Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  I can merely stare at him.

  “At least it is only our firstborn females under the scourge, Tiadone.” He lowers his gaze to me. “It is a gift that after a male is established, all daughters are accepted.”

  A gift?

  “Tiadone, remember the Madronians believe the first living child carries the greatest strength. Can you imagine them permitting a girl to have that power in a conquered village, or that they’d allow a family to offer only females to society?” He holds his hand up to keep me from cutting into his speech. “And we can be thankful they offer us the chance to declare our firstborn girls male to avoid ekthesis on the Scree.”

  “But ekthesis is murder!” I clench the table edge like lichen grips a rock. “There’s no way a babe can survive if she’s left alone in that shale wilderness. And what of those parents? That father? He didn’t want to risk his future on a female?” My fear claws up and hisses, firstborn females are worthless. “Do you doubt I will provide for you in your old age?”

  He reaches over and pats my hand. “I have no doubt in your strength, Tiadone. But yours is the first generation to reach maturity. Our village hasn’t seen a declared male proven. All are waiting on you, Tiadone.” He squeezes my curled fingers. “They worry about your bird. When your rapion hatches, they wonder if it will join you.”

  With a jerk, I cover the large egg beneath the gauze wrapped round my waist. My mouth parts hearing these doubts tip from my father. Will this bird reject me?

  The rapion gifted me the egg at my birth in exchange for my placenta to nourish their elderly. I’ve carried their treasure my entire life, and it will hatch soon. Everything will change, but not as Father hints. “I will guard the land with my rapion on my shoulder and then by my side, as well as any other boy. It will work with me to protect the border of R’tania. Everyone believes it.”

  My father averts his eyes. “People doubt, Tiadone. The declared are not truly male to some. Think. This is why there are no other declared males, at least in our village.”

  “That’s foolish!” I smack the table and lift the fist-sized, red amulet hanging from the sinew tied about my hips. “How can that be when the Madronians mandate the declared carry a desert cat’s heart in his father’s hair coils?”

  I squeeze the soft mass in my fist, and the dry tissue compresses inside the leather pouch. Together, the heart and hair suppress the femininity I was born with and imbue me with the power of the fiercest, most dreaded in our desert, the cat. The amulet makes me male in my mind and in society. As a declared male, I’ll wear the amulet for life and contribute as any other male in our village.

  I can’t believe any would doubt the fierce power. The Madronians trust their ritual and only watch to be certain I am not too weak as a R’tan for the amulet to be effective. As if that would be possible.

  “I have the strength of man and feline, Father. My peers accept me as male. In fights, I am as strong as any.”

  “There are still some R’tan in our village who privately doubt, Tiadone. Over the years, I’ve seen the look on adults and children, but it is their fear of the Madronians that protects you. They are forced to respect the ritual. I’m glad you never noticed their secret doubts.” His sigh deflates his chest like a violet curls beneath a fingertip. “I’ve trained you hard to prove your equality and value. To prove declaration is effective so that other firstborn girls might be saved as well.”

  The table jars as I kick, kick, kick the leg. Father finds my foot and holds it still beneath his own boot. The uneven pebbles press through my sole.

  “Well, why don’t we just rebel against the Madronians?” I blurt.

  “Tiadone,” he sighs. “I know I’m the one who has fueled your hatred and anger for the Madronians — ”

  “As is right, Father.”

  “But now it is time to accept our situation. It’s time as you ready for Perimeter service.”

  “But what of rebellion?”

  He snorts. “What sort of rebellion could you expect from high-desert goat herders, spinners, and farmers?”

  “But you — ”

  “I have done what I can by raising you. You suggest military revolt now? It takes all we have to meet Madronian taxes and bend to their false religion. Everyone lying under the sweeping skirt of these people is drained.”

  My exasperation wobbles the oil flame. “But we have the rapion, birds that work with us for survival.”

  “And the Madronians don’t. And because the birds have always refused to join them, plain jealousy makes for further oppression.” He rubs the rim of the lamp. “Jealousy.”

  I swear beneath my breath.

