Dindi
You never forget the night of your Initiation.
Always, you are taken by force.
She knew this time that the rough hands grabbing her, tying her arms, and blindfolding her belonged to her own tribe. But that didn't make it better. She had already heard the whispers from the other Initiates—some children didn't survive the rite. The tribe had no place for the weak.
They used switches, green and flexible, to sting the backs of her legs and drive her down a set of stone steps. She could tell the cavern was underground. The floor beneath her bare feet was not smooth, not shaped like a kiva. It was rough, sharp stone.
The cave became narrower. Soon she had to crawl. But her hands were still tied behind her, so she slid forward like a worm. Gravel scratched her knees and dug into her stomach.
Even through her blindfold, she could sense a faint glow—until that light was gone too. After that, the darkness became heavy, like a rock pressing on her chest.
All around her, the breathing of the Initiates blended together. It sounded like one giant breath going in and out—as if the cave itself were alive.
"They've put a stone over the hole," someone whimpered.
"Hush," whispered a dozen voices. Initiates weren't allowed to speak.
A hiss. The smell of urine. No one said it was them, but curses flew through the dark. The silence broke, replaced by angry whispers and mocking laughter.
Time passed.
In the dark, Dindi began to see with her ears. She matched voices to faces from memory. A cough might belong to one boy. A soft hum might belong to a girl she'd seen earlier.
Bodies moved past her like fat rats, bumping each other, using others as guides. Someone's hair brushed her shoulder. Bone beads from a costume dug into her arm. She wriggled away from the stinking body of a boy and the ticklish feathers from a girl's headdress.
By now, no one cared about the rule of silence.
She added her voice to the whispers, calling softly. She found Gwenika.
They leaned against each other, back to back, and managed to untie their hands. Then they sat side by side, holding hands. The heat was terrible, but they stayed close.
The cave was hot—not cold like most caves. The roof pressed down so low that Dindi could feel it just above her head. She would not be able to stand.
Over a hundred bodies filled a space barely tall enough for a badger.
The smell of urine was strong now, but sweat was even stronger. A boy crawled past and crushed her knee by accident. His breath smelled sharp and spicy. Dindi's stomach turned.
Still, the thought of food came to her—flatbread, toasted and topped with cheese, beans, and onions.
Dindi and Gwenika whispered to each other. Gwenika didn't complain about diseases for once. She didn't whine at all. Her voice was dreamy as she talked about her pets—a long list of frogs, gophers, and sparrows. She had nursed them all back to health.
She talked about the sycamore trees near her clan's home. They had pale trunks, good for climbing. Songbirds made nests in the branches.
Dindi told her about the hills near her own home—narrow trails, sudden cliffs, waterfalls that spilled into clouds of rainbow mist.
But she didn't say anything about the fae. Not even now. Some secrets were too hard to tell.
What I would give for a jug of cold water, she thought.
"Have you ever killed someone? Or kissed someone?" Dindi asked.
"No," Gwenika said. "You?"
"No."
"Would you ever?"
"If he forced me to," Dindi said.
"Forced you to kiss?"
"No, no—forced me to kill."
They both laughed. The kind of laughter that comes when everything is too dark and too strange.
"I'm most afraid of burning to death," Dindi said.
"I'm afraid of dying alone in the dark," Gwenika said.
She squeezed Dindi's hand tighter.
The darkness felt like an animal now—hot, breathing against their necks, squeezing their chests. The air tasted stale. Gulping it didn't help.
Unease moved through the group like waves on a black sea. Voices whispered.
The air is running out.
We're going to suffocate.
Maybe this is the real test.
Maybe we have to escape to prove we're strong enough.
If we all push together, we can lift the stone!
But the stone was gone. Or hidden. Hundreds of hands searched the walls. Fingers scratched for cracks or holes. But there was no way out.
It was as if the cave had never had an entrance.
Some kept trying.
Dindi didn't. She saved her breath. It felt more precious than bread or water.
Gwenika clutched her hand harder. Dindi didn't pull away, even when her knuckles ached. She whispered, "We'll be fine."
But inside, she was thinking about the legends. The stories of children who didn't survive this night.
Her hand found the corncob doll hanging from the string around her neck.
Gwenika's voice came softly. "One summer, I found a baby deer with a broken leg. I made a splint and cared for it all season. By winter, it could walk again."
"That's sweet," Dindi said.
"I'll never heal another deer," Gwenika added.
"Why not?"
"My mother slit its throat. We ate it." She paused. She said in a small voice, "I didn't want to. But we were very hungry that winter."