[Flashback] Drop of Water in Every Grain of Sand (Columbina)

[Sharakai]

20th of Winter, 508 A.V.

Her hands are submerged in water, her hair wet with raindrops, and her knees buried in tall, green grass. The stream caresses her hands, tugging and pulling at her – telling her to follow, to jump in and swim along with the water. There are trees everywhere – lush and brimming with moisture. Somewhere far away there is the sound of rushing water. She knows she is happy here. Here the water is pure and full of the healing power she so covets. Just as she makes a move to rise, the water begins to disappear from under her fingers. It evaporates into the air in tufts of white smoke. Her feet stand buried in white, blazing sand. Harsh winds whip her hair against her face. She strains to hear the sound of the water, but the air is empty.

Sharakai knew she was awake long before her eyes snapped open. She lay on her cot, examining the darkness behind her eyelids with great care. Opening her eyes would mean getting ready for her searching. It would mean finally answering the question she had been posing to herself since she was told of the rite as a child: What do I seek? She still did not have an answer and it scared her – scared her more than she would ever admit. Opening her eyes would mean facing the possibility of leaving her family; of heading out into a ruthless desert in search of herself. Knowing that what she searched for could be hidden inside a grain of sand unsettled her. She loved the desert – loved it and respected it. And yet, she wished for more – for a greener land wet with rainwater. It was a frequent dream of hers – a dream she had held close to her heart and away from even her sister, whom she shared everything with. Surely dreaming of the green land today of all days meant something.

Sharakai finally opened her eyes, arching her back and craning her neck as she rose from the cot. This was it; no reason to postpone her fate any longer. She dressed quickly and made to leave the tent that had been her refuge for fifteen years. Just as her hand reached to push away the tent flap, she pulled back, a ghost of a smile flashing across her lips. She had almost forgotten. She walked to a far corner of the tent and bent down to the ground next to an impromptu bundle made of a well-worn blanket. Untying the bundle revealed a few rocks, some wooden bangles, and a few healing herbs - all remnants of her childhood. She dug under the healing leaves and came away with a simple cloth band in her hand. Sharakai tied the band around her wrist, knowing that she could never embark on something as important as the searching without taking a piece of her mother with her. Her mother had tied that strip of cloth around Sharakai’s wrist just a year ago, telling her that it must serve as a reminder of who she was and who she wanted to be. Sharakai realized now that it had served as a final parting gift between mother and daughter.

Sharakai brought the wrist with the bracelet to her lips and left the tent without a glance back. The desert air was silent today, with no whispering breezes or neighborly voices to offer her comfort. She made purposefully for the spot where she knew her searching would take place, trying not to dwell on the tense silence that seemed to surround her.

As she walked into the half circle of the Kalanue elders, she consciously straightened her back and held her chin just a little higher. She was ready.

[Colombina]

The faces of the elders were painted black, and their eyes shut. They were more totems than men, an interchangeable and indistinct symbol of forefathers. Sharakai felt herself pressed into the warm and smokey tent of the Wayhali. Blue gray tendrils wove an overwhelming scent into every breath. She could feel the sweet herbal smell folding itself into her hair and clothes. The Wayhali, Ahanu, reached his hand out in greeting and spoke. His voice was like sun on the stones, warm and broad. "We are all here to mark your day of searching. It is a celebration, though a solemn one, Sharakai." Abayla Luhiwa beside him said nothing, saving her voice for longer tales. She only nodded her white head in agreement and folded her old hands. Dancing between the fire and Sharakai, was the Wayhali's graceful daughter, Shikoba. She moved around the flames, her feet skipping with a wild lightness. Periwinkle flowers fell from her hands into the fire, turning it blue in spurts. She smiled at Sharakai and threw the remaining flowers over her feet like one would a bride. Shikoba's hands were painted with long black stars, sacred symbols Sharakai had only seen echoes of in other art. The Wayhali daughter said nothing as her father placed a long black feather in her illustrated hands. The girl crossed her heart with the feather's tip before gently plaiting it into the hair at Sharakai's temple. As Shikoba did, her father spoke a blessing. "We are with you in the raven, in our gods, in our wisdom. When you leave us, you take us. When you walk alone we follow. So take no path that would turn you from honor. For when you turn aside, we all do." Her sacred work done, Shikoba slipped into the gray and purple shadows of the tent. A figure Sharakai knew stepped into the space, asking a final question. The one that had floated through her mind as she lay in bed. "What do you seek, Sharakai? What do you bring to your searching?"

[Sharakai]

Sharakai inhaled the sweet scent and felt the tension in her muscles melt away. The scent of herbs was a familiar one to her – it reminded her of her family’s tent, of her mother’s hands, and of her passing childhood. She watched the Wayhali’s daughter dance through a pleasant haze. The proceedings appeared familiar, even though she had never witnessed them before. She felt the black feather brush against her temple as it was placed in her hair. Again, the sensation felt familiar – not novelle or frightening in the least.

An old man stepped forward to ask Saharkai the question she so dreaded and the pleasant mist seemed to evaporate, leaving behind a sense of sharpness. She immediately recognized the man as Hennir –her mother’s mentor, best friend, and confidant. He was the one who taught her how to handle herbs – an art that Khetapa later passed onto her daughter. When her mother was wasting away, the man had been there by her bedside, doing his best to heal her and failing that to send her painlessly on her way. Sharkaia had never understood the relationship between the man and her mother. At times he had acted as a replacement of her mother’s father, who had died early on. Other times he was nothing but a teacher. And every once in a while Sharkaia glimpsed an intimacy between the two that she could never fully understand. Looking into the man’s eyes now, she was glad that it was he asking her this final question.

