Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  Droslump flips his braid behind him and pulls a long knife from his sleeve. The firelight flickers on the metal as he approaches with the point aimed toward me. Mirko hisses, but Droslump sidesteps him. I refuse to shrink away. What could be worse than Severation from Mirko? My death would hold less pain.

  Droslump yanks matted twists from my head and hacks them away. I flinch and jerk at the tugs, nicks, and gouges.

  Mirko hums encouragement, growls at Droslump, and worries the hair twists about his feet. More knotted clumps drop to the stone.

  The last yank makes me gasp, and the last scrape is a puncture that brings out a yelp. Droslump dances back from Mirko’s talons while a warm trickle of blood winds down my forehead.

  Droslump stoops and gathers the mess. Unnoticed, Mirko slides a hank of hair beneath his foot. The rest is thrown into the fire by the govern. The reek is overpowering.

  “When the strands are fully received by the Four-Winged Condor, cleanse and report for Severation.” He slips the knife back up his sleeve and shakes his fingers clean. Glowering, he backs from the room. His braid swings like a sidewinder over his chest.

  My hair incinerates. I breathe through my mouth, and with my sleeve I wipe the blood off my face. My scalp feels prickly, tender, and sticky. Pressed into the burning cut, my sleeve staunches the blood.

  Using his beak and talons, Mirko weaves the piece of hair he kept. Spittle lines the lock until a coil is formed. He raises his foot to me, gestures, and I wrap it several times at the base of his leg. My knot holds it firmly.

  A part of me will stay with Mirko. It is the only thought that keeps me from insanity.

  CHAPTER 77

  MEMORIES

  Mirko and I step into a Steam Pocket one last time. The open wounds on my head burn as I grimace and sweat away Droslump’s touch. Toweled clean, I dress in my last set of issued clothes. It’s true that what I wore on arrival would no longer fit, just as we were told by the Clothier.

  I straighten the poncho and cinch my trousers while Mirko flaps beside me. We push aside the skin covers and return to our shelf. I pause at the empty cupboard to slide the key inside for the next patroller. Not that it will protect anything.

  Holding the kidskin to my nose, I think of home. I’m actually going home! It’s hard to see past Severation, but home will ease some aches. To Father, and Frana, and soon — her baby! Ratho will be there. And Jenae.

  Mirko walks on Ratho’s shelf and rubs his beak in Thae’s sleeping bowl.

  I swallow, tuck my kidskin into my pack, and shrug my arms through the straps. Mirko flaps down and sits in his own sleeping bowl one last time. I run my hand over my shelf. The rough stone was always welcome after patrol. Ratho’s and my laughter bounced off these red and golden walls many nights before we fell asleep. My silent sobs burst out, and I drop to the floor.

  Nothing matters, because Mirko is severating from me. I can’t, I can’t live through this!

  A warm breath of cinnamon brushes my cheek. Mirko climbs onto my lap, and we cry together. Grace, Creator Spirit. I beg. Grace and strength for us both.

  My legs wobble but amazingly still climb. The dim path rises in the evening’s softness. Making the ascent harder, Mirko walks nearly underfoot; I welcome the difficulty.

  My nose runs, and I wipe it dry on my forearm. I don’t want to weep before the Carterea. Shiz is gone. No one else has ever spoken to me save a few words. What do they care beyond worry over their own future Severations? Madgea will not be here, and her well wishes from last week fade with each step.

  I reach the top, and the Amph of Return swallows me into the side of the mesa. Every youth and Signico of the Carterea stare at us.

  Around Droslump’s feet, lichen spill their glow. He gestures for me to leap to the dark pillar. Blackness meets the edges of the circular top, and my fingers glisten with sweat. I wipe them down my trousers, but they only grow damper. Mirko springs from my side, flies above, and hums as he has done hundreds of times before when my heart needed encouragement.

  I gauge my position. In my running start, my joints threaten to lock up, but I vault from the mesa and soar through the empty space. My amulet, arms, and legs flail. I hit the pillar, my knees collapse, and I’m hurled forward by the weight of my pack. My face skids and burns against the rock, but I stay hunched a moment, trying to get the raging panic to subside.

  The rake across my cheek burns. I sit up and stifle the screams threatening to burst out of me. Mirko lands in my lap and rubs his head against my shoulder.

  Next, Droslump leads the boys in a chant; my mind can’t even hold the words. I know it is some Madronian prayer for blessing.

  Mirko climbs onto my back, and I kneel with my forehead to the stone. His wings open, and the cinnamon scent cascades over me.

  Mirko’s hums transition into an aria I’ve never heard. The notes rise and soar and tumble like a rapion in flight. Mirko holds the final measure; the sound streams over my neck into my centerself.

  My tears spill onto the pillar. “I love you, Mirko.”

  I raise my head and look into his wide eyes, which peer over my shoulder. He presses his head to my cheek until our tears mingle. His cold beak brushes the outer corner of my lips.

  Droslump’s rumbled commands break us apart. “Return, rapion! Return to your clan and honor the Four-Winged Condor. Return!” he yells. As if it is he who causes the Severation!

