Rite Of Passage

The old priest looked down the woman, the child, who lay looking up at him, the brightness of her eyes, the rise and fall of softly rounded breasts with each breath, the glow of her skin under the torches foretelling the coming dawn, as though the sun was rising first in her body before it granted itself to the land. Life itself radiated from her: a vibrant presence that filled him with love and awe, that burned through to his soul with the vital urgency of existence. "So beautiful, always so beautiful," he murmured, "there must be truth in such a thing, such a brilliant light cannot come from emptiness can it?" It was not really a question. The words were gently spoken, but there was a firmness in his voice, as though he was telling her something so obvious that no argument was needed, so true that no uncertainty was possible.

His voice was soft and melodic, she did not understand the meaning of his words, but she sensed a warmth in him, a desire to comfort. She smiled up at him, grateful that this man would be with her and ashamed of her earlier disappointment. He was old, but not as old as she had thought, and there was strength and determination written in the lines of his face and safety in the firm grip of his callused hand. He had seemed so different before when had seen him kneeling in prayer: a defeated, fragile creature enveloped in white robes that threatened to swallow what little remained of him. She had looked questioningly at the initiate as he lead her closer to the old man: surely there is some mistake? He is but a memory of a man, am I to spend this night with the shadow of death? It must have been the flickering light playing tricks on her for this man standing next to her had nothing of death about him. "Will it hurt?" She was no longer afraid to ask this question, no longer afraid of her uncertainty. This man knew of such things, he had experienced all the doubts of youth and would understand, would listen without judgment.

"No, you will feel no pain at my touch and when it is finished then..." he paused: how to tell this girl of such things, things that he himself could not conceive of despite years of trying? How to communicate a meaning that renders all words inadequate? In the back of his mind he heard the familiar whispering of shadows: "a meaning that might be meaningless." The voice was as soft like the rustle of dry leaves rubbing their corpses against one another, seeking to regain the warmth they used to possess, and as penetrating as the dread harmony of thunder that lashed out from the sky and engulfed all of nature in its shuddering roar. He knew in his bones that uncertainty was impossible, but the shadows filled his mind with impossibilities. He forced his mind from the darkness and the division it had created. She must not see his wound: if she did, if she looked into it, she would see the shadows and they would become real.

"Then I will be reborn." She finished for him, confident she spoke the truth, yet, for the first time in her life, uncertain of what the words meant.

"Yes." he said, surprised that one so young could see the inadequacies of the words it had taken him a lifetime to discern, or had it? Had he known all along? Sometimes he thought that he had always know and just refused to admit it. To look, to truly look, at anything, even a grain of sand, was to confront the impossibility of real knowledge, the impossibility of understanding what it was to exist. "If we exist at all," the shadows corrected him, "there is no certainty to be had here." He knew these words for the shadows of his own heart: all this, himself, the sand, this girl,... all may just a well be a memory, a dream, or even less. Perhaps within this girl he would find salvation. He placed his hand on her cheek in a gesture of comfort to her (or to him?) and of his supplication to the power she held.

"You already understand more than most, I wish..." he looked away, afraid of his yearning for what he knew was beyond his reach "I wish I could see this through your eyes, to see what you will see. You will know soon, you will know that which is hidden from us but that we are driven to seek like starving animals, desperate we stumble about in the dark to find it and yet we cannot see it even though we know it is all around us." His voice trailed off, he had not meant to tell her so much, these musings of a crazy old priest will be meaningless in her ears, he rebuked himself.

What had high priestess Anisah said to him the other day, something about a time when questions lead to truth and a time when they take one away from it? Perhaps she was right: he used to feel that his searching was leading him to some goal, but now, now he felt like his every uncertainty led him further and further into a featureless mist that obscured everything from sight. He had been lucky so far, each time he took a step his foot had found firm ground beneath it, but how long could his luck hold? How long until the next step, the next doubt, sent him hurtling off the edge of the precipice that was hidden in the mist? He knew that edge was there, he could feel the cold emptiness of the fall waiting for him and it knew he was there, it could feel his stumbling footsteps and it waited to embrace him, to end all doubt for him.

This was the solemn promise, the terrifying seduction, of the whispers: the end of doubt, just one step and all questions would be driven out by the numbing cold of endless dying, endless falling. Perhaps this was the best he could hope for, he had left the warmth and comfort of believe behind so long ago now, had made so many turns and twists in this featureless landscape that he no longer even knew which direction retreat lay in.

