The Legend of the Mountain Village

My hearing heightened as I struggled to keep my balance, the silk sash around my eyes and the other restraining my arms behind me. The crackle of footsteps into the fallen leaves approached closer and closer, sending my nerves through the roof, until all I could understand were those sounds. I kept my head bowed low in respect as the steps grew louder, circling around me. Praying to the god of the mountain daily and in all things could not fully prepare me for the reality of standing in his presence. My imagination conjured up the image of a tall, foreboding, ancient, white-haired warrior, dressed in the regal red and gold of royalty, a large and fierce blade at his hip and a scowl on his aged face. The countenance of a warrior who had seen centuries of seasons. In front of such a figure, how could I dare to raise my head? My thoughts and heart raced faster when the steps stopped directly before me, more and more with fear instead of anticipation. What would this god do upon the discovery of a man for his bride instead of the woman he expected and desired?

The shrill pitch of a blade pulled from its scabbard rang through the air. The cold of sharp steel lifted my head up by the underside of my chin to face him. Then the edge of the blade dragged lightly over the skin of my cheek, until it caught at the edge of the sash at my temple. I struggled to maintain an even breath as I steeled myself to meet my new Master.