Winter Day 1 511
The sky was a reddish brown, akin to the dust of the desert during a sandstorm, whipped up to an angry fury. Even now, half in remembrance, the child could remember the burning scrape of sand against bare flesh, the abrading crush of individual motes as they slid and cut against her cheeks and hands. Several hours later, the great expanse above the child still remained disturbed and distressed. The red of the sun bled like the yolk of an egg, swarthy and thick across the entire sky. Dabbled fingerprints of dark orange and faint yellow gave contrast and sharpness to the bloody scene. It was horrific, and exhilarating at the same time, filling the child with a sort of half hope. A held breath, a tight chest and dizzy head: these were her symptoms. Her eyes glowed in the murky lighting, shining back in reflection a dull red tint like a ruby dropped amongst a dark pool of water at midnight.
It was an inauspicious day, this day that called to mind a similar day of birth and struggle. The markings of time had been held in careful council, the notches on the counting sticks growing thick in profusion. Today, the child was fifteen, and for only a few short hours longer, could she be called a child. Zivalah, daughter of Halif and Talilah, sister to Hakim the brave, and Saleem the nimble. Her other siblings lived on in ignominy, as of yet unknown and unproven, just as Zivalah was still a child and of no true import to her people. Today was her day to break free from this caste, to tear away the gauze and draw everyone’s eyes with her merits. Today, the day of her birth, this sand ridden and bloody day – it was time.
The child knew this from tracing that red orb across the sky. She had awoken early and braved the sandstorm for her searching, cast off alone and unneeded until the child either returned by the grace of the gods or allowed her passing to leave behind bones to be bleached by the terrible sun. Alone, at peace, silent. The girl cherished these things without the luster of approval, holding them dear to herself and knowing why but not understanding how. This was the child’s lot in life, to always be confused as to the strength of things, the emotion and throw backs and feelings. The child could look at her mother and understand the woman’s importance, but was harder pressed to feel more than filial duty. The ties of blood were strong, thick and viscous like the strength of the sky to stay up in place, or the sinew power of a bird in flight. The child belonged here, and yet, did not. Like the rain that fell so needfully and still moved on, the girl was apparent and as filled with wanderlust. If she could call that dull ache such words. The tenseness to her fingertips, the cagey glances.
Standing in one simple motion, the child brushed the remains of sand off her wrap, shaking out her long hair and twining the green material back over her head. Chafed by the elements, her skin nonetheless gleamed darkly in the sunlight, bathed in that reddish hue like a babe sleeping in the shadow of their parents. Turning away from the large piles of sand that marked the boundary of the land of her ancestors, the child looked around for any sign of familiar landmarks. She had as of yet never been this far away from their camp, and falling to boredom remembered the task at hand.
Kneeling beneath the shadow of a tall dune, the child clasped her hands and bowed her head to the sand, her thoughts encircling the gods which gave her tribe life. The Mother and the Brother Crow. The girl could only pray as she had been told to do, her thoughts filled with the wonder and amazement as of the first time she had felt the rain or the first sighting of a bird’s flight across the sky. These things the child fully appreciated, her dark eyes taking them in with each occurrence, and while the child was a solemn one, her tense wariness eventually got to her and the girl got to her feet and began to dance.
Prayer was a wordless affair, but even still, one could not be motionless and evoke the true thoughts of rain or flight, of cunning and of life. One was the beginning, the other the end. And the child needed both her silent prayers and the vivid dance to express her feelings. With that in mind, Zivalah began to beat a furious pattern against the sand, stirring up winds as she twirled around in circles, arms held out palms up as if to accept the gift of both life and death, both flight and water, both childhood and adulthood. In eternal balance. A girl no longer.
