A couple of children run past in their Weekly Ritual finest, ponchos and bows flouncing. Yet, when they spot Mirko, they zip off like nervous Miniatae.
The acolytes stand apart in green robes trimmed in gold. Nearby, the few Madronian military are rigid in their helmets and vests, crossbows at hand. They remind us of our subjugation, even now.
A better sight is the food! Covering the tables are roasted geese, brown flat breads, and sweetened tubers. Warm oil rings the platters of meat. The desserts are honeyed pastries and edible flowers.
Making our way to an open table, conversations stream past. Parents brag about their daughters’ dainty Miniatae or discuss the wingspan of their sons’ Signicos. I spot a few girls across the courtyard whose rapion preen and flutter about them. The birdlets are adorable, but none seem as perfect as Mirko, I think, and he nuzzles my ear.
A quartet raises a tune on pipes and drums in front of the butcher shop. How is the grieving mother who lives next door? The one whose baby girl was taken?
Finally, we do have to inch past a group of Initiate Males with their beautiful Signicos, and they instantly quiet. Each bird is just a little different than the other. One deeper brown, another more golden. One larger, another bigger beaked. All staring. Is each boy and rapion relieved not to have to serve with me? Even though I’ve known Dwino, Col, Klane, and the others all their lives, and they know me almost as well as Ratho does?
Rippling outward, silence whooshes through the crowd. Even the musicians’ ditty peters. Obviously, Ratho has spread rumors of Mirko. I tighten my muscles to still the trembles.
As we expected, Mirko gathers himself up and belts out a greeting to all the other rapion. Most duck and hide in their bearers’ hair coils, but Father straightens his shoulders, and I try to do the same. We slice through the whispers licking our ears like sidewinder tongues and sit down at an empty table.
“The one who sings!” Sleene darts close. My throat pinches as I lean away from the leering priest whose eyes flit between my amulet and bird. The murderer’s wings graze my face.
When Mirko hunkers and growls a line of deep notes, Sleene gawks; his blue-lined lips move silently in prayer. Does he, too, think of the Featherless Crow? It doesn’t seem so. He looks more enamored, actually. I shiver. Finally, he steps away to an acolyte gesturing for his attention.
Sleene’s lust for a rapion is obvious. In the midst of the commotion and clatter, his eyes linger on Mirko, and occasionally slip to the other birds. The corners of his mouth glisten as he strokes his black wings.
The musicians resume their tune, and the noise in the square climbs again. Benches scrape the stone, and friends call to one another from table to table. The villagers take turns staring at me and Mirko, but he can’t be their only interest. There’s so much to speak of because the harvest has kept them from their regular gossip, and tonight is a celebration. Or could a few R’tan actually respect the memory of the Rapion Singer?
I sit in the whirl of sound while the birds flutter the air around me. Awe overpowers fear, and I absorb the moment, not dwelling on how the priest’s acolytes form a barricade around the seating area.
I grip Mirko’s scaly foot. Humming, he nuzzles my fingers with his smooth beak, and I nestle my nose in his neck feathers. This is our Initiation. Finally! It’s not as if Madronian law makes us serve; R’tan youth have performed this service for centuries. The Madronians just make the conditions harsher, and the soldiers we aid are theirs.
Mirko quiets as Ratho’s father enters the plaza, his heavy ram boots clomping. He knocks back his hat and looks for a table for his family.
Ratho’s little sister, Tleana, grasps their mother’s checkered skirts. Hanging from the girl’s neck, a red Miniata egg nests in a tiny crocheted pouch. She peeks at me and hides her face before she sees my greeting gesture.
Ratho pulls his eyes from mine, and my hope that his opinion of Mirko has changed drops with a thump. The family scans the square. Only our table has space for them.
“Greetings,” Ratho’s father finally says to mine after approaching. Father offers an open palm welcome.
They join us, but Ratho chooses a seat at the opposite end of the table. His damp hair drapes around Thae, who is settled on his shoulder. His hair is always so curly and soft right after he washes it. He catches me staring and a regretful look passes over his face. He misses me too.
