The UnFolding Collection Two

by S. K. Randolph

  For me the color of sand is hot—red—I have been informed. The water in the oasis is colored cool—blue is the word Mamman taught me. My brother’s face beneath my fingertips is round and smooth. I call this love. I am told it is the color of warm sand mixed with a touch of the darkness of my turnings. His eyes are brown and his hair black. I love to tangle my fingers in his curls, to tickle him until he squeals, to hug his small body next to mine.

  Irussi squeezes my arm. “We are here. The people gather around you at the top of the outcropping. Your initiation begins. First, I will braid your hair and cover it with a beaded net woven from strands of taccus silk, the sign that you have achieved the age of womanhood. Maheen will then tattoo your cheek with the symbol of eternal dreaming, the Oracle’s sign. And finally, I will place the Oracle Stone on your forehead.”

  I sit on ground still warm from the heat of the sun. Irussi runs a comb through my thick hair. Leaving the shorter tendrils at the front loose and curling around my face, she weaves my long locks into a braid and pins it in a tight coil on the back of my head. Deft fingers fit the net in place. In the eyes of the people, I am now an adult woman.

  A drum begins to play. Desert pipes provide the melody line. The Dansmen, silent to this point, begin to sing.

  “Welcome, WoNa, to the night

  A woman filled with life and sight

  You join the rank of A-tri-laasu

  Who honor life in all they do.

  Today, you join your people, all

  You have arrived and heard the call

  A woman grown you walk DerTah

  And live your life by desert law.”

  As the words fade and the drums and pipes fall silent, Maheen kneels beside me and swabs my left cheek clean in preparation for the Oracle’s tattoo. The sting of a quill-back’s needle sends a quiver of anticipation up my spine. I wear the symbol for eternal dreaming on my cheek. A dot within a crescent moon drawn with the blue-black dye used for all ceremonial tattoos will alert the desert people to my status as the Oracle of the Atrilaasu.

  I feel Irussi behind me. Her ancient hands place the Oracle Stone on my forehead and tie its beaded band around my head. Tingling heat spreads over the surface of my body and settles in a thrumming circle around my heart.

  Again the drum sounds. The pipes accompanying it send a trill of notes into the air. The people sing.

  “Oracle of A-tri-laa-su,

  Observe and dream and tell what’s true.

  Honor us with dreams and visions

  And help us to make correct decisions.”

  The words repeat, growing softer and softer until all that can be heard is water falling into the oasis below the outcropping and the cry of a desert hawk as it streaks across the night sky.

  I lift my face to the saffron moon, where it hovers halfway to its zenith. Its light caressing my skin feels somehow different from the other two, and I am always able to discern its gentle touch. My eyes, I have been told, resemble two of DerTah’s moons, one the color of Fasfro’s saffron gold and the other the color of Cralegi, the deep, aqua blue of the ice fields in the TheDa Mountains. I touch my crescent-shaped tattoo, a representation of DerTah’s third moon, Lunule.

  I am a moon oracle—feminine and fluid as water and shimmering and bright as a moonbeam.

  The Atrilaasu slip away, leaving me alone to dream my initiate’s dream. I bow my head and allow the insight of my ancestors to choose my path. Images begin to form, images alive with color and shape. This is what I love the most about the dreaming place.

  The images steady. I stand at the center of the Temple of Nesune, the HeLew od Metis at my feet. At the far end of the sanctuary, the four statues of Sinnttee—Ceeconni, Manitullie, Sorttince, and Tutsaseen—mesmerize me with their glowing, jeweled gazes.

  Each personifies the most significant virtue of the four phases of life: the innocence of childhood, the illumination of adolescence, the introspection of the middle years, and the hard-earned wisdom of old age. Drinking water from their bowls will instill these virtues within me. Moving with respectful slowness, I kneel before each, cup my hands to catch the falling water, and drink.

  When I finish, I rock back on my heels and stand up. Turning, I survey the expanse of the cavernous temple. The walls fade.

  A bird of water rises up, its song filling the desert, its cool breath sending a Fire ConDra into retreat. The ConDria will rise as foretold. The Unfolding will begin as prophesied.