  Father glances at his javelin by the door. “And then there’s still the danger along the border of the Triumverate: cat, sandstorm, or further invasion. There’s the C’shah to the east, the Porites to the north, or the — ”

  “I know,” I snip.

  He grasps the back of his neck. “Eventually, Tiadone, you will understand our oppression and know there is nothing more R’tanians can do.”

  I prop my forehead in my hands. Priest Sleene flits through my mind: his pasty skin, his scent of decay, and his musty wings. Fear slices up my back like chipped obsidian.

  Father covers the table’s shallow fissures with his palms. His square jaw ripples. “There’s no more, Tiadone. Just bow and worship as the Madronians dictate, and we will continue to live on our ancestors’ land as they did.”

  What? How are false religion and murder life for the R’tan? Why does our Creator Spirit permit this? “How am I living like our ancestors, Father? I’m made to live as a male when I was born a fe — ”

  He cuts through my prohibited words with his gravelly, deep voice. “There’s nothing new here, Tiadone. It’s time to acquiesce, to survive. We’ll focus on the upcoming change with peaceful thoughts. Your rapion will accept you, and together you will serve well.” He glances at the glimmer of my turquoise egg beneath my wrap. “Still your mind, now, and ready for bed.”

  Father pinches his tongue between his thumb and forefinger and kills the flame. Darkness grabs me from all sides.

  CHAPTER 4

  NIGHTMARE

  Seeing the babe taken has brought my nightmare back. I untwist the sheet, and my egg presses my hip. I scoop up the large, leathery shell. The warmth radiates into my cold palms.

  In my dream, I was running from Sleene on the Scree. My amulet was gone. Nothing marked me male as my feet clattered on the flat rocks layered over skeletal baby girls. Open jaws and brittle fingers snapped and crumbled under my boots.

  When Sleene’s knobby fingers reached out and tore my wrap, my rapion egg fell. It smashed open, and the sticky baby bird stiffened on the gray stones as I woke gasping.

  I press my lips to my whole, precious egg.

  Like a hoarse goose, Father snores behind the thick bed curtain that divides us. I kick my sheet straight. Now it will be even harder to get back to sleep. And if I do, will my nightmare wisp close again? It stalks me like the fiercest desert cat, trotting over sand.

  But I have its heart.

  Cupping my egg in one hand and my amulet in the other, I chant, grasping at peace. “I am male, worthy of life.”

  Strangely, following my horrid dream, I wake in the morning to something tickling my side. I swallow, and jerk back the covers. Scattered over my sheet are pieces of broken turquoise shell. A thick, sweet scent weaves up from the wet, red stains.

  “Chamber of Verities!” I swear by our lost place of worship. The damp, brown bird stirs its slick head on its thin neck.

  How did I not hear it hatch? Thank the Creator Spirit I did not crush it!

  “Father, my rapion!” I yell, sitting up and whipping open the heavy bed curtain. Our main room is empty. Breakfast dishes clutter the table. Father’s slippers crouch beneath his rocking chair waiting for his return. In the center pit, a small fire releases a tongue of smoke that rises to the lip of the ceiling hole.

  Father’s alread
y left for laboring.

  Fright burbles my centerself, because even though I’ve carried this egg from my birth, the rapion may still reject me. In just moments I will know. I pull the collar of my sleeping shirt up over my chin.

  The bird’s umber head rolls left then right. The moist, feathered shoulders hump and fall.

  My collar slips from my weak hands. If this rapion rejects me, we will not serve together, and my bird will die without uniting with me, without twining. I will be sent off alone as a novitiate to one of Sleene’s acolytes.

  “Father, there’s too much at risk!”

  I wipe my forehead on my sleeve, draw my sluggish legs under me, and kneel before the hatchling. The bits of jagged shell bite into my palms. “I have to try.”

  When the bird fully raises its face, I take a deep breath and release it toward the blue noseplate. A male! Wooooooo, my air rushes out and teases the damp feather tuffs ringing his neck. The bird’s bulging eyes stay closed like a tight secret.

  “Creator, twine us!” I frantically beg. “Please, please!” Another shaky breath in, and the rapion’s double lids slide open, one set and then the next. I exhale once more.