As her lips parted to answer, she expected no sound to come out. What could she say? She didn’t know. She didn’t - .“I seek to heal – to bring relief to those in pain – like the water does… But in a greener land where I can follow the goddess Makutsi and learn from the streams.” She had not expected that, but when the words left her mouth she knew that it was the absolute truth. She needed to learn everything she could from the land she had seen in her dreams and that land was definitely not the desert.

Immediately, she felt a stab of fear in her throat. She had essentially just said that she wasn’t satisfied with what her home had to offer. But even as she dreaded a negative response from the people around her, she felt a weight fall off her shoulders. At least she knew what she wanted. She no longer needed to play guessing games with herself. She knew and that was all that mattered.

[Colombina]

Those in the tent heard Sharakai's desires with both sadness and pride. She wanted to heal and find their goddess, but in a place not her own. Shikoba stirred in her corner. She who could never leave her people, but saw so many youths depart. "May you find the water that quenches your thirst," she whispered without ritual or pretense. The tent's inhabitants slowly departed in a reverent line until only Shikoba remained. From her pockets she withdrew red flowers, throwing them into the blue fire. Her voice passed through the smoke, warm as whispers and fluid and water. Even as she left the tent it followed behind her. "Feathered brother, Shining sister, Spirit of guidance, Show the way Through me, Within me, Below me. The old ways, the forgot ways, the wild ways." The words drifted into Sharakai's intimate thoughts as she began to descend into a foggy inbetween. Without feeling her body fall, she slipped into a warm slumber. ~*~ A dryness was in her mouth when she awoke in sand colored blue-gray by the evening light. There were no tents or familiar marks on the horizon. Blurred impressions of horse hooves swirled around her and a small pack was propped beside her. The blue sands were quiet and flat in all directions, save where an acacia tree's black silhouette made stark lacy patterns against the sky.

[Sharakai]

Sharakai felt a soft blanket of fog envelop her in a warm embrace. She felt like she was a little girl again, being lolled to sleep by her mother’s stories. “Sweet dreams, Shara, darling. Remember to wake up.” Her mother’s sweet voice was the last thing she heard before her consciousness faded.

Water. She wanted water. No, she needed water. Sharakai licked her lips, trying to coax some moisture from her parched mouth. She sat up hesitantly, surveying her surroundings with eyes still half-dazed from sleep. The only conclusion she could come to was that she was in the desert. Where exactly in the desert remained to be seen. Sharakai tried to figure out how many bells she had passed in the land of dreamless sleep. The light had dimmed, acquiring a soft quality that was not there in the day. Could she have been lying here since early morning? How long did it take her people to bring her here? Had they brought her here?

Sharakai scrambled up from the ground, casually dusting herself off. Noticing the faded hoof prints in the sand, she decided that her people had indeed been the ones who had carried her to this place. She automatically reached for the pack lying nearby, but stopped herself before her hand made contact with the bag. She would pray first. She did not know what spirit guardian she would be honored with and she had no idea who the appropriate deity to pray to was in the situation. But she would try. Her mother had taught her to always try.

“Eywatt, I pray that you grant me a portion of your strength- both in mind and body. For, as you had seen our people through the famine, I can only hope that you will see me through this trying time. I thank you, Makutsi for providing promise of water in a parched land,” she said formally. Taking a deep breath, she added in a tone that was barely above a whisper, “And thank you for letting me see the water – at least in my dreams.”

She did not know if she was doing the right thing…if she was saying the right prayers… She felt terribly out of her depth, but was determined to carry on.

She cleared her throat, feeling a little foolish. Her gaze swept across the sand around her. Sand. The same sand that she had lived with her whole life. Only now, it seemed different. Her gaze settled on the acacia tree’s outline against the darkening sky. A destination. Once she had a destination, she could figure things out from there. Not even bothering to look into the pack by her side, she simply swung it over her shoulder and hurried toward the looming tree. She would look at it once she was safely under the tree’s canopy. Trees meant water. Trees meant life. After for walking for what seemed like days, but what no more than a few chimes, Sharakai finally neared the coveted tree.

[Colombina]

Sharakai’s prayers dissipated into the air. The desert’s dryness seemed to leech their timidity. Nothing paltry could withstand the burning lands for long, be it misgivings or tired men.

The low spreading acacia made a filigree of shade on the sand and breathed sweetness into the quiet air. Its branches were still dropping flowers, bright and soft as a canary’s breast. Thorns leaking sap discouraged any further inspection of the yellow puffs sprouting from the branches.

Stones high as her knees were scattered around the edges of the tree’s shade in clusters of three and five. A lizard was sunning himself on one.

“A man once came from Syliras to meet Chaktawe…”
The male voice was cultured but warned of a cunning disposition.
“He asked how a desert people could worship water so ardently, why so many of their songs and stories were about this absent element? An Abayla quickly answered his question with another. ‘Are not many of your songs are about love and bravery? We all worship that which is scarce and beautiful’.”

There was a brief pause as the lizard adjusted his position on the stone. The voice continued.
“But can one live solely for these things? Love, bravery, water.”

The voice choked to a halt as the lizard was pinned under the paw of a pale gold fennec fox. It’s bat ears twitched as it sniffed its new prey.