Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

I grin and circle my arms around his neck. Our kiss is long as his hands rove over my back and to my breasts, but they are bound tight. The yucca knot only tightens in his tug. I pull him to my chest and hold his head close. A sob catches in my throat.

  “What, Tia?” He looks up at me, his eyes round with inquiry.

  I scoot back. “I would bind myself to you and be with you entirely but for the risk.”

  He unlaces my tunic fully and rests his head against my breast wrap. “And I swear by whichever god is true, I will bind and be with you.”

  I stiffen, slide off his lap, and lace my tunic closed. “You asked what we will do now, Ratho.” He reaches for my hand and holds it. “What’s next is that you’ll return and begin your life.”

  He kisses the back of my wrist. “Until you join me,” he declares.

  I gaze past him. “First, I’ll finish my work, endure Severation, and return to the village.” My tears burn the back of my throat. “Then, for a time, I’ll live with Father and find satisfaction in my labor.”

  He shakes his head and runs his thumb down my jaw. “How will I live without all R’tania knowing of my love? How will I wait for us to secretly bind?”

  I pull my hand from his and press my fingers to my eyes. “You won’t. You’ll find another, Ratho.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll find a woman to wife. One who can love you and give you children.”

  “No!” He grips my shoulders and shakes me. “You are my love, Tia. You! I’ve just discovered this, and I won’t lose you!”

  I jerk from his hands and get to my feet. In the moonlight, Mirko still sits at the top of the mesa. He hums sympathy. I rest my head on the warm stone wall. “Because of my declaration, you must find another, Ratho. Protect us both.”

  “No, Tia, we could live together as best mates. Within our home, we could set your declaration aside. We could live as husband and wife!”

  “And what would everyone say when my belly rounds with child? There would be no explanation for a declared male with pregnancy. I won’t risk your life, Ratho.” I turn to him. The lichen glows softly against his sadness. “You’ve given me more than I ever hoped. I’ve given all I can, but you deserve more.”

  He gets to his feet and clenches me to his chest again. “No,” he moans. “No! There must be a way.”

  I force the words out. “You must go, Ratho, before I endanger us further.” I press my cheek into his shoulder, relish his soft twists brushing my face. I breathe deeply to hold this moment in my centerself for life, then I step back from him.

  “You are my portion, Ratho.” I kiss his palm.

  “And you are mine, Tia.” His lips walk from the heel of my hand to my fingertips. “Only for your safety do I leave. Only for yours.” He glances up toward the top of the rock.

  I wipe my face across my sleeve. “Go.” My voice cracks.

  He takes a step away, then lunges back to me. Our embrace is full and long. Every part of me presses against him. He strains to be with me fully.

  Mirko’s whistle is the only thing that breaks us apart. Ratho traces my tear down my cheek then mingles it with his own.

  He moves away, still mouthing, “No, no, no,” and turns.

  I stand in the grotto and listen to his steps sliding down the path. He leaves me far behind, holding my amulet.

  CHAPTER 60

  MONOTONY

  The days and nights circle above the mesa. My centerself cracks and crumbles over Ratho’s departure. Mirko sings for healing, but even his notes hardly bring peace. I have lost my friend and my love. My declaration has been turned on its head once again, although I yearn after none but Ratho. My amulet feels weightless on my hip.

  For six days Mirko and I wait, and then we descend to the Common, cleanse, sleep on our bunk, find food and water, only to return to the platform and wait some more.

  It is hard when there is no labor to distract the mind from its endless circling: denying myself Ratho, him binding to another, Severation, the absence of a god, my emptiness.

  A rock spider darts over my hand. I don’t even raise my head when Mirko plucks it up and swallows it. I almost wish someone would end my misery the same way.

  CHAPTER 61

  SIXTH DAY

  Lookout service during the summer is brutal. Blossoms that stretched across the desert floor are withered now, as brown as I feel. Deep breaths fry my lungs. Shallow breaths are better.

  One afternoon, I rake my knife over the ruffled lizard skin and wipe the muck off on a rock. Mirko helps pull the skin taut. Scrape, scrape, scrape. My hands mimic what has been done to my centerself.

