“The ki-ra-he does not play. You are too young to remember the time of blood. The ki-ra-he came at will. They left behind bloody bodies with gouged out hearts, throats, and guts. Each time they came to feed, they left one shro untouched. That was the shro of the three-armed female child.”
“The first wero,” K-Ush mumbles dutifully.
Wa-Sheya nods. “Twelve times the ki-ra-he came before the people of the village realized the ki-ra-he would not enter a shro that contained a three-armed child. They began to build huge shros where everyone would sleep under the protection of the three-armed girl-children.”
“I know the story, Wa-Sheya.”
“You know the mythology, K-Ush, but you do not know the tragedy. You’ve never experienced it.”
“Then why did I become a wero? How am I supposed to protect anybody?”
Again a sigh rustles between the young wero and her mentor. Sheya’s words unravel reluctantly, and K-Ush leans forward to hear them.
“I am leaving soon, K-Ush.”
K-Ush hears Sheya’s words, but she cannot make sense of their meaning.
“The ki-ra-he is testing your strength. It knows as long as I am on watch, I will not surrender to its tongue. But you…you are young. You may risk staying longer with the pleasure.”
“No, Wa-Sheya!”
“You are the village’s protection, K-Ush, and the ki-ra-he may gain entry before you rouse yourself from trance.”
Sheya grunts and rolls her head back. “I feel the storm coming, K-Ush. I fear it will be too great for us. You have seen the storm?”
“I felt it Wa-Sheya. I promise to trance on it after the prophecy, but…”
“You are a wero, you must prophesy not only for the seekers, but also for the village.”
A muffled sound—Is it feet stumbling? Is it a stifled yell? Is it a scuffle?—lifts up from the floor of the dogra and interrupts the weros’ conversation. Sheya swoops down to investigate. K-Ush follows. Near the entrance to the dogra is a swirl of activity. A few cloaked seekers seem to have rushed in, others seem to be pushing near the entrance. After motioning for K-Ush to remain inside the dogra, Sheya plows through the chaos. K-Ush can hear Sheya arguing softly with someone, then silence.
“What has happened?” K-Ush asks when Sheya drifts back into the dogra.
“Nothing that concerns you. You need ho-resh-li,” Sheya says and pushes K-Ush toward the hola.
“But Wa-Sheya!” K-Ush whispers, looking into Sheya’s ancient eyes for confirmation. “If what you say is true…” K-Ush pauses “the prophecy doesn’t stop the ki-ra-he.”
Sheya looks around frantically. They are surrounded by seekers.
“You must not speak of these things, K-Ush.” Sheya looks furious, but her voice remains level. “All that matters is that the seekers believe the prophecy saves them, and not even a wero can stop a le-ish from revolving once it is set into motion.”
“But if all we have to do is be gathered in the same hola…”
“The le-ish has been set K-Ush, you cannot change it. Now go take ho-resh-li.”
“I don’t want to be a wero anymore.”
“It is not a choice,” Wa-Sheya says through gritted teeth. “You will take ho-resh-li now.”
“But if all we have to do is be gathered in the same hola…”
“Go,” Sheya growls.
K-Ush lifts her hands and floats toward the hola.
At the entrance to the hola, K-Ush squats to dip her fingers into the large skik bowl and bless herself with sacred water. The heat of the hola rolls over her body. Without rising, she surveys the room. It is empty, as it should be. Besides K-Ush, the only objects present are the curved holy blade and the virgin. One glance at the virgin’s young skin and K-Ush returns to the first times she took ho-resh-li. Then Sheya had to enter the hola with her. Sheya would hold K-Ush down and force her to take the virgin. Patiently, she taught K-Ush to ignore his terror and absorb his wild galloping adrenaline. K-Ush shakes her head as if to clear it of the memories. She crawls to the center of the hola sickened by one truth: Wa-Sheya no longer has to force her to take ho-resh-li. It is now a need: K-Ush must partake or die.
Still squatting, K-Ush pulls the tie fastening her robe, and the thin cloth falls from her shoulders and rests bunched around her waist. The boy does not look. Everyone knows what a wero’s body is like. Flat chested, narrow hipped, hard and muscular. No fat, no curves, all lines and angles. K-Ush unfurls her index finger and slides the curved blade toward the virgin. It is her brand of kindness. Alive or dead it makes no difference to her. The virgin rises to his knees and pushes the knife to the side.
“You will do it the old way?” K-Ush asks.
“I will, and I would like permission to speak.”
“I do not grant it. I cannot hear another praise song.”
“I did not say I wanted to sing, I asked for permission to speak.”
K-Ush’s head snaps up at the willfulness in the boy’s voice. She looks at his face for the first time. He looks like any other virgin who gives himself for his village, yet there is something determined in the set of his jaw.
“Who taught you to speak to a wero in that fashion?” K-Ush asks.
“A wero.”
Incredulity lurches in K-Ush’s chest.
“No wero that I have ever known. Certainly not Wa-Sheya.”
“No.”
“And certainly not I.”
“No.”
“Then who?”
“The last wero.”
“I am the last wero.”
“There is another.”
K-Ush’s cheeks darken with rage.
“You tell lies. You may not speak.”
She grabs the virgin by the back of the neck and pulls him against her body. She wraps two of her arms around his waist and licks her lips. She pushes her moist mouth against a thick muscle cord in his neck. Her lips draw back and she attaches her teeth to his skin. The boy twitches in discomfort and involuntarily pulls away. K-Ush tightens her grip on him and deepens her tasting. The boy shudders beneath her mouth. His body stiffens, then bucks in surrender. She sucks harder, pinching his flesh between her teeth. The acid taste of blood seeps into her mouth. She draws away, abruptly releasing the boy. She falls back against the air and floats horizontally. With two hands, she pushes her robe past her waist. She kicks her monstrous feet, and the cloth falls in a thin puddle beneath her hovering body.
K-Ush looks at the boy. He rises up on his knees and begins to kiss her body reverently. The virgin’s lips roam over every inch of K-Ush from her bony ankles to her violently protruding ribs. His mouth is different from the others K-Ush has taken in the past. His mouth is not dry and fearful, instead it pushes heat into K-Ush’s skin.
“You are different,” K-Ush says.
“I am,” the boy replies. “Again, I ask for permission to speak.”
“Were I to give you permission, what would you say? Would you beg for your life?”
“No. I would show you this,” the boy says holding up his arm. There a circular hole dents the smooth skin of his inner arm. “And this,” he says, opening his legs so that K-Ush can see the same hole in one of his thighs.
K-Ush laughs. “You are begging for your life.”
“No. I was sent with a message.”
K-Ush rolls forward until she is lying—still hovering—on her side.
“What is it, young virgin? You may speak. What is it you wish to say?”
“In my village…”
“This is not your village?” K-Ush interrupts.
“No,” the boy says with a smile.
K-Ush licks her lips and adjusts her hips. “I am weary, you must speak quickly.”
“You need the ho-resh-li,” the boy says.
K-Ush says nothing. A brief silence unwinds between them. Finally the boy speaks.
“In my village I have given ho-resh-li twice. Once here,” he says pointing to his arm. “And once there,” he says pointing to his leg. “In my village, there are no such things as seekers. We know the truth of the ki-ra-he, and we know the lie of prophecy. In my village the wero live among us.”