Days passed quickly at the orphanage. Schedules were carefully maintained and rarely was there time for Narina to be idle, work keeping her thoughts away from the darkness of her past. In the mornings the girls would awaken early to help with cooking and other chores, the afternoons devoted to instruction and learning.

“As members of the lesser sex, we must temper our weakness,” the Matron would say. “A man may lend his back to the plow or his arm to the sword, but we have no such means at our disposal. So here you will refine your minds, to prepare for life outside these walls.”

In other words, preparing for the life of a servant. They were taught simple arithmetic, using stones to express mathematical operations. They were taught the formalities of language, how to address one of wealth and renown, to speak eloquently of the gods and to offer one’s humble blessing. They were taught to cook, to apportion spices and boil meat so that it was tender and not tough. Most importantly, they were taught to be submissive, to accept orders with a smile, and speak with a sweet and docile tone.

Narina did not mind these lessons, for they gave her life a structure in which she could ignore her pain. For others, it was not so simple.

In the afternoon, when the Matron led the girls in recitations, Mishal’s eyes would glaze over, her posture slouched as she barely mumbled the words. At times she would simply give up, sitting down on the floor and hugging her knees as she stared into the distance.

“Mishal, get up,” Narina would whisper, tugging at the girl’s shoulder. “Stand up and recite the lord’s greeting so that the Matron can hear you.”

“I don’t remember the words,” Mishal would say, burying her head in her arms.

Other times Mishal would grow despondent during Arithmetic, ignoring the operations of the instructor as she built little pyramids out of the pebbles on her desk. Mishal’s episodes reminded Narina of her own strange visions (though after having arrived at the orphanage these experiences had mysteriously stopped). They both were moments of disconnect from reality, though while Narina’s episodes engaged with something outside of reality, something Narina could just barely understand; Mishal’s disconnect was due to something inward, some pain recessed within the girl’s soul. The affliction clawed at the girl, and Narina could see how it drained Mishal of any sense of wonder or curiosity, turning her life into a waking dream. And no matter how hard Narina tried, she couldn’t rouse the girl from the sorrowful haze that so often enveloped her.

At the very least Mishal’s condition didn’t bring about additional pain: punishment of any kind was rare at the orphanage, let alone beatings. At most Narina would see the eyes of the Matron drift over the sullen child, and though she said nothing, her pale face expressed a painful resignation that Narina struggled to understand. Like many things in her life, it was for the best if Narina didn’t think too much about Mishal’s situation and precarious future, instead doing her best to comfort the girl during her depressive episodes.

And so life went on, each day bleeding into the next as Narina settled into her new life. Weeks turned into months, as time inevitably moved on.

—

Most nights, Narina didn’t dream. Her days were far too long, and by the time her head rested on its pillow, she was too exhausted to concern herself with things beyond sleep. But every rule has its exceptions.

She was surrounded by darkness, blind to everything except a strange sensation rising in her stomach. It took her a moment to recognize it: it was the feeling of the things from beyond, those strange feelings that had seemed to dominate her life from...before. Narina thought it odd that for so many months she had felt nothing at all, only for the sensation to appear here, in the middle of a self-aware dream…

Something stirred. Far-off, distant vibrations that echoed within her. She found herself drifting upwards, toward a sky she now saw littered with stars.

The stars above her seemed to dance about, forming great cosmic clouds of purple and pink that burned white with searing heat. Out of these formations, a figure appeared, shapeless at first but becoming clearer with every (un)waking moment.

It was a bull, with horns tipped with burning stars and black eyes that swallowed up light in its dark whirlpools. The animal snorted, emitting a fiery breath of stardust that blew through Narina’s non-existent body. Instead of pain she felt the energy—only a fraction of the power of the massive, cosmic being.

She was close to it now, yet could readily sense its entirety, though this meant that Narina’s own self was made miniscule in comparison. Before the Bull of Heaven she was practically nothing, for how could the experience of a human compare to a being whose form encompassed stars and galaxies? Even so, Narina knew that what she saw was only a representation, her mind’s attempt at making sense of the incomprehensible.

She reached out with her hand, curious to touch the creature, to understand it. Her mind brushed against it, and she saw through its eyes. Of course it didn’t have eyes, instead it sensed through the cosmic dust of its breath, imbued in the rock of the mountains, floating through the winds of the sea. It was everywhere and nowhere, a force of nature whose thought was delineated by shifting patterns of desert sand or the particular way a wave fell upon the shore.

Above all else it longed for chaos. That was why its waves crashed senselessly against the cliffs, wearing them down over thousands of years. It was the total and natural drive of all things towards destruction, disintegration—entropy: all embodied within the bull with its searing breath and seeping anger. It was hunger incarnate; hunger without lust or desperation, simply for the sake of itself.

As Narina experienced these inhuman thoughts, the being’s attention shifted. Narina felt it grow aware of itself, of her. Maybe not the entire being, but a small portion of the infinite being seemed to grow focused, its massive consciousness suddenly turning its attention upon her with laser-sharp precision.

