Chapter Text
“Celosia, thgirb noom stiawa. Emoc htiw su.”
I rise from the straw and brush my gown clean. The cloth has faded to pink, and my shoes are simple sandals. Although the sun shines no more, the air is hot and humid. It’s always hot here, but the sweat is a sign of good faith.
“Mi gnimoc.”
I must look presentable for the Big Night; that’s why a newly dyed gown awaits by my bedside. It’s deep red and freshly washed. I pull it over my head, and it cascades down my body like a river. The waves flow to my feet and hands, over my bruised limbs and thorn scratches. It’s comforting to be back in fresh linen; the old one is stained and worn out. One of us will have to stitch the holes, wash it, and re-dye it. But that must happen after the Offering.
I move through the low arch of the doorframe into the night. My Sisters await by the small fire, all four of them. We may look the same and wear the same Robes, but we aren’t related. Their red figures are all the family I have. My head bows in respect, and they follow with their nods.
“Sgniteerg.”
Helianthe makes a hand gesture at me and then points at the sky. In the dark, a huge, pale moon stares at us. Today is the Night of the Offering; the moon will watch us do it.
As we walk uphill, Kniphofia runs from one red sister to another, distributing the Clay. The Clay is sacred to us; it is our sacrifice to the world. I don’t look down at my hands because my fingertips know the shape. I’ve held the figurine’s brothers since forever. I run my sweaty fingers over it: the round head, broad shoulders, arms, torso, and legs. The only thing that indicates this figurine is a male is the small, shaped lump on its torso.
We walk in a line, up the hill. The Offering takes place by the Fire, on the highest point of the island. We are halfway there when the Brothers join us. They hold clay figurines, too. Theirs have two lumps on the torso.
The night is bright due to the sacred moonlight that covers us. The newcomers bow their heads, and we return the gesture. All is quiet while we roam through the Forest and emerge in the Meadows. Here, the moon seems even bigger. The tall grass engulfs my feet and my red legs. We walk on, in a straight line. On the horizon, a huge bonfire appears. The Fire. Nobody knows how the Fire survives the salty, humid air and the downpours. It’s been here as long as I can remember, and it doesn’t need any kindling. The others start chanting, high and low, seriously. I join in, and the wind carries our voices to the Fire. It seems to burn brighter than a few days ago, when I was on Duty.
“Erif, erif, erif, erif.”
It echoes back across the plains and the beaches. The island is shaking in anticipation. We near the hot glow of It and position ourselves in the circle. Sweat beads on my face as we fall into a feverish trance.
“Erif, erif, erif,”
I repeat the chant even as we circle the Fire. Our voices merge into one. Sparks fly. Then we throw the Clay into the Fire. We throw the clay men amidst the flames, and the Brothers throw the clay women. It has always been this way, I suppose. We are appeasing the Fire. Then the crowd of ten people disperses into the night.