There is a place where a man sits on a crude throne, more like a blue opulent mound covered in fabrics, feathers, and woven straw. He sits with assertion; stone faced, a look of assurance, and his frame still and strong as marble. He sits as a pillar, upon a bluish mound. Decorated with a coloured blanket of exquisite craftsmanship, a loincloth left clean, and embroidered with golden strains. Upon his head, a long ornate headdress made of white feathers fashioned to seem like wings draped down on his back. Even when he moves to take a drink, his feathers do not move; majesty, peace, and power exude from his presence. This must be, as it should be, fore he his king, chief, leader of his people. Since he was a small child he has been taught to lead. He has been taught to be fair, to love his people unconditionally, and to do everything in his power, and beyond, to help his people, fore they belong to him, as he belongs to them. When he became leader, he was young, but his years of training, of teachings made him a strong leader, as was his father, as was his mother, as was his line before him. The other clans sent envoys to see if he was weak, if he were deemed as weak then they would destroy him and take his lands, his people and all possessions. This was their way. But with his youth he still portrayed as such a strong leader of his clan, all envoys and ambassadors kneeled in respect and left with promises of peace and tribute. He had gathered all of the clans with his presence alone. No war was needed, no conflict raised that was not subdued with a few words. With the clans united there came more responsibility, more love, and strength for him to bear upon his shoulders. He is fair, and shows no favoritism, even to his own clan. He is just; if there arise a problem with his subjects, his words would calm any quarrel.
Right now this man sits on his mound, with his ever authoritative presence, with his benevolence, and love. Strong he was, eyes of steel, which burned with the light only matched by stars. Statuesque he is like a pillar sitting upon his throne that came from the beaches a hundred miles away. The blue painted on with grounded lapis, to represent the sea. They believe all life comes from the seas and would traverse to the edge of their lands to the coasts to gather their important relics. Not everything that comes from the beaches is sacred, only the black stones, black sands, and the white feathers of birds are sacred. Even certain birds are searched out for specific feathers. For instance, the feathers of the albatross are sought after for outer edges of this leader’s headdress, the smaller feathers are taken from seagulls, and the smallest feathers are taken from only special chicks that are hatched with white feathers rather than gray or brown. Each feather is taken with care and only the best, strongest, and eloquent are taken. This is the only time when animals are taken not for food, but for ritual, ceremony, and opulence. Only the Great Leader may be adorned with such fashion, and it has been a long time since one was worthy enough to wear such an exquisite crown. His blue mound was a black stone that was a curious sight to see. It was gathered and moved from the beaches many generations ago. Shaped in the semblance of a winged man holding himself in a fetal position; the stone looked as if it was in pain, even though there was not much in the way of detail to the boulder, all the priests agreed it was once an Old One; one of the First of Creation. The rock was black, and sleek, it always looked as though it was wet, yet it was drier than bones found in the desert. When the stone was brought back to the village, it was painted blue, and adorned with blankets, and straw for comfort, and it was presented to the leader. Since then, this new Great Leader’s line sat upon that stone, and each one is told the story of how it came to be in their possession. His loincloth, although decorated and ornate, is not as special a one would think. It is made from the hide of a four-legged animal, dyed white. Gold threads sown into the leather, and beads placed around the edges. This was not a symbol of great status, or wealth, it was commonplace with his clan. And the other clans had their own ways of decorating their own cloths. His shawl was not that special either it was just a sign that he felt the morning chill.
He sits with majestic exuberance. As strong as he may seem, if you were to look at him more closely, you would notice his arms have shrunk, his cheeks have sunk slightly into his face, his ribs are showing, and his belly, although muscular, has thinned. He is emaciated, and weaker than he presents himself. There is famine that has spread across his lands and across the clans. He has not received tribute in months, but not because the other clans have not tried to pay, but because he refused to accept any; all are starved and all need what they can get. Many have starved to death, and it pains him more than he allows himself to show. He only eats if the whole village begs and pleads him to, but he only eats a little no matter how many feasts are presented to him. He will not let his people starve so he may eat. He will not take food from a babe’s mouth, even if that child’s mother tries to give the Leader the child’s food. It may be his right to take all so he may remain healthy, and strong, but he will not, his strength is his love for his people, without them he would not be leader, without him, his people would starve. He has sent the young and strong to find game, as all the livestock has dwindled to almost nothing. Each time he sends out the parties, they come back with less and less. It has almost become a pointless endeavor to send them out anymore. He no longer feels the pangs of hunger; he no longer knows when he ate last.
