Firstborn

by Lorie Ann Grover

  Mirko rubs my neck with his beak. When he climbs onto my lap, I share my last wafer in the silence. I yawn, and Mirko stretches his beak wide with a great breath.

  Suddenly, a mighty rumble vibrates through us. Reaching for the floor, my hand slaps water.

  “Rain, Mirko? Is it rain?”

  He trumpets.

  We jump up as a trickle of water tips from the tunnel we entered from. My skin pimpling, I turn. With a roar, water belches from the low, dark hole and sloshes around the room. It has been so many months since rain fell that my cover is unused, sitting back in my cupboard. Not that it matters now. The water swirls about my ankles. From somewhere, rain is pounding into the mesa, filling whatever is behind that hole and overflowing into here. I lift my pack from the wetness and swing it on.

  The rumble grows louder, and alarm wrinkles Mirko’s brow. “What?” I raise my voice. “What should we do?”

  Mirko wings the room. He darts up the high tunnel but returns. More water pulses in from the floor hole, and my rapion flies out through the narrow space left.

  “Mirko!” I cry as the water gushes again, filling the opening completely. The pool rises to my knees, the torrent spinning like a whirlpool.

  “I, I could drown,” I whisper.

  I wipe at my face, but the water splashes up again. I blow it off my lips. “There has to be an escape!”

  The pool deepens. “Mirko!” I yell, even though he’s out of hearing, hopefully safe, ahead of the flood.

  Suddenly, my feet are swept from the floor, and I’m thrown to the wall, dragged with the flow around the chamber. Water burns up my nose. Tethered, my amulet floats and jerks about me as my head submerges. I push it away from my paddling arms and slash about for air. Gasping, my head breaks the surface, and I tread. The water bulges higher, sinking more of the holy carvings beneath the flood.

  My tears of panic are swept into the pool, and I gulp mouthfuls of water. Choking and sputtering, I’m slammed against the wall of handprints. I reach out to the stone to steady myself, and with the motion a light flashes and a burn sears my palms. My body becomes a stiff plank I cannot control, and even my wet hair sizzles. I jerk my hands from the wall and gape at the black-shadowed imprint my palms left behind. Water douses over my head, but I bob up again.

  Popping to the ceiling, I gasp. The water is high enough to reach the other tunnel now. It’s gone from sight.

  Creator Spirit, save me!

  Pressed against the dome of the chamber, I take the biggest breath I can and dive. I kick and swim hard. The shimmering light of the lichen twirls like fingers pointing the way out. The hole! There it is! I fight my way into it, my feet now kicking the top and bottom of a tunnel, my fingers clawing, pulling me forward. My breath bangs inside me, trying to burst out.

  Keep going, I beg myself. The second I can’t, can’t fight against the sweeping pull, can’t push with my feet or burned hands any more, I rise the smallest bit.

  Flailing, I discover the tunnel is open above me. I kick with the last of my centerself. I swim to live, and my head breaks through the surface. It’s the top of the mesa. While I sputter and gasp, Mirko nuzzles his wet face against mine. “I’m, I’m so glad you are safe,” I cry and he hums the same in return.

  I grip the stone ledge with my burned hands and pull through the pain, pull myself out and collapse on the rock. The early morning’s gray veils of rain brush over me.

  My flesh trembles in the air. Mirko nips at my headwrap, twisted around my neck, until the material falls free. He tears strips with his talons and beak, and I wrap my hands, barely able to look at the horrible bubbling burns. The wet knots tighten when Mirko pulls a strand, and I tug the other with my teeth.

  My breath jerks and heaves.

  Unbelievably, Mirko whistles for me to stand and follow, and he’s right. This edge might collapse just as easily as the last hole did. I lumber up, my pack streaming water, and follow. Like a second skin, my cold clothes are pasted to me. Even my amulet is weighty and tacky.

  I glance back at the tunnel, to the Chamber of Verities. The edges of the hole cave, rocks shift, and the opening is quickly covered by a wide pool. Frantic, I look about for a landmark, something to show me where I might return, but everything is a haze in the rain.