  A couple of clouds whisk above the heat shimmying off the mesa. I tug the lizard skin straight under my sandal. Stray sharp scales stick to my sweaty ankle, where the healing scar glints red. I sigh and shove everything aside.

  Mirko sips from the water sack, then I rinse my hands and ankle. My matted hair rests heavy on my shoulders, so I twirl the mess up and tie it into a head wrap.

  “At least it’s the sixth day, Mirko. Despite the heat, I long for the Steam Pockets.” He bobs his head. “The full moon will help me descend the path. And you know, the Carterea will return as well. Which means Baesa will be in sight.”

  Mirko whistles. I still tease him about the one he desires, but Shiz holds nothing for my eyes now. For that I can thank my amulet. Otherwise, all I can do is curl around my pain for Ratho until a shell hardens over the hole in my centerself.

  I get up and adjust the awning pole so that the shade is cast over Mirko again. After using the latrine stall connected to the Tower exterior, I lie down next to Mirko. His body shimmies heat, and his outstretched wings ruffle in the occasional hot breeze.

  I really should do my javelin patterns. But it’s broiling. A nap is better until the sun drops lower. I drift to sleep.

  Ratho bends over the goat

  and holds it steady.

  Father removes bots from the animal’s nostrils;

  Ratho’s grimace makes me chuckle.

  He looks up, and a smile touches

  the corners of his lips.

  His dimple sinks deeply.

  There are the lips I have kissed.

  I twirl close to his neck,

  rub my forehead in his twists.

  I soar deep into his dark eyes.

  Ratho! Are you well?

  As well as one separated.

  As well as I can be

  away from you.

  How is Mirko?

  A bugle answers, and peace fills my centerself.

  Your wounds have completely healed? I ask.

  I am whole of body, but my centerself aches.

  I am the same. I try to smile.

  And you apprentice under my father?

  Yes, he answers proudly.

  My vision pulls backward

  and Ratho grows small. Smaller.

  My love, he calls.

  He grows faint.

  My father asks, “Are you well, Ratho?”

  “Yes,” he answers. “I am fairly well.”

  The two faces I love most disappear. Awake now, I refuse to open my eyes. I pinch them closed more tightly to return to the vision, but it doesn’t resurface.

  Ratho continues life without Thae or me. Eventually, I’ll see him again, but our relationship will be small, and I won’t have Mirko.

  I turn over and press my sweaty back to my rapion’s. For now I will rest in amazement that I have spoken with my friend through vision. None can take that from me. But it’s not nearly enough.

  CHAPTER 62

  FULL MOON

  That evening, I snap the second to the last wafer in two and give one piece to Mirko. He crunches it and pecks the crumbs from the platform, while I place the last one in my bag for later.

  I reposition my feet in my sandals, and my poncho flaps in the night breeze. I check and recheck that everything is stowed from lizards’ reach, since we will be gone for the sixth night and seventh day. My
awning is down. Only one lichen strand glows on the platform. I stash it in my bag as well.

  The vision of Ratho returns to my mind, and I feel a grin widen. Thoughts of him will keep me buoyed during the descent tonight.

  I hang my remaining full water sack on my pack and see the platform is bare. I’m ready. “All right, Mirko.”

  He digs his talons into the wood and stretches. I hitch my pack between my shoulder blades and swing my arms to get the blood flowing. The rock still radiates heat, but the night is quickly tugging it away. “Mirko?”

  He sits staring at the rising moon. The light skims the immense mesa, collapsed tunnels looking like dark blood spatters on the gray surface. Mirko cocks his head. “What? What do you hear?”

  He lets out a low whistle.

  “Well, it’s not the lookout. We haven’t seen him for weeks.” I sigh. “Will there ever be an alert for you to signal?”

  Mirko doesn’t answer, but moans rise from his belly. He shoots straight up into the air, snaps his wings open, and hovers. His screech sirens through my skull. A shaft of lightning cracks near him, burning into a distant spot on the mesa. The hot light sizzles and glimmers float up from the hole.

  “Mirko!”

