One Heartbeat

The celebration seemed to go well today, even though my dress didn’t come in. Canyon shipping is variable, unreliable—it’s always better to have someone carry it with them on a visit.

Only the people processing needed to wear the traditional outfits and blue face paint, anyway—a bit different from Menarka, but it still looked beautiful enough. We had the festival in Bell Park across from the cultural center with three huge grills roasting meat and fruit. The air smelled like ritual bread. We linked hands with one another to make the labyrinthine symbol that is carved in the ground at most canyon cities’ centers while the procession went through us with the offering cakes and thick kaksadia liqueur. Readings and skits lasted about two hours. Then we danced.

Today is the summer solstice—the final push into the hot, hot weather—and thirtieth day of the season. Sweat beaded on my brow in the bright sunlight. The people who had planned these vigorous dances had canyon ground and canyon weather in mind; the monsoon rain would have cooled any performers. Two boys came by with watered-down liqueur to soothe our throats. Old men fed the fires with dried čukùsë petals; my mind felt like it had expanded to encompass the entire galaxy spinning with stars and planets and humanity. Loud chanting began first in the center, then at where I stood near the boundary:

The god of the rains has come. Yilrega has come: the watery procession has penetrated deep into the ground and his vines shoot up to form the doorway to eternity. Through this door he comes. Dripping with vines and water and blood, he comes. With the tempest he comes, and with the calm rains, and with the chaos of new growth. See him wander Ameisa. See him find his people. Near, far—everywhere. He has come.

The sound deafened my ears, but after a while it didn’t matter anymore because I, like those around me, had found the rhythm in the čukùsë and the loud drumbeats. My palms sweat when I reached to slap the hands of the people beside me. My heart throbbed with exertion and the food grilling made me feel hungry and lightheaded because I had rushed out of the apartment without breakfast and desperately needed something to eat. When the dance of young women ended, I rushed to the food line and had my fill.

Aneti called me when the festival ended at 10h. Still slightly high and very full, I stumbled from the building and talked to myself.

Only the subrail was open for the holiday—and luckily, the Bell Quarter had one of its eleven access stops. The Occupationists started it and abandoned it at some point because the skyrail was more efficient, but the local authorities opened these old sections two years ago to offset some of the skyrail traffic in peak areas. I ended up sitting between an old woman who smelled like mold and a young man who probably spent more time on his appearance than I spent at work every day. Misfits and societal rejects—and one of them even tried to sell me fried dough balls.

I got off about fifteen blocks from the river and walked the rest of the way. Aneti met me at the water. We ordered iced nonu from a vendor. She asked for extra ice. Eating and drinking cold things before you jump always helps, she told me. You should try it.

When I grabbed for a piece of ice, she laughed and told me that I should try jumping into the water. By the time the procession arrived, she had convinced me, filing into the line three places in front of me so I could hold all of her electronics. I captured a picture of her face after she went in: her mouth is open in a perfect O and, like everyone else, she is screaming. She climbed back out and took my stuff from me.

This was not a wise decision, considering that I had freshly-scraped henna designs on my forehead and had worn nice clothes for the Narahji Water Dances, but I did it anyway.

Jumping in, the water shocked every extremity of my body. It burned against my torso. For a moment, I thought that my lips had immediately turned blue. While I could still feel my fingers, I climbed out as soon as I could to avoid catching hypothermia. You have no guts, Aneti told me. The expression on your face! You are not a risk-taker, are you?

Not at all.

We escaped from the crowds quickly and ran in wet shoes along the streets until we found a vendor who sold white festival robes. Buying a pair of these, we roped our other clothes together and carried them on our heads until we found a quiet place in one of the parks.

Now I know that the bug in my hair is waterproof.