  Mirko whistles and I reluctantly follow, no longer feeling my numb feet. My hands bleed through the wraps and curl like claws to ease the pain.

  We must trudge nearly all the way back to the Lookout. By the time the rain lessens, we reach a solid section of the mesa surface not dotted with holes. I can’t pull my heavy body any farther. Whimpering, I collapse, and the last bit of energy shakes out of my bones.

  Mirko helps pull my pack off and nudges it beneath my head. Tucking himself close to my belly, he chortles as I curl around him.

  Between half-open eyes, the desert horizon wavers beyond the mesa. I sleep.

  CHAPTER 66

  IN THE MIST

  In a grove of steam, I blink. The evaporating water sways and swirls above the mesa. I sit up carefully. Every piece of me hurts, and I’m alone.

  “Mirko?”

  There’s no answer, but a breeze parts the mist and sweeps trails over the edge of the rock. I hold my hands before my face and tug the wraps off with my teeth. Between gasps, one strip then another flaps to the stone. My palms are blistered and ragged; my fingertips are bloody from dropping into the chamber and then clawing out of it. I wince. “This is too much to understand.” I roll my lips. “Too much!”

  Mirko flaps to my side, with full water sacks, and my centerself calms. Fresh steam swirls back from us. He crouches by my legs.

  I hug him and hiccup. We are encased again in the warm mist. I meditate a moment on the Chamber of Verities, what I have seen, what no other in my generation has.

  The power of the Creator Spirit quickly pours strength into my centerself. Maybe more than my amulet ever did before. I take a great breath and let it out slowly. “We are well,” I say to convince myself, to grasp the possibility. I wobble upright and look for the sun. We have time to return to Lookout. We will not have been missed.

  Mirko twitters agreement.

  Suddenly, the sun burns through the vapor and penetrates the clothes on my back. Its warmth bakes my skin. I hiccup again, while hanging the water sacks on my pack. “Thank you, Mirko.” He only shrugs.

  The mesa belches steam and swallows shadows. “Mirko, do you think the Chamber was damaged by the waters?”

  He whistles doubt.

  “Right. It has stood for centuries, and now it is hidden again.”

  Mirko bobs his head and takes to the air above me. Across the remaining distance I see the rotunda and hobble carefully toward it. The creaks click out of my body, and I return in Mirko’s winged shadow.

  CHAPTER 67

  WONDERING

  Sessions later at Lookout, Mirko has to flame alert to the village, but the sandstorm turns at the last, thankfully. If another does strike, our plan is to offer the signal then I’ll race down the path to the Common. Hopefully I can make it down in time. Mirko can, but I know he won’t leave my side unless I’m safe. It’s not as if the crazy lookout will offer us protection in the rotunda.

  Now, in the pink, early evening, I carefully slice through the lizard meat Mirko caught while he tears at the entrails. Tender, my hands are healing due to careful wrapping and aloe treatments. Maybe because I didn’t visit Madgea to avoid giving her an explanation, the wounds will scar worse than the mark the cat left on my ankle. I brush a twist from my eye with the back of my bandaged hand. Still, I’ll almost cherish the scars as a reminder of what I saw. I set the knife down and wipe my fingertips clean on my trouser legs.

  “I can’t believe we lost the Chamber, Mirko.”

  He whistles. “I know you’ve looked.” He’s repeatedly flown over the area but hasn’t found it again.

  “Maybe it is as the Creator Spirit wishes,” I admit, and he bobs his head.

  What would R
atho say of my discovery and experience? Would it rouse faith in the Creator Spirit, now that he questions the Madronians?

  “So you really think it was lightning, Mirko?”

  He sighs and nods once again.

  I shake the pain from my palms. “Why would the Creator Spirit mark my prints on the same wall as the prophets?” I whisper.

  Mirko nibbles the lizard heart and doesn’t look up at me.

  “The Creator Spirit has preserved me twice.” My rapion chortles agreement around the food in his beak. “The desert cat and the flash flood. Maybe that is the reason. One marked hand for each trial.” I snort. “It’s not as if there are any more prophets in R’tania.” Besides, I am a declared male, a Madronian creation. I lift my amulet and twist it round on the sinew strap. As I let go, it spins in a race to unwind.

