From the moment she saw him walking with the others, she knew that he had made his decision.
Narana glided to a landing on a barren ridge, slowing with outspread wings and then stumbling to a halt. She had been staring at the remote figures approaching on foot, small spots of color in the dry, stony terrain. In the distance, a mountaintop's rugged peak faded into the morning haze; the dusty landscape was broken only by a green spill of terraced fields against a nearby hillside.
Her heartbeat pounded in her ears and her face grew numb.
Five men plodded toward her over the rocky ground, accompanied by several pack goats. Even though the men were still some distance away, she had recognized Tarahl among them, the smallest of the figures.
She felt a lump swell up in her throat and her eyes began to burn.
The carrying strap slid from her shoulder and the basket fell heavily to the ground, but Narana's large, moist eyes were fixed on the approaching figures until they blurred with tears. She felt a wild urge to fly swiftly toward them, but something equally powerful held her back. Shifting her feet anxiously, she at last glanced down at the fallen basket. The meager harvest of bushbeans, which she had spent most of the morning gathering, had spilled out onto the dusty ground and she was again aware of her fingers, still stinging from the wicked spines on the wild shrubs.
She crouched to sweep the small, shriveled pods into the basket, then hoisted it back into place. After a last glance over her shoulder at the approaching men, she dutifully turned toward her home in Cliffside, just over the next hill. She sprang from the ridge and stretched her aching wings wide, soaring on the warm air rising from the arid land beneath her.
Cliffside consisted of nearly two dozen blocks of houses built of mud-brick and stone, with rounded edges and steeply slanting walls rising in steps up to four levels in height, crowded onto a relatively flat portion of the mountainous terrain. In the center of the small city was an open square. Smoke drifted over a distant block and wisped from ovens and hearths on the upper levels. Were it not for the warm-colored blankets and mats draped over ledges, and potted and boxed plants on the rooftops, Cliffside itself would have appeared just as dusty-dry as the surrounding landscape.
Narana flapped toward the roof of her home, which was covered with a leafy jumble of plant pots, drying baskets and vines snaking their way over rickety frames. Without landing, she hurriedly deposited her precious load of beans, then swung around toward Tarahl.
Now unencumbered by the basket, Narana soared high over Cliffside. She saw three figures standing on the flat roof of a house at the far edge of town; they too appeared to be watching the approaching men and goats, now traveling more easily along a dry, graveled riverbed. She noticed Yari, Tarahl’s friend, on the rooftop and settled to a landing behind the three nearly grown boys.
They were about her age, complexions ranging from medium to dark tan, with slender arms and legs. Their ungainly wings, feathered in mottled browns, hung half-folded behind them in postures of youthful carelessness. Narana was a bit smaller and even more slightly built, and she held her wings tucked daintily against her back.
The boys were dressed in broad, woven waistbands, with brightly patterned drapes tapering to mid-thigh front and back, and their long, thick hair, from medium-brown to nearly black in color, was braided in a simple manner. Narana was dressed similarly, though her upper body was modestly covered by a sleeveless garment, trimmed with embroidery, which tied at the back of her neck, and the drape from her waistband was longer and less revealing, hanging almost to her knees. Her hair, unusually light-colored, was woven into several long braids and then gathered behind. Her forelock was bound with bright yarn into a girlish plume. She leaned toward the boys and tilted her head to listen in on their conversation.
Yari pointed at the distant figures, saying, "Four Holy Men and their goats.”
The older boy next to him wrinkled his lip and said, "I think I can smell them all the way from here."
“And Tarahl’s with them. Walking,” said Yari, as he shaded his eyes with one hand and squinted in the bright sunlight. "I guess that means he—he’s really going to… do it.”
The older boy at last noticed Narana and he smirked at her, gesturing toward the approaching men. "Look,” he sneered. "It’s your boyfriend!”
Narana glared at him and snapped, “Shut up!” She stood silently behind the others, watching the small figures slowly grow larger. She felt her eyes swelling with tears once again; afraid the boys would see, she shrank back and delicately blotted her cheeks, embarrassed by this show of emotion.
The sight of Tarahl’s boyishly frail body, much smaller than the sturdier men who surrounded him, seemed heartbreakingly poignant to her. And it was then that she noticed Tarahl’s halting, unsteady gait; she winced as she watched the youth stumble and nearly fall. Narana glanced around and spoke up anxiously: “Look at Tarahl. He—he's walking funny.”