With amazing forgiveness, Mirko sings a greeting to Thae, but Ratho and his Signico turn their backs.
I cover my pain and anger for Mirko’s sake. “They will come to know your worth,” I whisper to him. “We can wait out their foolery.” He chortles agreement and waddles. I wish I could believe myself and forgive as quickly.
Father’s friend Frana bustles over and slides in next to me. Her fleshy arm squeezes my waist. Mirko leans forward to see her and chitters. “Congratulations, Tiadone!” she exclaims. “Oh, he is the beauty among them all!”
I hold my hands in a cup shape to receive her shocking praise. “Thank you, Mistress.” Her enthusiastic nod bounces her short hair coils all over her head.
Sleene climbs the winding stairs to the podium clinging to the Monast above the great locked doors. The square quiets again except for Mirko’s simple song. A few people nearby turn and glare or steal another peek at him.
Sleene clinks his garment bells and bones, then leads a collective prayer to the Four-Winged Condor. “Let these initiates serve the country well, alerting all of danger. Let the females have visions and the males identify threat of the Triumverate. By your power, Four-Winged Condor.”
As if their god empowers R’tan youth! I restrain from spitting over my shoulder as Sleene’s acolytes return the responses many R’tan only mutter softly.
Finally, the prayers conclude, and we feast! I cram every worry and irritation aside. We are in public with Mirko. None have been rude, aside from staring. There have been no threats against us or seeming rejection. Soon, maybe even Mirko will seem as normal as the other rapion, like tonight, how a declared male is counted among the male initiates.
I eat my fill of roasted roots and mashed nuts over sidewinder. Mirko munches in my trencher, making his tail sweep happily in my lap. Father and Frana talk, occasionally including me, as all our bellies round with food.
When Frana turns and speaks with Ratho’s mother, Father reminds me, “There will be nothing like this spread at Perimeter.”
“For certain.” I wipe my mouth on my linen napkin. With that thought and just a bit of time left, I notice that no one is at the dessert table but one Initiate Female. I excuse myself and Mirko for seconds of currant pudding.
“Hello,” says the blond girl hovering by the sweets. Her gauzy pink dress floats just above her ankle boots. A newly hatched Miniata sits atop her head. The birdlet is as small as a sour cherry! I blush at the girl’s boldness. “I am Jenae.” When her brown eyes flit over my amulet, she doesn’t shrink back. She does glance about to see no one is nearby. “This is Zoae.” The birdlet bobs and swings down into one of Jenae’s elaborate hair loops.
“I am Tiadone,” I whisper. Mirko nips my ear. “And this is Mirko.” He twitters.
Jenae giggles and rocks on her heels. “He is amazing. Even more so with his song.” Mirko grins and chortles.
“Zoae is beautiful also,” I add.
“Thank you!” She hands me a bowl of pudding. “I envy you going to Perimeter!” she whispers in a rush, her breath damp with vanilla. “Be extra careful.” Jenae winks and hurries away from the approaching acolyte.
The priest’s guard stops before me. “Ready yourself for Initiation,” he says with a thick Madronian accent.
I bow and weave my way back through the tables. The villagers look when I pass, but I’d rather think on Jenae’s voice, so kind, like Frana’s. And she liked Mirko. See, Ratho! My rapion is worthy to serve. Others believe it. Can’t you? And she envies me going to Perimeter! Imagine!
I give up my pudding to Father. He and Frana wish me well, and I
join the line of initiates. The families cheer while Sleene dabs his lips with his draping sleeve and leads us from the square.
CHAPTER 10
INITIATION
In the deep twilight, we follow the priest. Ratho leads the males, whereas I am last before the females. Jenae is the last of all. The cool air whisks about my face and charges my nerves until my scalp tingles.
Our winding row stops behind the Monast Temple, beneath the huge sculpture of the Four-Winged Condor; its broad wings arch above us. Everyone stands apart from Mirko and me.
Sleene glides before the condor’s jutting, lowered head. “Our subservience to you,” he chants. “I am your spokesman.” Then he strokes the wood and kisses the idol’s open red beak, first the upper and then the lower half. His hand reaches in and slowly caresses the black tongue.
