would billow as well, her dress magnifying her every movement. Slits in the sleeve would cause the fabric to fall back and expose her decorated arms when she reached toward the sky. It fit her perfectly, and by tradition it would never be worn by another. Hers was the only skin it would ever touch. “The sun and the stars will be jealous of me,” she declared.
Her aunts and cousins liked that compliment, and Liyana saw only smiles as the dress was pushed over her head. She was caught inside the fabric, momentarily alone in a swirl of blue, red, and green so deep and rich that her head swam. It smelled of sage. A moment later the dress was cinched around her waist. Aunt Andra fitted shoes on her feet. They were of the softest leather but strong for dancing. Like the dress, these were finer than any shoes her toes had ever touched. She felt as if her feet were being caressed. She hoped the goddess wore these shoes often. They’d never cause a blister. That thought calmed her. She’d prepared her body well—her limbs were strong, her back was straight, her teeth were healthy—and now she wore fine shoes.
“Hair!” one of her cousins cried.
“Watch for lizards,” another said.
More laughter. Even Aunt Sabisa joined in.
Pushing aside the privacy blanket, the aunts and cousins swept Liyana to a stool by the cooking fire pit. All the men, including Jidali, had left the tent during the dressing. Six hands grabbed chunks of her hair, and Liyana did her best not to yelp as they raked combs through it. Once every knot was yanked to everyone’s satisfaction, more hands dove in to braid. By the end, Liyana felt as if every strand had been plucked out of her scalp. She touched her head to check that she still had hair. She felt dozens of braids. Each braid ended in a tiny silver bell. She jiggled her head, and the braids danced around her face. Her hair sang as crisply and clearly as a bird in mating season. “I am a hunter’s worst nightmare,” Liyana said.
One by one, her aunts and cousins kissed her cheeks. She’d be left makeup free so that the goddess could see clearly what her new face looked like. Liyana clenched her hands together on her lap as she received the kisses.
She would not allow a single tear.
Others would come soon, and she would not disgrace her family. Positioning herself on the stool, Liyana spread her skirt to display the elaborately embroidered panels so that her family could admire it as they departed. Two of her cousins flung the tent flap open and secured it on either side. Already, men and women milled outside. Her relatives filed out of the tent.
As the others left, Aunt Andra knelt next to Liyana. “You will be asked by many to take messages into the Dreaming. Do not accept, but do not refuse.”
Liyana nodded. She knew this.
“But if you have the opportunity, please . . . tell my Booka that his herd fattens well and his son . . . Tell him we are well, and we miss him.”
Liyana swallowed. Her throat felt thick. “I am certain Uncle Booka is waiting for you.”
Aunt Andra half smiled. “Of course he is. That man never did anything without my permission, except die.” She left the tent, the last of the aunts and cousins to exit.
Liyana was alone.
Chapter Two
The tent smelled thick with her family’s sweat and the greasy tinge of last night’s dinner partially masked by a layer of burnt sage. Her own skin smelled sweet, and she felt stickiness behind her ears and in the pits of her knees where her relatives had missed rinsing the honey milk. She’d been left these few moments to meditate, but instead she fetched a damp rag from her bath and wiped the last of the sticky bits away. She’d never seen much point in meditation anyway, and she saw zero point in attracting flies with dried milk and honey. When she finished, she resumed her position on the stool.
The first visitor entered.
Kneeling at her feet, the man—her mother’s third cousin—turned her wrists over to view her tattooed arms and then kissed her palms. “You will be honored in the Dreaming, and we will not waste your gift.”
By tradition she was not required to respond, but she tried anyway. “Thank you. It is my honor and my joy to know you and yours will thrive.”
He squeezed her shoulders and kissed both her cheeks as if she were his closest relative, instead of merely a distant one who he had spoken with only a handful of times. Tears were bright on his cheeks, and he scurried out of the tent without another word.
Her hands shook, and she clenched them tightly together. For the next visitor, she merely nodded her acceptance of the ritual words. After two more hours of farewells, she was grateful for the tradition that allowed her silence.
Others like Aunt Andra had messages for loved ones to take with her. A few of them shared memories they had of her so she could take those with her too. She’d forgotten that she’d burnt her first flatbread so badly that her cousins had used it to knock dates out of a tree. Also there was the time she’d wrestled a boy twice her age and won because she’d dropped leaves down his shirt and he’d thought they were a snake—this was several years before her dreamwalk had determined her fate and she was no longer permitted to risk herself in such games.
The children, having completed their morning chores, were allowed to visit her next. She endured their questions without throttling a single child, which she considered an achievement, especially since their questions included “Will it hurt?” and “What if your soul doesn’t reach the Dreaming?” Some of them were old enough that they should have shown more discretion, and she privately hoped the rich feast tonight would cause them massive indigestion. But in truth, the children were hardest because Jidali was last among them.
Escorted to the tent by their mother, Jidali walked inside alone with the measured pace of a grown man. His chin was lifted high, and his shoulders were flung back so far that Liyana half expected him to pitch backward. He knelt at her feet and kissed her palms exactly as tradition dictated. She felt a surge of pride followed quickly by a sharp pang. She’d never see him as the man he would become.
All of a sudden it was hard to breathe. The air in the tent felt stiflingly hot. It pressed against the inside of her throat. She touched her brother’s still baby-plump cheek, and with a cry, he flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around her waist. She bent over him and hugged his head and shoulders. He sobbed great, heaving sobs. His body shook against her. She didn’t trust herself to speak.
At last he quieted. He sucked in air and then exhaled. His body stilled, though his hands were fists against her back as he continued to hold her. His voice was muffled by the fabric of her dress. “Why you?”
Liyana stroked his hair, soft as the finest carded goat’s wool. He knew that she had been born in the first Year of No Rain, and he knew that her dreamwalk had showed her connection to the Dreaming. But that wasn’t what he meant, and she knew it because she’d asked that question too, silently in the night, over a hundred times since the day her fate was tattooed on her arms—the tattoos that said she was a vessel. “Did I ever tell you the story of the spider who wanted to fly?”
He shook his head and then sniffled.
She didn’t dislodge him. No one would notice that a child’s tears had dampened the elaborate embroidery. “She spun her web in the branches of a tamar tree, and day in and day out she watched the birds fly to and from their nest with food and water for their young. When she laid her own egg sac, she determined that that was how she would feed her children. If she fed them only what her web caught, then a mere quarter would survive. But if she could fly and fetch the scorpions and beetles that scurried on the desert floor, then more of her children would survive. Perhaps even all.”
Jidali curled up at her feet and lay his head on her lap. For an instant, her voice caught. He’d done this a thousand times, and this would be the last. She got control of herself and continued. “And so, the spider spun herself wings from her finest thread. She wound them around her back legs, and she stretched them with her front legs. When she was ready, she climbed to the top branch of the tamar tree, and she spread her silk wings. The wind blew against them, and they puffed behind her. Pushing off the branch, she leapt into the air.”
She heard a rustle in the doorway and glanced over to see her father. It was his turn next. Liyana nodded to him so he’d know she’d seen him, but she kept stroking Jidali’s hair.
