This work is dedicated to the woman, whose name I never learned, who I encountered briefly many years ago as a fellow performer in a goth/fetish burlesque show where her act consisted of doing a self-piercing ritual as a memorial for her mother who had recently died under very similar circumstances to mine. And while she was screaming her raw unfiltered grief, someone in the audience laughed. This story grew out of my attempts to make sense of the resulting flood of indescribable emotions that experience provoked.
The drums beat, slow and
heavy, the throb of distant thunder in tense humid air. The bitter
smell of incense and the heady odor of ritual oils, saturated with
lush, tropical flowers wafted on the breeze. At the top of a narrow
platform, a woman stood, naked, her hands crossed over her heart.
Her eyes were closed and her warm sienna-umber hair gathered forward
over her shoulder, leaving the honey gold skin of her back and
shoulder blades bare. The platform was in the center of a stone
courtyard, under a tall wooden frame rather like a gallows. People
crowded the square, standing shoulder to shoulder, pressed close
around the platform in a tight circle, each one craning his neck to
get the best view possible.
A second woman mounted the steps,
resplendent in midnight blue lapis, iridescent feathers as long as
her arm, and huge gold hoops in her ears. "I know you all fear
the sickness that has been sweeping through our city," she
proclaimed in a strong, clear voice. "But now Shebolba will
hold Her hand over you. The Goddess will wash you clean with sacred
blood." Reaching to the side, she retrieved a bundle of rope
tied to the frame and unwound it. Four heavy ropes hung down from
the cross bar, making the contraption look even more like a gallows.
But they ended, not in nooses, but in heavy metal hooks that were too
close together to hang four people, even if they had been nooses. In
fact, the hooks on either end were only one narrow shoulder's breadth
apart.
The drum's pace quickened and the
naked woman bent forward still more, arching and opening her back.
Gold and lapis flashing, the second woman moved so swiftly and
fluidly it was hard for even a trained eye to follow her. The
uninitiated in the crowd below saw only a glinting blur as she
grasped the first of the hooks and threaded it through the skin of
the other's back. Despite the racing drums, both women breathed slow
and steady and, as they did so, the other three hooks leaped,
lighting swift, to follow the first. The naked woman raised her head
and stood straight, blood running down her bare back. Slowly, she
lifted her arms and held them out, like an angel spreading its wings
to fly, as she stepped to the edge of the platform and then off into
the air. The drums stopped abruptly and all the vast square feel
silent, the air tight with held breath as she hung there, swaying
gently. The only sound in all that vast city was the cry of distant
birds and the faint creakings and scrapings as the be-feathered
priestess and another, similarly clad, slid the platform out of the
way.
Then, as the drums began again, they
each took one of the woman's legs and pushed gently, causing the
hanging figure to swing forward. Several more times they did this as
the movement gained momentum and the woman herself pumped her legs
back and forth to increase the arc of her swing as well, her long
hair flying about wildly in the wind of her speed. The crowd surged
forward, pressing as close as they could in desperate hunger to be
touched by the sacred blessing of the Goddess. And many were for, as
she swung by them, the priestesses handed the woman basins of holy
water and armfuls of pale flowers which she rained down over the
spectators. But what they coveted most were the drops of blood that
occasionally came falling down like globs of sticky red rain.
Above the heavy boom of the drum rose
a cold, brittle sound, like the crack of ice or the fall of a
freezing spring high in the mountains. The woman sang as she swooped
above them, her voice shrill and alien as the wild call of the birds
she almost resembled. "I am the angel of pain. I am the angle
of death. I take all into myself and leave you free. Shebolba's
messenger, I ride on wings of blood to bring your words to Her. This
beautiful pain makes me soar. I am the vessel. I am holy."
She spread her arms wide and felt the air rush over her, caressing
all her bared skin. Shivers ran over her at its eager touch and she
imagined it as the fingers of the Goddess, felt like a mighty eagle
riding on a sunbeam, ready to turn and plunge down, down to the
underworld.
This flight was supposed to be a
sacrifice. Sometimes it seemed wrong that it filled her with such
joy. The white hot claws in her back were such a small price for the
glorious freedom and transcendence up here alone with the wind. She,
naked and bleeding, was the high priestess of Shebolba, Goddess of
the underworld. The maiden, adorned with gold and feathers, who had
strung her up like this was only an under priestess, required to bow
before her. She was Xtaj. The Xtaj of the high Goddess. Xtaj, lust
woman, she who takes from man to feed the Goddess's longing. Every
year, a man was chosen as the sacred victim, given every luxury, and
trained in the secrets of sacred rituals and lore of the temple.
Then, on the night of the equinox, at the start of the rainy season,
he would lie down with the lust woman as Shebolba incarnate and, as
the sun rose, she would cut his throat before the door of Her
temple.
