Enlightened

by H.T. Ashmead

“How long do you think the Seer will address me, Mada?” Ilumi asked.

Her mother gathered her thoughts as she secured a braid to the top of Ilumi’s scalp. Mada had spent most of the afternoon twisting Ilumi’s long, dark hair into tiny plaits. Now she pinned them into an intricate crown.

Finally, Mada spoke. “I don’t know, dearest.” She placed her hand on Ilumi’s shoulders and gazed at her reflection. “Sometimes the Seer has talked for half an hour to fledglings, sometimes only a few minutes. It depends on what she sees and how much guidance she feels you need to follow your best path.”

Ilumi nodded, but her belly churned like the rapids. Ilumi hoped the Seer would tell her much, explaining what she should do once she was fledged.

When she was six, the rains came late and the rivers dried up. She’d sat at the back of a village meeting with the other unfledged, while the fledged debated about moving into the mountains. The argument was loud and sometimes emphasized with shoves, so Ilumi had cowered. But late in the night, they voted to stay for one more week. Five days later, the rains had come.

Ilumi’s stomach rolled at the thought of participating in such judgments. How would she recognize the right decision when she would need to?

“What are you thinking?” Mada scooped some cream from a jar and rubbed it on Ilumi’s bare arms until her bronze skin shone.

“I don’t feel ready for this.”

Her mother brushed Ilumi’s cheek. “No one ever does.”

Ilumi wiped her sweaty hands on her black pants and then nodded once.

Her pada stood in the hall, his umber skin blending with the wall. He grinned, his teeth beaming in the dim light. As she stepped closer, he slid a bracelet over each of her hands.

They were simple, woven circlets with tiny bells embedded every few weaves. Her breath caught in her throat at the rough, uneven braiding of the plant fibers — her father had made these.

She threw her arms around him and pulled him tight. He returned the embrace for a few moments and then released it, taking one of her quivering hands in his rough one to lead her out the door.

As soon as she stepped outside, she heard the rhythmic pounding of drums in the village square. The perfume of the nighttime flowers curled around her while stars winked in the heavens above. A soft breeze swirled through the sky, turning the humid air into a pleasant caress.

“It is time.” The chieftain’s deep voice rumbled through the moonlight. He stood tall, his hair woven through with blue and green feathers from the unguchi, the mysterious bird occasionally glimpsed flitting in the canopy. He clutched a staff, the gourd on top rattling with each movement. Behind him, the musikar waited to begin his song and dance.

Ilumi’s family took their places behind the chieftain, following as he wound through the village. As they passed each home, neighbors nodded then joined the line. With each pledge of support, her heart soared.

Ilumi had often accompanied such a procession, but it felt different being at the front. When she looked at her parents, Mada dipped her head, and Pada smiled. Tears pricked her eyes. The musikar’s melody twisted around and through her until she felt one with the music, one with the people, one with the night.

When they arrived at the square, the line divided. All the unfledged, including Ilumi, formed a circle. Thumping and twisting, they spun around a blaze. The heat scorched Ilumi’s face, and sweat poured down her back. Her heart echoed the drums.

After a few minutes, the younger dancers twisted out of the circle, leaving only six fledglings, Ilumi and the other villagers who turned 14 that year, to continue the dance, bouncing in time with the drums. In turn, fledged adults replaced the other five youth.

Finally, Ilumi spun out with Mada stepping in. Turning her back to the brilliance of the bonfire, Ilumi blinked several times.

The music quieted as the chieftain raised his hands. “We call upon the wisdom of the wendala, the grace of the gehuru, and the strength of the saphiri to aid the Seer’s vision.”

The crowd hummed.

“We ask the spirits to wrap around Ilumi like the wind and guide the Seer to her future.”

Another drone.

The chieftain lowered his arms, and Ilumi knelt before the Seer. A bowl filled with white paint waited on the ground. The Seer’s eyes gleamed in the darkness. Full, white hair framed her face, but her detailed features were lost in the shadows.

Ilumi closed her eyes and waited, her toe twitching in the dirt.

Soft, warm fingers prodded her face. The Seer pinched Ilumi’s cheeks, tilted her chin, and smoothed her brow.

Then a feather brushed across her nose. She fought the urge to sneeze. The plume traced her face, leaving behind a wetness that felt cold in the breeze. After the chill left the strokes, a stiff crustiness, like dried mud, replaced it. She recalled that the pattern the Seer painted on each unfledged came from the woman’s inner sight.

Behind Ilumi, the adults continued to hum, although she knew from previous ceremonies that their dance was gentler and smoother than her dance earlier in the night.

The strokes stopped, and Ilumi held her breath. This was the moment. The Seer would study the symbols she’d created, and advise Ilumi on her future.

Ilumi squeezed her eyes as the Seer chanted.

Then Ilumi heard a strangled cry, a thump that she felt in her knees, and shouts from behind. As people pushed past her, she opened her eyes.

The Seer had collapsed.

Villagers fanned the woman with their hands. One came with a cup of water, and the chieftain shook his staff over her, the rattling reverberating in Ilumi’s bones.

But it was minutes before the Seer sat up, supported by several people. With shaky hands, she took the water and sipped it.

Ilumi’s world spun around her.

Eventually, the Seer licked her lips and focused on Ilumi. In a whisper, she said, “You will direct the future of our people . . .” she swallowed hard, “ because you are branded with the Sight.”

Then her eyes rolled back and she sank onto the waiting earth, making way for a new Seer.