Vessel

by Sarah Beth Durst

Her father replaced it in Talu’s hands. “Drink,” he repeated.

  Three more times, they repeated this, with Talu letting the waterskin fall out of her fingers and Liyana’s father patiently replacing it. At last Liyana raised herself to her knees, drank her own water, and then leaned over and lifted Talu’s water to her lips. “The elders will know what to do,” Liyana said. “You must drink so that you’re ready to do it.”

  Talu sipped once and then withdrew. Liyana tilted the water to her teacher’s lips until the precious liquid poured out over her chin and Talu drank. Liyana persisted until half the water was gone. She then let the old woman rest. She didn’t look at her father.

  “You don’t need to stay here on display,” her father said. “Come inside our tent.”

  Liyana shook her head so hard that her vision tilted. She steadied herself with a hand on the sand. Her palm landed in one of the depressions she’d made as she’d danced.

  “Let her stay if she wishes,” Mother said.

  Her father retreated to outside the circle, and he sat with Mother in the shadow of the council tent. Side by side, they kept vigil over the circle. And the sun moved on in the sky.

  Late in the afternoon, as the heat baked the oasis and the wind failed to stir the sand, the elders emerged from the council tent. Chief Roke placed a goat horn to his lips and blasted a single note. As the note died, it was replaced by the sound of footsteps in sand and over rock as the clan returned. In minutes, everyone that Liyana had ever known surrounded the ceremonial circle. Kneeling, Liyana bowed her head and waited.

  “Talu,” the chief said. “Hear our verdict.”

  The magician lifted her head. Her face was lined with deep creases, as if she’d aged another decade during her time in the circle. She looked so sunken that Liyana feared her bones would collapse inward.

  “We heard you chant the words of our ancestors. Indeed, we chanted with you,” Chieftess Ratha said. “And so, we know your words were pure and true.”

  “My words were pure and true,” Talu said, “and they journeyed far.”

  “You have never failed in your magic,” Chieftess Ratha said. “Yet Bayla did not come.”

  Talu lifted her chin higher. Some of the shadows faded from her face, and her voice strengthened. “Bayla would never forsake us. We are her people.”

  Murmurs spread through the crowd. The chieftess inclined her head to show that she’d heard Talu’s words as the chief said, “Liyana, hear our verdict.”

  Chieftess Ratha addressed Liyana. “Talu’s words flew true and far, and we do not doubt the goddess’s love. Therefore, there is only one explanation: Bayla has deemed you an unfit vessel.” Her voice was kind, though her words were knives.

  Unfit vessel.

  Other elders spoke, echoing this verdict, but Liyana did not hear them. She felt the weight of the words press her against the sand. She wanted to sink deeper and deeper until the desert poured into her ears and her mind, and erased the horror of her failure. Unfit. Unworthy. She was so broken and so soiled that the goddess had chosen to condemn them all, rather than come to her.

  Her mother’s voice broke through the downward spiral of Liyana’s thoughts. “You saw my daughter dance. She did not falter. All night she danced beyond any reasonable expectation. She does not deserve your blame.” Mother’s fists were planted on her hips.

  “Whom do you blame? Our goddess?” The chief’s voice was like the rumble that preceded a lightning storm.

  Liyana’s father laid a hand on Mother’s arm.

  “This is not about blame, and we do not act to punish,” Chieftess Ratha said, her voice smooth but expressionless. “We act only for the good of the tribe. We will travel to Yubay without Liyana. There we will dreamwalk anew and hope to discover the true vessel.”

  Liyana felt as if her blood had congealed within her veins. Every breath hurt.

  “We travel on, and she remains.” Her father’s voice was flat. “She’ll die. You want us to abandon our daughter to death.”

  “If Bayla chooses her, then the goddess will claim her body here and rejoin us. If Bayla does not, then we will be free of the taint of an unworthy vessel and can try again.”

  “There is no ‘try again’!” Aunt Sabisa said. She wagged her finger at the chief and chieftess, and also at Talu. “You read the dreams. You consulted your hearts. You said Liyana was our vessel!”

  Shakily Talu pushed herself to her knees and slowly, painfully she rose to her feet. “The verdict of the elders is for the good of the tribe. We must try to find another, or else we are all doomed.”

