The Three Perfections

Prologue

“Out of the crooked timber of humanity, no straight thing was ever made.”               ~ Immanuel Kant

Prologue

The crowd grows eerily quiet, and the resulting silence is intimidating. Their anticipation is palpable, and I can’t bring myself to look at their faces. Instead, I look over their heads, and off into the distance towards the trees at the far edge of the clearing.  Panic gnaws at my insides, and nausea rises in my throat.  They are eagerly waiting for my answer, and I don’t know what it is. My growing distress is making it nearly impossible for me to focus. 

I have done well in the Petalisms so far, focusing on the challenges instead of my doubts.  But this challenge is different.  Like a well-aimed arrow, it has pierced through what confidence I had, and has struck the heart of my fears. 

If I am to have any hope of staying here in Tamil with my family, I must succeed in the Petalisms. It is the law, however unfair and cruel it may be. Earning high scores in the challenges is the only way I can ensure my citizenship.  I need to answer the Petalist’s question to their satisfaction, or I fail this challenge, and possibly the Petalisms; and failure is not something I even want to consider.

Standing rigidly on the challenge platform, I clench my hands nervously into fists at my side.  The Petalists’ question has caught me off guard.  What is the right answer?  What answer do they want?  Then words that Abram spoke to me during one of our training sessions echo through my mind - “There are no real right or wrong answers, Aaleya.  The Petalists just want to know how your mind works, and what’s important to you.” 

Do I know what is important to me?  I thought that I did.  But now, I am not so sure. 

The Petalisms have changed everything for me.  After six weeks of challenges, I have begun to question what was once important to me.  As I stand alone on the large wooden stage, surrounded by the citizens of Tamil, I suddenly understand that I do know what my answer is.  I am just afraid of how it will be received.  It is not the answer I would have expected from myself a few weeks ago, and I am sure it is not the answer the Petalists are expecting from me now. 

But what if Abram is wrong?  What if there really are wrong answers?  What if my answer is the wrong one?    

The crowd stares up at me expectantly, and I don’t recognize any of the faces that peer back at me.  Their expressions are eager, and I begin to feel like a piece of meat on display in front of a pack of predators.  Some of them smile at me, and I swear that I catch a glimpse of fangs.  I can’t help but think that they are waiting for a sign of weakness; that they are waiting for me to fail.

To my left the First Year entries and Seekers are seated in rows that rise up above the platform.  Their seats mirror the ones where the Petalists sit on the opposite side.  I search the First Year’s and Seeker’s faces, desperately looking for one face in particular.  Fear, hostility, and exhilaration exist among their expressions, creating a melting pot of conflicting emotions.

I swallow hard, and my throat feels like I have swallowed sand. Where is he?  I begin to despair, when I finally pick out a face among the group that isn’t wearing an emotion similar to any of the rest.  This face wears concern instead.  Abram’s blue eyes regard me with apprehension, but they also convey confidence.  His gaze sends me a silent message - “You are stronger than any of this”.  I know that this is his message, because I have seen this look on his face before, and I have heard these words many times. 

I know now what I have to do… I have to be stronger than any of this.

I turn my attention back to the Petalists, who are impatiently awaiting my response. They glare back at me with calculating and predatory stares. Their perfect posture, and stark white uniforms give them a sterile and flawless appearance.  One of them leans to whisper something in another Petalist’s ear, and he smiles cunningly. Not knowing what they are saying or thinking, is unnerving. The lead Petalist sits in the front row, her black hair swept neatly into a tight bun.   She eyes me keenly, and repeats the challenge question impatiently, her hands clasped together properly in her lap.