Three days later, and just one hour before the Ceremony, I stood in Master M’Onnse’s study – an adobe hut of red clay – examining my middle finger which had developed a peculiar calloused groove at the point of contact with the quill. Would it stay that way forever? If so, is this change in my body for better or for worse?

Master M’Onnse was leafing through my copy, stopping at times at one page or another to peruse it in detail and compare with the source. In those moments, with a dry whisper, her bony fingers glided across the rough paper in strict unison, tracing the same words in different volumes with uncanny precision.

“Alright, Kanne,” she said at last, closing both books. “‘Tis the last time, perhaps, I shall call you so.”

The meaning of these words plowed towards me through the viscous fog of sleeplessness like a fisherman rowing on a lake of pine-sap glue. Leaning with her sinuous hands against the desk, the Master raised her withered body and made a few shuffling steps towards me. Only then I had the presence of mind to thank her for accepting my T’ghasta, and for the many years of teaching she’d devoted to my education.

The gentle squeeze of her hands on mine, the stillness of the spider web of wrinkles around her deep-set eyes, all spoke of commiseration more than joy, and for an instant, I felt a strange urge to run away, away from the Ceremony I’d been yearning for, for so long.

###

I bid Master M’Onnse goodbye, took my copy from the desk, and left, hoping to be alone, but soon engulfed by the flow of merriment and laughter, scanty parti-colored ceremonial clothes, faces and bodies, young and old, daubed with redolent ointments reflecting light from paper-mache lanterns shaped as watches or clocks, suns, moons, and stars, all drifting toward N’Kele square. Like an ice floe in spring waters, my worries melted, and I soon, too, sang, and laughed, and stripped to the waist, and yearned for the hour to both wane away and last forever.

This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

And when the time came, a score of merry, greasy hands pushed me toward the pyre in the center of the square, and I flung my book into it, and saw it land among bore hides, fruit and herbs, hand-carved furniture and spoked wooden wheels, swords and arrows, a decanter of wrought iron, and a score of clay sculptures. Of these items, some were yet to catch fire, some already burned in full might, and some were never destined to burn but still joined in the offering, as each T’Ghasta was meant to.

When the pyre calmed down, the youngest masters of each craft, most of whom had received their N’Keles no more than a year or two ago, separated themselves from the crowd and lined behind the Maker to perform the rite. Within a minute, silence took over the square, all eyes focused on the dozen figures who stood with their eyes closed, most pinching a bead on their N’Keles, while a few, Joso among them, struggled instead to find a dignified pose for their idling hands. Trembling fingers, furrows on foreheads, and lips bitten by some, moving in others, all reminded that for them, it was also a test – the time to demonstrate, by performing the rite in an orderly manner, the mastery of N’Keles they’d been honored to bear.

Without any signal, Master M’Hanno, a young hunter, quietly raised his hand and stood still for a minute. Opening his eyes at last, he surveyed his companions and sighed with relief, seeing that no other hand was raised, as that would befall disgrace on both him and the other who failed to see clearly into what was to be, into who was to be first in this year’s rite.

“Step forth, Tak,” Master M'Hanno announced, and Tak stood forth. M’Hanno fed the Token to the Maker and leaned on the lever four times. With a clank, Tak’s N’Kele dropped into the Maker’s maw. “Kneel,” Master M’Hanno said, retrieving the N’Kele. Tak kneeled and bowed so low that Master M’Hanno had to pull him gently up by the hair, to the great amusement of the crowd, to hang the N’Kele over Tak’s neck without its beads touching the ground.

Two more hands went up in silence, and two more apprentices received their N’Keles before I was called forth by Joso. “Told you” he whispered, as I felt, for the first time, the gentle but incisive pull of the beads that, till the end of my days, I was to carry on my chest.