  The round black lenses focus. The hooked beak separates. Wooooooo, the rapion breathes into my face. Warm, sweet cinnamon wafts over my brow.

  As the sun moves higher, light pools through the open window, making our home glow like my centerself. In the soft breeze, the lavender bush grazes the front of the house, and the scent wafts on the warmth.

  Now that the rapion’s birth moistness has dried, his feathers are light and puffed. About the size of a rat, he squats on the table, plucking the sand lizard from my hand. He shreds the meat with his talons and beak before swallowing the morsels.

  Awe settles over me again like the warm honey sinking into my hunk of hot bread. The bird is twining with me, a declared male! He will understand words and eventually anticipate even my thoughts.

  With meat dangling from his beak, I have to fight off my giggle. He cocks his head in question to my snort.

  “It’s just that you eat like a desert cat tearing through prey.” He waggles his eye ridge and returns to his breakfast with even more gusto, causing my chuckles to freely escape. He only pauses to belch.

  Finally finished, my bird cleans his beak with his foot and ruffles his feathers, now glinting gold. His wings stretch open for the first time, and thin bones splay beneath the feathers. He teeters at the edge of the table then steps onto my outstretched hand. His talons gently grip, but I’m not fooled; he’s taking care not to pierce me. Taking cautious, shallow breaths, I hold my hand steady.

  He tilts his head, blinks slowly, and fills his chest with air. His beak opens and a tremolo note slips free. More follow, and more, skittering after each other like a row of weaving quail. A soft melody forms, and his whole body sways.

  “Song?” I croak. My rapion sings? Rapion are silent birds, must be silent birds! My fear thrums against his music. I fight the urge to fling this aberration from my hand. I stiffen and pant. What will the Madronians say? Sleene? What kind of evil will they imagine?

  The song pulses to an end, and my breathing slows. My rapion draws the folds around his beak up into a proud smile and lowers his head. Exasperated, I try to mimic him. Apprehension has walked nimbly up my back, and shame sits heavily on my neck.

  Of course there is something terribly wrong with my bird. Of course there is.

  CHAPTER 5

  INTRODUCTIONS

  At midmeal, I hear Father drop his gear outside on our little front porch. I pick at the rocking chair’s woven seat while waiting for him to come in. My strange rapion sleeps on my lap, his belly distended nearly as round as my amulet.

  A few nuzzles with the curve of his beak in the crook of my elbow abated my pulsing panic after his song. His mesmerizing hum folded peace into my centerself. I couldn’t fight off the tranquility or reason it away.

  When I moved with him over to the chair, he plopped down in my lap and tucked his head to sleep. The twining felt complete. Already, I can’t imagine being apart. Did I actually think to throw him from my hands earlier? He sings, and I can’t change that. I have more troubles ahead than thorns in a chasm full of prickle plants, but I am his bearer.

  “It’s been a complete morning of bloodsuckers and fly bots,” Father complains to himself. Water splashes, and I know he’s scrubbing his hands in the outside basin. “One herd left,” he says, as his boots scuff across the dry stones.

  Finally, he steps into the house, running his wet fingers through his hair twists. Sunlight skims his bulky shoulder and sets me aglow anew. “Tiadone!” he gasps. “Your rapion!” He rushes to my side.

  “We’ve twined, Father, the male and I! We’ve twined! But shhh!” My smile slips. “He, he sleeps now.”

  “You’ve honestly twined?”

  I roll my lips and nod. “And I’ve named him Mirko. Fierce strength.”

  “Excellent choice!” he says eagerly yet softly. “I knew the rapion would accept you! I knew it.” He touches my cheek with the calloused heel of his hand. “You see? We are blessed! Haven’t I always said there would be a twine?”

  I sniff and smile. “More times than bells have rung on Sleene’s robes.”

  He huffs at my tease then hums a chord of praise to the Creator Spirit.

  I shift in the chair. I have to tell him, but he goes on.