  Mirko rubs his cheek once more on mine, and his wing caresses my bald head. He flaps before me. Our eyes engage. In his pupil, rapion rise from the Cliffs.

  He howls, falls backward, slips onto an air shaft, and spins into the darkness. His feathers wink away; his keen tears open my centerself. No other rapion join us.

  Face down, I collapse on the stone and wail for Mirko.

  Eventually, I lift my face and crawl upright. In the darkness, the Amph is empty. From now on, Droslump’s only a bad memory to vex my sleep. Sleene will become my living nightmare once more.

  Bawling, I tenderly touch the cuts on my head and my cheek, and clutch my aching belly. Creator Spirit, compel the Cliff to welcome the one you gave me to tend, the Singer you created.

  I suck in a broken breath through swollen, cracked lips and creep along the edge of the pillar, feeling for handholds. There; to the west. I sit up and lower myself over the edge, my hands and feet finding indentations until a path emerges down the slope. The emptiness swells behind my ribs.

  At the desert floor, the sand gives beneath my boots, and my ankles roll. I lean against the mesa and rest my wet forehead on the cool rock. My lips press the surface and cling. The amulet is a lump between my thigh and the stone.

  Creator Spirit, here I regained Ratho. I saw Thae sacrifice herself, and entered the Chamber of Verities, where I discovered the palms of your prophets. Here I loved my rapion and returned him to the Cliffs. Make swift his flight and fill my lonesome steps with comfort.

  I peel my dry mouth from the rock. Above, the stars point home. I take a hesitant step away from the mesa and begin my trek.

  CHAPTER 78

  STOPPING

  Water spills from my sack, cascading down the front of my poncho. I swallow the bit remaining in my mouth and fall to my knees. The Severation weighs like four rapion on my back when there are none at all. The angst heaves the water I swallowed up out of my mouth until I gag and sputter.

  Dropping to the dirt, I slip off my pack and roll onto my back. The night oozes past. Maybe if I wait till morning, the severing will not weigh so, and daylight will speed me home.

  I lay my head on my pack, crimp like a hatchling around my amulet, and shiver. Sidewinders, owl burrows, and lizards could be beneath or beside my body, and I wouldn’t know or care. I am without Mirko. How will I bear it?

  CHAPTER 79

  DELIVERY

  Chills prickle my back. I toss. My eyes squinch tightly. “No, no,”

  I pant, but the cold vision opens nonetheless.

  Frana braces herself in th
e birthing chair

  and adjusts her grip in the handholds.

  A great cry flings from her wide, open mouth.

  Her skirts ride high

  above her red-lined belly.

  Her thick thighs tremble

  as she grunts loudly,

  screams,

  and bears down.

  Father stands at her back,

  his hands fastened to her shoulders.

  Sleene squats beside her,

  his wings an arching black omen.

  Frana’s fleshy knee smacks

  against the priest’s concave cheek,

  but his eyes remain locked on her sacred place.

  A midwife pries a babe

  from Frana’s squelching womb

  making her cries peter into weeping joy.

  Sleene licks his lips,

  and he grasps the babe.

  The infant is swallowed in his palms.

  It gurgles, cries,

  and squirms facedown in Sleene’s clutch.

  Father kisses the top of Frana’s head.

  Wet strands of hair cling to her face

  and her eyes snap wide.

  Puffing, she leans forward, which

  flops the afterbirth

  into the birthing bucket.

  The midwife lifts and cuts the cord.

  She presses a cloth to Frana

  while tugging her skirts

  past the priest’s sharp shoulder.

  The baby screams.

  Sleene flips it over in his bloody hands.

  “A girl,” he spits, and stands quickly.

  “But she is not my firstborn,” Father proclaims.

  Sleene raises his eyes.

  “But she is the woman’s.”

  Frana gasps.

  “It is Madronian law as of last spring,

  to limit these worthless additions.”

  He hangs the shrill baby by her foot,

  dangling her before his disgusted face.

  “This is the first from a second binding

  for me to declare or dispose of.”

  “But the law was not

  announced to the R’tan!” Father shouts.

  Impervious, Sleene shrugs;

  his wings echo the dismissal.

  “And that thwarted the complaints

  for me to bear.

  The law will touch few, and now it is known further.”

  He cups the shrieking babe in his hands once more.

  The newborn’s cry is joined

  by Father’s and Frana’s,

  like the keen of mourning rapion.

  The babe

  is Frana’s firstborn girl,

  my sister.

  CHAPTER 80

  TAKEN

  My body stiffens on the sand. My teeth grind.

  As Sleene tugs a strip of brown linen from his belt,

  the midwife manages to knot the cord

  against my sister’s belly.

  Sleene shrouds the babe.

  He pauses.

  “Or did you wish to declare her male?”

  His eyes wait on Father.

  Frana mouths, Yes, please, yes!

  “No. No, not again,” Father whispers

  into Frana’s ear.

  “I can’t do that

  to another.

  No matter the Oracles

  or what other R’tans

  might or might not choose.

