One Heartbeat

Mànukha is a paste made from a mixture of opakha, ash, and nopà nut milk. They prepare it only for the unmarried women in the processionals, mixing the ingredients together while someone chants verses from our sacred texts.

kei parasia
om anei
omenevenei
omenevenei

kei parasia
om anei
omenevenei
omenevenei

The priests chanted as they pounded the mixture together. I kept my eyes lowered and my breath light so I didn’t inhale the white dust in my hair. Two temple attendants approached me; I held out my arms as they massaged the white mixture into my skin. The mànukha would crack as it dried, but the whitening agents in the opakha plant would leave my skin as pale as Adviser Sari’s for days.

Be careful, he tells me, pressing the kidiptu back into my hands. The device should hold against gunfire, but it will take time to refresh.

In a line, the priests came forward and chanted over our heads as the attendants unfastened the ceremonial white robes. They cast them aside and covered every crevice of my body in the material from my armpits to my ass, and they dusted the hair between my legs with white powder. A lock of hair—or, a dreadlock in my case—was clipped for the fire at Enakhiavoshei’s altar. They crowned our hair with garlands of white flowers.

What do you mean?

We sang the Daybreak Hymn as the sun peeked through the stained glass windows. Naked, I imagine, is what the nuamë nuaf iča must have felt when he first saw Sehet Annyi, or when Kakedi first met Hiahetà. Naked is how all of us feel in the eyes of God because, no matter what happens here, divine reality remains.

Diverting a bullet takes power. The shield can be penerated for a quarter of a second after impact.

As the temple attendants picked up the mànukha, we moved to the sidelines. Deimo Akaiannyi entered the room. I was surprised at how young she was—no one decent would have mentioned her youth on paper. Even with the gray wig—designed, probably, to make her look older—she must not have been more than nineteen. Beneath her painted eyes and adornment, she looked like every other teenage girl. Which is the woman whom Tenes Sari brought?

No one has reflexes that fast.

I raised my hand. A temple attendant slinked forward to robe me. Deimo Akaiannyi looked as though she could break out in laughter at any moment. Deimo Akaiannyi.

What is your name?

Salus Kobsarka-Nitannyi Niksubvya. I took the kidiptu from my pocket and attached it to the top of my head. I promise that I am familiar with my duties.

She grabbed my mànukha-smeared hands and squeezed them. And I’m sure that you will do a remarkably good job.

Still, if you hear gunfire … get down. Get Deimo Akaiannyi down. Promise me that.

Two hours later, the entire procession had assembled in the gardens outside the palace:

• white-veiled temple maidens with skin painted gray who struck bronze bells
• saffron-gowned priestesses bearing long blades of grain
• pink-clad boys holding singing bowls patterned with god-images
• celadon-robed priests carrying burning torches

The Deimo always comes last in the procession, attended by seven unmarried women, the White Maidens. For one day, these women represent the seven highest gods in the state pantheon:

Enahari, Divine Afterthought
Enakhiavoshei, Child of Light and Water
Enashisha, Golden Serpent
Onnyiji, He Who Gives Council
Enameisa, Conscious World
Nurogui, Divine Protector
Likhera, She Who Holds Together

Deimo Akaiannyi spilled the water on the ground. The Temple Maidens finished adorning their hair with white feathers. The priests began to walk towards the gate. Outside, people cheered. Chant rang through the city, a hum that resounded in my bones—a sound that resounds in heaven.

Nnyis eneleiuiač
daien ten
deohàrenesuič-shëir
kourom adaiahait
pei lopë nuam
kourom enna
akhiapui.

Approaching Deimo Akaiannyi, I activated the kidiptu. It embraced us, an expression of Nurogui in the world. For the first time in weeks, I felt safe.

I promise.