by Jeff Wheeler
Tira was led away by the two bronze-colored men and escorted through the cheering crowd. The men took her to a sturdy-looking building at the far end of the valley. Once inside, she was enveloped by a group of older women from the village, and they led her into a back room lit by guttering torches, had her disrobe, and then sat her down on a chair made of real wood, which made it a very special honor. She shivered, more from the excitement than from the coldness of the room.
Food was brought in, and water in plentiful amounts. She drank and ate her fill, almost to the point of being sick. She knew she needed her strength for what was to come next. It had been many cycles since she’d had a full belly, and all the food she’d eaten made her feel sluggish. She hoped the feeling would wear off by sundown when she would perform the dance and sing the songs.
They wiped her down with wet rags scented like wildflowers, another luxury. Then they applied perfumed oils and combed out all the tangles in her curly black hair, added beads, and braided her hair into tiny rows.
One of the women working on her hair asked, “Do you know the dance, child?”
“Yes, my mother taught it to me when I was very young.”
“The songs?”
“Yes,” she said with confidence. “I learned them from the elders’ teachings.”
She had memorized everything that would be required of her, as all the girls her age had, but she worried about when the time came and she had to perform in front of so many—would she remember the songs and the dance movements then?
One of the older women kneeled close to her. “Understand this, child. You must not fail us. We have been too long without the rains. If we do not see a heavy rainfall this cycle, we may all perish.”
What if I do fail? Tira suddenly thought. The idea filled her with dread, but she owned that fear and swallowed it, just as she had when faced with Elder Quin’s question.
She would not fail.
They continued to poke and prod and preen her, adjusting her dress until it fit her perfectly. It was hard to chase away the nervousness. She felt as if insects were buzzing around inside her stomach, and she kept growing light-headed and had to concentrate on her breathing.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl, but the night eventually came.
“We must go now,” one of the women said, and helped Tira with her robe. The weight of the robe on her shoulders was great. She’d never worn something so heavy before.
They assembled into a procession and led her outside.
Tira looked up at the sky. It was filled with a band of stars so dense, so white, that she, after everything that had been done to make her beautiful, still felt outclassed by the grandeur of the heavens.
Following her to the sacred stones was a twin line of young women dressed in multicolored silk dresses. They were those who had gone through a Choosing ceremony before and had not been selected to go to the place without thirst.
All eyes were focused on Tira. Both the men and the women stared at her with the same desperate need for salvation written on their shiny faces.
Tira raised her chin to display her strength and confidence to them all. Inside, she was trembling furiously. The very air around her had begun to chill, and she struggled to control the other coldness welling up deep inside her.
She must be brave. She must be worthy. If she could not gather the spirit of goodwill from her village and channel it to the gods, then she would fail miserably and be shunned for the rest of her days.
I will not fail! she told herself. I will be brave and I will please the gods. I will bring the rains!
She pushed all dark thoughts aside and marched onward with as much grace as she could muster. She kept her eyes trained ahead of her, but also tried to scan the crowd for her mother, wanting to pick her out from the shadowy faces.
Another fear struck her and caused her heart to flutter—had she told her mother that she loved her before joining the other girls? She had been so caught up in the excitement, she might not have. Her mother just had to know it, though—right? Still, she longed to say it just one more time before starting the dance.
No, she scolded herself. She was the Chosen One now. She belonged to the entire village. That meant she had only one duty—to bring the rains and save her people from the incessant drought.
Upon reaching the stone circle, two women helped her remove the robe covering her thin silk dress, which barely seemed to cover anything. She blushed as they took away the robe, hoping the darkness would conceal her lithe form. She had never worn so little in front of so many.
It was time.
After kicking off the fancy slippers they had given her, she walked barefoot into the stone circle.
I will not fail. I will succeed. I will please the gods and bring the rains.
She started the dance by sinking low. The drumbeats began, slow and deep. The soft dress she wore slipped easily across her skin, allowing her complete freedom of movement. Leftover warmth radiated up from the massive stone at her feet, warming her as she kneeled even lower and prepared for the first movements of the dance.
Twisting her head toward the cloudless sky, she rose to her feet at a pace no faster than the shelled creatures that roamed the desert. She was bathed in the starlight from above as she drew in a measured breath and used it as a solitary source of reassurance. She stretched her arms toward the heavens and spun slowly while lifting herself up on tiptoe.
She began to sing the ancient song softly, lovingly. Her voice came from deep within, but it was frail and tinny. She gave more of herself to it, and her confidence began to build and her voice raised just above the beating of the drums. She sang the first verse meant to summon the gods and bring the rains, and then she started in again, pleading, asking, cajoling anyone who would listen to her. When she reached the end of the verse, she looped the melody again and mixed the song with the dance in a way she was confident would please the gods.
