By Rochelle L. Sharpe
The cry sends a chill through me, as it does every time I hear it. It always arrives at the height of summer, yet I pray this is the cycle it will not come.
But it does. It always does.
I take out the muting silk and put it in my ears and those of my beautiful daughters. At thirteen and fifteen summers, they are eligible for the Choosing.
Petcha’s eyes glisten, but Sacha, the younger of the girls, sets her chin. I swallow, blinking away my own threatening tears, and force a smile.
“All will be well,” I mouth. “The Grand Chief will protect us.”
Unlike our human one.
I am tempted to take both their hands and flee. The tribe’s warriors will slay a mother trying to protect her children because they cannot slay the beast. If only my mother were still alive and could use her gift to rid us of the beast. I was not born gifted; no one in the tribe has been in two generations.
I may not be gifted, but I am determined.
Taking my darts, I dip them into the sedative I prepared in case the worst happens. Triple the normal dose, I’m praying it will be enough. I slip the darts and blowpipe into the pouch around my waist.
I step outside with my daughters, then pause in front of the tent. The chief stands in the middle of the camp. Sweat gathers in my palms as I squeeze both their hands. Petcha leans into me, trembling. Sacha squeezes mine back. Please, Grand Chief, spare them.
“Is anyone willing?” The chief’s words are barely audible even though he yells them, but everyone knows what he asks.
No one ever is willing, yet the chief waits. I clench my teeth, nostrils flaring with each dragging moment.
“I am willing.”
Bile burns up my throat as Sacha steps forward. I grab her wrist, yanking her back.
“No! What are you doing? I forbid it!”
Sacha says something, but I cannot hear. I rip the silk out of my ears.
A warrior snatches her away.
I scream as strong arms wrestle me into my tent and throw me to the floor with a painful thump. The warrior, Bearock, stands in front of the entrance, arms crossed, his gaze hard and jaw tight.
Petcha collapses beside me, sobbing.
Bearock stares down at me. “Your daughter is brave, Ancha. You should be proud.”
I spit at his feet.
Sacha needs me. Turning on my knees, I pretend to retch, sliding my hand into my pouch. Placing a dart in the pipe, I spin to face Bearock and blow. The dart pierces his throat and he collapses.
Petcha watches, mouth and eyes wide.
I grab her shaking frame. “I will bring back your sister,” I vow.
Slicing through the animal hide, I slip out the back of the tent and race into the trees. If the beast is not fed, it will attack the camp. I know this, but it cannot, will not have my daughter.
I race up the mountain. The beast’s cry pounds against my ears like thunder, and my sight blurs. It has the power to immobilize a warrior, which is why we pack our ears with the silk.
Why did I take it out? It would have protected me from paralysis.
Straining against quivering legs, I force myself forward. I must get to my daughter. Bursting through the trees, I reach for a new dart. I load it, taking in the scene before me.
My precious Sacha is tied to a wooden pole.
The beast, all black fur, creeps toward her, black nails clicking on stone. Its mouth is wide as it cries, red eyes focused on my daughter.
Part bear, part wolf, all beast.
My feet stumble, but my heart does not.
I blow a dart at the beast. Its roar reaches fever pitch as the dart strikes its shoulder. The beast swings its head in my direction, and I blow another dart, hitting it in the forehead.
It pounces at me.
The darts slow it a fraction, but not enough.
Teeth fill my vision.
I hope by eating me, it will not eat Sacha. This is my only consolation.
Closing my eyes, I brace myself, the Grand Chief’s name on my lips.
A sweet voice fills the air, clear and sharp.
I dare to open my eyes. The beast has stopped and turns back to Sacha. It creeps forward, silent.
I gape at Sacha. The beast collapses to its stomach in front of her.
Her song rises, voice soaring. I drop to my knees, tears blurring my vision. The ethereal melody flows through my ears, piercing me straight in the heart. Gifted. Sacha is gifted!
The beast closes its eyes.
Sacha’s voice softens as she continues singing.
Her eyes find mine, and I snap back to my senses.
Pushing to my feet, I grab the blade from my belt and cut her free from the pole.
“Close your eyes,” I tell her. “But keep singing.”
Once her eyes are closed, I raise my blade and end the beast.
Sacha stops singing. I turn and see tears spilling down her cheeks. I pull her into my arms.
“I had a dream,” she cries into my shoulder. “I knew what I had to do.”
I hug her tight. “Praise the Grand Chief.”
The beast is gone, the nightmare over.
My daughter is safe, and no other girl will perish at the mouth of the beast.
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This was exciting and surprising. It had me guessing throughout the narrative.
Great story!
Rochelle, this is so good! I was on the edge on my seat for a thousand words. Well done!