The Blossoms of Sacrifice - Chapter 1

The Land of the Clover Tribe

Summer 1775

The sun shone into the hollow of the tree where Adsila slept. Waiting for her outside was a new morning. She would find delight in the beautiful forest that surrounded her, as such as the past, present, and future of generations before her.

For thousands of years, the Clover Forest had been a dwelling for good and evil, where nobody, human or god-being, had ever dared step foot. But a determined god-being chieftain named Wapasha and his followers had decided to call these enchanted woods home, dazzled by the patches of herbs sprouting by the creekbed, the vines bearing fruits and berries crawling along the centuries-old trees, the large boulder covered in lichen and moss, green painted across the landscape. If you looked carefully, you could see the spirits of good and evil dashing about the boughs of the trees, bashfully chirping in their neighbors' presence. The people threw flowers into the air with joy and proclaimed Wapasha their leader. All were welcome in that tiny alcove of the forest.

The Clover Tribe was one of dozens in this stately region: an impressive treasure trove studded with forests and mountains and rivers and plains. Thousands of people lived here, from quiet nomads in the west to bustling villages in the east. All these people had been scattered by the civil war that had taken place 50 years earlier. But the people of the Clover Tribe, in the middle world between the ordinary and magical realms, where both existed as one, were alone. There were two dozen children, eleven adults, and Chief Wapasha and his wife, Salalai, whom some called a witch, with her healing potions and seeing-orb. And then, of course, there was the matter of Adsila.

Adsila was a sprightly child who had just turned ten, but for a ten-year-old she was already far too wise. Mischief and rebellion were as natural to her as blood and tears, yet she skipped merrily through life with hardly a care in the world. Instead of picking flowers and singing songs with the other girls, she preferred to leap and bound through the woods with her squirrel friends. Some people might have raised an eyebrow at her behavior, but Chief Wapasha never admonished her. Growing up, he had been clumsy and forgetful, so he knew how free it felt for a child to be able to make their own decisions.

Meanwhile, as the birds chirped from their nests, the villagers were already out and about, scurrying like ants, singing of all humble and earthly things that bid them life. But for now, the tribe was still wrapped in the tender embrace of the morning sun.  I love that smell, Adsila thought, sleepily rubbing her eyes. It reminded her of basil and mint. Adsila had a good mind, but she was far too busy to spend all day sitting in a field - there was simply too much of the world she would never get to see if that was all she ever did.

"Good morning," said Awinita, crouched on her knees. Her meek whisper broke Adsila's thoughts. "Did you sleep well?" Adsila lifted her eyes solemnly to look at her sister, who would soon turn fourteen. When she spoke, her soft voice perfectly matched her gentle face, but she modestly thought herself to be "just a mountain girl," and refused to hear of comments on her beauty. Adsila was not jealous of her sister and, in fact, they had much in common.

"Yes, I did," Adsila lied. Her dark eyes glinted in the gossamer ray of light and the corners of her mouth dimpled into an insincere smile. Adsila would do anything to keep her sister happy, but even pretending was disgusting. It couldn't be helped, she knew that, but why couldn't she live in a world where everybody could  truly  live? She could be a sorceress or a necromancer or an animal whisperer, if the gods selected her. If not, she could be a merchant or a midwife or a hunter. Either way, she would get to see the world, but that wish was still so far out of reach.

Her mother would not approve. Once, Kimimila had been the same person her daughters were, an adventurous little girl who read books of all kinds and chased salmon in the river. She grew up to share her stories with a Cherokee man whom she loved deeply and later married. But after her husband was killed in a hunting accident, she decided that her daughters should not join in with the boys' activities. Conveniently,  their  knowledge would take them somewhere far beyond the eaves of the woods. Where was the good in being forced to keep old traditions alive? They dwindled by the year. Perhaps honoring new beliefs would be better.

Don't act like a boy, Mother says, Adsila thought bitterly, pulling her tunic over her chest. She's not the only one.  Nobody, whether she liked it or not, imagined a rich future for a little god-being girl. No matter where she went, the white men would always be better than her. Dragging her feet through the pastures of green, occasionally casting her gaze upwards to see sunlight streaming in through the leafy canopy, she noticed Nizhoni sitting alone at the edge of the bamboo grove, already tying bright yellow petals.

Nizhoni was only six years old, but she, too, was more clever than most. She had taken charge when a storm uprooted a mighty old tree, and given the hope. She could probably lead the way if those English colonists chopped through the thickets with their sharp, heavy axes...

"Good morning," Adsila said kindly, expecting Nizhoni to examine her warily with wide, brown eyes. Nizhoni didn't speak. She had stumbled into the woods one cool, clear day last spring, looking like she had just woken from a deep sleep, with her filthy rags and matted, tangled hair and muddy bare feet. There seemed to be a tremendous sadness clawing at her insides. Some of the villagers were afraid of her, believing her to be a product of the evil realm. But she would find her voice again, in time. Whatever happened to her, she would remember eventually.

Adsila sat down in the grass and began to tie flowers with her bare hands, and the thorns on the stems would prick her fingers to no end. Her blood turned the innocent white petals deepest crimson. Legend told that red petals contained spirits from the evil realm, the ones that infected children with diseases that even Salalai could not cure. The girls' spirits were webbed into the fragile threads, and they would connect with the girls that would be born in ten, a hundred, even a thousand years.

Why did the girls do this, anyway? It was just the lifestyle of dozens of girls who had lived and died here over the years. As the girls got older, they would be expected to make themselves stronger through hours of hard work - washing clothes, hauling water buckets, building cook fires, and working on the farm. Meanwhile, the men were taught to read and hunt, skills they would actually need once they set off into the real world. How many women would be stuck here forever, with no idea what waited for them outside?