  Sand blowing camouflages the shadowed shapes of men in black kcalos. I cannot tell who they are. I feel a threat as eyes the color of iron turn my way. I shudder, and they vanish.

  A parade of individuals follows: a tall man who is part osprey and part human; a bald boy who carries dual Seeds of Carsilem; a tall, young shape shifter who wears Efillaeh at his side; a boy with warm brown skin and startling green eyes who carries the Compass of Ostradio; and a young girl with the Star of Truth on the back of her neck and the talent to become a DiMensioner in her heart. But it is the osprey man who fascinates me. I sense his sadness, his power, and his startling intelligence. I hope he will come soon.

  I memorize each face and the feel of each spirit. They will come to me in their own time. I will be ready.

  A breeze tosses a tendril of hair over my forehead. Brushing it away, I let my fingers linger, caressing the Oracle Stone. For a moment the desert appears—the night-darkened sand, the three moons overhead, the silhouettes of taccus trees. Tears stream down my face as the image fades and leaves me once again bereft of sight.

  My serpent’s tongue flicks my cheek. Its hiss of welcome makes me smile. The rustle of fabric informs me that Irussi has returned to guide me back to my tent, the tent of my parents.

  She helps me to stand. “I see from the glow of the Oracle Stone that you have completed your initiate’s vision.” She links her arm through mine. “The elders wait to hear what you learned in the dreaming place.”

  I share my visions. The elders talk about their meanings and question me many times. When they leave, I am tired and ready to sleep.

  The tent flap swishes open. Roandee throws his arms around my neck and plants a wet kiss on my cheek. “Come to the celebration, WoNa. The people wait. There’s lots of food and music and games.” I do not respond. He nestles closer. “Please come… ple-e-ease.”

  I cannot resist my brother’s pleading. “If I come, you must be my partner and dance a dance with me.”

  He jumps to his feet and gives my arm an impatient tug. “All the food will be gone.”

  “Will you dance with me?”

  He giggles. “I promise. Hurry!”

  The sounds of celebration fill the air as Roandee leads me into the midst of the people. Shuffling feet tell me they move back. The drums change rhythm and Roandee grabs my hands. We dance, our bodies swaying to the music. The people clap and sing. It is joyous, and I feel great happiness. Much later, Narrtep walks us back to our tent. Roandee sleeps in his arms. I hear his soft breath and smile.

  At last I am ready for bed. Sleep comes slowly. The sun turning has been too full.

  WoNa paused. Not even the memories of better times or the quiet of the tent soothed the ache in her heart. She sighed. Her fingers rediscovered her place. Words carried her away from her sorrow.

  Early this morning, Irussi and the elders summoned me for more discussion. The figures in the storm have them worried. I can add nothing to what I have told them. Am I truly an oracle, or just a young girl with a small gift?

  Finally, they depart and Irussi takes me to the top of the outcropping. “On this, your first official turning as the Atrilaasu Oracle, I will teach you to call the wind.”

  I feel a thrill of excitement.

  The pitch of her ancient voice drops lower. “Raise your arms. Touch your thumb to the middle finger on each hand and envision the breadth of the desert. Inhale through your nose and blow out through your mouth. See your exhale spread across the desert. Make the sign of acceptance and clap your ha
nds.”

  I follow her instructions and clap. A breeze brushes my cheek.

  “To make it stronger, WoNa, blow a breath into cupped hands, toss it high, and clap again.”

  As the sound of my second clap dies, the wind rushes over the sands of DerTah. It tugs at my kcalo and tosses my hair away from my face. I hear its howl and feel the desert respond to its power.

  Irussi touches my arm. “To slow the storm, hold your arms in front of you, palms facing the sand. Press them down.” She guides my arms until they reach my sides.

  The sand settles around my feet. The wind softens to a gentle breeze. We stand with the sound of the waterfall behind us and the feel of the sun on our faces.

  Irussi kisses my cheek. “Thank the desert spirits for the gift of calling the wind.”

  I make my thanks, then kneel to touch the sand with the Oracle Stone. I am awed by the power I have been granted.

  The tent flap whispered aside. WoNa placed a hand on the page and cocked her head to listen. “Who enters?”

  “It is Narrtep, WoNa. The men have not yet returned. Can I get you anything?”

