The Last Swailing

Swailing is the process of using controlled burns to reduce the hazards of wild fires and encourage new growth.

Each year, the pratum set the lands alight. This was so that the young could walk across the embers and take the ashes into their wounds. You must consume a little of what you come from, the elders preached. You must bear the pain of what you have destroyed. So they sent their children to walk the swailing each year. That was the penance of the pratum people. 

Cally drew the blade across the sole of her foot. It was a point of pride among the pratum to draw the blade themselves. She grimaced, but held her hand steady. A straight hard line would be best. Around her, a few children bit their fists, squirming in agony, as a parent or sibling held their feet. These ones, the elders would remember—and make a mark against them.  

“This is for the beginning which was burnt away,” she whispered as the knife went. “This is for the pratum who leave nothing behind, not even their dreams.”

Cally split her sole as she had been taught. Years ago, she’d watched her brother do the same. Now he stood at the sidelines, watching her. The soles of her feet were tough, already scarred from swailings past, and the blade not quite sharp enough. For days, she’d wielded it against the whetstone, taking pleasure in the ring and grind, the occasional spark. But it was an old blade—her father’s and his father’s before. Cally breathed through the bright flash of pain that radiated up her leg and looked out over the lands for distraction.  

“This is for the plains which sustain us,” she recited the prayer every child knew. “From here we came and to the plains we return. Ashes and blood, fire and life.”

The fields were yellow, a golden sea rolling in the wind. Cally loved the way they met the sky in a clash at the horizon. So far off, so unreachable. During the harvest, she would run against the wind, arms spread wide to either side and imagine herself as one of the sharp little birds that darted among the grasses. They went wherever they liked and when they flew, the fields fell away beneath their wings. Although it was not allowed, Cally sometimes dreamt of what lay beyond the plains.

Now she could see dark clouds gathering there, a storm on the horizon. Fast and ominous. Cally was not the only one to notice. What kind of omen is this? the elders consulted each other as they collected the torches for the ritual. The swailing was a time of fire, not flood. Concern caught on, washed over the rest of the pratum.

Cally searched the uneasy crowd for her brother. Always the slowest, most deliberate during his time of swailings, admired by the elders for his fortitude. Never cried, never ran for it, like some of the others. She spotted him again at the sidelines, but now he looked out past the plains like everyone else. 

She shifted her gaze back to the blade in her hand. Soon, the yellow sea would burn to blackened earth and the children, Cally included, would bite their lips as they walked through the debris. An offering to the lands—one of honor and courage, grit and humility. They could not survive on the plains, year after year, without those virtues. The children who fell or turned back or refused were banished from the pratum.

And if it rained? If the swailing didn’t catch? 

Cally gripped her knife and pressed harder. She would not shame her family. They hadn’t lost a member in twenty seasons. Her father had handed her his blade with such solemnity. Her mother had whispered in her ear, remember, the pain is part of what makes us pratum, Cally. Embrace the embers. What her father also held in his gaze, what her mother didn’t say, was quit your dreaming, girl. You’ll destroy us all with that.  

Afterward, they would celebrate the swailing with a feast. Each year, this was how the season ended: with fire and blood, dirt and dancing. If a family lost a child, they were permitted to spend a final evening together. On the following morning, the pratum as a whole would cast away the children who had failed and leave for a new land to bear the next round of planting, harvesting and burning. 

If no children were lost, they stayed another season. For every child cast out, they wandered a season. The swailing had been good these past three burns. Although Cally didn’t mind the wandering seasons, she never liked to see anyone cast out—surviving without the pratum was impossible, the elders said, and beyond the plains there was only more destruction. Better to die quick among the embers, than to be sentenced to a slow, lonely death beyond the plains. So they said.

“Are you ready?” asked a voice. 

Cally looked up, startled. 

An unfamiliar boy stood before her. He fidgeted with the blade in his hands. It was unimpressive, duller than Cally’s even. The boy looked back at her, waiting for an answer. 

“I guess so,” she said. Both her feet were open now. She worried she might have to cut them again, if the fires didn’t start soon. 

The boy narrowed his eyes. Cally straightened up and stuck her blade in the ground at her feet. “I’m ready,” she insisted and thumped her fist against her chest, like the pratum warriors did before a hunt. “Are you?”

The boy stared at his feet. His knife shone clean. “Didn’t you tell Sylvan your dream?” he asked. 

So this boy knew her—or her brother had been talking again. The sky rumbled in the distance, a dark clap that shook the birds from the grasses. They leapt into the sky like a great, singular shadow. Cally and the boy both turned toward the sound in time to see a white streak of lightning cut the clouds. 

“I never dream,” Cally lied as she watched the birds circle and swoop overhead. When the boy didn’t move, she asked him, “What if the fires don’t burn?”

“If it rains?” he said. “Maybe we’ll all be cast out.”

“The pratum would have to wander for a hundred years.”

“More than that,” he said, taking in the other children. After a moment, he added, “Do you wonder what happens after, outside the plains?”

Cally pulled her blade back out of the dirt and wiped it on her shirt. “That’s what I dreamt about.”

The boy’s gaze followed the blade in her hands.

Another clap of thunder sent the birds scattering. They became a small dark body twisting into the distance. The grasses waved with the wind. 

“Your family’s not here,” Cally said, nodding toward the boy’s knife. 

He shook his head, his eyes darting to the horizon. 

After a long moment, Cally held out her hand for his knife.

“It isn’t allowed,” the boy whispered. 

