The pageantry of the celebration is underway, with a rainbow of colored tunics and dresses worn by attendees donning their finest jewelry made from gold, silver, and bronze, inset with precious stones of pink and blue opal, turquoise, and jade, and I am so bored.
Walking around the grounds of the palace—the only clearing in the dense jungle around Chopaqte—the array of colors stand out from the tapestry of green that encompasses the city, yet the spectacle feels as dull as the jarring gray stone walls rigidly containing the wooden structures within. Clans from all over Achope have gathered to wish safe travels to the representative from the continental capital of Qapauma, offering their cooked meals to nourish the traveler, the aromas of the various spices and ingredients filling the air with scents of fish, cilantro, and chilis. To me, however, it all seems like showmanship shamelessly attempting to curry favor.
The rhythmic drums bang out a fast, thunderous beat while dancers decked in long draping sheets of a colorful array of feathers—mostly the blue and yellow of the macaw, but also feathers of the black and oily green-blue Muscovy duck and white egret interspersed—intricately woven in shapes and patterns. The colors blend together in a blur as the dancers spin, leap, and swirl vigorously, yipping and yelling in time with the drums as they move. Flutes and pan pipes, decorated with long, dark condor feathers, whistle a joyful, upbeat tune to coincide with the jubilant mood.
There are countless cheers while the songs and dances seemingly never pause, and the guests clap along while drinking plenty (perhaps too much) of chicha. Every attempt I make to plant against the walls of the perimeter, I'm chased down by some suitor eager to have a dance with me. I make excuses—I am parched and need a drink, my stomach is too full from the feast, is that my parents calling me?—and I flee to fleeting safety. I suppose I'm worth their desperate efforts to court me; I have a petite figure to match my below average height, with long, black hair that I comb regularly to keep it relatively straight amidst the unrelenting humidity, and my brown, upturned eyes are a shade lighter than most everyone's in Achope. I'm also of childbearing age, though I shudder at the thought of having an infant. I also made the mistake of wearing a formal outfit for the event: A long dress which is one of my absolute favorites, just stopping at my calves and decorated with scarlet red and yellow feathers, and a bronze necklace adorned with turquoise stones that once belonged to my mother. All of this certainly draws attention to me like a solitary star in the sea of the black night sky. Although if I hadn't dressed for the occasion, my father would have chided me and never let me out of my room. Come to think of it, perhaps that's where I went wrong, since I'd much rather be there and avoid all of this.
The raucous laughter snaps my attention back to the festivities, but from the start this has all a bit too much for me. I slip away from the masses to seek out peace and quiet. The sun begins setting to the west, and sparkles of light glisten in the large nearby river, Maiu Hatun. The voices slowly fade and become drowned out by the water flowing past the docks and out to sea. To my right, and following the river in the direction it flows toward the sea, the nearby markets are beginning to close for the day, with the numerous merchants packing away their wares. Most are relatively flamboyantly dressed, though nowhere near to the level of outfits I just left behind at the gathering of nobilities. It has always humored me to see what each merchant wears, since it's done to showcase their wealth and how successful they are at business. "Ooo, look at me and how great I am!" Apparently not great enough to be invited to the celebration. No matter where I go around here, it seems I can't escape that mentality of showing off.
Nearby, one of the servants is struggling with a gourd as he retrieves water from the river. He is older, bald with wrinkles lining multiple places on his weathered, gaunt face, and his thin arms and legs are dotted with countless age spots. His garments are falling to pieces with an assortment of rips and tears throughout. He has distinctions of being from the Atima peoples to the north—well, what used to be those peoples before most of them perished, I suppose—with narrow and slender eyes and much shorter in stature, even compared to me. My understanding is that their neighbors, the Qantua, absorbed them into their populace, so I'm curious how he ended up this far south, especially since it requires traversing the waters of the vast sea, the Haqu Minsa. Or, more treacherously, through the jungle lands of the barbaric and archaic Tuatiu. Now that the war is over, I'm relieved both parties can keep their distance from one another, and I'm certain people from both sides would agree with me.
YOU ARE READING
Revolutions
FantasyAt long last, the oppressive rule of the titans has ended. We are finally free, thanks to the sacrifice of The Eleven, who unified a fractured land and used their supernatural powers to defeat the Timuaq. There are many like myself who have only kno...