Like a wet goat skin clinging to my back, the Madronian religion weights me. I shrug to be rid of it, but it holds fast. How similar their god looks to our rapion, but without a speck of life.
Mirko flaps his wings and resettles, which causes a chain reaction down our line. “Be still,” I whisper to him, but it doesn’t stop him from rocking from one foot to the other.
Against our backs, the beautiful Monast releases warmth from the sunlight it has absorbed through the day. The white marble shimmers pink now. This was the R’tan holy place of worship before the Madronians claimed it. Aside from our visionaires serving with their Miniatae, R’tan are restricted from the building. It’s hard to believe that once Father and Mother worshiped the Creator Spirit, inside, whenever they chose.
“Proceed into the Holy Garden,” commands Sleene. He motions the Initiate Females to long swings newly hung from the outstretched necks of tall condor sculptures scattered throughout the area. Each bird is frozen in a classic war position, with feet ringed by rock rose and pale green succulents. The girls sit nervously on the slats; their dresses wave below the teetering seats, above small clay pots in the greenery.
Father says this was once a beautiful Meditation Garden where one could contemplate the Creator Spirit. Now it’s lost in this maze of statues.
“Defend as men,” Sleene intones, and draws each boy by the arm to stand behind a girl. My forearm throbs beneath his crushing thumb. Mirko flaps above us until Sleene releases me beside a girl with a chubby face and a Miniata on her shoulder. Her rapion ducks its head to Mirko, who sings in return. The girl and I exchange timid grins. Another who doesn’t fear my rapion overmuch!
Across the garden, Ratho is teamed with Jenae, who coyly smiles. When Ratho beams and his dark eyes loiter on her, my face grows hot. I should be his partner … if I wasn’t declared male, of course. Mirko clicks his beak in my ear. I relax my fists before anyone reads my irritation.
Jenae reaches out and brazenly straightens Ratho’s sleeve, which doesn’t meet his wrist. He has grown again, for certain. Will he end up being the handsome man Frana always predicted? I force myself to look away from Jenae’s fingers lingering on his hand. She will be whipped if she is caught.
Sleene lifts a long taper and lights the candles clustered atop the tall column in the garden center. The flames twist and jerk. With a whistling breath, he kills the taper blaze. “Swing,” Sleene shouts, and spins, throwing his arms wide.
With Miniatae clinging tightly to the inside of their hair loops, the girls pump their legs hard. A few don’t clasp their dresses between their knees and ankles, and the forward motion exposes their leggings. The opposing swing backward covers their immodesty, but still, I spot several boys leering. Ratho looks away from Jenae exposing even her thighs!
Who is this overly friendly girl at ease with both me and Ratho? At least he isn’t completely taken by her.
“Ignite the pots, Initiate Males!” Sleene dances between us.
Hearing his command, Mirko flies to the column and retrieves a candle. He drops it into the pot below our swinging girl. Other Signicos retrieve candles and deliver their fire. The ancestral stones within the pots ignite and fling icy green rays into the air while the girls’ skirts caress the chilly radiance.
The fires extinguish and smoke puffs high. To check our efforts, Sleene whips through the garden, making his hooked toes, cluttered with rings, slide forward in his sandals. He leans down, and the tip of his clammy nose chills my ear while he sniffs my scent and straightens my amulet. I stiffen to keep from jerking from him and showing my fear.
“I am watching,” he murmurs, making my spine crackle. He steps away and throws out another command. “Males, claim the pots for the Four-Winged Condor! Bear your new roles for the village, country, and Madronian Empire!”
For the R’tan! I counter. After the girl I’m with swings forward, I lunge at the pot and feel for the stiff wire handle. I grasp it and stumble to the side when the girl flies back through the air.
“Circle the visionaires, Initiate Males of Perimeter Defense.”
I hurry around the swinging girl with Mirko on my shoulder. I can no longer see the others through the hovering sweet smoke. Only the head of this condor peers down at me.