She climbed again on tiptoe, twirling on the big toe of her right foot. She lowered herself gracefully to the stone, then back up to the sky, keeping pace with the verses as they rose and fell.
The energy from her faceless audience began to swell and swell. She swooned, feeding off their goodwill as they added their collective mumbled chants to her dance. They cheered for her in their own way, swaying side to side, undulating in a wave that raced around the stone circle. Their arms also reached for the sky and, along with her, asked for the gods to bring the rains.
A trickle of sweat ran down her spine. Her breathing deepened and her heart throbbed mightily in her chest. She continued the dance, spinning on her toes to the incessant beat of the drums, grinding her bare skin against the rough stone at her feet. It hurt, but she ignored the pain.
Never would she stop. Not until the gods heard her call. Not until the rains came.
Despite her labored efforts, no clouds came to blot out the stars. The sky above twinkled with brilliant pinpricks of light as if it planned to mock her throughout the entire night.
The dance kept going and the crowd engaged further, but when she glanced at her people again, some had already started to wilt. They must be the old and sick, she thought, too feeble to continue. She must be strong enough for them all and lend them her strength.
But she was also growing weary.
She searched the crowd for her mother again. She needed to see her, needed her strength of will and stamina. Just a look, a glance, anything to reassure her that she really was the Chosen One. But she could not find her mother anywhere, and that frightened her. Still, she did her best, giving everything she had to the dance, moving as gracefully as she could across the stone, to the rhythm of the drums, letting the song resonate within her and giving it voice.
Her feet began to sting and ache.
She chanced a look down at the stone circle. A trail of dark footprints followed her on the rough stone. She had cut her feet and they were bleeding.
She missed a step, stumbled, and recovered.
No clouds appeared above her.
The dance continued. The drums continued. The torment intensified. Her feet, cut and rubbed raw by the stone, left even more wet footprints wherever she stepped.
She kept dancing.
It hurt so much.
She could not give up.
The pain . . .
She would not give up.
One by one, the crowd fell into silence, no longer holding their hands up in the air.
They were leaving her. They were giving up.
And still the drums did not falter. They continued to beat their pounding rhythm.
I will not fail, she told herself again. I cannot fail.
She reached deeper into her soul, seeking whatever will there was left in her that would allow her to continue. She alone would be the one who saved her village. She would go to the place without thirst. She had only the dance to give, only the song to sing, and she knew she was doing it to the best of her abilities.
But she had not felt the spirits of the gods enter her as she had expected that they would. The stars above continued to laugh at her and mock her for even daring to believe she would be good enough to save her village.
The silence surrounding her turned to grumbles of anger. Her people were no longer with her. They were turning against her.
Exhausted, she collapsed to her knees, panting heavily, rejected by her people, rejected by the heavens, rejected by the gods.
And, at that moment, she realized she was not the Chosen One. She had failed her people. She would never be happy again and would now live in misery and shame for the rest of her days. And if the rains never came again, the village would die out slowly and painfully, and she would be the cause of all their misery.
She wanted to curl up on the cold stone and go to sleep and never wake again.
But the drums pounded away incessantly.
She thought of her dream again, of the greenness, of the trees, and of the love she had for the figure on the throne. The figure had filled her with such great joy when he had told her that she would one day join him. That she would see trees and never be thirsty again.
And that made her think.
Who was it she loved most? Was it her village? Was it herself? Had she been so vain to think that being the Chosen One was what mattered most of all? Was this really all about her wishes and not the wishes of those she had committed to saving? While she had professed her love for her village, did she unconditionally, wholeheartedly love them, or did she think that she loved them because the feelings of glory she received back from them made her feel better inside?
She suddenly felt sick to her stomach. She’d been so selfish and childish.
And now she was terrified.
She could give up. She could give in and stay there on the cold stone. They might eventually forgive her. They had to. There were so few of them left alive. It would be so easy just to lie there and to not get back up. The drums would stop, and everyone would go home disappointed. Maybe there was still time and they could pick one of the other girls? It hadn’t been done before, but maybe one of the others was more worthy of being the Chosen One than she was.
With this realization of her complete failure, something deep inside her fought to break through to the surface. Her mind reached into a once-untapped place where an even greater power hid, locked away in a long-forgotten corner. She suddenly thought of her father and his sacrifice, of her brothers and the sacrifices they had made for the sake of the village.
A strange feeling washed over her, filling her with renewed purpose. They had died courageously so that others would live. They had not done so for the perceived glory of it. They had done so because of the true love they had for others.
There was no glory in being the Chosen One. The selfless sacrifice was what mattered.
She rose and straightened painfully, then she restarted the dance, laboring for every breath taken.
Everyone around her became only a blur.
She ached.
Everything hurt so much.
But she persevered.
