Vessel

Chapter Three

At dawn the drums ceased.

Liyana collapsed forward into the sand. Sky serpents circled above her, their glass scales catching the rose and gold rays of sunrise, and scattering them like a thousand jewels onto the desert below. Songbirds called to one another from the tops of the date palm trees. Chest heaving, Liyana tried to swallow. Her throat felt raw from breathing so hard for so long. Her braids were plastered against her cheeks and neck with her dried sweat. On hands and knees, she dug her fingers into the sand. These were still her hands. This was still her body.

Talu’s voice died, and Liyana raised her head and felt the first kiss of sunrise on her face. Dawn dyed the sand dunes red as it had yesterday. She shouldn’t be here to see it again.

Around her, the clan was silent. She noticed only a few children remained, and young men and women had replaced the old as drummers. Their hands rested limply on the skins of their drums. A few covered their faces with their hands.

Someone in the clan keened.

Liyana looked at her parents’ faces. Her father’s was ashen, his eyes sunk deep, dried tears etching his cheeks like scars. Her mother’s face was frozen, as if she had forgotten how to feel.

“She didn’t come,” Liyana whispered. “Talu, why didn’t she come?” Her body was shaking like a palm tree in a windstorm. She wrapped her arms around herself. Every muscle screamed, and her bones felt like liquid. She wasn’t supposed to feel anymore. “Talu . . .”

“My children, my children!” a woman wailed. She was the master weaver, a woman with five daughters and three sons. “You have killed their future!” Two of her children huddled behind her skirt. Eyes wide, they looked like spooked horses.

Liyana could find no words in her throat. Once a century, the goddess of the Goat Clan walked among them and ensured that her clan could survive the next one hundred years. She used a human body to work the magic that would fill the wells, revitalize the oases, and increase the herds. Without this infusion of magic . . . In an ordinary century, this would be a disaster. But now, in the time of the Great Drought, it meant death. Already this oasis was a tenth the size it once was. Others were worse. Many of the desert wells held only a few buckets’ worth of undrinkable salty brine, and most of the others had dried up a full month earlier than they used to. Half the herd had sickened over the last season. Children were too thin, and they had lost far too many of their elders to illness. They needed Bayla more now than they ever had.

Others took up the master weaver’s cry. Liyana felt each voice as if it were a whip on her skin. Talu raised her arms in front of her face as if to ward off invisible blows. Shoulder to shoulder, the clans people pressed forward, crowding together outside the circle that Talu had drawn in the sand. Their shouts overlapped until Liyana could not distinguish individual words. Startled, the birds fled the trees, darkening the sky with their bodies.

“Silence.”

The word rolled over the clan.

All voices faded, like wind falling in the wake of a sandstorm. All eyes fixed on their chief, Chief Roke. It was his bellow from a chest as broad as a horse’s that had cut through the cries.

Chieftess Ratha, his wife, drew herself up to her impressive full height. With her headdress of feathers and leaves, she towered over those around her. She spoke into the silence. “Talu, tell us what has occurred.” Her voice was soft, yet it carried across the oasis like a rumble of thunder.

“I sent my words to the Dreaming,” Talu said. Her voice cracked and splintered. “Bayla should have come!” Tears poured down the wrinkles in her ancient cheeks.

Murmurs spread around the circle. Talu could not heal a broken body, but she could ease its pain. She could not summon water to the wells, but she could sense how little remained. She couldn’t work miracles, but this . . . this was a small magic. She could not have failed.

Chieftess Ratha turned to Liyana. Her face was as expressionless as the sand itself. “You danced true. Yet the goddess did not fill you. Why did she not come to you?”

Unable to explain, Liyana shook her head.

Talu’s voice was broken. “Liyana, what did you do?”

Liyana flinched at her teacher’s words. She had done all she’d been asked! She had eaten only the food Talu had approved, she had strengthened her muscles every day, she had protected her unblemished skin from the scorching sun, she had preserved her purity, she had perfected the summoning dance . . . But it hadn’t been enough. Bayla hadn’t come. Her eyes hot with unshed tears, Liyana could only shake her head again.

“She was unworthy!” a woman cried.

The clan erupted into shouts. Each shout felt like a spear hurled at her body. “Unfit! Unworthy!” Pressing closer, the clan crammed together at the edge of the circle. One hand—Liyana didn’t see whose—threw a rock. It smacked the sand beside her.