At first when he went without food for a day there was some discomfort but he pushed it to the back of his mind. The second day he felt weak, and the pain had irradiated out to his joints. The third day he felt his mind going and the hunger went away. On the fourth day he had a bite of food, and he voraciously ate his small meal, then his stomach ached for hours, he swore his food was cutting through his stomach. He has gone without food since.
The hunting parties returned all had nothing to show for their effort. All were stricken with grief upon their faces, and their leader looked upon them with concern then a smile. He had told them not to worry, he will consult with the priests and pray for food, and from his own stash, which was dwindling, he handed each with enough food to feed four families and sent them to provide for those who are without. Each man’s eyes shined with tears of joy, and gratitude, with disappointment, as they do not know how to thank their generous leader. He sat there with a heart-warming smile, and his face showed them they need not worry to give thanks, as he was content with their existence alone. To them he seemed strong and full of life, but in actuality he was weak, and hungered. He cannot bear to see his people starve, and in these dire times he must consult with the priests. The priests stave off hunger because they must. The priests have no choice in the matter, even if they wanted to give food to the people they cannot, they must be fed so they can pray and prepare. There is only one course of action if food cannot be found in five days straight, so far this day has been the fourth. On the fifth day without food, one must be sacrificed and purified, so that their body may feed the hungry. Only the leader and the priest know of this ritual. Cannibalism, it is beyond all taboos; it is far worse than any other crime, except when the ritual is preformed. On this occasion the leader would pick one of his people, all are susceptible to be asked to perform this ritual, and they cannot deny their duty. This day the leader must decide whom he will choose to do this. How can he decide? He knows his people personally. He knows their woes, he knows their achievements, he knows the pride they have, and he knows their love. Anyone of them, if asked, would gladly do this for him, and for his people. But they do not know the ritual as he does. They are kept in the dark about it. It is grueling, torturous, and would take from dusk till dawn, and from dawn till the next dusk. He may choose an old man from two huts down, but he will not survive long enough to finish the rites. He may ask one of the young hunters, but he will be needed when the game returns. He may ask a woman, but she will be needed to bear children to replace the ones already lost. He may ask his son, but he will need to be there when the leader dies to replace him. He cannot ask one of the priests, they are needed, and they cannot be asked, even in extremely dire circumstances; the ritual would remain unclean, and this would only incur the greatest taboo of taboos. The leader sits on his mound as a pillar, strong, authoritative, and filled with a questioning stare. He does not move for hours, not to take a sip from his cup, not to scratch an itch, he is as still as a statue. His features carved with such detail, one would imagine a great sculpture had taken a slab of marble, and carved out this man, and gave him life. It is an impossible decision, but one he makes, one he makes not so lightly. He can ask one from another clan, one he does not know, but this would not be fair or just in his eyes. He cannot capture a wandering traveler and make him do it, the one to do the ritual must be asked, and must understand what it is they must do. A wanderer may not know of his people, may not know of the great implications that his question may bring, a wanderer cannot be asked and expect to willfully give his life to feed the people he does not know.
