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An excerpt from Fire, an erotic fantasy short in my new collection out soon.
My older sister daubed her finger in the bowl of doe blood and then painted a warm red stripe across my forehead, down my nose, across my cheeks. Her face was drawn, angry, but it was to mask her worry for me, I knew. Her experience two years before had been unpleasant, although mother says it’s not always so. I was a pleasant experience, but Brigid was not. Perhaps it was a curse passed down thus, and so I had no need to fear, but Brigid had scolded me and called me a stupid goose when I suggested it to her last night. Then she cried herself to sleep.
I drew my deerskin robe closer to my body, as though it could protect me from the night and the traditions of my people. It was barely thick enough to protect me from the drafts which blew like a gale across the floor of our hut. Brigid had spent weeks staining the robe with a white paste and sewing on beads in patterns of the blessed, but I thought it all a waste of time. I’d snuck out to watch last year, and no one so much as glanced at the robes, which were in a pile on the ground before the sunlight had completely faded. The robes were for the sisters, and the mothers and the gods. No one at the fire cared for robes.
My heart hammered in my chest. It was my Fire this year, mine and three other girls from the village, and of course all the men who’d come of age. Their rite was different, secret.
The daylight dimmed and my mouth went dry. The scent of wood smoke invaded the hut. Brigid froze, her eyes wide with panic. I leaned forward to place a reassuring hand on her leg, not because I felt calm and unafraid, but because my sister needed me to act calm and unafraid.
“Your Fire is over, sister,” I said. “They cannot hurt you further.”
She nodded, her eyes locked on mine. Her lips trembled as though she wished to speak but feared she would only weep if she opened her mouth.
“I’m not frightened,” I lied, and stood to go. Brigid clung to the hem of my white robe.
“I don’t want you to be hurt,” she said, and began to weep.
“No one will hurt me. The gods won’t allow it,” I said. She held onto the hem of my robe a moment longer, but then I pulled free and ducked outside quickly so she would not have more chances to object.
Outside the sunset dwindled to a rosy glow beyond the mountains. Inside our valley the darkness had invaded the village so the shadows blended together beyond the reach of torchlight and campfire. On the hills to the east the forest had turned into a dark smudge. My eyes avoided the hills to the north. I wasn’t ready to see it yet.
My mother and a group of women whose Fires had long since passed stood outside our hut to escort me to the northern hill. They wore robes dyed red and embroidered with black beads and feathers. One of them carried a knife which shone ominously in the last of the daylight, and another carried a wooden bowl. The rest bore torches. None of them looked me in the eye except my mother.
“You have always been my brave one,” she began. I held up a hand, shook my head. I couldn’t listen to her explain to me how awful the night was going to be, not after Brigid.
“Lead on,” I said simply, and after a confused moment she did so.
The smell of smoke in the air was intoxicating, but I kept my eyes on my feet as we walked in line through the village and up the trail which wound its way through the northern hills.
My older sister daubed her finger in the bowl of doe blood and then painted a warm red stripe across my forehead, down my nose, across my cheeks. Her face was drawn, angry, but it was to mask her worry for me, I knew. Her experience two years before had been unpleasant, although mother says it’s not always so. I was a pleasant experience, but Brigid was not. Perhaps it was a curse passed down thus, and so I had no need to fear, but Brigid had scolded me and called me a stupid goose when I suggested it to her last night. Then she cried herself to sleep.
I drew my deerskin robe closer to my body, as though it could protect me from the night and the traditions of my people. It was barely thick enough to protect me from the drafts which blew like a gale across the floor of our hut. Brigid had spent weeks staining the robe with a white paste and sewing on beads in patterns of the blessed, but I thought it all a waste of time. I’d snuck out to watch last year, and no one so much as glanced at the robes, which were in a pile on the ground before the sunlight had completely faded. The robes were for the sisters, and the mothers and the gods. No one at the fire cared for robes.
My heart hammered in my chest. It was my Fire this year, mine and three other girls from the village, and of course all the men who’d come of age. Their rite was different, secret.
The daylight dimmed and my mouth went dry. The scent of wood smoke invaded the hut. Brigid froze, her eyes wide with panic. I leaned forward to place a reassuring hand on her leg, not because I felt calm and unafraid, but because my sister needed me to act calm and unafraid.
“Your Fire is over, sister,” I said. “They cannot hurt you further.”
She nodded, her eyes locked on mine. Her lips trembled as though she wished to speak but feared she would only weep if she opened her mouth.
“I’m not frightened,” I lied, and stood to go. Brigid clung to the hem of my white robe.
“I don’t want you to be hurt,” she said, and began to weep.
“No one will hurt me. The gods won’t allow it,” I said. She held onto the hem of my robe a moment longer, but then I pulled free and ducked outside quickly so she would not have more chances to object.
Outside the sunset dwindled to a rosy glow beyond the mountains. Inside our valley the darkness had invaded the village so the shadows blended together beyond the reach of torchlight and campfire. On the hills to the east the forest had turned into a dark smudge. My eyes avoided the hills to the north. I wasn’t ready to see it yet.
My mother and a group of women whose Fires had long since passed stood outside our hut to escort me to the northern hill. They wore robes dyed red and embroidered with black beads and feathers. One of them carried a knife which shone ominously in the last of the daylight, and another carried a wooden bowl. The rest bore torches. None of them looked me in the eye except my mother.
“You have always been my brave one,” she began. I held up a hand, shook my head. I couldn’t listen to her explain to me how awful the night was going to be, not after Brigid.
“Lead on,” I said simply, and after a confused moment she did so.
The smell of smoke in the air was intoxicating, but I kept my eyes on my feet as we walked in line through the village and up the trail which wound its way through the northern hills.
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