Netra

In the beginning was Xochitl, first of all the gods to awaken. She looked on a world that was empty, silent, and She was lonely. She breathed onto the world and there was life, the plants, the animals and the birds. But still She was lonely. So She took of Her own essence and molded it into a shape like unto Herself. To this shape She gave intelligence and free will and a name: humankind. Then did the new world have meaning and She was no longer alone.

 The Book of Xochitl

The woman stood barefoot in the dark majesty of the desert night with her eyes closed, her hands clasped before her. Her lips moved in a silent prayer to Xochitl, the Mother of Life, while a coyote howled in the distance and a soft breeze stirred her long, black hair. Crickets called to each other and bats squeaked overhead as the minutes passed and a sliver of moon began to rise. When it had cleared the sharp ridges on the horizon she gave up and opened her eyes.

Her prayers brought no answer, so now there was no way to go but forward. The dreams that filled her nights constantly now gave her no choice. She could no longer sleep and she could barely force herself to eat. The lack of sleep was slowly driving her mad. Maybe it already had. She had even started to hear voices.

Or at least one voice.

She had to have answers, no matter what the risks were.

Slowly she undressed, removing the brown robe of simple homespun and then the light, cotton shift underneath. Then she was naked except for a small animal skull hung on a piece of twine around her neck. She drew the necklace over her head and laid it gently on her clothes.

Behind her was a small, rounded structure, with a dying fire beside it. It was modeled after the one described in the garbled writings known as the Book of Sorrows, penned by a frantic Tender in the final hours before she took her own life. It was woven from hundreds of gaunt, black, arthritic limbs taken from greasewood bushes, the waxy-leafed shrub that grew everywhere in the Tark Valley. Over the limbs were packed handfuls of brown desert mud, layer after layer until it was solid, leaving only a narrow entrance that could be closed with a mat, thickly-woven from more limbs.

She knelt and crawled into the structure—peering out at the night for a long moment like one who believes she will never see it again—then pulled the door shut behind her. Inside it was barely large enough for her to sit upright with her legs crossed. In a scooped-out hollow in the center of the floor was a pile of stones, glowing red. She hesitated, while the clamor in her brain increased so that she winced. A pouch on the ground beside her contained a whitish powder. She took out a pinch of the powder and held it, fearful of the next step. It had not gone well for the last Tender who went before her down this path. But, like her, that woman had also been desperate. All at once she tossed the powder onto the stones.

Smoke billowed around her, hot and thick and choking. She clutched her head in her hands and rocked side to side, making small animal sounds. Pain started in her chest and spread throughout her body. An unbearable pressure built up inside her, then she was torn asunder and thrown out of the everyday world. Out into a far vaster, crueler dimension, where the soft fabrics that protect the living from harsh reality are torn away, revealing the bladed edges underneath.

When the eyes of her soul opened and she looked on the source of her dreams, she began to scream.

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