  Another tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She sighed. “Let me be, Narrtep. What I need most is quiet.”

  His footsteps retreated and the tent flap slapped softly into place.

  “I just need time to find myself.” She traced the words in the journal until she reestablished her place.

  Roandee is now eight sun cycles. Exuberance and a love of life follow him wherever he goes. Although his initiation to manhood is still four sun cycles away, he is training to hunt the drango iguana. He talks of nothing else. I am grateful to Narrtep’s father for allowing him to train with his nephews.

  Today the boys begin to learn the art of Fen ed Se. Roandee woke unable to contain his eagerness. He talks nonstop. I listen as he scrambles into clothes. I wish I could see his face alive with excitement. I make him eat his morning meal. The last bite is still in his mouth when he kisses my cheek and runs from the tent.

  My time is filled with lessons. Irussi seems intent on making sure I learn everything she knows. I sense in her an urgency I do not understand. She reminds me that an oracle is not all-knowing and that the spirits of the desert and ancient ones who have gone before will share only what I must know. She makes me practice calling the wind. I am also learning to call the rain. It is harder and I get frustrated, but I will master it.

  I spend long periods in the dreaming place and record my journey in the Dream Journal. I am grateful that my mother taught me to write when I was so young. She made it a game. I loved to win so I learned quickly. Now I write with ease.

  Learning to read the written page took longer. Irussi created a dye that forms raised letters. My fingers have learned to read them but this skill is more difficult to master. Keeping a journal helps me work through the challenges of being an oracle. The people expect so much. I don’t want to disappoint them again.

  I return to the tent exhilarated by all that I have accomplished. A ball of energy launches into my arms.

  “You should have seen me, WoNa! I was the best today.” Roandee wiggles free and laughs. “Soon I will be a man, and I will take care of you.”

  WoNa sat in heartbroken silence, memories swirling in her head. She touched the crystal that hung at her throat and swallowed her grief. Picking up her quill, she dunked the tip and began a new entry.

  Roandee is ten sun cycles today. He is tall for his age and wise. I am glad that he still throws his arms around my neck and whispers secrets in my ear. The words tickle and make me giggle. My hands feel the curve of his smile as he laughs out loud. How I love my young brother!

  Narrtep tells me he is doing well in all his studies. He has mastered the third of five levels in the art of Fen ed Se and is ready to move into level four. I am proud and tell Roandee. He reminds me he is almost a man.

  We are coming upon the Turnings of No Light. This is a time when the moons of DerTah do not appear in the desert sky for three full turnings. The second turning light is blotted from the sky by an asteroid that passes between DerTah and the sun. This occurs every thirteen sun cycles. It is auspicious that it is happening at the time of Roandee’s tenth birth celebration.

  Today, I spent much time in the dreaming place.

  Fire ConDra fill the sky. Their lava tongues lick the desert floor. Their shrieks of pleasure fill the air. A shadowed form sends them swarming higher, circling, shrieking, blazing. And then they vanish. The night sky swallows them whole and leaves an oppressive silence in their wake—a void filled with fear. Ugly creatures begin a dance. Angular arms and legs flail around their blackened bodies. A scream fills the night.

  Fear crawls up my back and settles around my shoulders. I carry it out of dreaming and hurry to find Irussi. She is solemn. “Go back to the dreaming place. We must know more.”

  I sit in my tent and once again seek the place of visions. Only silence greets me—silence and the dark emptiness of my blind eyes.

  An unfamiliar fatigue presses cool fingers against my brow. It cradles me in lethargy and robs me of the will to stay alert. I hear my snake hiss a warning. It is too late. Like a toxin in my blood, languor drops me into unconsciousness.

  A callused hand over my mouth awakens me. “No noise, WoNa.” Narrtep pulls me to my feet. I stagger after him trying to shake my lassitude. At the entry, he stops. I hear his uneven breathing. Fear scents his sweat. The hand on my arm is steady but urgent.

  My serpent hisses. It, too, is nervous.

  Narrtep whispers, “Do exactly what I tell you. I’m taking you to hiding.”

  I calm my fears. Fatigue falls away and leaves my senses searching the oasis. A cry for help brings a response to my lips. Narrtep’s hand covers them. “No sound.” He speaks the words next to my ear. In them I hear alarm…concern for me.