Yet he could not accept that the salvation of the fall was all that remained to him, he clung to the belief that there was another end awaiting discovery. How he hated this belief: it was as empty as the step he feared, stemming from nothing but his need to escape and his arrogance in thinking he could. Why could he not let go? It had been so long, why must he continue to torture himself with hope? Why was he here again tonight, hadn't he been here often enough to know that there would be no answers? Every year he returned to this night that he lived over and over again, and every year nothing. Why can't you see, you stupid old man! There has always been nothing! There will always be nothing! There is... No, no! Even after all these years he could not bring himself to think that, never that, even the pain of this divided existence was better than annihilation. Nothing was tolerable in the past and the future, but not now, there must be something now, he needed there to be something now and his desperate need, the only defence he had left, stood guard against the emptiness that surrounded him and let him feel hope for one night a year.

She looked surprised, "But there can be nothing you do not know? You are Her priest, why would She hide anything from you?"

He had said too much. Did she sense the open wound in his chest? No, her eyes would speak of it, they looked slightly curious but not concerned. "I do not think She hides from me," he said, choosing his words carefully this time, "but sometimes I think that we hide Her, or part of Her, from ourselves. Perhaps it is the nature of our minds to be closed to the unknown. But such ideas must seem strange to you, they often seem so to me, let us speak of it no more."

"They do seem strange, I have never thought of such things. But I..., I think I understand..." She paused, unsure if she should continue. What interest could he have in her thoughts? How could she presume to understand him, one who had served the Mother since before she was born? She searched his face as he waited expectantly for her to continue, he did not seem offended but she spoke hesitantly none the less: "You will soon introduce me to that which I have never known." He still gave no sign of displeasure with her, but listened to her words attentively. Her hesitancy fled from her, he was interested in her thoughts and his interest made it important that she tell him. "Do you think that in experiencing one unknown with you my mind will be opened to all that is unknown? That I will see everything, including that which we hide from ourselves?"

"Yes, I think you do understand." He smiled warmly at her, he felt a connection with this girl, more so than he had with any that had come before her, and with it he felt his hope grow. Nzambi had sent this one to him, surely that was it, surely,... But he did not feel sure, only hope, hope feed and strengthened by her understanding, as the parasite is feed by the blood of its host. As much as anyone who is whole could, this girl understood. As she had spoken he had watched in fear, looking for the first telltale crack to appear, but she was still whole. She had seen the questions, but not the emptiness behind them.

"Perhaps I could come back afterwards and tell you what I felt?"

"No, if I was ready to know I would see it myself, since I am unready I would not listen." He did not want to lie to her, but he consoled himself with the thought that he was not sure it was a lie. He did not believe what he said, but what did that matter? He could not tell her of the mind numbing fear, of the daily horror that her promise to return with answers would visit upon him. He could survive the sacrificing of his hope once a year, but every day? He shuddered involuntarily at the thought.

Oblivious to the turmoil within him she accepted his words. What he said did not entirely make sense to her, but she felt there was great wisdom in it, a wisdom that hinted at even deeper truths lying beneath. Was there really anything that this man did not know? Perhaps his humility was just a sign of his wisdom. She gazed fondly at him, "Very well then, if I see you again then I shall kiss you and say nothing, even if you beg I will be silent." She could not help grinning at the unbidden image, that flashed in her mind, of this dignified man, in his pristine white robes, on bended knee before her, entreating her to share her wisdom with him.

He knelt next to the stone dais, its solidity now obscured beneath a thick veil of dark, molten velvet that cushioned her body in its liquid embrace and pooled on the stone floor beneath. Reverently he placed his arm across her chest, feeling the soft warmth of her soak into his skin, he softly caressed her check with the back of his hand before resting it against her neck.

She was surprised at his gentleness, she had imagined this moment many times and always the feel of his flesh on her's had been hard and urgent: demanding her surrender. But his touch made no demand: like a mother's, it offered her sanctuary, inviting her to release herself into it. She sighed peacefully, turning her head and looking into his eyes. They were not grey, as she had first thought, there was a drop of blue in them, the diffuse colour of blue sky observed through layers of grey clouds.

He looked into her eyes, grateful to her for keeping herself open to him so that he could watch the moment unfold within her. This was what he waited for every year, to see the moment, the culmination of this ritual, reflected in their gaze.

The sun finally rose above the horizon and the polished copper doors of the temple erupted in a searing ocean of flame. It was time. The priest drew his hand back swiftly across her neck, as though his hand had been bitten and now fled in terror leaving a trail of blood. But it was not his blood: it was she who had been bitten by the gracefully curved golden fang now nestled in his palm, appearing harmless and fragile but for the sparkling drops of crimson than fell from it. In her eyes he saw humour and anticipation, then...nothing.