Rab: Chosen

The night I became a shaman was, for a long time, the best of my life. If I look back it probably still is - it is only the change in me that has tainted it and soured that sweet memory. It had been what I had wanted for as long as I could remember; it meant I could stay with Mother and Father, stay within the sweet confines of Gealach’s Eyes and avoid the growing, rumbling tensions throughout the herd.

By the time I was five and my scalp began to itch with the promise of an antler, I had finally noticed that something was not right. I had probably had inklings before but I do not really remember them; and even once I actually felt the sense of unease building through the herd I was protected by the indestructible wall of my faith. Everything that occurred was Gealach’s will, no matter what any other fawnling might say. The King was cruel - this was because he was Gealach’s chosen. He had defeated the Oracle, had he not? And Gealach had sent us a sign of their pleasure with the Owl-blessed Oracle Crowe and she stood beside the King at each Full Moon.

Of the group of us, I think we all expected to become shamans. Each one of us had a shaman as a mother and more of us than not had a shaman for a father too - though Jatack and Yeska’s father was a Fawntaker I believe, one more thing for him to brag about. It’s strange how that still bothers me as I haven’t seen Jatack since I was five years old. Of all the children of shamans, he was the only one who did not stand before the Oracle in the Moonpool, hoping to be chosen. He joined the guard at the first opportunity - whether he achieved his aim of becoming a Fawntaker I do not know.

As you may imagine I was delighted that Jatack had decided not to even attempt to join the shamans. In my strange young mind it was his admission that he was simply not good enough - that, despite all his boasting and bragging, he knew that he was not up to scratch. When I look back it was probably more likely that he idolised his father and wished to follow in his footsteps; just as I saw shamanhood as the ultimate achievement for fawnlings selected by our god alone, he saw Fawntakers as the most skilled, the cleverest and the most honoured. It still pains me to admit, but Jatack was probably more right than I ever was.

The rest of us, of course, went to the Moonpool.

It was a strange night: the moon was obscured by clouds drifting across its face and the herd was still deeply unsettled. The air felt slightly sticky and there was a greasy taste to it as though it were full of sweat and blood; nothing felt quite as it should. My own hide was slicked down with sweat and the pedicle of my antler was blazing with pain; my eyes felt clouded and my limbs were heavy and weak. I put it down to my own nerves, the deep seated terror that I would not be chosen and that I would be cast adrift from my family and friends, and stepped with as much confidence as I could muster into the the shallows.

The Oracle looked tiny from where I stood, her feathers slightly slicked down by the humidity in the air. There was something that deeply disturbed me about her, but she was Gealach’s chosen in more ways than one and I could not allow that feeling to come to the fore this night. Her golden eyes, blind until she was touched by our God, seemed to bore through your flesh and into your very soul and so any doubts - about myself, about her, about the herd, about Gealach - must be hidden away, locked in my belly like a bad meal. I was no longer a child, I had five years behind me and I was to be a shaman. I must be a shaman. I looked only ahead, only at the Oracle as she stood upon the surface of the Moonpool, and I buried my fears as deep as they would go.

I wish I could tell you that I remember how I was chosen with crystal clarity, but that would be a lie. From the moment that I found myself pierced by the Oracle’s gaze it becomes hazy and unclear; I know that I was chosen, I know that I was not the only one, but beyond that?

I remember feeling at the water with my magic and moving it in gentle ripples, feeling others doing the same. I remember the shamans around us, watching and waiting. I remember the darkness of the Moonpool and how little light there was and I remember the slick shine of my paint reflecting on the water. I remember gloom and heat and the weight of the air upon me; as though the cave itself was about to fall in on us. I remember a pause, a voice saying “This one is chosen”, a nose pressing to my shoulder, my knees buckling, the unrelenting, overwhelming joy.

It had happened, it had really, truly happened. At last I was proven right, I was proven worthy! The next thing I remember is being embraced fiercely by my mother and father, the pair of them laughing with delight and teasing me for my sodden coat. Somehow the air did not seem so heavy, though the moon was still hidden behind the thick clouds and now heavy jungle rain was pouring through the cavern roof and it is the noise of the droplets splashing into the Moonpool that I remember most from that night. It was Gealach’s applause, thundering from the sky and into our realm below. It was reassurance that though they could not shine their light, they were watching, they approved.

I know I was not the only one chosen because I remember the noise then, drowning out the splashing of the rain: jubilation, laughter, success. The joy of the chosen drowned the misery of those not selected. They were swept up and away and out, their sadness incompatible with Gealach’s thunderous celebratory rain. They were not part of this anymore, they were not part of our world.

I wish I had been one of them. Things might have been easier that way.