have imagined. And in the heart of that uncertainty, the boy stood, a catalyst for the future that would reshape the valley forever.
To Be Continued