  CHAPTER 63

  THE CALLING

  Tumbling from the air, Mirko backwings in time to stop from crashing into me. I catch him around the waist, and his wings droop over my hands; his talons curl closed against my belly. The cinnamon scent is overpowering, steaming from his beak.

  I unhook my water sack and quickly tip it over his face. The rivulets hiss and cool.

  “Mirko! Mirko! Are you all right?

  His head lolls then lifts. With heavy lids, he blinks, and I am able to breathe once more. He gestures to the mesa surface with his beak.

  “I know,” I whisper. Everything inside of me yearns toward the spot that was lit.

  Mirko drops from my arms and drinks deeply from the sack. He sways, rights himself, ruffles and flaps. “Are you certain you are okay?”

  He trumpets. Renewed strength seems to vibrate each feather. He chortles for me to follow.

  “Yes, I’m coming!” I pull out the lichen and hold it before me. Instead of going down the path, back to the Common, I step off the wood platform and follow Mirko across the broad expanse ahead.

  Darkness broods in a crumbled section ahead of me, like the space left in a crone’s missing tooth. I give a wide berth to the weakened area, which reaks of decay, likely the fetid standing water trapped below. My ankles don’t wobble, and my centerself doesn’t quake. My amulet hangs quietly at my side, finally pumping me with power. I’m crossing the top of the mesa to whichever chasm the lightning cleansed. The calling pimples my skin.

  We work our way across the rock. The journey is farther than we traveled for Sleene. What is it that compels us?

  The moon sweeps up the sky as I weave carefully forward. The tugging in my breastbone doesn’t wain despite my body tiring.

  Finally, Mirko backwings above a narrow hole. Wearily, I stop beside the opening. “Is this it?” I whisper. “Are you sure?”

  My rapion crows and darts into the space without hesitation. His wings knock rocks free, and they clatter below. It sounds dry down there, at least.

  Gingerly, I sit on the lip which holds me, for the moment. Lowering my lichen, little shows but a curve of stone leading downward. I stash my light and shove aside loose rocks rimming the edge until I find a firm hold. I look up at the moon watching me, down at the yawning hole, already swallowing my legs. To the right and left, I can’t see either end of the mesa. Who knows exactly where this is?

  “Go, go, go,” I chant, and with a great breath I swing off the edge, into the heart of the mesa.

  Mirko chitters from somewhere in the blackness. My feet kick against stone, so I let go, only to fall and skid. It is a slanted tunnel going down! Desperate, I shove my hands and feet against the walls and stop my slide.

  Crash!

  “No!” I shout, ducking as rocks tumble from above. A large one cracks against my shoulder before rolling past. The opening has collapsed!

  “Mirko!”

  He chirps below, sounding all right, maybe even flying ahead to scout.

  I hang in the tunnel, my pack pressed between the wall and my back. I wait for the dust to settle, wait to draw a breath and steady my centerself. Tearing up, I slip before pressing harder with my feet. My palms burn from rock abrasions. My shoulder aches.

  What, what am I doing? Why did I climb inside? Of course the opening could have collapsed. Before my panic completely eats free, Mirko wings into my lap. I slide farther, but wedge myself to a stop once again. Wait. Is that a dim light glowing under us?

  My rapion sings and sings, the sound ringing in the tiny space, knocking free tiny pebbles that bounce off my headwrap. Mirko tumbles off and calls for me to follow. As if I have a choice? To climb back up would be extremely difficult, even dangerous if larger rocks tumbled free while I tried to dig my way out. It’s impossible. And what of that light? It’s definitely light.

  I scoot down the winding tunnel after my rapion, who now sings with a thrill. Suddenly, my compulsion returns. I can’t move as quickly as my centerself demands.

  CHAPTER 64

  TRUTH

  The moment I drop from the passage and my feet slam onto a flat surface, Mirko buzzes ecstatically. With my head wrap slipped over my eyes, I crawl forward and sit on the smooth floor. Shoving the material back, my blood stops pumping. We are in a round room with carvings covering the wall. They must be the work of early R’tan as I can’t decipher all in the old script.