Louder than them all, Liyana’s mother roared, “My daughter is more than worthy! Bayla has judged us! We, her people, are unworthy! Bayla punishes us!”

Another rock hit the sand.

Talu cried out. And then a rock smashed into Liyana’s back. Liyana dropped onto the sand and curled into a tight ball as rocks rained around her and Talu. One hit Liyana’s shoulder. Another, her thigh.

A high-pitched shriek split the angry shouts, and a small form darted over the line in the sand. Liyana felt a warm body hurl itself on top of her. Her little brother wrapped his arms around her, covering her body with his. “Stop!” he yelled. “Stop, stop, stop! Don’t hurt my sister!”

The rocks stopped.

The clan fell silent.

Liyana unwound herself, and she embraced Jidali. “I am sorry, Jidali,” she whispered into his small shoulders. “I failed you. I am so sorry.” For the first time in weeks, she cried. Her tears fell into his hair. Holding him, she rocked back and forth.

“People of the Goat Clan, your elders will discuss this matter,” Chief Roke said. He strode to the council tent, and he raised the tent flap. Slowly the elders filed into the tent.

Chieftess Ratha addressed the clan. “Leave here and begin your day. You have tasks that will not complete themselves.” She fixed her formidable glare on each of them, as if her eyes could burn them like the noonday sun.

Slowly the clan dispersed.

Rocking Jidali, Liyana listened to the footfalls as her people retreated from the circle. Ordinary noises returned. Above, wind rustled through the dry leaves of the parched palm trees. Across the camp, the herd bleated for breakfast. Inside a tent, a baby cried.

She lifted her head and met the eyes of the master weaver. The woman spat into the circle, and then the weaver’s sister forced her to leave. On the opposite side of the circle, Ger led Esti away, and Liyana’s childhood friend kept looking back at Liyana. At last only Liyana’s family remained.

Checking right and left, Aunt Sabisa scurried across the line in the sand and into the circle. She pried Jidali’s arms off Liyana. Liyana let him go. Clucking to the boy, Aunt Sabisa led him beyond the circle and away toward the family tent. Liyana’s cousins, aunts, and uncles trudged after them.

Her parents did not move.

Liyana couldn’t bring herself to speak to them. She laid her cheek against the sand. Talu still sat cross-legged a few feet away. She hadn’t moved from that position, even when the stones were thrown. Liyana wondered if she sat by choice or if her old bones had betrayed her. As her student, Liyana knew she should help her mentor stand, should fetch her cane, should seek to make her comfortable. But Liyana felt as if she had melted into the sand.

Talu didn’t speak. Neither did Liyana.

Overhead, the sun bleached the sky. As it rose higher, the heat soaked into the sand and rocks. Liyana felt it searing her skin, the skin she had been so careful to protect because it wouldn’t always be hers. She let it burn until her father brought a makeshift shelter, a blanket propped up on two sticks, for her and Talu. He also pressed a waterskin into each of their hands.

“Drink,” he said.

Talu let the waterskin drop from her fingers.

Her father replaced it in Talu’s hands. “Drink,” he repeated.

Three more times, they repeated this, with Talu letting the waterskin fall out of her fingers and Liyana’s father patiently replacing it. At last Liyana raised herself to her knees, drank her own water, and then leaned over and lifted Talu’s water to her lips. “The elders will know what to do,” Liyana said. “You must drink so that you’re ready to do it.”

Talu sipped once and then withdrew. Liyana tilted the water to her teacher’s lips until the precious liquid poured out over her chin and Talu drank. Liyana persisted until half the water was gone. She then let the old woman rest. She didn’t look at her father.

“You don’t need to stay here on display,” her father said. “Come inside our tent.”

Liyana shook her head so hard that her vision tilted. She steadied herself with a hand on the sand. Her palm landed in one of the depressions she’d made as she’d danced.

“Let her stay if she wishes,” Mother said.

Her father retreated to outside the circle, and he sat with Mother in the shadow of the council tent. Side by side, they kept vigil over the circle. And the sun moved on in the sky.

Late in the afternoon, as the heat baked the oasis and the wind failed to stir the sand, the elders emerged from the council tent. Chief Roke placed a goat horn to his lips and blasted a single note. As the note died, it was replaced by the sound of footsteps in sand and over rock as the clan returned. In minutes, everyone that Liyana had ever known surrounded the ceremonial circle. Kneeling, Liyana bowed her head and waited.

