Arc 1: My Final Lesson

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“In my intemperate youth I had once the great honor and privilege to witness the most sacred and treasured of rites performed by the most secretive and private of peoples. I of course speak of the Royah and their fabled dance; the komo'ka!”

- Montrose Rainsford's Concise and Accurate Encyclopaedia of Araya, Her Peoples, and Her Varied Environs

- - -

It's a bittersweet morning, for all it's beauty. The cold, clear air of an autumn's night warms as the sun rises. Its blessed light comes down through trees alive with birdsong, leaves a glowing spray of gold, red, and evergreen. In the distance is the gentle sound of a river in flow, drowned out by the splashing laughter of young boys at play. My brothers, given distraction and careful watch by Father while this, my final lesson, occurs. There's a small smile on my face as I stand ready. In front of me is Mother. She's a tall, lean woman with black hair and amber eyes. She too gleams in the blessed light, bronze skin aflame as it plays over her. She stands tall: shoulders back, chin up, eyes on me. Her right arm is tucked behind her, knuckles pressed against her spine. Her left, held up between us, palm facing me.

How I stand is in mirror to her. My left arm is behind me, my right up between us. Our palms don't touch, not quite, but they are close. Not quite an arm's length separates us. I say nothing. I can't, it's not my place as student to do so. It falls to Mother to break the silence and begin. This dance is as old as our people and demands great obedience to its rules. They're not to be broken. They're barely tolerated being bent. “My daughter,” Mother says, “I have a lesson to teach you, as it was taught to me. Will you learn it?”

“I will,” I answer. I'm not supposed to answer as eagerly as I do, nor to be smiling, but I can't help it. Mother looks me over, from the crown of my head to the heels of my boots. She's looking for a slouch in my shoulders, the improper placement of my feet, or wandering eyes. They're faults she'll not find. I've a year's practice behind me. Some under her supervision, as is proper. Some without. A great deal without, to be honest. This has to be perfect, or as near to as a mortal can reach beneath the light of the sun.

Mother nods. I shift my weight without lifting my feet. It's the only sign I give to my impatience. It's important that she know I've paid attention, that her time wasn't wasted. She needs to see that I learned it well and know it true, all from her guidance. She arches a brow at me and a flush of embarrassment heats my face. Luckily, there's not room in the ritual for teasing. “Very well,” is what she says, “Attend. First, we make our circle.”

It's my cue to step back and I do as prompted, rolling from the ball of my foot to rest my weight on the heel. Mother does as well, our arms stretching to keep our hands in place, that scrap of distance between them not wavering. They're not to touch, not until the circle is made. As the eldest of we two and the instructor besides, she's the one to make the first step. I'm to move when she does, watching her for my next cue. I can look at her feet, it would be easier, but it's seen as bad form. I watch her eyes, seeing her step begin in the shift of her shoulders and following along, stepping across my planted foot and stamping down into the grass.

Now she must watch me. My step is quickly done – I haven't any patience this morning, it seems – and mirrored perfectly. We trade initiative on this until we have beaten a rough circle into the thick grass. Then and only then do our hands drop. The dance will be contained wholly within this circle. A spiteful dancer could hamper their partner by making it too small or uneven. Stepping outside the circle brings shame to the dancer and their teacher. The shame is lessened for a student, not removed. This is why I went off on my own to practice, breaking tradition and rule as I did. I'll not bring shame to my mother. “It is done,” I say, “the circle is complete.”

“It is,” Mother finishes, and it falls to her to begin the dance. I can only admire and envy the grace with which she moves, stepping to the side and spinning. Her shoulders shift and skirt flares out as she reaches for me. I keep my fingers open as I catch her by the wrist, sliding the blade of my hand over the finely shaped bones and guiding her to the side as I take my step forward. She goes as guided, catching my own wrist between forefinger and thumb to turn me into a spin of my own.

The dance is a conversation of sorts, or a playacting of one. The beginning is akin to a first meeting of strangers. Distant, careful, with light touches to arm and hand only. It is the easiest part. I feel the burn of effort beginning in the muscles of my legs, feel the sting of sharp, cool air on my throat. My heart picks up, and I can feel the beginnings of sweat prickle across my body. The speed at which we move is as demanding and unbending as the governing rules. We'll not slow or stop 'til the end.

I perform well, earning not a single correction or reprimand. I see the approval and pride in Mother's eyes and my heart swells. A year's effort, sneaking off, and frustration are paying their due. It's wonderful.

The end of the beginning is a comparatively slow pace of our circle. We've resumed the positions we began in: eyes on each other, shoulders up, and palms out. Once and twice around we go in silence. I'm not allowed to speak unless told, Mother only if I've made a mistake. The silence turns that smile I've failed to remove into a wild, joyous grin. At the end of our second turn I begin the next part of the dance.

