Tradition

She could see a little, from the flickerings of the torches outside her tiny hut. Insects one never heard during the day filled the darkness now with urgent susurration, chittering and whispering just outside the glow of human life.

She sat quietly, as she was supposed to do. It was the tradition, for the girl/woman to lie in repose for a day and a night away from the presence of others, and she took it seriously. She knelt on a mat of tightly woven river grass, surrounded by the small ceremonial clay idols, head downward in prayer and humility. She hungered, especially when her eyes fell on the food-laden plates before her, but she stayed and listened instead. The heavy necklace of shells and flat shards of stone weighed upon her breastbone, but she kept her back straight and her mind clear. Tomorrow was the Big Day, and she must remain pure. It was the tradition.

She still could not believe her luck in life. He chose me. Yesterday her younger sister helped to prepare her, brushing her lustrous black hair a thousand times. Such an honor, her sister said as she patiently wielded the comb of bone, but the wishing in her eyes was apparent. There was only a hand of years between them, but now, with the promise of tomorrow, it seemed a chasm of age and experience. Perhaps if her sister was older, it would be she who knelt here, feet tucked beneath a skirt of thick yellow cloth, dyed with the blood of onion. She smiled to herself, and glowed inside, bright as the torches outside.

Her mother had cried, of course. Mothers always cry; one could not be a mother and not cry. It was the tradition. You leave me now alone, she had said, shoulders heaving, but she had dutifully placed the leather band around her daughter's head and arrayed the strands of precious stones above her eyes in the way mothers had done for many lives. Even in her customary anguish she would not break with tradition.

She breathed in and out, slowly, waiting for the sun to come and peek through the hides that kept her in solitude, knowing that it would be hours yet.

She heard something then, or stopped hearing something, and looked up toward the entrance. The hides parted, and something black as the night around it pushed into the smallness of the hut. She held her breath: who would dare to break the customs and invade her sanctity? It was bad luck.

Then a familiar scent hit her, and fear followed the shape as it moved the rest of the way into her tiny sanctuary. She knew it then, knew its danger, but also felt a wash of relief that it was no man or woman who risked the wrath of gods by coming here. She stayed resolutely still, her breath imprisoned inside, as the puma glided past her and around the inside walls of grass, sticks and mud. A brush of warm fur against her back as it passed, and then it turned to her; she knew it was looking at her, holding her in its green gaze, nightborn eyes glowing. She stared ahead, waiting for its judgment, not flinching when it brought its nose to her hair and took in the smell of girl/woman, oil and pumice, fear and hope.

Then she could see its dim silhouette as it sat before her, regarding her skeptically, as if to ask why she chose such things. Be free instead, it seemed to say. Do not give yourself to one being forever. She found herself smiling, because she knew it was a test, an omen. A good omen. Because it is the tradition, she answered in her mind. He chose me. And as if that satisfied it, or because its interest changed to the reason that brought it here, the puma turned and sniffed carefully at the goat's meat that lay on the offering plate. It then took it delicately between its teeth and padded out, taking her breath out with it. A good omen, indeed.

Daylight.

The sun was bright and promising, keeping the clouds at bay out of respect for her special day. She was brought from the hut blinking, legs shaking and bowed from kneeling through the night, but she was smiling, knowing now that her silent visitor had blessed her and her people.

Body growing steadier, she strode between columns of her people, some smiling, some crying, some jealous ones staring at nothing without acknowledging her. She walked with head high, gaze locked proudly ahead, a headdress of feathers and bones of birds now trailing behind her gown. Ascending the steps, legs gathering strength, back held straight and proud. Not for her to weep or stumble, not for her to hold to the arms of those walking beside her. So many people she could hear and see on the edges of her vision. She wanted to wave and tell them of her omen.

Past lines of serious warriors standing with chests jutting out, presenting an arch of spears tipped with black crystal from the volcano, up toward where the priest stood in richly embroidered robes, looking solemn but fatherly; she'd known him all her life, and she let the corners of her mouth show him the smile in her heart.

At the top now, wind moving around her, as she lay down atop the stone table, gown and black tresses arrayed perfectly around her, head upward, mind blank, waiting. Attendants came to her to hold her wrists and ankles, and she smiled them away, for they would not be needed. The priest spoke his words, gathering the attention of their most wondrous god to him, arms raised to golden warmth above, and accepting the last, most important offering from the acolyte beside him. With the last words and a comforting glance downward to her, he raised the long, jagged knife of obsidian, letting the light of the sun flash from it in blessing before plunging it downward, deep into her breast.

Not for her to scream like the others, not for her to writhe in agony, as the point of the sun-touched blade clove her flesh and gave purpose to her soul. In a trance now, gasping with sweet bliss as the knife parted her ribs, pulling the sun's light in, the priest's hand suddenly gripping her weakly pulsing heart and holding it aloft for the people to see, proof of the gods' goodwill. In a darkening haze of ecstasy she exulted, he chose me.