Daughters of the Exiled

The mountain was endless.

Every weekend, like clockwork, we climbed-me, my four brothers, my sister, and our mother. She led the way, her long black shawl flowing behind her, she seemed to be possessed by some unseen force. The temple at the top was always waiting. White stone, weathered and cracked, dedicated to four gods whose names I never learned. I never cared to.

Mom did, though.

She would kneel at the altar, murmuring prayers to statues with hollow eyes, burning sage until the smoke curled into spirals in the air. The rest of us stood back, shifting uncomfortably in the eerie quiet, waiting for her ritual to end. Usually, it was just that-a ritual.

But this time, something answered back.