  He guides me from tent to tent, from one cluster of trees to the next. The sound of the cascading water grows closer. We run across the sand. A hand replaces Narrtep’s and I am led through the waterfall cave and into the secret caverns beneath the desert outcropping.

  Guided to a safe corner, I am left to myself. I close my eyes and calm my breathing. The dreaming place engulfs my senses. I float above the oasis. Chaos fills my inner vision. Sebborr invade the camp. Too many to count, they overrun Eissua. Knifes flash. Children scream. Women call out to their mates. Irussi stands in the midst of the mayhem, her arms lifted. Sand stirs up around her. She flings it in the eyes of the Sebborr. A young man wheels his rohes. With one calculated motion, his knife sails through the air. The blade buries itself deep in Irrusi’s chest. Stumbling to her knees, she opens her mouth. A single, long note rips through the night before she crumples to the sand, a silent blood-covered heap.

  An answering note brings the rape and pillage to a halt. Another and another, signal the awakening of the drango. The Sebborr gather their wounded, and herding their captives before them, flee into the darkness. I see the giant iguana climbing the dunes that surround the oasis. Their red-orange eyes gleam, their forked tongues flick the air. Dansmen scramble to safety. Some women carry children. Others half carry, half drag those who have been raped and left for dead. Men support or carry the wounded. All scramble up the outcropping and into the hidden caverns. Only the dead are left behind, their bodies a gift to the drango, who have saved us from further destruction.

  I struggle to release the dreaming place. It holds me hard to its purpose. The iguanas come. Death is their feast. I sob, wishing in this moment for blindness to strip me of sight. Blood-red tears tumble from my eyes and mingle with the viscous mess at the edge of the oasis.

  Searing sobs tear at my throat. My body convulses with grief for my people. I am consumed by the knowledge that I failed to foresee this in time.

  Someone touches my cheek. “WoNa. Awaken, Atrilaasu Oracle.”

  Darkness once again shrouds my world. The elder, Aluben, puts her arm around me and holds a cup to my parched lips. Cool liquid s
lides down my throat. I grab her wrist.

  “Roandee?”

  Narrtep answers. “The Sebborr have taken him, WoNa.”

  My heart forgets to beat. “You’re sure he is not dead?”

  “I saw the leader snatch him up and throw him across his rohes. He is one of many to be taken. But he is the prize. They wanted you.”

  I cannot cry. No words can express the depth of my loss. My Roandee, I am so sorry. I failed you.

  I finally speak. “Irussi?”

  Aluben sags against me. “She is dead.”

  I keen in anguish. It is true. Irussi, my teacher is dead. “The drango—” I choked on the word.

  “She called them to us,” said Aluben. “It is good that her body feeds those who chased the Sebborr from our midst. Her spirit waits to travel the ancients’ journey. We will release her along with our other loved ones tomorrow.”

  Around me I hear the moans of the wounded. The cries of those who have lost members of their families bring me back to myself. I push aside my sorrow and the anguish clutching at my heart. With Aluben’s help, I move amongst my people. I lay my hands upon their wounds and kiss the foreheads of those who grieve. In time the cavern below the falls grows quiet.

  The Turnings of No Light pass and our men slip away to assess the damage and clean away the remains of battle. When the sun has traveled half the breadth of its arc, they return. The Atrilaasu Dansmen numbered one harshad and twenty before the raid. Five men and three women were killed and seven were kidnapped. We are a smaller and sadder tribe. A group has gone in search of the Sebborr, but we all know they won’t be found.

  Laying the hawk feather quill aside, WoNa sat alone amidst the ruins of her life. Another shudder ran through her. Blind eyes again blinked and widened. Tears of loss and desolation soaked her cheeks. She pressed a hand to her chest. The broken rhythm of her heart would never completely heal until Roandee returned safely to Eissua.

  Two sun cycles flew by. Time, the great healer, worked its magic. The Atrilaasu rebounded, rebuilt, and redoubled their vigilance. The Sebborr remained an enigma. They had left no trace behind and no hint as to their whereabouts. WoNa grew in the ways of the Oracle. A pilgrimage to the Temple of Nesune had deepened her resolve to be the best leader for her people.