The Miniata buzzes his wings, and the girl swings higher. Invisible drummers strike a rhythm on the Monast roof, and the acolytes’ chant drifts from the Vestuary. The smoke absorbs the sound but bells it out again. Rattling his robes, Sleene’s face looms close then shrinks away.
I fall to my knees in the raked sand, and Mirko lands beside me. My face drops to the ground. When my grip on the handle loosens, the pot rolls, pouring smoke over my face. Mirko sidles to me.
I breathe with the Madronian beat and creaking swings. The females should be having their first visions while power infuses the males. I close my eyes and inhale. From the smoke comes pulsing strength, and — a vision of my past.
I burst from a bubble of warm blood,
my wet cheek pressed
against my mother’s inner thigh.
Reaching,
she pulls me upward, kisses my slippery lips,
and passes.
Father howls.
In anguish and shaking panic,
he lops at our birth cord,
and then hacks coils of hair from his head
with his black knife.
Sleene scowls
but extracts a pink drained heart
from a bag at his waist.
He slides it
into a crimson amulet pouch
along with Father’s hair.
My flushed body thrashes
against the sinew
Sleene ties to my small, bare hips.
While I scream against the act,
he glares
at the amulet lying
atop my shame,
and my father begging
at his feet.
Mother’s blood
stretches in strands
between Sleene’s steepled fingers.
At the Cliff,
rapion accept my placenta
to feed their ancient.
They fly the bloody mass
up into a high crack
in the circling cavern wall.
An egg, clutched in talons,
is flown in return to Father
and dropped into his palms.
A turquoise egg.
Mirko!
CHAPTER 11
SECRETS
Despite the cold night, sweat pastes my clothes to my skin. Sleene said nothing to me after Initiation. He only picked a scab from his scalp, flicked it into the air, and watched me leave the garden.
Father and I hike up our hill. Mirko rides my shoulder, chittering to himself.
“Initiation went well, Tiadone?”
“Yes.”
“I understand the ceremony hasn’t changed much despite the Madronian presence.”
“I guess.”
“And as the other males, did you feel the strength imparted to you from the Smoke of Sending?”
“I did.” But do I also say: I saw a vision; or, Like a female, I had
a vision; or, I saw my mother for the first time, saw her brown hair curling along her jaw, her full lips, and fierce blue eyes?
Should I say: I saw, while in your deepest grief, you didn’t hesitate to save me no matter the cost to your future? Questions I’ve always pondered flap about my head. You loved me, Father, but why didn’t you consider leaving R’tania so I wouldn’t have to be declared? Of course there are benefits to being male, but it would have been less complicated to remain female. So, why didn’t you merely leave?
I tug my poncho away from my neck. Does my father suspect my vision but is too afraid to ask? Or does he think Mirko, a Signico, would inhibit visions within me? Is my twine with Mirko the reason my vision was strangely of the past, unlike visionaires who see the future? Maybe Father fears to ask at all as I fear to say anything of it.
My drying sweat chills me despite how I hug myself. This was probably just one vision from the Creator Spirit, brought on by the ancestral stones.
Mirko rubs his head against mine. I reach up and ruffle the feathers on his breast.
Father grips my free hand. “I will miss you, Tiadone,” he says into the darkness.
“And I you.” I squeeze his palm.
“You are my soul’s portion.”
I brush away frightened, confused tears. Mirko leaps from my back and leads us through the dark.
Back home, I stare at the fig-shaped sponge. It is inside a loosely woven bag with a long string dangling from the end. The sponge is actually the root of the prickle plant, romnis. Its little purple flowers are common across our high desert. When I need more, they will be easy to find. I cannot believe what Father expects me to do with this thing.
“The flow will occur only once a month.”
I look at the rafters. Frana has hung clumps of rosemary to dry about the smoke hole. Mirko nibbles a sprig and dangles his tail above my head.
“It is like the estrus of goats so they might bear kids after mating.”
My whole body flames with the thought of men and women acting as animals. But then how else are children conceived? I wipe my forehead on the back of my hand. Ratho and the other boys joked and hinted such things, but I never believed them.
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