  The life I’ve given Tiadone,

  the falsehood she must live,

  it eats at me.

  I can’t face another questioning me,

  why, why, why?”

  He looks up to Sleene.

  “No. I’ll make

  no declaration.”

  He turns his head

  from my sister.

  “Please! My child,” Frana begs,

  and tries to get to her feet

  but falls back into the chair.

  “We will declare her male!”

  Sleene ignores her wishes.

  The midwife clings

  to her birthing bag and bucket

  and cowers against the wall while

  Sleene dangles the babe

  knotted in cloth.

  She swings and wails at his side.

  Father frantically turns back.

  “Please, just let her live,” he sobs,

  falling down on his knees.

  “Heretic, mark your words,”

  Sleene growls,

  “or it will be two lives lost this morning.”

  Frana grasps Father’s shoulder.

  “Please!” she screams.

  In the tumult,

  Sleene gestures peace and goodwill

  from the Four-Winged Condor.

  He flings open the door.

  Dawn floods into the room

  and then is cut off

  until his wings clear the threshold.

  The babe is gone.

  The midwife scurries out,

  stopping to empty the birthing bucket

  on the refuse heap.

  Father cries,

  “When was this new law enacted?

  When?” he babbles.

  Frana lurches upright in the birthing chair,

  squeezing the handholds.

  “We should have declared her male!”

  “I can’t!” Father shouts back.

  “Look at Tiadone, Frana. Look at her!

  In constant danger of a slip,

  believing there is some power

  in a worthless amulet?

  Performing work maybe not even

  suited for her sex?

  She lives the lie I chose.

  She is forced to live

  as if she is not

  the woman she is!

  You don’t know

  the burden I carry

  for what I have given to my daughter.

  You just don’t know

  what it is like to try to explain

  and fail,

  both of you knowing

  the farce

  picked for my frailty.”

  “Well, then, let’s retrieve my baby

  and leave the land, husband!”

  Father’s face slackens like melting wax,

  and he pulls from her grip,

  rocking on his knees.

  “I

  can’t.

  No.

  I can’t!

  Tiadone will return.

  I must at least be here for her — him.

  And there’s

  my land.

  My land holds

  my centerself.

  And don’t you have your own rapion

  still at the Cliffs, Frana?” His voice warbles.

  “I do.” She answers. “But I have strength to leave!”

  She wipes her upper lip on her sleeve.

  “I have not glimpsed my Miniata

  since Severation.

  And our child has not yet received a rapion.

  Listen to me!

  I understand you do not

  want to declare the babe a male.

  But Tiadone already is.

  She needs no oversight now,” Frana begs,

  “and we need no land

  if we are together!

  Leave Tiadone the land.”

  “No!” Father hunches and curls

  his empty arms around himself.

  “It is me or the child, Frana,” he whispers.

  “I cannot leave.”

  He looks up to her teetering on the chair.

  Blood rings the floor about her pale feet.

  “Do not leave me, love!” he begs,

  and grasps her ankle.

  “Please,

  do not mark me with abandonment

  when I am already

  marked for heresy!

  You have forgiven me once.

  Please forgive my weakness now,

  and I will be the man I promised.

/>   None would ever accept my company

  if you left me, Frana.

  And remember!

  Remember that our next child will be accepted

  no matter the sex!

  Have mercy, woman.”

  He curls more tightly and covers his head

  with his free hand.

  She pulls her ankle free from him,

  slides from her perch,

  and tumbles into the wetness on the floor.

  She weeps and shakes

  while he lies huddled alone.

  “What of your belief in life …” she begs.

  He only sobs in return.

  Finally,

  Frana lifts her weary head

  and gathers her skirts

  in her trembling fists.

  “For you, I will remain,” she rasps.

  “For you only.

  Oh, my daughter,

  forgive me!”

  CHAPTER 81

  DECISION

  Huhh, aughghgh!” I roll to my knees and hack the bile from my mouth. The morning sun shines in the spittle dangling from my chin. I wipe it on my shoulder and lurch to my feet.

  “No!” I yell, pace, drag my hands over my bald head, kick stones, and punch the air. I stop and plant my feet wide. “Why the new Madronian law and a girl, Creator Spirit?” I shriek.

  I drop to my stomach and stretch out prone. “Why?” I bellow.

  A morning dove hoots in the distance. Something scuttles over my outstretched arm.

  The full truth of what I have heard bombards me like a flash flood. My father called my life a lie! A lie he would not want to tell his second daughter.

  I am female. Truly female!

  I scream and kick the dirt, thrash my arms. My entire life I have denied my feelings. No wonder I love Ratho! And now I learn this, after I’ve given him up forever?

  Life has greater value than obedience to a ruler, whispers in my mind. It is the Oracle Father’s openly rejecting.

  The thought gains momentum as it runs and catches more and more truth. My sister has worth as a female. My centerself rises above the waves, refusing to be drowned.

  I shove myself up. “My father loves his land more than me or my sister!” My voice strikes out in all directions. “He loves his own back more than the Creator Spirit!”