Four times now Xtaj had performed this
sacred duty and, for four years, all her people had prospered. There
had been no war or hunger in the land and Xtaj knew it was because
she had done so well at performing her duty and Shebolba was pleased.
Then the sickness had come and she had gone forth to offer this
additional safeguard with a good will. This sickness was a dire
pestilence where the skin would swell with great abscesses, bringing
fever and horrible agony, until at last they burst, running with pus
and blood. Some who reached this stage recovered afterwards but most
sank into ranting delirium and died. Then, there were the cursed few
whose swellings never burst and, instead, became filled with black
rot. The stench of all three substances was heavy on the air, as
well as the odor of charred flesh as people burned the bodies they
did not dare bury. But, in spite of this, Xtaj felt no fear as she
soared above the infected crowd, never doubting that Shebolba would
shield her, and through her, the people.
At last, she was lowered back down to
the platform where the under priestess was waiting to remove the
hooks and offer her a clean robe to wrap her nakedness and her bloody
back, as well as salt to place on her tongue to ground her back in
the mortal world. But, despite this precaution, the rich golden glow
lingered on. She felt dizzy and had to lean on the under priestess
to steady herself as she descended the stairs while the people she
had blessed cheered for her and she inclined her head to them in
acknowledgment. But she did not perform the rituals to please the
people. She did so because they filled her with the wonderful surge
of pain born glory and needed no reward more. But knowing that the
people loved her, that she made life better for them did matter
greatly to her.
Three days later, Xtaj was in the
grinding house, crushing corn kernels into yellow and white powder.
All the priestesses, even the lust woman herself, were expected to do
humble chores from time to time and grinding corn was one of the most
hated. It was brutally painful if done too long or too frequently.
Kneeling on the hard floor while jerking the heavy stone rolling pin
back and fort was hard on the back, hard on the knees, hard on the
shoulders, and hard on the hands and, for this reason, Xtaj was
rarely allowed to perform it. Her body must remain in peak condition
so that she could soar like a bird or lie down with a man whenever
Shebolba might decree. She could not risk having aching shoulders or
a pulled knee put her out of commission. Perhaps for this reason, on
the rare occasions when she did grind corn, she found the activity
peaceful and meditative, instead of the drudgery others saw it as.
She enjoyed the rhythmic motion of the grinding, which lulled her
into a kind of light trance and the soft, clean smell of the crushed
kernels was soothing to her. The light, airy feel of the powder
against her fingers and the crispness of the colors against the dull
stone of the grinding slab, she loved as well. Even in the dim light
of the grinding hut, the yellow, white, and, on occasion, red or
blue, looked fresh and vivid.
Corn was the very substance of life so
it was no wonder it was bright in the darkness or that its smell and
texture were pleasing. Corn came from the womb of the earth, brought
forth by Shebolba from Her own belly with labor and suffering and so,
in return, She took the living back into Her belly to feed on. Most
would not consider this a pleasant thought to contemplate as they
ground the corn. But it was unavoidable for it was written above the
door in the elaborate pictographs of Xtaj's people and all the
grinding stones were turned so the workers must kneel facing it.
Perhaps this was another reason few cared for the task. But Xtaj was
untroubled. As Shebolba's special handmaiden, she had great
confidence in the rightness of the order She had imposed on the
world. In this life, Xtaj was treated well and, after it, she had no
reason to doubt she would be well received by the One she had served
so faithfully.
Her thoughts were interrupted as the
cloth over the door was lifted, letting in a shaft of sunlight that
dazzled her eyes in the dimly lit room. A dark shape ducked under
the lintel, letting the cloth fall behind it and, as the dark
returned, resolved into the form of under priestess Shona. "He
has arrived finally," she reported, touching one knee to the
ground as she approached Xtaj.
"This year's sacred victim?"
"Yes,
we did not dare bring him to the city in the midst of the sickness
but, now that you have cleansed it, he should be safe."
"This
is at least a month later than normal. Has his instruction begun?"
"Only
in the most basic fundamentals of ritual, or so I was led to
understand. The rural priestesses felt that only you could do it
properly. Would you please come down to see him?"
"Right
now?" Xtaj rose reluctantly from the flat stone where she had
been kneeling, straightening her stiff legs with difficulty.
"Yes,
begging your pardon, now. You'll need to spend a lot of time with
him to make up for what we lost in the sickness."