“Talu,” the chief said. “Hear our verdict.”

The magician lifted her head. Her face was lined with deep creases, as if she’d aged another decade during her time in the circle. She looked so sunken that Liyana feared her bones would collapse inward.

“We heard you chant the words of our ancestors. Indeed, we chanted with you,” Chieftess Ratha said. “And so, we know your words were pure and true.”

“My words were pure and true,” Talu said, “and they journeyed far.”

“You have never failed in your magic,” Chieftess Ratha said. “Yet Bayla did not come.”

Talu lifted her chin higher. Some of the shadows faded from her face, and her voice strengthened. “Bayla would never forsake us. We are her people.”

Murmurs spread through the crowd. The chieftess inclined her head to show that she’d heard Talu’s words as the chief said, “Liyana, hear our verdict.”

Chieftess Ratha addressed Liyana. “Talu’s words flew true and far, and we do not doubt the goddess’s love. Therefore, there is only one explanation: Bayla has deemed you an unfit vessel.” Her voice was kind, though her words were knives.

Unfit vessel.

Other elders spoke, echoing this verdict, but Liyana did not hear them. She felt the weight of the words press her against the sand. She wanted to sink deeper and deeper until the desert poured into her ears and her mind, and erased the horror of her failure. Unfit. Unworthy. She was so broken and so soiled that the goddess had chosen to condemn them all, rather than come to her.

Her mother’s voice broke through the downward spiral of Liyana’s thoughts. “You saw my daughter dance. She did not falter. All night she danced beyond any reasonable expectation. She does not deserve your blame.” Mother’s fists were planted on her hips.

“Whom do you blame? Our goddess?” The chief’s voice was like the rumble that preceded a lightning storm.

Liyana’s father laid a hand on Mother’s arm.

“This is not about blame, and we do not act to punish,” Chieftess Ratha said, her voice smooth but expressionless. “We act only for the good of the tribe. We will travel to Yubay without Liyana. There we will dreamwalk anew and hope to discover the true vessel.”

Liyana felt as if her blood had congealed within her veins. Every breath hurt.

“We travel on, and she remains.” Her father’s voice was flat. “She’ll die. You want us to abandon our daughter to death.”

“If Bayla chooses her, then the goddess will claim her body here and rejoin us. If Bayla does not, then we will be free of the taint of an unworthy vessel and can try again.”

“There is no ‘try again’!” Aunt Sabisa said. She wagged her finger at the chief and chieftess, and also at Talu. “You read the dreams. You consulted your hearts. You said Liyana was our vessel!”

Shakily Talu pushed herself to her knees and slowly, painfully she rose to her feet. “The verdict of the elders is for the good of the tribe. We must try to find another, or else we are all doomed.”

Liyana felt as if Talu had stabbed her. For years Talu had trained her. For hours every day, she had lectured her and coached her and prepared Liyana for her sacrifice. She had waxed poetic about her pride in Liyana, and she had bolstered her every time Liyana had felt any doubt.

“But I am your vessel!” Liyana raised her arms so that her tattoos were displayed. “In my dreamwalk, Bayla chose me!”

Talu met her eyes. “In the ceremony, she did not.” Deliberately, ceremonially, she turned her back on Liyana.

“In Yubay,” Chieftess Ratha declared, “we will draw a new circle and weave a new untainted dress for a more worthy vessel.” Others turned their backs on Liyana as well.

“I can dance again!” Liyana jumped to her feet. She felt pain shoot through her aching leg muscles. Her breath hissed out. She mastered it and continued, “If we made another circle now . . . or tried another oasis . . . or chose another night . . .”

“The night does not matter. The place does not matter. And the circle is tradition, not necessity,” Talu said, still facing away from Liyana. “The goddess comes when a vessel dances and a magician chants. But the chant must be magic, and the vessel must be worthy.”

“Please, then let me come to Yubay,” Liyana begged. “Let me dreamwalk again. Let me prove my worth to you and to Bayla!”

“Child, listen to me,” Chieftess Ratha said. “If Bayla has rejected us, then you will be spared suffering with us. But if she has only rejected you, then your sacrifice here will spare the clan by removing your impurity. And if she has not rejected you or us, then she will come to you and all will be well!” She smiled as if that would sweeten her words.

“She’ll die of exposure,” Mother said. “Her death will be on your hands.”