The older of the boys leered at her. "Yeah! Those guys have probably all had a crack at him by now!” He snorted in laughter, as did the younger boy standing next to him.
Narana’s face grew hot. "I didn’t mean… that!” she replied. "I mean, he looks like he’s really loaded, or something."
Yari’s expression remained solemn. He drew a deep breath and murmured, “You’d have to be… to do… what he's gonna—”
“They’ve got these little mushrooms,” the older boy interrupted, holding his fingers slightly apart. "They look just like tiny pricks."
The younger one covered his mouth and snorted again.
“I’ve tried them,” the older boy said, with a slow smile spreading across his face. "They’re… re-e-ally good."
The younger boy’s eyes widened. "Wow! Can you get any more?”
The Holy Men were now close enough to reveal that they were dressed much more elaborately than the young ones watching them. Their goats wore coarsely woven packs on each side, and appeared to accompany the men at leisure, wandering off to nibble at a tempting bit of scrub, then trotting to catch up.
Narana sprang from the rooftop and glided to the ground, landing near these men. She approached the smallest figure, reaching toward him. "Tarahl...” she began.
The first Holy Man, the tallest and most muscular, recoiled from her, then turned away and addressed the one next to him. He pointed at Narana with a stabbing finger and barked, “She is forbidden to have any contact with him until afterwards.”
The other man breathed a loud sigh. "It’s all right,” he replied.
The first one began to say something, then glared at Narana silently.
Afraid to make eye contact with these men, Narana couldn’t help but glance around nervously at the strangely-dressed, foul-smelling figures surrounding her.
All of the Holy Men, as well as Tarahl, wore masks: heavy cords bound about their long faces, looped over the nose, under the chin, across the forehead and around the back of the head. Dark cloth was woven in, open at the bottom to expose their lips and nostrils, and higher up were generous eyeholes in the shape of irregular triangles. Their hair varied from long and matted to medium-short and disheveled; one man seemed to have several gathered braids similar to her own, while the hair of another had been chopped short in a ragged manner.
The first man, the largest, also wore the poorly-cured skin of a goat, and not much else beneath it. The goat-hide exuded an indescribably nasty odor; its forelegs were bound around the man’s neck, leaving the hooves dangling just above his navel. The rest of the hide flared behind, with what remained of its back legs flapping about the level of the man's buttocks, which were at least decently covered by a short waistdrape.
Narana felt queasy at the sight of the dead animal's remains, but found herself staring in fascination mixed with disgust. The goat's head, with an impressive sweep of horns, hung beside the man's right wing, or what was left of it. The remnants of his wings were missing their long flight feathers, and the plumage visible from beneath the goat hide was scruffy and neglected. The other Holy Men displayed similarly clipped, useless wings. Of the group, only Tarahl had his full wings, which hung slackly behind him, waving gently in the morning breeze.
The Holy Men wore colorful, elaborately woven variations on the waistband-with-drape, some with short cloaks across the chest and shoulders. Most of them were burdened with at least two or three heavily loaded belt bags and side packs, everything coated with dust and grime suggestive of a long journey on foot. Light-colored smears and smudges were visible on exposed parts of their dark-skinned bodies. All of the men wore sturdy footwear: wool-felt boots, laced up the sides, with thick soles on the bottoms, in contrast to Narana's dainty, toe-protecting slippers.
Narana found herself staring once more at the large man wearing the goat hide. She had just noticed that his body was covered with a disturbing network of welts and scars in crudely geometric patterns, some of which appeared to be quite recent.
He glared at Narana, his eyes narrowing.
She swore she could feel fitful, tortured energy pulsing from the man’s body, and as he turned toward her, she edged away.
The man who stood nearest Tarahl, who appeared to be the oldest of the group, was a bit more conservatively dressed, except for the elaborately-painted goat skull staring from his chest, bound in place with heavy woven bands through the eyes.
Narana stared back, shocked at the sight of an animal's skull displayed in such a manner, and then glanced up at the face of the man wearing it. From behind the mask, this man also seemed to be gazing intently at her. With a sudden chill and a prickle of apprehension she turned away, then stepped close to Tarahl.
“Tarahl. I’m so glad to see you. So... how are you?” she asked him, anxiously. The young man's delicate features were barely visible beneath the mask, but she could see that his eyes had a disturbingly unfocused look to them.