She knew this, of course. Although the pratum cleaved together when they toiled and hunted and celebrated, the swailing broke them down by blood. You didn’t draw the blade for someone else unless you were family. The elders would remember this transgression—and mark it against both parties. But Cally didn’t want to see the boy banished, and she could bear the elders marking her.

“I’ll just show you how. It’s not so bad, once you get it over with,” she said, then added as an afterthought, “The walking will be worse.”

The boy made a face at her. She almost laughed. 

“What’s your name, anyway?”

“Levi,” he answered.

***

The torches came forward, their flames already dancing. A drum beat began. Cally whirled around to find Sylvan one last time. It was their tradition to send each other off before the swailing began. She caught his eye and he shouted to her, “Walk strong!” 

She nodded and thumped her fist to her chest. His glance slid from her to the oncoming storm, expression as dark as the clouds in the distance.

At last, the elders lowered the torches, one by one, to the fields. Cally waited with the other children. Levi had made his wounds—not well, but they would suffice for the elders. Her feet throbbed, blood and mud already caked to her soles. Soft sobs drifted in the air, fear crackling amongst them like the lightning in the clouds. 

The fire caught quick. Cally felt the breath go from her as the flames forced her to step back. At her side, Levi trembled. Instinctively, she grabbed his hand.

Just beyond the plains, the clouds fell to the earth in grey ribbons. Daylight faded. The horizon glowed. Breathing through clenched teeth, Cally pressed her wounds open again, then sheathed her blade. With the grasses gone, the field glowed red and unrelenting. 

“We walk the embers to remember what we have lost,” the elders chanted, their voices ragged from the smoke. “We bear this pain to repent for what we have destroyed.”

Cally set her jaw and moved forward. Her feet screamed with those first few steps. The smell of singed flesh filled her nose. It was always worse than she remembered—almost intolerable, scrambling all the thoughts in her mind. She tried to send her focus away, to fly with the birds, to dream as she went, even if it was forbidden. They moved quickly. 

Next to her, Levi nearly stumbled. Cally tugged him onward. His face was streaked—with sweat or tears, she couldn’t tell. 

“Walk strong,” she told him. 

Just ahead, they could hear the rain now. Cally squinted, confused. Something was wrong. Instead of the embers going out under the storm, the ground was sparking, catching fire again.

“Do you see that?” she panted, sweat stinging her eyes.

“Is the rain wrong?” Levi managed between gasps. “Or the ground?”

“Either way, I think it’s bad.”

“This is what I dreamt,” Levi said, almost stopping. “Only it was a nightmare.”

“You dream it too?” Cally asked, eyes growing wide. She had dreamed of rain like this before. She’d seen it turn to fire, every drop bursting into flame. In her dream, she ran until her eyes went dark and the world spun and she woke up in her bed, choking on an echo of smoke. 

When she’d told Sylvan, he’d scolded her all morning. Half angry for the dream itself and half for her telling it to him. 

Levi looked grim, round face red and shining. “If we move fast enough, we’ll make it to the others.”

“Turn back?” Cally asked, frowning. 

“No, the others,” he said again. “The ones who were cast out before.”

“Beyond the plains, you mean,” she said. 

“I know they’re out there.” His hand rested on the small, dull blade at his side. 

Cally caught on. “Your family.”

The boy gave a small, sharp nod. 

Around them, other children began to turn back. One girl tripped and stumbled, her hands and face meeting with a spray of embers. Her screams caught in Cally’s ribcage. 

“Don’t turn back,” he said. “Like you said, walk strong.”

One by one, the others fell away until it was only Cally and Levi running. The boy gasped as they went, chest heaving, yet he showed no sign of slowing. Cally could feel her heart in her throat, every step echoed a pulse.

The first drops felt like little stings, like the gnats Cally swatted away in high summer. Then it got worse. Every splash burned. Red welts popped up wherever her skin was exposed. She wiped her face, horrified. 

“Close your eyes,” Levi said and took her hand. “And don’t stop until the rain does.”

***

Beyond the plains, did she belong to the pratum anymore? 

The moment the rain passed, Cally had fallen to the ground. Every inch of her blistering and peeling, each ragged breath felt as though it might be her last. Levi crumbled at her side. Their hands nearly melted into one. She couldn’t bear to open her eyes, but even so, the ground felt different beneath her. 

After a while, kind hands appeared and wrapped her skin in cool cloths. They separated her hand from Levi’s. She went to bite her lip through the pain, but that too was agony.  

“The boy,” she cried out, but a soothing voice shushed her. 

Gently, the hands carried her—how far or over what land, she had no idea—and deposited her onto a soft bed. 

For days, she fell in and out of sleep. Her thoughts swarmed like gnats. Each one stung. She could never return to the pratum. No goodbyes, no final night to mourn with her family, like the others before her. But then, she could not be certain there was much to return to, after the rain. Perhaps this was the ultimate swailing—a penance to end all penances. 

“You never meant to walk the swailing, did you?” she asked the boy after a while. “You always planned on getting cast out.” 

He sat cross-legged at the edge of her bed, his feet smothered in a brown ointment, much of his body wrapped like hers. She’d refused to speak to him until now. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “You should have had more of a choice.”

“Do you think we made this happen with our dreams?” she wondered aloud. 

He shrugged. “I don’t know how dreams work.”

“What do you know, then?” Cally said, feeling hot again. 

“We got our beginnings burnt away again,” he said, meeting her look, “And now I guess we get to choose what we carry with us.”

Cally was quiet for a moment. The echo of the prayer falling through her like one of those drops of rain. “Ashes and blood,” she said. 

He nodded. “Fire and life.”

Outside, she could hear birds calling as a new dawn set the lands alight.