“We are not forgotten,” she assured him, her face softening. She brushed back an unruly lock that had fallen across his forehead. Her dark eyes brimmed with a love that warmed him from head to toe. She may look frightening to his father like this, but to him she was beautiful.
Shadows moved across the floor, and she looked over her shoulder as the afternoon light turned strange.
“It’s time.” She stood, her face flushed with excitement, and held out a hand. “Are you ready?”
He was too old to hold her hand like a baby, but he was scared enough of what came next that he pressed his palm against hers and wrapped his fingers around tight, seeking comfort. She led him outside onto the stone terrace where the late-season winds chilled his bare skin.
The view was a feast for the eye. From here they could see the valley, still clinging to the golds and crimsons of late fall. Beyond them squatted the high jagged mountains where the ice never melted. He had spent many afternoons here, watching hawks circle the village that sat just on the edge of the valley, dropping pebbles off the ledge to watch them shatter to dust on the rocky cliffs below. It was a place of fond memories, of good thoughts.
“So cloudy,” his mother fretted, her hand still wrapped around his, “but look, it changes even as we prepare.” She beamed, showing her bloody teeth.
She was right. He watched as the sky cleared to reveal a tattered sun, hunched like a dull watery ball atop the mountains. And to its side, a darkness loomed.
The boy’s eyes widened in alarm. Mama had told him the crow god would come today, but he had not fathomed the horror of its visage.
“Look at the sun, Serapio,” she said, sounding breathless. “I need you to look at the sun.”
He did as he was told and watched with a growing terror as it began to disappear.
“Mama?” he asked, alarmed, hating that his voice sounded high and frightened.
“Don’t look away!” she warned.
He would not. He had endured her knife and her poison, and he would endure the needle soon, too. He could master the sun.
But his eyes began to water and sting.
“Steady,” she murmured, squeezing his hand.
His eyes ached, but his mother tugged the delicate skin of his eyelids with her fingernails to keep them open. He cried out as she grazed his eyeball, and instinct more than desire made him buck. She pulled him tight, arms like a vise and fingers gripping his jaw.
“You must look!” she cried. And he did, as the crow god ate the sun.
When all that was left was a ring of trembling orange fire around a hole of darkness, his mother released him.
He rubbed at his stinging eyes, but she slapped his hands away. “You’ve been so brave,” she said. “You must not fear now.”
The edge of a bubbling panic crawled up his spine at what was to come next. His mother did not seem to notice.
“Hurry now,” she said, ushering him back inside, “while the crow god holds sway over the world.”
She pressed him to sitting in the high-backed chair. His limbs had grown heavy and his head light, no doubt from the poisoned cup. The panic that had tried to rise died on a soft, terrified half-moan.
She bound his feet to the legs of the chair and wrapped the cords around his body until he could not move. The rope stung where the haahan were still raw.
“Keep your eyes closed,” she warned.
He did, and after a moment, he felt something wet press along the line of his eyelashes. It was cold and deadened the skin. His lids felt so weighted that he did not think he could open them again.
“Listen to me,” his mother said. “Human eyes lie. You must learn to see the world with more than this faulty organ.”
“But how?”
“You will learn, and this will help.” He felt her slip something into his pocket. It was a bag like the one she wore around her neck. He could just reach it if he wiggled his fingers, feeling the fine powder inside. “Hide this, and use it only when you need it.”
“How will I know when I need it?” he asked, worried. He didn’t want to fail her.
“You will learn, Serapio,” she said, voice gentle but firm. “And once you have, you must go home to Tova. There you will open your eyes again and become a god. Do you understand?”
He didn’t understand, not really, but he said yes anyway.
“Will you come with me?” he asked.
Her breath hitched, and the sound scared him more than anything else she had done that day.
“Mama?”
“Hush, Serapio. You ask too many questions. Silence will be your greatest ally now.”
The needle pierced his eyelid, but he was only distantly aware of it. He could feel the stitches sealing his eyes shut, the pull and lift of the thread through his skin. The panic that had failed to rise earlier swelled up larger now, made him twitch in his chair, made the wounds on his back pull and sting, but the cords held him tight and the drugs kept his muscles lax.
A sudden pounding at the door made them both jump.
“Open the door!” a voice yelled, loud enough to shake the walls. “If you’ve touched that boy, I’ll have your head, I swear it!”
It was his father. The boy thought to cry out to him, to let him know that he was okay. That the crow god’s will must be followed, that he wanted this, that his mother would never hurt him.
She returned to her work, ignoring his father and his threats. “Almost done now.”
“Saaya, please!” pleaded his father, voice breaking.
“Is he crying?” the boy asked, concerned.
“Shhh.” The corner of his left eye tugged tight as she tied off the last knot.
Her lips pressed briefly to his forehead, and she ran a gentle hand through his hair.
“A child in a foreign place to a foreign man,” she murmured, and Serapio knew she was talking to herself. “I’ve done everything required. Even this.”
Even this was what he had suffered today, he knew it. And for the first time, a tendril of doubt crept through his belly.
“Who, Mama? Who asked you to do this?” There was still so much he didn’t understand, that she hadn’t told him.
She cleared her throat, and he felt the air shift as she stood. “I must go now, Serapio. You must carry on, but it is time for me to join the ancestors.”
“Don’t leave me!”
She bent her head and whispered in his ear. A secret name. His true name. He trembled.
And then she was moving away, her footfalls heading swiftly toward the open terrace. Running. Running to where? There was only the terrace that ended in the open sky.
And he knew she was running so she could fly.
“Mama!” he screamed. “No!”
He struggled to open his eyes, but the stitches held, and his lids did not budge. He thought to claw at his face, but the cords held him tight and the drink made time feel strange.
“Son!” his father screamed. Something huge hit the door, and the wood splintered. The door was coming down.
“Mama!” Serapio cried. “Come back!”
But his begging did no good. His mother was gone.
CHAPTER 2
CITY OF CUECOLA
YEAR 325 OF THE SUN
(20 DAYS BEFORE CONVERGENCE)
A Teek out of water swims in wine.