“If that is Bayla’s will, then so be it,” Chief Roke said, his voice a rumble. “Your daughter is lost to you regardless. If we leave her here, you may have a chance to give your son a future.”

His words felt like a stab. Jidali! Liyana looked across the camp toward her family’s tent where her little brother was. Only yesterday she had been prepared to sacrifice herself for his future. Could she do any less today?

“Please, do not do this,” Father begged.

“It has been decided,” Chief Roke said.

Already, throughout the camp, families packed up their tents and belongings. She heard the sound of hammers and the clang of pots. No one spoke, but the goats bleated as the herds were gathered for departure. They are right to leave me, her practical side whispered to her. This could save the clan. She still had a chance to save Jidali and her parents and everyone. She felt the fight leach out of her, and she bowed her head.

“Then we will remain with her!” Father said.

The chief and chieftess spoke in unison. “You may not.” There was pity in the chieftess’s voice as she added, “We understand your wish to protect your daughter. But the clan must act as one, or it is as if we did not act at all.”

The master weaver pushed to the front. “She failed! You must see that. It’s time to look to the good of all our children, not merely this one!”

Father’s face flushed purple. His hands curled into fists. Beside him, Mother stood as straight as a palm tree. Her chin was lifted, and she looked as if she were a chieftess. Their posture said: We will not be denied.

“Without Bayla, how much longer will we survive the Great Drought? A handful of seasons? Less? You cannot risk us all for one!” the master weaver said. Her voice was shrill. “If we must, we will drag you with us.”

“Try,” Father growled.

Liyana held up her hands. “No.”

All eyes turned toward her.

“I accept my fate,” Liyana said.

Mother opened her mouth to argue.

“Please,” Liyana said. “I failed you once already. I won’t fail the clan again.”

In the end, it took Talu leading her parents by the hands as if they were children before they would leave the circle. Talu did not permit them near Liyana. They had said their good-byes, she told them. More would be too difficult for all of them.

Liyana was grateful for that kindness. She didn’t think she could face another day of farewells, especially feeling the full weight of her failure and the uncertainty of the clan’s future. She retreated beneath the blanket shelter that Father had set up earlier. She drank a sip of water. Curling around the waterskin, she lay in the sand in the shade.

Around her, tents were lowered and rolled. Supplies were compacted and stowed away. The oasis was stripped of dates and palm leaves and any other material that would be useful on the journey. As the sun marched its way toward dusk, the clan loaded everything onto carts and wagons and horses. No one spoke to Liyana. No one even looked at her. She closed her eyes so she could not see her clan treating her as if she were already dead. She may have even slept.

She woke to a tickle by her ear. “Shh,” Jidali whispered. He pressed something cool and smooth into her hand.

Blinking her eyes open, she looked at her palm. She saw a clear crystal-like knife with a carved bone handle. “I can’t take this!”

He shook her. “I said, ‘shh’!”

“But it’s your inheritance.” This knife was made from the scale of a sky serpent. It had been passed through the family for generations. Though it looked like glass, it could cut through anything, even rock, even bone. “No, Jidali.”

“Yes,” he hissed. “I won’t leave unless you take it.”

She glared at him for threatening her, and he scowled back. She warred with the thought of calling out. Any adult who was nearby would intervene and give the knife to Father. Jidali would be hauled back to the tent and forced to leave.

She couldn’t do that to him.

Someday he’ll reclaim it, she told herself. She’d leave it where he could find it, perhaps by the well or near the first date palm tree that Jidali had ever climbed—she’d shown him how, and he’d followed her up without hesitation, scampering as if he’d been born in a tree. She swallowed hard, choking back the memory. “Thank you,” she said.

He wrapped his pudgy arms around her neck and whispered into her hair, “I am glad you are still you.”

“Jidali!” Aunt Sabisa’s voice cut across the camp.

“Go,” Liyana said. Other words stuck in her throat. She’d said them all yesterday.

Fiercely Jidali said, “Stay alive.”

He ran across the camp without looking back.

In another hour, the oasis was bare. The Goat Clan was ready. Judging by the low sun, they would have about two hours of dusk travel before they’d be forced to stop. If this were a usual move, they would have left at dawn. And if this were a usual move, Liyana would have been scurrying around her family’s packs, ensuring that every knot was tight and that nothing was forgotten. She hoped her family had remembered everything they needed. And then she tried not to think at all. Curled underneath the shade of the blanket, she listened to her family and her people leave the oasis as the sun sank toward the western horizon.