By J.A. “Your mother took upon her

By J.A.

“Your mother took upon her this task, and her mother upon her, until the beginning of our time. You are a Woman of the Stave, Hilda, and we all must prove our dedication to the Gods above.”

A warm wind rushed down from the mountains, twisting and turning the girl’s salmon-colored hair. She stared ahead in deep meditation, violet eyes hard and steeped in concentration. Despite the chilly night air, she wore nothing but a deep purple bra and undergarments.

In front of her, the three wise women of the village, her own mother included, stood with their staves grasped firmly in their hands. Hilda’s gaze snapped from vacancy, looking into the faces of the women she trusted. One of those staves would be hers if she completed the challenge.

I can do this, she told herself. I’m strong. I fear no pain.

“On the eve of the full moon, we recognize our brightest daughter,” spoke the elder woman in the center, the gold of her staff shining in the silvery rays of the night. Its blue tassel flapped in the night’s wind. “Hilda, you have trained hard to become a Stave-walker. We trust in your perseverance and share in your bravery. You will leave this night a girl, and return a Woman of the Stave.”

A quiet murmur arose from the village spectators. Their eyes reflected firelight and moonlight, all of them eager to see which stave she would select. Would it be the blue-tasseled Stave of Healing? Or perhaps Hilda’s destiny lay with the red-tasseled Stave of Premonition? Her own mother, however, clutched the green-tasseled Stave of Guidance?

“Your pain is our pain,” spoke the woman on the far right. All three presented their stave to the youngest, their eyes full of compassion, fiery belief, and hope. It had been so long since the gods had brought them a Woman of the Stave, and they were no longer young. The elders feared what wold become of their village if the Gods did not shine their light upon a successor. “We suffer with you. We build you up, we give you our strength.”

We build you up, we give you our strength. The voices echoed around her.
Hilda hesitated for a moment before her gaze met her mother’s. Violet eyes met violet eyes, pride and relief lingering in them. Oh, had her mother dreamt of this day, when she could pass the Stave to her daughter. Slowly, Hilda reached out and took the green-tasseled Stave of Guidance, fingers clasped firmly around it.

“Guidance! Guidance! Guidance!”

“You have chosen,” spoke her mother. She reached forward and clasped Hilda in her trembling, weak arms, and whispered in her ear. “This path you must now follow to prove yourself to the Gods you must walk alone. We will be here for you when you return, to welcome you into our circle.

The firelight and chanting began to die away as Hilda approached the edge of the mountain. Nothing but the roar of wind in her ears remained, and even when she looked behind her, it was like all others had disappeared. The canyon yawned in front of her, a steep thousand foot drop.

We must prove our dedication to the Gods above. We must offer our pain in return for their wisdom and power. We must prove we are ready to die for their blessing.

Slowly, she unclasped the brooch holding her top together. She looked down at herself, the wind still roaring in her ears, and slowly inserted the staff between her breasts. She winced as she pressed the brooch back into place, feeling the wood pressing painfully against each breast. But this was just the start.

The land bridge ahead was a mere two feet in width, and spanned the great canyon. If she wanted to enter the circle of Stave-walkers, she had to face the deadly walk with the Stave clasped against her heart. It is the only way to prove one’s loyalty to the Gods. We cannot ask anything from them without proving our willingness to suffer for them, to perish for them. And they, in turn, channel their power through our hearts. Your stave must always be touching it while you cross the bridge.

Hilda set one step on the land bridge. The movement sent the staff rubbing painfully against her breasts, planting the first of many splinters in. She let out a gasp and clenched her fists, then slowly raised her arms to her sides for balance. She took the next step; the splinter dug in deeper. The land bridge spanned a distance of one hundred feet. One hundred steps. Two hundred, counting the return journey. She could do this. Pain would not stop her.

The steps were slow, cautious, because if she wasn’t careful the stave near her feet could trip her and send her falling off the edge of the land bridge to oblivion, but she didn’t falter. More and more splinters embedded themselves into her skin, dragging tears from the corners of her eyes, but she would not stop. She minimized the pain, stored it in the back of her mind, refused to acknowledge it. That is what a leader must do, she realized. A leader must always have a level head.

I am a leader. I am a leader. I AM A LEADER.

The pain ripped through her upper torso. She wanted so badly to break into a run, to lessen the pain, but she knew if she did, she ran the risk of plummeting off the bridge. The gods controlled the wind, and she was leaving her life in their hands. She took in a heavy breath and continued her careful steps. The splinters would not stop her. The Stave had to remain close to her heart.

Twenty more steps. Ten more steps… five…

She let out a whoosh of air as she stepped foot onto the other side of the canyon. The pain rushed through her entire body now, and she knew the old ways would forbid her from removing the splinters when she returned to her village, but now… there was hope. Excitement. She had made it half way. She could make it the rest of the way, too.

Hilda turned around and began her journey back. Just one hundred steps…