The High Priest enters his hut; he expects an answer. He does not want to hear it, but his duty to the people and the gods demand that he asks for the Leader’s answer and listen. The High Priest is the Leader’s youngest brother, the only one who has not died of starvation, or from a hunting accident. The High Priest stands at the entrance of the hut and awaits his brother to answer, and he stands for a long time, as his brother was still thinking of one to give him, and he will stand there till one is given. The Leader spends another hour unmoved, and lost in a contemplative trance. It is impossible to decide, it is impossible to ask another to do this. He moves his head slightly to gaze at his brother’s eyes, their sight met and the leader lets out a single tear. His brother, shocked, with mouth a gaped, knew what his answer was. He quickly composes himself, as he must be stoic, and he must respect the decision without any sign of disapproval, or emotion of any kind. But the answer is a hard one to swallow, and digest. All of the people in his clan, and the other clans would lay their lives down for their Great Leader, with fanatical fervor. This man understands full well the implications of such power. He can lay waste to any enemy. He can conquer the peoples across the desert. He can have his people traverse to the sea, and build ships to cross to new lands and claim them, and their riches as his own. He can call upon the people and start a holy war against all of those who may have a difference in opinion, a different way to pray, or simply a different appearance. He can be all-powerful! Revered as a god! The blood of virgins could fill his goblet whenever he desired, grotesque feasts of enormous size could be fed to him daily. But these are not his desires. He desires the well being of his people, he desires his subjects to live long and happy lives in peace. This is why he is the Great Leader; this is why he will give his own life to feed his clan.
This Great Leader understands full well of his decision. A person who is not leader, or a holy man would only figure that the purification, and death would be peaceful, and quick. This is not the case. The Great Leader’s brother knew just as well as he did of the rites, even more so one would say. The ritual starts with a single tear. But there is still one more day; there is still hope. Hope that the ceremony will not need to proceed. It was a sleepless night for the leader, and for the priests, they all must prepare incase the hunting parties do not succeed. He sits n his mound unmoving, but not with his usual presence. He shows weakness, as some would say, but others would understand. He no longer has his assured look, his marble frame cracked with the ever tensing of his muscles, his face filled with worry, and his eyes fade like a dying star. Hours he sat unmoving, trying to compose himself before dawn.
The song birds sing to welcome the Sun, a beautiful and majestic thing to witness during times of plenty, but times are dire and the air is filled with dread as the ravens caw, and cackle at the coming light. They mock it and welcome it to their sight, fore it is easier to spot decaying corpses in daylight, and with each new day, they had a new feast. In times of plenty the raven is revered as a necessity to the circle of life. But in times of famine and desolation they are abhorred as reminders that your life may be forfeit the next morning as your stomach shrinks, and your muscles fail to even hold your frame. A person who dies of hunger does not die from just the lack of nourishment, but their bodies collapse into themselves and asphyxiate. The ravens’ caws, and cackles bring only further despair. He knows this, and thinks about the feast to come the next night. The joyous calls, the dances around the fire, and the rapturous cackles of children and women. If only they knew the truth of their feast. If only they knew the morbid sin I am about to make them commit, if it were not for the ritual. I wish there was another way. As expected, the young and strong return to his hut, tired and gaunt. He gives them his blessing, and prays with them for a safe return and a good bounty that could provide for the people. They must ask him to come with them, he must refuse, and this call and answer must go on until one gives in. He is a man of great will and never folds, and they are men of great loyalty and do not ask him more than three times, if they were to ask anymore than that they know they are only wasting precious time. He sits on his opulent mound of bluish hue, with blankets and straw to cushion the hard stone. He sits nervous and still. Before the party returns he knows the answer, he knows the outcome. They come back with empty hands and ashamed. He lets out a glimmer of frustration in his eyes. Whether the men standing in front of him noticed, they did nothing. They may have not noticed, as they may be too ashamed to have noticed anything, or they are too starved to think of anything else other than the energy wasted for no result. The leader contemplates a little, he hands them the rest of his food stash and tells them to prepare for a feast tomorrow night. They leave with thanks and grief. They do not believe they are worthy of his presence. They know he had sacrifice his own food for the village, to bring them one night of plenty, and one night of joy. But they do not know what exactly is about to happen. The Great Leader knows. The priests know. The ritual will begin at dusk.
The Ritual begins as the sunset, to symbolize the passing of a former life, and with a passing one must be purified not unlike one prepares a corpse for a funeral, yet with subtle differences, for one he is still very much alive. His body stripped of all clothing, cleaned, and adorned with oils, and linens. Wrapped from head to toe completely, and left on the funeral stone for all the night as the priests pray, and one constantly beating on a drum. Several different prayers are recited during the night, and through it all not one of them can fall asleep, not even the one wrapped in linen. He must lie there awake and still for the entire night, if he falls asleep the Ritual cannot be completed and his people would partake in the greatest of taboos. He meditates and listens to the priests, and the constant drum beat, he prepares his mind for his rebirth in the dawn. This dawn, this new dawn, will be his most dreaded dawn in all of his life.