  I spin on my knees. Clumped along the floor’s curve, lichen illuminate the room, except for one dark hole. Like a gullet at the base of the wall, it’s positioned directly across from the tunnel we fell down from.

  Mirko bugles. Stillness descends on, in, and through me. I shrug off my pack, gaping at the imagery around me. Nestled in a myriad of others are a few pictographs I recognize from our Oracles. Ones I studied year after year as Father read the greater passages to me.

  Wait. All the images and truths are here, the ancient marks and scenes collected in one round room exactly as Father described. “The Chamber of Verities?” I whisper into the holiness.

  Mirko rings the circle with great wing beats. The light shimmers across his feathers, and he bugles louder. The sound thrums the stone as well as my bones. He confirms my guess.

  I slowly get to my feet and stand before the wall carved with pictures of rapion, fish, animals, plants, and people. “Look, Mirko!” He flaps beside me as I try to read. “‘The Creator Spirit moved … through the empty. His breath turned — no, twirled into being desert, waters, and sky.’ It is the beginning of the Oracles of the Creator!”

  My rapion lowers to the floor and hums. Each Oracle of Life is glowing, every Divine Instruction is illustrated.

  I breathe as quietly as possible. The Creator Spirit himself is said to have whispered the carvings into the stone in the presence of his prophets. The broken history of my people pieces together as I explore.

  One wall depicts the R’tan formed by the sea along with the rapion. Both hatched from great eggs buried in large sand mounds, and their descendants were our ancients who moved to the mesas and the cliffs.

  There are three panels showing the Triumvirate, but the swirling symbol of the Creator Spirit glides below the cat, the enemy, and the storm. Even in difficulty, the god is there.

  My fingertips trace the spirals. Faith sparks and consumes my dry doubt as I’m infused and able to believe to see the truth. The Creator Spirit is God!

  I run around the room fluttering my hand over the holy words Father taught me. Creator Spirit, forgive my unbelief! You are the God of my people!

  I twirl and dance until I’m breathless, panting, bent at the waist to recover. How could I have doubted? How? My breath slows, and I shake my head at my former foolishness.

  The dark hole beside me draws
me closer. I kneel and peer into it. Is it another tunnel? Possibly a way to leave?

  “Is that water down there?”

  Mirko doesn’t answer, as he’s transfixed before one of the panels showing rapion. I sniff. If it is water, it isn’t putrid.

  I stand and turn to the handprints that cover a portion of wall exactly as Father told me. They reach from the floor to nearly the top of the room’s arch. I reverently place my palms on each one I can reach.

  “These are the prophets of old who testified to the truth of the Oracles!” Mirko joins me and bows.

  I step back to the middle of the Chamber of Verities. Twittering, Mirko flies spirals up my body as he used to when a hatchling. The air lifts my hair and garments. I raise my face in holy reverence.

  Righteous laughter bubbles out of my centerself. “The Creator Spirit is my God!”

  CHAPTER 65

  THE CHAMBER

  We remain in the Chamber, mesmerized. Concern for how we might leave barely touches my thoughts. Instead, I read the carvings, truths, and histories as much as I am able. The joining of rapion and R’tan is shown in a large panel. Both step from their eggshells and reach to touch.

  One image depicts large eggs wrapped to boys and small eggs dangling in netting from girls’ necks. A portion is given to visionaires with eyes staring forward, birdlets perched in their hair. One girl even reminds me of Jenae. Before them, patrollers stand ready with javelin, bola, and large rapion on their shoulders.

  A dark section describes the afterdeath Place of Passing for those who violate the Oracles and the Creator. Worms twist in the bodies of the screaming, while rapion and men feed on each other. Above is the carving of the Place of Rest, where men and women and rapion twine in peace. Mother and Thae are there now. “How beautiful is it?” I ask them.

  Another immense scene shows everyone standing before a person who casts a rapion-shaped shadow. A prophet!

  A thought niggles me until I face it: There are none portrayed with an amulet. I scan all the images of people several more times to confirm, and not one has the declaration hanging from their hip. Of course. It is a Madronian vestige. I reach down and squash the bag, moving it behind me.