Recording the Ceremony

Jaumes

As it turned out, recording wasn’t the hard part. The hard part was keeping enough focus while having a splitting headache from doing it.

From his vantage point in a tree, Jaumes followed Reni with his eyes, focusing on his mentor as best as he could. Magic carved the scene into his mind, recording every detail in the older lizard’s stance, pace, and expression. Out of the corner of Jaumes’ eye, he saw a flash of movement. With that, his concentration was broken.

With a frustrated half-sigh, Jaumes tried to focus on Reni again. But the lizard whipped around, suddenly alert. A loud ringing penetrated Jaumes’ skull, making the headache worse. He shook his head, and the ringing faded.

“Don’t give audible signs that you messed up,” Reni said, “I don’t want you eaten.”

Jaumes nodded dimly, head still throbbing. He stumbled out into the clearing so that Mahela, hidden somewhere in the forest, could practice with multiple people. Reni eyed him as he did.

“If you need a brake, you can take it,” he said.

Jaumes shook his head.

“I can do it,” he said.

“No, you can’t,” Mahela’s voice called.

Reni spun around, and Jaumes knew that Mahela had just earned the painful ringing herself. The other apprentice merely left her hiding spot and came out to stand next to Jaumes.

“Go lay down, you’ve already mastered the technique,” she said.

Jaumes shot her a let-me-do-this look. Mahela stepped on his foot. He winced and backed up a little.

“Sleep,” she reiterated, “Then you can focus better.”

Now that his foot was smarting along with his head, Jaumes relented. It could’ve been his imagination, but as he turned away he thought he saw Mahela get an approving nod from Reni. He didn’t really care.

* * * * *

Greenbrook

Alone in Chief Firmstone’s cabin, Greenbrook stared at the necklace that would change his allegiance forever. It hung on the wall across from the place that Greenbrook had changed into the cougar and bear skins of a future Western Forest chief.

The necklace’s chain was long, and its pendant was a half moon. It was situated like an upside down bowl, and six inches in diameter. Unlike the plain necklaces of crescent moons, rising suns, or stars, this one was painted navy blue with silvery white streaks like moonbeams. The streaks practically glowed in the moonlight coming in through the windows.

Quietly, Chief Firmstone walked into the hut. His necklace was a full, silvery white moon, with details of craters painted with thin, precise strokes. That necklace gave off the full light of the moon, almost blinding Greenbrook. When the Chief saw that Greenbrook was done changing, he smiled.

“It is time,” he said.

Greenbrook stood as Chief Firmstone walked over and took the half moon necklace from its peg.

“Come, Greenbrook,” the Chief said, turning towards the door, “It is time for you to finish forsaking your birth people and your worship of Scorching Sun. Come dance for Mother Moon.”

Greenbrook took a deep breath and nodded. The magic his breath created came down and danced reassuringly in swirls of wind around his fingers as he followed the Chief into the moonlight.

The previously empty circle of stones was now a roaring bonfire. It rose majestically into the dark, sending sparks of light to the half moon in the eastern sky. The moon seemed to look down from her place and analyse the stone sun necklace that Greenbrook was still wearing.

What is a child of the sun doing in my domain and people? she seemed to ask.

Greenbrook repressed a shudder. The half moon necklace meant nothing to the moon as long as it was in Chief Firmstone’s hand. To her, he was still the enemy.

I am only a child of Father Sun a little longer, Mother Moon, he prayed, Spare me until then.

The Chief and Chief-to-be walked up to the bonfire, and the assembled people fell quiet. Chief Firmstone faced the bonfire with his hands raised.

“Fire, messenger of Mother Moon, tell her that tonight a new member of her people has come. Tell her that it is the one who will be called Chief of her people,” he said, “Mother Moon, the one who will be called Chief came from the Blue River, who are the children of the Scorching Sun. He has come to declare his allegiance to us and to you through dance. Wash him in your gentle light and remove from him the love of day’s heat!”

Greenbrook stepped forward. Unsure of how else to start, he began to dance the dance of Father Sun. He stomped and made swirling motions with his hands and arms. The heat of the bonfire burned into his back, and Greenbrook felt the repressing heat of midday fill him. Surrounded by the cool night, he felt a new repulsion to Father Sun’s gift.

The moon seemed to grow brighter at the feeling, calling for Greenbrook to welcome the cool of night. Greenbrook closed his eyes and let her in. His movements slowed. Stomping became swaying. Stiff became flowing. Swirls became waves. The moon’s cool, gentle touch had shown him what her dance looked like.

Greenbrook stopped and opened his eyes. The people of the Western Forest had been watching him with mute respect and awe. Greenbrook looked above them to the moon.

Thank you, Mother, he thought.

Unconsciously, his hands grabbed the chain of his stone necklace. The rising, harsh sun was lifted off of his neck. Greenbrook held the necklace up.

“Fire, messenger of Mother Moon, bring this to her as proof that I, once Sandstorm of the Blue River, have left the Scorching Sun and will dance for him no longer,” he said.

This request, directly to Mother Moon and made by someone other than the Chief, brought several gasps from the people behind him. Before anyone could move, Greenbrook had thrown the stone necklace into the bonfire. Chief Firmstone hurried up next to Greenbrook.

“Fire, Messenger, he did not mean to insult Mother Moon so-” he started.

The bonfire grew higher as the moon grew brighter. Greenbrook felt full of soft coolness and light. Murmurs spread through the group of people. Chief Firmstone stepped away from the fire and placed the half moon necklace around Greenbrook’s neck.

“Mother Moon has accepted you,” he said.

There was a begrudging tone in his voice, like he was both relieved and upset that the moon wasn’t offended by what Greenbrook had done. Now that Greenbrook was thinking instead of feeling, he realized that he was extremely lucky to have not been struck dead. Yet Mother Moon had accepted him as the next Chief of her people.

With the ceremony over, the people retreated to their huts to gather food for a celebratory feast. Within minutes, food was set out and people were thronging to dance around the bonfire or eat or chat. Greenbrook retreated towards his hut, away from all the people. He felt a protective love for them, but didn’t feel like interacting with them more tonight. Learning Mother Moon’s dance had been draining. Greenbrook would go to sleep, or maybe just sit in the darkness alone for a while.

* * * * *

Jaumes

Though the tribe of esosa churned like water under a waterfall, Jaumes didn’t lose sight of the desert chief’s son. His own mind churned with questions about what he’d just recorded. What had the esosa been doing? What was the significance of the sun and moon on the necklaces? Were they based by tribe? Had he changed tribes? Why?

The only thing that Jaumes knew was that the desert chief’s son was powerful. Whoever could control the light of fire or the moon- and this esosa had done both at the same time- was unimaginably dangerous. What would be next, the tree roots wrapping around aljeny in their burrows as they slept? The Mountains lifting to reveal the hidden kingdoms of the dipojico?

Staying camouflaged, Jaumes followed the desert chief’s son away from the festivities and towards a cabin at the edge of the village. Even away from the light of the bonfire, the esosa seemed to glow with power. It was like the moon on his new necklace was illuminating him with soft light.

The esosa’s attention was caught abruptly, and it called out. Jaumes looked to see who he’d called to. Then he stopped in his tracks, concentration broken. Standing next to the entrance of the hut was the forest chief’s son.

And in his hand was the struggling form of Mahela.