The Sun rises again. It rises and shines on the once Great Leader; now is the beginning of his rebirth. His bandages removed, the oils washed from his body, and he places himself in position, the position in which we all come from the womb. With his back to the air, his knees below his chest, his fists clench, arms crossed, and his face to his knees. They first cut off his hair, chanting and praying. Two priests take his headdress, and split in two to make a semblance of wings. Hooks are then fastened to the edges. Three hooks on each side, they will be needed later. His former brother, the High Priest, carefully, ceremoniously, picks up an obsidian knife, with an albatross’s talon for a handle. He prays and chants, and he asks for forgiveness for what he is about to do. He takes the knife and raises it up to the sky lying on his open palms. He flings his head back and shouts out his prayers to the gods. When he is done he brings his hands down, slowly, unflinching, as if practiced, as if he has done this many times before. In truth he has not, this ritual has not been performed for many, many generations, and has yet remained unchanged. One priest pushes down on the Reborn’s left shoulder another holds his right. And one more for his head and neck. The High Priest lets out a tear and adorns the obsidian blade with it. He prays, and chants. He helps with the Reborn’s transformation. The first cut is to his left shoulder blade. The knife is sharp, and cuts cleanly and easily, but not without pain. The Reborn must stay silent if he wants the Ritual to end quickly, but he still screams. The ritual comes to a halt. They must wait for his wails, and cries to stop to continue. The High Priest continues to cut the left shoulder blade and the Reborn does not let out a sound. They cut the shoulder blade till it protrudes out of the skin and extends out. The kindest matter to do this is quickly, but there is nothing kind about ritual. It is what it is. With the Reborn’s left shoulder blade exposed it is time to continue on to do his right. But first they must ask the Reborn if he would like to continue, they must ask kindly, and with love. If he answers yes then the Ritual continues; if he answers no, he must be put to death immediately, and then they must find a new candidate. All of this explained to the Reborn. He answers with quick consideration; he tells them to continue. His right shoulder blade was exposed quicker than his left, fore he did not scream, cry, or wailed. More prayers and more chanting are made, before the next stage of the Ritual can proceed. The wings that once were the eloquent, white headdress are now dyed red with the blood of the Reborn. Each wing has three hooks that will be placed through the shoulder blades, but first, the Reborn must stand. He is, weak from pain but he stands on his own until they fasten his wrists on two black stone pillars. His new wings will be tied by their tips of their arches to the top of the pillars. His Wings hang down the pillars as a daunting, ghastly sight to be seen. Ritual is not kind it will take its time. The hooks must be placed through his shoulder blades slowly and carefully, as to not crack or break the bone. The pain is surely excruciating, but the Reborn does not make a sound. He cannot make a sound yet. The left wing is hooked through without ease, and without speed, and the same can be said for his right wing. When that part of the ritual ends there are more prayers and the High Priest must ask to continue, with love, and kindness. The Reborn, with his eyes crazed with insurmountable pain, still answers the same. The priests then stand in front of him, in a semi-circle, and wait. This is the only time they do not pray, they do not chant, and the drum-skin left unbeaten. The Reborn lets out a horrendous scream, his body flails, and his feet constantly leaving the ground as he flaps his new wings. He walks, and he floats. With every step a score of millennia are fed, with every hover the same are left to starve. With every step, he quivers, and with every quiver he sobs, and with every sob some may drink, fore there is not enough for every soul to quench their thirst. This part of the Ritual is the least kind, and the most relieving. The Reborn is then allowed to cry, to scream, to wail out all of the pain, until he dies. With his dying flaps and flails, he screams then his face becomes gaunt, grotesque, and unmoving. Yet even in his death, his eyes still shown with the light only matched by the majesty of stars.
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