  Liyana felt as if Talu had stabbed her. For years Talu had trained her. For hours every day, she had lectured her and coached her and prepared Liyana for her sacrifice. She had waxed poetic about her pride in Liyana, and she had bolstered her every time Liyana had felt any doubt.

  “But I am your vessel!” Liyana raised her arms so that her tattoos were displayed. “In my dreamwalk, Bayla chose me!”

  Talu met her eyes. “In the ceremony, she did not.” Deliberately, ceremonially, she turned her back on Liyana.

  “In Yubay,” Chieftess Ratha declared, “we will draw a new circle and weave a new untainted dress for a more worthy vessel.” Others turned their backs on Liyana as well.

  “I can dance again!” Liyana jumped to her feet. She felt pain shoot through her aching leg muscles. Her breath hissed out. She mastered it and continued, “If we made another circle now . . . or tried another oasis . . . or chose another night . . .”

  “The night does not matter. The place does not matter. And the circle is tradition, not necessity,” Talu said, still facing away from Liyana. “The goddess comes when a vessel dances and a magician chants. But the chant must be magic, and the vessel must be worthy.”

  “Please, then let me come to Yubay,” Liyana begged. “Let me dreamwalk again. Let me prove my worth to you and to Bayla!”

  “Child, listen to me,” Chieftess Ratha said. “If Bayla has rejected us, then you will be spared suffering with us. But if she has only rejected you, then your sacrifice here will spare the clan by removing your impurity. And if she has not rejected you or us, then she will come to you and all will be well!” She smiled as if that would sweeten her words.

  “She’ll die of exposure,” Mother said. “Her death will be on your hands.”

  “If that is Bayla’s will, then so be it,” Chief Roke said, his voice a rumble. “Your daughter is lost to you regardless. If we leave her here, you may have a chance to give your son a future.”

  His words felt like a stab. Jidali! Liyana looked across the camp toward her family’s tent where her little brother was. Only yesterday she had been prepared to sacrifice herself for his future. Could she do any less today?

  “Please, do not do this,” Father begged.

  “It has been decided,” Chief Roke said.

  Already, throughout the camp, families packed up their tents and belongings. She heard the sound of hammers and the clang of pots. No one spoke, but the goats bleated as the herds were gathered for departure. They are right to leave me, her practical side whispered to her. This could save the clan. She still had a chance to save Jidali and her parents and everyone. She felt the fight leach out of her, and she bowed her head.

  “Then we will remain with her!” Father said.

  The chief and chieftess spoke in unison. “You may not.” There was pity in the chieftess’s voice as she added, “We understand your wish to protect your daughter. But the clan must act as one, or it is as if we did not act at all.”

  The master weaver pushed to the front. “She failed! You must see that. It’s time to look to the good of all our children, not merely this one!”

  Father’s face flushed purple. His hands curled into fists. Beside him, Mother stood as straight as a palm tree. Her chin was lifted, and she looked as if she were a chieftess. Their posture said: We will not be denied.

  “Without Bayla, how much longer will we survive the Great Dro
ught? A handful of seasons? Less? You cannot risk us all for one!” the master weaver said. Her voice was shrill. “If we must, we will drag you with us.”

  “Try,” Father growled.

  Liyana held up her hands. “No.”

  All eyes turned toward her.

  “I accept my fate,” Liyana said.

  Mother opened her mouth to argue.

  “Please,” Liyana said. “I failed you once already. I won’t fail the clan again.”

  In the end, it took Talu leading her parents by the hands as if they were children before they would leave the circle. Talu did not permit them near Liyana. They had said their good-byes, she told them. More would be too difficult for all of them.

  Liyana was grateful for that kindness. She didn’t think she could face another day of farewells, especially feeling the full weight of her failure and the uncertainty of the clan’s future. She retreated beneath the blanket shelter that Father had set up earlier. She drank a sip of water. Curling around the waterskin, she lay in the sand in the shade.

  Around her, tents were lowered and rolled. Supplies were compacted and stowed away. The oasis was stripped of dates and palm leaves and any other material that would be useful on the journey. As the sun marched its way toward dusk, the clan loaded everything onto carts and wagons and horses. No one spoke to Liyana. No one even looked at her. She closed her eyes so she could not see her clan treating her as if she were already dead. She may have even slept.