Xtaj
nodded and followed Shona out of the grinding room. "They're
down at the main gate, no?" she asked as they moved out onto the
main city street. "Then return to the temple and prepare for
the rite of Shebolba's blessing. Unless I sense a strong reason to
the contrary, I will perform the official consecration as soon as we
have spoken." Shona nodded and was gone, fading back into the
crowd which respectfully made way for her, while Xtaj turned in the
opposite direction, towards the city's outer walls. Upon reaching
the gates she found the small group of rural priestesses, easy to
spot amid the crowd of merchants, beggars, and other typical city
dwellers. Not being able to afford the shimmering rainbow plums of
exotic birds, their feathers were mostly white, with a blue one here
and there, looking thin and moth eaten. There was little gold,
turquoise, or lapis among them and they had to make do with cheap
imitations of copper and colored glass. Many of these women did not
worship Shebolba, being consecrated to other lesser deities, but they
all acknowledged the preeminence of Her powers of life and death and
delivered the chosen sacrifice with no grudging. In their midst of
the group a single figure walked steady and straight, noticeably
taller than any of the women despite their plumed headdresses and
Xtaj knew this must be the one she had come to find, the sacred
victim. When they saw her approach, the priestesses all sank down
upon their knees. The chosen one did not kneel, although he was
supposed to, but he bowed his head to her with such grace and
graciousness that it was hard to imagine any affront was intended.
"You
may rise," said Xtaj with the proper disdain expected of her
rank.
"My
humble greetings to you, great Xtaj of Shebolba," stammered the
head priestess as she heaved herself to her feet. "We are most
honored that you have received us on such short notice..." But
Xtaj was barely even listening to her for, when they had risen, the
chosen had lifted his head as well. In his face, in his ice blue
eyes, she saw no fear or reverence, not even the faintest averting of
the glance from natural nerves. He faced her straight, even looking
slightly down, thought this may have been no more than the practical
necessity of their different heights. But there was no defiance or
anger in the expression either. Those were the ones you needed to
watch out for. They might try to escape or even disrupt the rituals
and attack priestesses. It was considered a horribly bad omen and a
recourse of desperation to dismiss a candidate but, as the previous
lust woman, Xtaj's mentor had said, "If you can see murder in
their eyes, you have to let them go." And, by let them go, she
meant kill them immediately. But there was no murder in this one's
eyes. In fact, as she searched his face in puzzlement, he smiled at
her, a casual friendly smile, meant for an equal. Again, like his
lack of a bow, this was insulting...but not threatening.
"I
hope you, and our Lady, find our service acceptable." The
nasal, pleading voice of the priestess cut into her thoughts.
"You
have discharged your duty without fault," she replied without
interest. "Follow us to the temple, where you will receive food
and lodging before your journey home. Come." She gestured
crisply to the chosen, then turned and strode away, not bothering to
look back and see if he would follow. A moment later, she glanced
behind her and saw he was easily keeping pace at her shoulder. “Your
conduct is displeasing to me,” she muttered fiercely.
"How
have I offended?" He sounded genuinely confused as he pushed
his deep chocolate hair back out of his face to peer questioningly at
her.
"You
treat me like an equal," she replied, keeping her voice lowered
and glancing about anxiously. This was not a conversation she wanted
overheard.
"Is
that so horrible? After all Shebolba specially chose both of us to
serve Her." This stopped Xtaj's angry retort abruptly, as if
she had been slapped in the face. It was true what he said and yet
no one else saw it that way. It just wasn't done.
"I
do not like it," she muttered sourly, refusing to look in his
direction.
"Perhaps
this would please you more." The next thing she knew, he was
kneeling on the street in front of her. "Oh great and royal
priestess of the mighty Shebolba, I am honored beyond words to be
permitted this year of service to you." And then, before she
could stop him, he seized her hand and planted an exceedingly
exaggerated and sloppy kiss on the back of it. With a snarl, Xtaj
pulled her hand away and strode rapidly off down the street. Almost
at once, he was at her side again. "Aren't you going to ask my
name?" he inquired inanely and the thought of having to put up
with him for an entire year made Xtaj feel she was about to go mad.
This was not good at all. The sacrifice should not be corrupted by
vindictive emotions. If she were glad to be rid of him, the whole
thing became a murder, not an offering and this reminder that she
must not be angry with him made her all the more so.
"No,
I don't care about your name," she snapped. "I don't need
to know the name of a chicken before I eat it and you are nothing but
a delicious tidbit for Shebolba to devour."
"Thank
you for asking," he said pleasantly, as if he hadn't heard.
"I'm called Zedaven. And you?" She gave her name without
thinking then sullenly bit her tongue too late. "Really?"
He laughed. "Your mother named you that?"
"No.
It is a title. What I have become for the honor of Shebolba. My
birth name no longer exists. I am nothing but my service to the
Goddess and will answer to nothing else." Before things could
deteriorate further they arrived at the temple and began ascending
the great stair, apparently hard work for Zedaven because he,
thankfully, fell silent to save his breath for climbing. Even so, he
was winded by the time they reached the top, his face flushed and his
breathing ragged, Xtaj noted smugly. She, on the other hand, hadn't
even broken a sweat and her breathing was hardly elevated at all.
Years of going up and down these stairs at least once a day had left
her body very used to the climb and she sneered at his comparative
weakness.
©Amanda RR Hamlin 2025
