Shivering, the
boy huddled close to the dying embers of his meagre fire, his pale
blue eyes sunken and dark from lack of sleep. His mouth moved slowly
as he repeated the chant he had learned from his father, his dry lips
cracking painfully and his throat sore from intoning the holy words.
His nearly black hair was matted with dust from sleeping in the dirt;
despite his resolve to remain alert while awaiting his vision,
exhaustion had overcome him on three occasions. His normally slender
frame and high cheekbones were accentuated by his rapid weight loss,
rendering him gaunt and pale. He wore only a vision seeker’s
loin cloth. After the first night he had sorely missed his leather
tunic and trousers, his sturdy boots and his dark green cloak.
Above, the night
sky surrendered to a pre-dawn grey and the stars began to fade from
view. The very air seemed to pause, as if waiting for a first intake
of breath, the first stirring of a new day. The stillness was
uncommon, both unnerving and fascinating, and the boy held his breath
for a moment in concert with the world around him. Then a tiny gust,
the softest breath of night sighing, touched him, and he let his own
breathing resume.
As the sky to
the east lightened, he reached over and picked up a gourd. He sipped
at the water within, savouring it as much as possible, for it was all
he was permitted until he experienced his vision and reached the
creek which intersected with the trail a mile below as he made his
way home.
