The Day I Turned Fourteen

I choked on the last dregs in the cup. The particles stuck between my teeth, and a bout of nausea surged through me, though my cracked lips were grateful for the moisture. It was bitter in my throat. I had begun the cup with such fervor, such ravenous righteous reverence, that in my excitement, dribbles from either side of my mouth had rolled down my neck, soaking my perfectly white linen tunic.

Every day of my 14 years, each lesson taught in the dusty, harsh air under the stark suns, each prayer and sermon and rite held in the cool temples of my childhood, had led to this moment. What a glorious, incredible day. My shining moment was still a short time from now, but I would be well-prepared by then. The ritual would prepare us all. I would be received in divine light and experience the glory of the gods. I knew this to be true.

He tenderly wiped away the precious liquid from my mouth and throat, kissed my forehead with care, then moved on to the next girl. I had only just met her, a girl from the far North, but she had been born on that fateful day. The same day each of us had been born. The day of the prophecy. The day our purpose was named.

Nine of us stood before the altar; a sallow, downtrodden crowd amassed before us. I felt only joy at the prospect of this day, but not every girl felt the same. Misguided, I thought. Poor dears. They don’t understand what lies ahead of them, nor what it will mean for our people. Had they not been told the truth of it? Why do they hesitate?

I watched, confused, as the next girl in line, Saraana, or something like that, struggled to get away from her cup. Those poor monks. It must be awful, having to force her like that. It turned my stomach. Or, perhaps, it was the sacred syrup, seeping into me. Preparing me. Making me ready, as I’d been told. If only they’d cease their silly struggles. Blessings, thanks to us, will rain down soon. Crops will grow once more. 

Let us do this. Inky brown liquid splattered the front of my dress by the time he moved to the next. Sarenna, or whatever her name was, left sobbing on the dais beside me. Stand up, I thought. Stand proudly to face whatever comes. To finally see our gods, face to face. Fool…

I watched on as each girl took her entire cup with varying degrees of difficulty, but each of them did. Not a single girl refused, in the end. It had irritated me at first, watching them struggle. Then I heard the next to last in line speak up, not in cries or pleas as four of them had done, but a calm voice that rang out, loud enough for me and the crowd gathered to hear, “This is a farce. No sacrifice will fix your folly, and though I know I must do this, that none of you will hear my plea and I must do this regardless, I will say what I must first. This is wrong.” The words, heavy in the air, rang inside me like a gong. A tiny voice in the back of my mind, one I’d heard here and there, one I’d blotted out. I had been carefully curated and designed by the priesthood, from birth, for this moment.

The brave young girl continued, undaunted by the gasps and rumbles of anger in the crowd. “No god, not a single one, I venture to you, would wish you to paint the dais with the blood of these girls. You must learn the ways of nature, to work with it instead of conquering blindly without any understanding of what you have destroyed in the process of your eternal, voracious claiming.”

She was right. I had been claimed, just as these lands, once wild and untamed, glorious and verdant, as the old-timers always told stories passed down from their grandparents. Perhaps she was right, and there was a larger issue here. What if we don’t fix everything? Could this all be in vain?

“Your crops will not grow when watered by blood, not mine, nor any of these girls’. You must learn from your mistakes. Someday, you will know that this was one of them.” She drank deep and emptied her cup, then.

Those words settled inside me, then exploded. The world around me, vivid and alluring, was suddenly filled with possibility. I could see, then, every stitch on my linen tunic. I could feel the light breezes in the air, and they brought me a sense of peace. This life is too precious to give away. Not like this. I couldn’t believe the thought at first, had been made to believe I couldn’t think the thought, but it was true. It rang true in my heart, then. This is not my time, I thought.

A panic shot through the girls up on the dais, and a roar from the crowd, all shouting differing opinions and various ideas of what to do with us, caused a commotion that sent the monks in a tizzy, trying to keep the girls in line. They all knew me, knew I’d longed for this moment from infancy.

They did not look my way as I slowly, quietly, made my way to the edge of the dais. I must’ve misjudged the distance, however, because my attempt to step down ended in me looking up from the muddied ground. The world spun around me, stars and patterns materializing before me and clouding my way forward. I tried to get up, to stand, but I slipped in the mud.

Finally, I made my way up onto my feet, and I ran.

I do not know how long I ran, nor what direction. I never looked back. I do not know if the last girl drank her cup, nor if the ritual had been finished without me. I do not know what became of that place, but I eventually found a small village to settle down in, one where they would never know my true birthday. I would never let another decide my fate again.