  As it dangles on the strap, I poke it. What is its true power? With the second heart, it still couldn’t withstand Ratho, but with only the first I was able to perform fully as a male patroller. With two, I followed Sleene and found the Chamber. The stained leather bag swings from my fingers. It’s so confusing. I can’t imagine who I’d be without the amulet.

  I drop it from my fingers and rest my lizard meat strips on the hot rocks nesting in our little fire beyond the platform. The sizzle tickles my nose. Waiting for the meat to cook, I move through my javelin patterns without the shaft in my grip. But it isn’t long before I pause and stare into the red sun slipping to the horizon.

  What I do know is that I’ve found much here: the Creator Spirit, the power of being male, and a lingering strand of femininity that nests deep inside me. And I’m not afraid of it. It only belongs to Ratho. All of that discovery has worth, doesn’t it?

  I turn my meat over. “I’ve found much, but I’m so tired of being alone,” I whisper.

  Mirko bugles a rebuke. “I know I have you,” I say, and sit beside him. His long tail flicks irritation, but he continues to eat. I have you — for now. The poisonous thought oozes through my mind. I shove it away and inhale the good scent of cooked lizard.

  “How do other boys survive at Lookout without their rapion able to leave their sides and hunt?”

  Mirko licks his beak and strikes a pose.

  “I know your strength and worth.” I laugh and nudge his flank until he leans into my wrist.

  I retrieve my meat from the rocks. It is perfectly done. Mirko and I eat side by side.

  CHAPTER 68

  HERESY

  In time, my hands heal completely, and Mirko and I adjust, finding a simple satisfaction at Lookout. So, it’s a surprise when, late one night, I keep waking from sleep. I shrug up my poncho against the nippy air. The stars journey in an arc above me, taking the brightest a bit farther each time I open my eyes.

  Something nudges worry inside me. I turn over, and Mirko grumbles softly. My arm stiffens across his back as I fall asleep once again.

  Flames strike blackness.

  Village faces gleam and fade.

  Sleene drags his wings through the dust

  and lifts

  The Oracles of the Creator.

  “Heresy!”

  He holds the book

  over the heads of the hunched villagers.

  “Forgiveness, Four-Winged Condor!” he snarls.

  He drops to his knees, and the black wings

  curve behind him.

  “Forgiveness through flame!”

  The people murmur,

  but none dare raise their voice in true protest.

  Sleene rises,

  and the villagers part

  like sand driven by wind.

  Visionaires ring the Monast roof;

  their pale dresses glow.

  Acolytes march a man forward.

  His hands are held behind him,

  and his head is covered with a sack.

  “Blasphemer!” Sleene shouts.

  “Here is he

  who draws blight and disease.

  Here is he

  who brings death to sons!”

  A woman howls.

  “Recant or burn!” Sleene spits.

  The book drops to the dirt.

  The acolytes release the man’s hands.

  Sleene jerks the sack off his head.

  Father!

  CHAPTER 69

  RECANT

  No!” screams Frana.

  She bustles through the crowd.

  Fear-stricken, Ratho holds her shoulders.

  “No,” Frana begs, and coddles her rounded belly.

  “Recant or burn,” Sleene hisses.

  Father cowers.

  Sleene shoves him to the ground.

  Father’s hands give way, and his face

  grinds against the book’s cover.

  Heaving sobs rock his body.

  Slowly, Father stands, book in both hands.

  Acolytes thrust him to the bonfire.

  Sweat beads faster than his tears.

  Sleene lifts his arms to the sky

  and closes his eyes.

  “Four-Winged Condor,

  here is your offering!”

  The fire cracks.

  Father lifts the book

  and throws it into the flames.

  The pages crisp and curl.

  He crumples.

  Sleene kicks him in the side.

  “To the box!” the priest shouts.

  Acolytes haul my father

  to the edge of the village.

  He’s shoved into a wooden box

  more suited for a goat.

  The door clumps closed.

  A huge lock clanks shut.