The threads weren't sold for much, anyway. Every month, the girls would walk to the nearest merchant post and trade their labors. Most girls could only afford the stiff, moldy crusts of bread. But the most beautiful threads were worth a sack of rice, a basket of fruit, and - a book! Adsila's book had been about Chinese folktales, and it reminded her that there were other people in the world. She hadn't left the forest in a long, long time. She had forgotten that the world was so much bigger than what she could see in front of her. Adsila shared her treasures with the other girls. Those poor girls couldn't provide for themselves and their families.

After an hour, Adsila and Nizhoni had been joined by Awinita and eight other girls. Before long, their talks of flight and fancy had grown boring, and having tied flowers till their cuts stung like wasps and their fingers ached, they began to sing a song to pass the time. Adsila hadn't done this in weeks, so she was determined not to be distracted this time. Every few minutes, she glanced at Awinita - her sister winced as she pulled thorns from her palms, and her forehead shone with sweat. But she didn't complain, would never complain. Adsila weaved and spun till her hands were streaked with dirt and dried, crusted blood. Soon the sun began to set, casting an intense golden flare onto the bamboo stalks. The droning of the cicadas was low, but it sliced through the thick, humid air like a knife. Beads of sweat dripped from her forehead into the grass. From time to time, she stood up and twirled in circles to feel the air on her smooth, tanning skin. The wind chimes did not dare move. The sound of a musket erupted through the air, followed by the boys' triumphant cheering - had they shot an elk? Finally, Adsila went to the stream and filled her wooden canister with cold, refreshing water. She thirstily gulped it down and refilled it to share with the others.  But when will Chief Wapasha call us on for supper?

Within the hour, Chief Wapasha rang the bell: a fabulous chime that echoed throughout the forest and mystified the villagers into heeding his calls. Adsila was relieved to finally pull the thorns from her fingers and stretch her legs. It was a two-minute walk to the grand Central Hollow, where her chieftain lived. His wrinkled face and grayish hair instilled a sense of comfort at the end of the day. Salalai equally divided portions of meat, vegetables, and a slice of bread as their only meal of the day. Today was Sunday, so wild fruits were served for dessert. Adsila received her food with honest gratitude and thanked the gods for her meal. Oh, how she loved five o'clock in the afternoon!

"Good evening," Chief Wapasha lowered his voice from his spot atop the wooden pedestal. "It's been another day. We are blessed with everything we will ever need, from the fertile soil to the warmth of he sun, in this medium between the ordinary and the spellbound, between life and death. Remember, all, that the Day of Benediction will arrive soon. One child from each family will be granted service to  Kala Tswali himself."

The adults murmured in familiar agreement, but Adsila could only tilt her head in confusion. All around her, boys and girls shared excited glances and whispered their curiosities. They would be granted service to the God of the Clover Forest himself, would they? Create stars and flowers above the earth's dome? Give life and take life away? Adsila was curious, too, but for a different reason. Wapasha was obsessed with the Day of Benediction, a yearly rite of passage that marked spiritual growth and maturity. But, surely, there were other things to worry about. Were those things too painful for him to speak of? Her chieftain had been preaching about the Day of Benediction for longer than even Kimimila had been alive. Untold numbers of people had been driven from their homes. They had lost everything to famine, disease, and civil unrest. If Wapasha's soul was tainted with darkness, that must have been the reason.

The speech continued till well after dark. As the first stars twinkled into the view, Adsila couldn't help daydreaming. If she was selected, how would she serve her Creator? Would she manipulate the veil between life and death? All the while, the moon glistened in the crystalline sky and added a faint shine to the rhinestone stars. Large patches of shamrock were lit up by the moon's silky halo. Fireflies glowed. Crickets chirped and buzzed. Wolves howled. Chief Wapasha meditated alongside his crystals and flowers. Everybody crawled into their hollows, ready to renew themselves for the next day.

Not Adsila. She was most active at night, for a reason whose mystery gripped her soul with yearning. It was at this time that she most looked forward to these silent vigils, keeping watch, obscured by the sable shadows. A rare beauty like the Clover Forest, with its unearthly remnants of nature's wrath, could not be hidden forever. The more she held her breath and prayed for a miracle, the more likely the tribe would one day be destroyed.

Adsila sprinted three miles to the edge of the forest and back, scanning the area with her flawless night vision. She climbed to the highest branch of every tree and checked under every leaf. Once the sky fell into total darkness, she cupped her hands around her mouth and screeched, waiting for the bouncing vibrations to answer her call and guide her in the dim light. And once she had made her rounds, she did it all over again. She laughed at herself for worrying, but what if her paranoia hadn't gone to waste after all? She stroked her hair nervously.

Before long, the moonlight was shrouded by seeping, misty clouds. If there really were intruders lurking in their neck of the woods, then if she so much as stepped on a twig her position would be given away. Nobody could afford to carelessly slip their existence away - surely, people were excited by the bounty of the woods and possessed by their insatiable greed. But for now, it was late. The witching hour, some called it. All manner of evil swam under the stars, the remnants of good people's sins. Adsila could not see it, but she was faintly aware of its presence, hugging the dusty diamonds of stars and cradling the clouds and the moon. Maybe, if she reached out as far as she could, she could grab a darting ghost and tame it and befriend it. She beamed as a dappling cloud revealed the moon, coating the forest floor in an ethereal blanket of pale goodness. The spirits of good and evil were iridescent in the chilling gleam. Perhaps their glow would scare away the demons who did not wish to be tamed. Adsila shivered and exhaled into her palms. Nights were always cold here, even in the summer months. Tomorrow was another day, and whether good or bad, the best way to accept it was to face it. Why be choosy? Why give up hope? She lay in her hollow, under her sheepskin blanket, and rolled over on her side, ready for another night.