1A Chapter by W.V. BardPancha is chosen as a potential reincarnate.Pacha stood
hunched nearly into a ball to keep herself not only warm but from towering over
the rest of the children. In this night of
the first selection she felt her head more secure upon her neck the further she
tucked it into her chest. Rain poured down
in sheets as the Processors made their way down the line of younglings shivering
in the frosty bite of the wind. These
minions of the Grand Priest moved swiftly through the night, black on black,
with only the occasional shock of brown when a hand darted out to grasp and
turn young chins this way and that before dropping back beneath long cloaks. Concealed beneath
her furs, Pacha desperately cast a thousand wishes that she had been born
before the last Reincarnate died. Then
she would not be standing here, in this soaking line, awaiting jurisdiction
with the rest of those unfortunate enough to be born only thirteen sun-cycles
ago. The winds swept
her hood from her long white locks, whipping them about her neck. Her
strange looks revealed to all, the beady black eyes of a Processor pierced her
own. She heard her mother’s excited gasp
as the Processor dropped a child and marched over in her direction without
sparing the other children a glance on the way.
She quickly bundled her hair in her hand and thrust in beneath her
cloak. Pacha hunched her shoulders
further and stared at the muddy ground, at the fur of her boots, at the laces
on the other children’s boots, at anything but the man suddenly standing before
her. Despite her best
efforts, his icy fingers brought her gaze up to meet his. And just as she had forever dreaded his eyes
betrayed both recognition and excitement.
The luminous flakes which lined his lids only enhanced the effect of
their widening, and the piercings on his lips quivered in excitement as he
called out to his counterparts. Each
cloaked figure swiftly gathered round him, spraying mud up with their heels as they
ran down the village’s poor excuse for a road.
In the Deity’s tongue they hissed at one another below the howling winds,
unhooding her against her might and prodding her and turning her about this way
and that until satisfied that they indeed had found the one they had been
searching for. Numbness crept
from her skin into her heart as what appeared to be the Head Processor stepped
forth from behind the first one and grabbed her hand in the icy grip of his own. Her
mother’s hold on her shoulders loosened, but her fingers still dug into the
cloth of her shoulders until the Head Processor tore her away and brought her
forth several feet from the line of children, so that she stood apart from them
and their families. Pacha cursed her
mother’s compliance, feeling suddenly bereft of a family and betrayed by one at
the same time. Pacha was the goat raised
to be slaughtered, but this day she had fought and ignored and cast aside her
whole life until it had finally come to blow down her little home here in the
farthest, fifth farmland. She remembered the
day her village priest told them about the upcoming selection. “Two of you will
be Chosen,” he had said, casting his eyes upon the crowd of the pure gathered
before him under the shelter of the holy temple. Most of the crowd made up of children ranging
from seven years old to fourteen year olds, although only a few of the latter
remained “pure” and unmarried in the village by this late stage in their
lives. “Today, boys sit with girls, but
come the Selection Process you shall be separated as our great ForeFather and
ForeMother initially were.” “Why us?” Pacha
had cried out. One of the younger
ones stared at her. “Because you look
funny,” he said blithely. “To be chosen is
an honor” the old priest chided. “You
are all privileged enough to be born after that last Reincarnate passed. To play host to his or her godly presence is
nothing short of miraculous. And to
finally have a Reincarnate from this village will bring much reward to your
people.” And here he simply stared at
Pacha, engraining the burden onto her. Despite what the
priest had said, and how he had stared at her expectantly, Pacha had held onto
a small string of hope that she might not be taken from her home. For what the children and indeed the entire
village knew and yet would barely whisper about was the shame that accompanied
a falsely selected child. But that hope
blew away in the wind off her little mountaintop, carried up and away from her
in the same current which betrayed her looks to the Processors. She had prayed and
prayed that these men of the Grand Priest might sense, with their closeness to
the gods, her utter lack of holiness and simply… leave her alone. But as they turned her head this way and
that, and peered at her closely, she saw in their eyes fierce conviction. They had chosen. And so her heart
dropped. She panted and cast about
desperately for help, but the Processors held her in place, murmuring with soft
voices in the usual clipped clicks of the People’s dialect. In her peripherals her neighbors and friends
soaked their knees and bowed their heads, one by one dropping to the mud in
reverence of the newest Potential. “Mother!” she
screamed but her mother only stood rigid, a series of unrecognizable emotions
flittering across her sun-hardened and work-weary face. Then in silence, she too knelt to the ground
and bowed. “Father!” she belted
desperately, but the wind caught her voice and cut it off mid-air. A Processer took
hold of her shoulders and whipped her around to face the pack of them, and
another’s gentle hand lightly pressed against her nape until she tipped her
head in forced reverence at the four figures.
Tears mixed with the rain in a stream off her face and onto her worn fur
boots. She dipped her head on her own in
complete compliance, with the same compliance that her mother had pushed her
away, and the hands forcing her to stand and bow released her. There in the rain,
on the muddy main road of the humble stone village she called home, the
inevitable had happened. Pacha had been chosen. © 2012 W.V. BardAuthor's Note
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