“Claim her?” Yera threw her head back, the fishtail braid snaking down the hollow of her back, a dark slick eel. “Fele, Fele,” they cried and backed away, “the ancient ones will claim you!” Their voices were filled with derision but their eyes held something else, something close to fear. Before Yera could cover her smile, the younger children came. Struggling to breathe, I pressed my palm over the spoiled flowers, as if I could hide the damage. Sorcadia blossoms lay flattened, their juicy red centers already drying on the ground. That morning, one sun before Oma Day, my bare heels slipped in bright gold and orange paste. My story begins when my world ended, the day my sister shoved me into the ancestors’ altar. It begins as all stories must, with an ending. None would eat before the ancestors were fed, for it was through their blood and toil we emerged from the dark sea to be.īut that was then, and this is now, and we are another tale. We rubbed ebony-stained oil on their braided hair and placed them on the altars with the first harvest, the nuts and the fresh fruit. We carved the ancestors from the scented wood, before the fire and the poison water took them, too. Their backs were straight and their temples tall. In the beginning were the ancestors, gods of earth who breathed the air and walked in flesh.
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