  She woke to a tickle by her ear. “Shh,” Jidali whispered. He pressed something cool and smooth into her hand.

  Blinking her eyes open, she looked at her palm. She saw a clear crystal-like knife with a carved bone handle. “I can’t take this!”

  He shook her. “I said, ‘shh’!”

  “But it’s your inheritance.” This knife was made from the scale of a sky serpent. It had been passed through the family for generations. Though it looked like glass, it could cut through anything, even rock, even bone. “No, Jidali.”

  “Yes,” he hissed. “I won’t leave unless you take it.”

  She glared at him for threatening her, and he scowled back. She warred with the thought of calling out. Any adult who was nearby would intervene and give the knife to Father. Jidali would be hauled back to the tent and forced to leave.

  She couldn’t do that to him.

  Someday he’ll reclaim it, she told herself. She’d leave it where he could find it, perhaps by the well or near the first date palm tree that Jidali had ever climbed—she’d shown him how, and he’d followed her up without hesitation, scampering as if he’d been born in a tree. She swallowed hard, choking back the memory. “Thank you,” she said.

  He wrapped his pudgy arms around her neck and whispered into her hair, “I am glad you are still you.”

  “Jidali!” Aunt Sabisa’s voice cut across the camp.

  “Go,” Liyana said. Other words stuck in her throat. She’d said them all yesterday.

  Fiercely Jidali said, “Stay alive.”

  He ran across the camp without looking back.

  In another hour, the oasis was bare. The Goat Clan was ready. Judging by the low sun, they would have about two hours of dusk travel before they’d be forced to stop. If this were a usual move, they would have left at dawn. And if this were a usual move, Liyana would have been scurrying around her family’s packs, ensuring that every knot was tight and that nothing was forgotten. She hoped her family had remembered everything they needed. And then she tried not to think at all. Curled underneath the shade of the blanket, she listened to her family and her people leave the oasis as the sun sank toward the western horizon.

  Chapter Four

  Alone, Liyana stroked the cool blade of the sky serpent knife. Stay alive, her little brother had said. But this blade could promise her the opposite. One quick slice, and her soul would (finally) leave her body.

  She spent several minutes imagining a confrontation with Bayla in the Dreaming. First she’d ask, “Why?” And then she’d shame the goddess into selecting a new vessel. She’d tell her about Jidali, who deserved a future; about Talu, who honored Bayla with every breath she took; about Ger and Esti, who wanted to marry and start a family; and about Liyana’s aunts and uncles and cousins, who all had their own hopes and dreams.

  She laid the blade against her neck. It chilled her skin.

  “Idiot,” she said out loud. She lowered the knife. Her reflection flashed across the glass-like surface. If Bayla had truly rejected her, then the goddess would refuse to speak with her. And if Bayla had not rejected her, then the goddess would be extremely put out if Liyana slit the throat of her new body.

  Besides, Liyana planned for Jidali to find his gift again someday. He shouldn’t find it pressed against the throat of his sister.

  She tucked the knife into her sash. The desert could take care of killing her if it wanted to. She didn’t have to help it. In the meantime, since she wasn’t about to slit her own throat, she also wasn’t going to allow herself to freeze to death in the night. Liyana pushed herself to standing. Her muscles protested, and she felt as if they were shrieking. The bone handle of the knife dug into her rib cage.

  As the desert sank into dusk, Liyana used a flat rock to dig a shallow hole. Testing its length, she lay in it. The sand within was chilled compared to the surface. She rose. Dead leaves were matted under a date palm tree. She spread the leaves in a thick layer in her hole. She then stacked rocks to block the night wind. She stopped only when her arms ached too much to continue.

  By now the temperature had plummeted. She retrieved the blanket that had been her shade earlier, and wrapped it tightly around her as she crawled between the dried leaves. She pulled several of the leaves over her head. Looking up through the slits, she counted the stars and listened to the wind and tried not to think. She felt the knife hilt against her ribs, its solid pressure comforting her. Eventually she slept.