Then she tripped once over her own feet and fell to the stone. Her wrist cracked and bent at an unnatural angle. The crowd collectively gasped, stopping their grumbling. Searing pain shot up her arm, but she did not yell out because of it.
Gritting her teeth, she stood again and readied herself to continue. The drums had slowed, but had not stopped. They then picked up and continued their relentless drive and grew stronger with her every step. Every movement was as painful to her as being burned by fire, but she was not going to fail those she loved above all. Now that she knew her true purpose, she knew she could do it.
Stumbling, wincing from the pain, she began the dance once more from the start. Her limp, useless hand dangled from her arm and ached so much. Her throat was ragged and raw, and if she tried to sing out, she worried she might scream in pain instead. She bit down on her lips to keep her mouth closed. Wobbling unsteadily on her feet, she stepped on a sharp edge carved in the stone, tripped, and fell over again. This time, her head slammed hard against the ground and yellow spots swam across her vision. She again tried to rise, but only managed to collapse again into a heap.
Then the drums ceased.
She had failed them all. She pulled her legs up to her belly and curled into a ball on the ground. She closed her eyes and resigned herself to her fate. Everything hurt so much, but the pain inside hurt worst of all.
The crowd began to murmur. She opened one eye. Her head throbbed, replacing the sound of the now silent drums. When she looked at the sky, the stars were no longer there. The clouds had rolled in and had blotted out the stars from the night sky. A sudden flash of lightning blazed across the heavens, casting tendrils of white-hot energy through the air. She closed her eyes against the brightness. It hurt so much to look at it.
Did I do it?
A second later, thunder rolled past with a deafening roar. Then another flash appeared, followed by an even louder peal of thunder.
How?
She no longer cared what happened to her, or where she went, her body was no longer hers to control, only her mind. There was still one thing left to do, and it had to be done alone. It had to be done under her own willpower.
Using her unbroken hand to push herself to her knees, she crawled to the flat stone in the center of the concentric circles. Reaching up to steady herself, she climbed to her feet and locked her trembling legs to hold her there. She glanced down, thinking she might pass out.
No! She was so close. I will not fail!
The world shifted around her, tilting and going in and out of focus. Her feet, wet with blood, sent spikes of renewed pain racing up her legs as she attempted to stand to her full height. With great effort, she rolled over and onto the flat stone and lay there on her back, panting, staring up at the sky. More lightning and more peals of thunder came, but no rain as of yet. She stretched out on top of the flat stone as she’d been instructed to do and put her head back, taking shallow breaths, trying to recover her strength for what she must do next.
The crowd remained as silent as a desert mouse and shapeless in the far distance of her vision. She barely saw them from the corners of her eyes.
But she did see her mother. Yes, she was there and stood out from the others as if a beam of light had been shone down on her that only Tira could see. Occasionally, during the brief flashes of lightning, other individual faces resolved into her friends, her people. And she loved them, each and every one.
I am the Chosen One, she thought to herself, and I have not failed to do my duty.
It came quickly. Tira’s pain-racked body felt only the briefest shock. She tried to turn her head, but her exhausted muscles no longer responded to her mind’s commands.
A flash of lightning lit the knife in Elder Quin’s hand. The bright silver blade held a thin line of red.
He does have a funny-looking head, she thought.
“You did well, child,” he whispere
d. “We honor the sacrifice you have made for us all.”
Tears formed in her eyes. Through the quickly fading agony, she felt a single drop gently splash on her face. Then another came, and another after that.
Rain.
She tried to smile, but was unable to tell whether or not she managed to do so before the world slipped away, and she was taken to the place without thirst.
Steve R. Yeager
Steve R. Yeager is a part-time author who lives in Northern California with his wife, two kids, and a pair of crazy dogs. He has worked as a corporate software engineer for over 25 years and now spends much of spare time reading, writing, playing guitar, and shooting bows.
Amazon: Steve R. Yeager - Author
August 2016
Science Fiction
The Catskill Dragon
By Stephen S. Power | 5,500 words
Harper’s Weekly, Vol. VII—No. 350
New York, Saturday, September 12, 1863
ZOO HONORS ZENGER
On Friday, the following remarks were delivered at the Central Park Zoo by Wykoff Zenger during the dedication of a plaque honoring his son, the explorer and naturalist, Cassaway Zenger:
“Cassaway had, as a boy, all the passions peculiar to that peculiar species: swordplay, secret places, and especially dragons. He spent half his days among the swamps and rocks where this zoo now stands, catching snakes and skinks with ingenious little traps, and observing them to discover what they might reveal about their monstrous cousins. The other half of his days he spent hunting for books that mentioned or alluded to American dragons, as well as for trappers who might have seen one out west. The third half, for Cassaway had boundless energy and slept very little, he spent training himself to hunt dragons, should he ever find one. He ran and swam, shot and slung, and he learned how to survive in the wild, that is, the farms around Hamilton Square.