  Frana breaks from Ratho.

  He drops to his knees by the fire

  while she flees to Father.

  Weeping, she kneels

  and presses her cheek to the rough wood.

  My sight is swept back to the Monast.

  Jenae stands on the roof with Zoae.

  I’m drawn into her brown eyes.

  I’ ll see to his care, Tiadone.

  Please, I cry.

  She disappears

  in a spot of glowing light.

  I wake screaming. Mirko pulls me from the mesa edge, where my arm and leg already dangle in empty space. I shrink into a ball and crawl on all fours back onto the platform. Mirko keens into the black night; the note, higher than my ears can hear, twangs my nerves.

  My father has recanted what I finally and truly know. I have seen the Chamber of Verities. The Creator Spirit is our god. And now — now — my father has burned our Oracles. “Creator Spirit, have mercy,” I gag between my tears. “Mercy.” I sit up, and my thoughts teeter. We will never again hold the sacred book or read its holy words.

  But it is my father. Would I not rather he recant than have him burn? Creator Spirit, have mercy on me!

  Mirko leaps from the ledge and spirals high to the stars. I watch, frozen, as he dives in a death dance and pulls up just in time to avoid crashing into the top of the mesa. He wooshes past, and my tunic, amulet, and twists tug to follow.

  I curl up tightly. Has my father lost his spiritual centerself just as I found my own?

  CHAPTER 70

  MOURNING

  As the sun rises, Mirko and I keep our heads lowered. Dust shadows his feathers and my skin; we have rubbed the dirt we found beneath the platform onto ourselves. It shows the Creator Spirit we beg for forgiveness for Father.

  The sun slides up the sky, yet we do not put up the linen covering but stay kneeling or squatting. Mirko’s wings are close to his sides. He chirrups his own prayers while I meditate on the vision. Father’s pain. His loss. Frana’s great belly and fear. Ratho’s care. My connection with Jenae.

  How did that happen? Could it happen again? If it does, will she believe the vision comes from Mirko’s ability to sing? Not my lingering femininity? Through another vision right now, I could give Jenae my explanation and see if Father is all right.

  None comes.

  We fast, and the sun pas
ses until our shadows stretch to the east. Sweat pools in my chest wrap and adheres my arms to my sides. My prayers tumble out one after another. Allow Jenae to send help for Father. Make Frana and the babe strong. Force Sleene to release Father. Show mercy, Creator Spirit, even to those who don’t know you or who deny you, as I once did though you were merciful to me.

  Finally, the sun sizzles down. Mirko and I turn to each other.

  “It is the end of another sixth day.” The words scratch from my dry throat.

  He ruffles his feathers, and dust puffs into the dusk. Slowly I move my stiffened joints.

  Groaning, I get to my shaky feet, straighten my belongings. With my pack on my shoulder and Mirko before me, we inch down to the desert floor. We have mourned our fullest; it is time to cleanse and rest in the Sleeping Cavern.

  We descend below the shard of moon snagged in the night sky. Tonight, there is no call to the Chamber of Verities. None at all.

  CHAPTER 71

  CONFRONTATION

  While Mirko and I trudge through the cavern, boys whisper and shrink from sight. None could already know what Father has been accused of. Could they?

  “Spawn of a heretic,” someone whispers from a tunnel. I glare down the passage but see no one. So much for hope. My stomach rolls like a windweed.

  Mirko and I hurry to the Steam Pockets. Inside an empty one, I disrobe and plop the hot rocks into the puddle of water. Mist rises, but my body cannot relax. What now?

  The night on my shelf flows past quietly. It is the morning that snaps forth in chaos.

  At the spring, Droslump intercepts me. I raise my dripping face, though before I can wipe my eyes the govern strikes me across the cheek. His skeletal hand smacks a sting so hard that I stumble backward. Mirko launches to the air, but I grab his tail and stop his attack. With talons open wide, and keening, he flaps furiously.

  Droslump doesn’t take even one step away; his breath is weighted and fierce. “Your possessions will be searched. You will turn out all you own. Even now your lookout post is being inspected.”