Tarahl swayed on his feet, squinting at her. After a lopsided smile, he slurred, “Oh... Narana... h’lo… S’ happy to see you, too." He paused and added, “Really." He grew quiet and stared at her for several moments until he was startled by a loud, impatient-sounding snort from one of the men standing behind him. "Ohhh," continued Tarahl, "I’d like you t’meet my Holy Brothers... This'ss my Master, Erehan,” he said, gesturing toward the older man wearing the goat skull, who was still staring at her. "And Haraashi the, uh, Most Honored High Priest,” Tarahl continued, indicating the disheveled, glowering figure clad in the foul-smelling hide, then adding, “Oh, yeah, Korlinn and Branagk, can’t forget them." Tarahl waved his arm in their direction, losing his balance and stumbling.
Korlinn and Branagk, somewhat younger than the first two, sat close together on a low outcrop, staring blankly at Cliffside, appearing to be heavily under the influence of some potent substance or other. A thread of spittle dangled from the corner of Branagk’s mouth.
Narana glanced uneasily at Tarahl’s Holy Brothers, then turned back to him, saying, "Tarahl, while you were away, something important happened. I... wasn’t Chosen. So, I’ll be entering Service a long month from now. You know, Field Service, or Sentry, or-r…” Her voice trailed off.
Tarahl paused, frowning blearily, then replied, “Ohh… Thass good. Innit good?”
“Well... it depends,” Narana continued, staring into Tarahl’s alarmingly glassy eyes. "Are—are you sure you’re all right?” she inquired, reaching for his arm.
A small group from Cliffside, mostly women, had begun to gather on the edge of town, watching from a distance. A young child toddled forward, his eyes wide with curiosity, and was hastily yanked back by his mother. The townspeople spoke among themselves and stared at the Holy Men displaying expressions ranging from bemusement to a sort of wary contempt.
Suddenly there was a commotion, and three figures strode toward Tarahl: a half-grown boy, followed by a young woman supporting an older woman who was unsteady on her feet, but appeared to be animated by rage and despair.
“Why?” the aged woman cried. "Tarahl… why?” She began to reach toward him, but then lowered her head, covered her face and began to sob.
“If only Papa were alive! He’d beat you bloody!” said the younger woman, still holding the older woman’s arm.
"I hate you! I hope you die up there with everybody watching!” the young boy shouted.
Tarahl stared at the aged woman and then said, "Mama...?” in a small voice.
The older Holy Men edged closer to Tarahl, both frowning intensely at the two females.
The younger woman’s eyes suddenly widened in fear; she abruptly turned and led her mother away.
“When you were little, you almost died,” sobbed the older woman. "I wanted you to grow up. So badly I wanted you to grow up. To be a man in our house. To defend our home." She was no longer looking at Tarahl as she quietly added, “And now, the disgrace. Maybe you should have died."
Meanwhile, the crowd of spectators had increased considerably, with many more women gliding down from the rooftop terraces where they had been cooking or weaving. Two aged men stood at a distance, speaking to each other and shaking their heads. Some older children laughed harshly and slapped each other as they pointed to the Holy Men. The younger ones watched with eyes wide in fright and curiosity.
"You're worthless! Go ahead and do it, you coward!” cried the young woman before disappearing with her mother into the crowd. The half-grown boy paused to spit at Tarahl, then fluttered after them.
Narana was stunned by their behavior. She glanced at Tarahl, who was staring after his departing family members with a numb look on his face.
Tarahl’s Master turned toward him and, resting his hands on his shoulders, spoke to the youth urgently and quietly. Tarahl lowered his head, then looked up and smiled. He nodded and said something that made his Master smile as well.
Narana stepped nearer to Tarahl, anxious to lend a comforting word of her own, but stopped when she noticed the intensity with which Tarahl gazed up at his Master. "Tarahl?” she spoke up, hesitantly.
Tarahl didn’t seem to hear her, but his Master turned his head and his eyes met Narana’s, deep from the shadowed recesses of the large, triangular eyeholes of his mask.
A cold wave of dread surged up in her, prickling icily up her back.
Tarahl finally glanced toward her, but Narana, in the grip of a sudden, strange vulnerability, turned quickly away from the two, feeling almost as if she were choking. She sprang into the air; her frantic wingsweeps carried her high over Cliffside until, through eyes blurred with tears, she found a distant, deserted rooftop upon which to take refuge.
copyright © 2010 Roberta Gregory