The effect was disorientating, especially since Narina was still caught within the experience of the cosmic bull, and so as it turned towards her, she saw herself from its perspective, a tiny little thing, of no more consequence than an ant. From its eyes she saw herself regarding the bull, which was only a reflection of herself yet again regarding the Bull of Heaven. Soon, the recursive effect seized her mind, and all she could see was an endless string of Narinas, each only a reflection of a different Narina, all of them twisted and trapped within the bull's massive consciousness. Her sense of self was stretched thin until it disappeared, lost within the sea of endless reflections, a labyrinth of mirrors with no end in sight, each version of herself no more real than the last.

Narina woke up, heart pounding in her chest. It took her a moment to remember where she was, in the dark room of the dormitory, lying down in her bed. Slowly she calmed herself, taking deep breaths as she repeated a mantra in her head: I am Narina, the only Narina. I exist within myself and nowhere else.

She immersed herself in physical sensation: the scratchy sheets against her skin, the half-darkness which enveloped her eyes, the quiet sighs of sleep, and—

Was someone crying? Soft sniffles, a pathetic whimpering, coming from her left—Mishal’s bed. Narina got out to investigate, her feet tiptoeing across the cold stone floor. Mishal was little more than a gray shadow, her form shaking on the cot.

“Mishal, is something wrong?” Narina whispered, sitting at the side of the bed.

No response, only more whimpers.

“Was it a bad dream? Do you want to talk about it?” Gingerly, Narina placed a hand on the bundle of sheets.

“It was a dream,” the girl whimpered. “Of my parents. They’re fast asleep. I come into the room. I say, wake up Appa, wake up Amma, but nothing happens. I shake them and shake them but their eyes don’t open, I scream, scream until I can’t scream anymore, but they just lie there.”

“I’m sorry.” She didn’t know what else to say.

“Narina?”

“What is it?”

“Can you stay here with me?” Mishal asked. “Can you stay and make sure that if I fall asleep I wake up again, and I don’t stay asleep forever?”

“Okay.”

Narina laid down next to Mishal, and soon they were both swept back into dreamless sleep.

—

One day a young woman came to visit the orphanage. She didn’t say much, but stood before the girls and had the Matron speak for her.

Her name was Ayesha, the Matron said. She had once been like them, an orphan here, but she had studied diligently and found work within the palace walls as a washerwoman. Now she spent everyday handling the laundry and linens of the Prince of the city, folding the dresses of his Princesses and the robes of the priests of the great Temple. She had returned to share her success, to thank the Matron for her selfless service, and show the girls that they too—if they worked hard—could earn their keep.

Ayesha’s face was a sickly white, with a broad set of shoulders resting atop an otherwise frail body. Narina noticed that the palms of her hands were red, the skin raw from toil, her puffy eyes blank and dazed from exhaustion. She nodded along weakly as the Matron spoke.

After the presentation they all walked by Ayesha, curtsying and thanking her for her visit. Everyone besides Mishal: for the older girl had rushed out of the room a few moments earlier, an inexplicable look upon her face.

Later, Mishal explained to Narina what had happened.

“I felt so sick, like I was going to throw up,” she said. Mishal’s eyes were wide and unusually expressive. “And then I noticed I was bleeding from...between my legs. It was horrible and I was so scared I thought I was going to die. But then the Matron explained to me that it was perfectly natural, that all it meant was that I was becoming a woman.”

“A woman?” Narina expressed amazement.

“That’s right,” Mishal replied, self-satisfied. “Matron said they are going to find me a line of work, now that I am almost of age.”

“Maybe you can work in the palace, like Ayesha?” Narina suggested.

“I hope not, it sounds boring,” she said, turning the thought over in her mind. “And she didn’t look very happy.”

“...and you really don’t like chores!” Narina laughed. She was happy that Mishal was in a bright mood, despite the awful incident. Perhaps things were beginning to change for her.

—

A week passed, then a month. One day Narina woke up in the morning to find the bed to her left empty. Mishal was gone.

“What happened to Mishal?” Narina asked the Matron.

“Oh, Mishal?” The Matron looked uneasy, her blue eyes avoiding Narina’s gaze. Her sentences were short and succinct. “She had to leave early in the morning. For her new position. It was urgent you see, there was no time to dally.”

“Oh, okay,” Narina said, her voice lilting in disappointment. “I was hoping to say goodbye to her. Maybe she will come back and visit, like Ayesha?”

“I’m not so sure, child. Mishal will be far away now. Her work is very important, for she was chosen to serve the gods, and it is unlikely she will find the time to return.”

“Serve the gods, like a priestess?” Narina’s dark eyes expressed a solemn astonishment, the mention of the gods bringing back her own dreams and visions. Who would have imagined that Mishal would serve such high powers! “Why was chosen for such a great task?”

The Matron turned away from Narina, placing a weak, trembling hand upon her head. “It was the will of the gods,” she whispered.

“The will of the gods…” Narina turned wistful, long-forgotten memories emerging from her mind. “My parents...they used to say that I was blessed, chosen...that the gods had important plans for me. Do you think that is what they meant? That I too, like Mishal, will be carried away to some faraway, distant place, and be seated besides priests and soothsayers, basked in the incense of myrrh as I kneel before a mysterious, all-knowing god?”

The Matron spoke softly, her face still tilted toward the window so that all Narina could see were shafts of morning light that streaked across the shadowed woman. “Perhaps my child. If that is what the Divine Will demands.”