Reason to Believe
Flash-fiction - by Jenny Rae Rappaport
The preparations begin two weeks before the solstice.
Reya and I gather together with the other girls in the communal room of our temple lodgings as we wait to hear our tasks. There is no reason to believe that this year will be any different than the one before. But I am apprehensive, because I am always apprehensive; there is something about it all that just sits wrong with me. I lean my head on Reya’s shoulder, and she wraps a friendly arm around me.
We are assigned to sweep the ceremonial palace. We wield our birch brooms with a quiet fury, sweeping it from top to bottom, and eradicating any speck of dust. The shutters on the windows are flung open, and the precious glass polished. We strew flowers through the halls--poppies, daisies, and sweet-smelling roses. The youngest girls weave garlands that they hang from the rafters and the walls. The priests follow after us to sprinkle holy water throughout.
It is only then that the carpenters come to the throne room with its earthen floor. They set up their equipment, say the proper prayers, and begin to build the wooden throne. The wood has been grown and harvested for this purpose only; it would be sacrilege to use it for anything else. Reya and I stand together at the edge of the room and watch them work--there is a beauty to their movements as they turn the ordinary into the sacred.
When we grow tired of watching, we run out of the dim room, and search for sunlight. It feels good to sit in the palace gardens, telling jokes and sharing temple gossip. Some of the younger girls play tag, and their laughter fills the air as they chase one another. Reya smiles at me, I grin back at her, and we rise to our feet to join in the game.
The time for planting seeds will come--it always comes--but we ignore it. Our childhood has been shorter than most; it is both a blessing and a curse to be chosen as a handmaiden. It is not an easy thing to serve our goddess. She is both capricious and cruel, bright and benevolent.
We soak in the sun for as long as we can.
When the carpenters finish, we gather with the other girls to plant the seeds. Softly, we dig in the earth at the base of the wooden throne. With loving hands, we plant the seeds, harvested from last year’s vines. They have spent the long winter inside the temple’s coffers, waiting.
On the day of the solstice, Reya holds my hand while we wait to draw our stones, hoping for a gray stone with a high number. For five years, we have performed this ritual, our hearts beating at the thought of what may come. For five years, we have tried to make our families proud. For five years, we have held our breath, reached our hands into the choosing pot, and counted down another year until we can leave this place.
I draw the red stone.
Red like the blood; red like the flowers. Red like the anger that courses through my veins. Red like the power of the goddess’ rage.
Reya holds me as I cry hot tears. It is an honor; it is a blessing. It feels like the end of days. I try to smile through my pain.
The other handmaidens follow me, as I lead the way to the throne room, my bare feet slapping softly. The earthen floor is cool under my toes. I bow to the priests, kiss Reya’s cheek, and sit upon the wooden throne.
Carefully, I hand the red stone to the head priest. The seedlings at the base of the throne tickle my feet while I wait.
The priests say the prayers. They wave candles around me and sprinkle holy water. They implore the goddess to usher in a new year of peace and prosperity. And still, I wait.
There are times, we have been told. There are handmaidens who have not been chosen; there are things we are not meant to comprehend. My heart threatens to beat out of my chest as I watch the priests confer among themselves. There is nothing but the beating and the panic and the fear, and then, all of a sudden, they shoo me from the throne. My lungs start to work again.
Thank the goddess that I am not worthy.
I bury my head in Reya’s shoulder, too relieved to do anything but shake.
“I must go,” she says. She shows me her gray stone, with its small number two, and I have trouble understanding. “For luck,” she says, leaning forward to kiss my lips.
I watch as she walks towards the throne. I weep, as I see her hand the priests her stone. I am here and I am not here, as the priests repeat the ritual and the plants explode in growth.
Red like the flowers that cover her feet. Green like the vines that squeeze and squeeze. Brown like her eyes as she struggles to breathe. Gray like my world and our goddess of stone.
Reya dies on that throne, in the flowers and leaves.
The goddess is hungry and the land hungers, too. The blood and the flesh, the pain and the price--all to feed the trees, the earth, even our sacred way of life. All these things, I know as truth.
But there is pain in my heart; there is sorrow in the breeze.
At night, Reya is in my dreams. I am helpless to save her as she chokes on that throne; I am unable to tell her why she must die in the leaves. I can only watch her as I stand there alone. And then, I wake in the morning, and I fall to my knees. And I pray to my goddess: thank you, thank you for not choosing me.