- - -

There's a sizable, if singular, difference between this lesson and all the ones before it. While she is teaching, a mother is allowed to break the komo'ka up into three movements. While she is learning, a daughter is allowed to follow those breaks to ease the effort required to learn. It was quite the raging debate, or so I'm told, to allow this concession. Those for the change were of the opinion and made the argument that, in the end, nothing really changed. The dance was still taught, learned, and performed. Those against were of the opinion and made the argument that it lessened the gravity of tradition by making it easy.

The argument still rages, I'm sure, among my people's more ardent families. Especially if there's been drinking.

I'm grateful for the change. Learning the dance wasn't easy even with the breaks and a year's instruction with the greatest teacher. Although I think I might be reaching an understanding of sorts with those who'd rather there be no breaks. Practicing with them might be the reason I'm flagging now. I'm still going, and strong, but flaws are beginning to appear. I catch and correct them as soon as I can, but it's like standing atop a moving wheel. The wheel turns, and all I can do is stay on it. There's no time to think about what I'm doing, just to do it: to catch my errors and keep moving.

We're well into the second movement and halfway through the dance. Our speed has only increased, the distance between us closed. To continue my earlier metaphor, the strangers are now acquainted and glad for it. It's less distant, more casual, approaching intimacy in the touches to waist and shoulder.

There's something wrong, inherently, with the komo'ka. I cannot fathom being the first or only daughter to notice this. Further, I'm not certain it's a mistake, but the dance is flawed. It's a discovery I've shared with no one, a secret I keep for myself.

It's my arm. The one I'm to keep behind my back, knuckles against my spine. Balance is a vital part of the dance, and to have an arm trapped against my body is to have me constantly off my own. It forces me to ever more strenuous effort to keep myself upright, let alone perform to satisfaction. With that arm free I would be fine, able to direct the energy towards the steps and spins required of me.

I know this to be true because I've tried it.

The reason I can't be certain it's a mistake is that the flaw has forced me to learn to move in a way I would not have otherwise. It may be that this is what the Lost was trying to teach when they set down the komo'ka all those centuries ago. If this is the case, though, I cannot help but wonder; to what end? What purpose does moving this way serve? I may need to ask in order to find out, but I just can't bring myself to.

The second movement ends with me advancing, the blade of my open hand at Mother's shoulder while she retreats with the bar of her forearm spanning my belly. I'm breathing raggedly, heart pounding in my breast, sweat sticking my hair and dress to my skin. Her retreat's halt signal the beginning of the third and final movement.

It's mad.

A reckless sprint to the finish, both dancers throwing themselves through the motions with nary a pause for breath. To now complete the metaphor, the acquaintances become either lovers or enemies. They are close enough to be in constant contact with each other, arms draping and sliding across whole stretches of their partner's body: around and along the neck, up from hip to shoulder, down from chin to navel. The speed is such that there's no time to think, that the dancer has to trust the memory of her body to perform what's required of her.

I love it. Truly, I do. Every move is connected to the next, every finished step leads to beginning of the next. It's like a wheel, ever turning, only this time I do not stand atop it but rather lose myself in the turn.

Then it's over. The komo'ka is complete. Mother and I stand with our backs together, palms of our trapped hands touching. I've sweated through my dress, the cotton soaked with my effort. It'll soon be my turn at the river. My body is aflame with the strain of what I've put it through, my heart a-thunder and bursting with pride at what I've just done. I performed the dance of my people, to perfection, from start to finish. A moment a year in the making has just occurred.

Well. Not quite yet. The ritual of the komo'ka comes to an end as Mother and I take a single long step away from each other and, together, break our circle. There's no fighting the laughter that bubbles up my throat, nor the grin I turn to give to the woman who made it possible.

I see pride and love and glow beneath them. I rush to her and throw my arms around her, laughing like a fool as she spins me around. I press my ear to her chest and feel her heart beat against it, fast and strong like mine. She kisses the top of my head and says, “I'm so very proud of you, darling.”

But the way she says it gives me pause. Yes, there is what I saw, but there is also a kind of sadness. It's soft and sweet and I don't know what I've done to put that in her voice. It doesn't take me long to remember. Once a daughter has learned the komo'ka to completion and to the satisfaction of her teacher, she must leave her family. Now that I've done that, today is my last day as my parents' daughter, as my brothers' sister.

Come tomorrow's dawn I'll leave them. I'll leave my family behind and not see them again for a long, long time. It truly is a bittersweet morning, for all its beauty. I just needed to remember why.