  “Oh, he’s a beauty,” he says. “The deep brown with flecks of gold, and the broad crown. I can’t wait for him to wake to see his wingspan and compare him to the bird I tended!” Father gazes at Mirko with his hands behind his back. One never touches another’s rapion. Even the Madronians honor this out of fear of our mysterious link. Although I know Father must be dying to pet Mirko. His bird was released after their service together so long ago.

  “Yes, but — ” I try to swallow, except my mouth is too parched. “Father … Mirko … he has song.”

  “What?” He snaps upright.

  I look down. “Mirko sang. He sang as we do in worship. Well, notes, I mean.”

  “No! No, Tiadone!” Worry skitters across his broad forehead. He clutches his belly. “You’re certain?”

  “I’m not jesting,” I whisper.

  He covers his mouth. Mirko’s side rises and falls in sleep.

  Father rubs his face. “Well …” He drags his fingers through his beard. “We have read of Rapion Singers in the Oracles.”

  “Can it be good that Singers are mentioned in forbidden R’tan writings?” I rip off a loose straw from the seat. “I know it’s my fault, Father. Being declared male — ”

  “Shh, Tiadone!” He drops with a thud onto the bench by the table.

  Mirko burrows his beak beneath his wing and hums a tune. Father’s face washes pale and his silent mouth hangs wide open.

  CHAPTER 6

  RETURN

  Go forward. You’ll both be fine.” Father nudges me, and instead I lean back into his pressing hand. Aside from special ceremonies, the Madronians prohibit R’tan from the Rapion Cliff Dwellings, where all released birds return. Without the other villagers, the sheer red sandstone walls surrounding us seem to squeeze me like a sidewinder swallows a rat. Above, only a fracture of cobalt sky arches between the rocks. Six days old, Mirko peeks from my blue poncho pouch. He is shaking worse than I am.

  “Perform your offering, Tiadone. The rapion must gather Mirko’s scent to welcome him back to their clan when he is mature.” Father knocks my slim shoulder and whispers, “Try … try to keep Mirko quiet.”

  I roll my eyes. As if I can silence my rapion. He has sung erratically since hatching. Nothing I say or do stops him. I worry the edge of my poncho, weave the corner tightly under and over my trembling fingers.

  Father speaks his prayer to thwart rejection or attack and backs away from my outstretched hand. His eyes dart to the high, purple rock fissures. I know he longs to stay and possibly catch a glimpse of his formerly twined rapion, Nuncia, but this i
s a lone bearer’s offering.

  Forcing himself to leave, the edge of his brown tasseled poncho slips out of sight. Between my teeth, my lip pops. I lick the blood droplet away.

  There is a real reason to be anxious. Will my offering suit the Cliff Rapion and guarantee the safety of a home for Mirko when grown? Will they reject me now as a declared male and attack us? Or instantly try to destroy my bird because he’s a Singer?

  I hitch up my loose trousers, grip the basket handle, and inch over to the Stone of Offering. Barely breathing, I lift out each of Mirko’s shell pieces and line them along the obsidian shelf. The turquoise bits make a mosaic against the black sheen. The last piece sticks to my sweaty fingers, but I pull it free and tip it gently onto the edge.

  “There,” I whisper, and hold Mirko as close as possible. He snuggles into a smaller ball, making it look as if I’m still wearing my egg wrap. Thank the Creator Spirit that fear at least keeps my rapion quiet.

  The soft red sand shifts under my fingers as I squat. Though the cool air is tinged with the acrid odor of rapion droppings, I take a big breath anyway, then lean back and shout the liturgy my people have recited for every Return. “The rapion has hatched. I am his bearer! Accept my return of your offspring’s shell!” My voice pings up the porous red and pink walls. Then silence. Even the wind stops nudging the gray, thorny weed wedged in the rock base.

  With one hand, I palm my amulet, and with the other, I hold Mirko tightly. “Please, stay quiet.”

  Sweat dribbles down my side.

  I rock on my tight haunches.

  Whoosh! The air is sliced by brown wings. Creamy undersides rush over my head. Rapion dive down the cliff and encompass me. Bird after bird rips past. Signicos the size of goats, raised by boys, and Miniatae smaller than field mice, raised by girls, beat and flap. Male and female of both kinds clip by us.