  She woke stiff and cold as dawn peeked over the edge of the world. Stretching, she shifted, and the leaves rustled around her. She felt a dry rope glide over her ankle, and her eyes popped open. She didn’t move. She didn’t breathe.

  Snake, she thought.

  She felt its scaled body resettle against her leg. Her heart pounded hard within her rib cage. A scream built up in her throat. Don’t move, she told herself. Soon the desert temperature would rise, and the snake would want to sun itself on the rocks, rather than press against her body for warmth.

  Liyana lay motionless. She breathed shallowly and slowly. Her bladder ached to relieve itself, and her muscles felt knotted. Soon her tongue felt thick and dry from thirst, and her stomach rumbled and rolled. The snake didn’t move.

  She watched through the palm leaves as the sun inched its way higher into the sky. She had a view of the sliver of sky above the stone mountains. Light spread over the barren peaks. Slowly her nest heated. She began to sweat within her blanket. Still the snake didn’t budge.

  Perhaps Bayla had sent it. Instead of the knife, this was to be Liyana’s death. Or perhaps the snake was merely cold, she thought. She shouldn’t assume divine intervention. She’d never heard of any story in which a god sent a snake to kill. According to all the tales, deities couldn’t influence the real world while they were in the Dreaming—that was the reason they needed vessels.

  After what felt like an eon, the snake stirred. Liyana held her breath as the snake slithered down her leg toward her foot. It crossed over her beautiful shoes, and then the palm leaves rustled as the snake poked through them to greet the sun.

  Slowly, very slowly, Liyana withdrew her legs and tucked them beneath her. Reaching into her sash, she pulled out the sky serpent knife. The snake had exited near her feet. Most likely it was sunning itself on the rocks she had gathered. Liyana inched backward, and the bells in her hair tinkled. She halted and listened for the snake. Her palm sweat, and the knife blade felt slippery. She didn’t hear anything. She scooted out of the pile of leaves.

  Watching fo
r the snake, Liyana grabbed one of the poles that Father had used to prop up the blanket. She held it like a spear as she scanned the rocks.

  Sweet Bayla, it’s a cobra.

  Curled on a rock, the diamond cobra raised its head. Its tongue flicked in and out. It hadn’t pinpointed her location yet. For an instant, she stared at it, frozen by the knowledge that its venom could kill a grown man in three hours of exquisite pain.

  One, two, three . . . The bells in her hair rang as she lunged toward the snake and slammed the tip of the pole into its neck. Fangs out, the cobra struck the pole as she pinned it against a rock. Quickly she sliced its head off with the sky serpent knife. The blade slid through the snake as if she were slicing sand, and the head toppled into her makeshift bed.

  Her heart pounded painfully hard as she grabbed the second pole and used the two to lift the still-venomous head out of the palm leaves. She laid it carefully on a rock. Its fangs were open, and the yellowish venom oozed over the snake’s chin. The snake’s body twitched. She picked it up by the tail and held the body in the air until it quit writhing. She then laid the body on another rock, sat back hard on the palm leaves, and tried to remember how to breathe.

  If she had rolled while she’d slept, if the snake hadn’t crawled out, if she’d been slower to spear it, if it had reacted faster to her movement or to the sound of the bells in her hair . . . With shaking hands, Liyana used a leaf to clean the blood off the sky serpent blade, and then she sliced off the tips of her braids, letting the tiny silver bells fall to the ground.

  If her family were here, Mother would have skinned the cobra in two seconds, and Father would have peppered it with spices and cooked it until crispy. And then Aunt Andra would have sneaked her share to Jidali, who would have gobbled it up and told all his friends that his sister had killed it with her bare hands and teeth. A half laugh, half sob burst out of her lips. She scooped the bells into her hands. Since she wasn’t ready to part with the knife yet, perhaps she could leave the bells for her family to find.

  Carrying the bells, she crossed to the circle that Talu had drawn. She halted and stared at it. Already the wind had begun to erase it, as if it were erasing all hope. Liyana wanted to redraw the circle and stay inside it. She had never expected to leave this circle. Losing the line in the sand felt . . . She’s not coming, Liyana told herself. Wallowing in false hope was stupid. She’d leave the bells by her family’s tent site, and then she’d . . . She had no idea. The horrible emptiness of that thought seized her.