The Rite
a short story by Vyron G.
The sea rose and fell with a perfect swell. At the shore, a wave crashed white against the black rocks. The salty spray that drifted in the air touched his face. He shivered under the midday sun, but not because of the spray. His eyes focused on the water as it filled the pit in front of him—a hole near the edge of the cliff. He breathed with the water, exhaling as it pulled down and gurgled between the sharp edges of the bottom, draining into the sea. The pit was almost empty for a moment; then filled from the bottom again with the next wave.
Someone spoke. He turned to the ones standing close. Each carried their own spear, a useless tool from a bygone era. They were young but older than him and had survived the rite. The gray war-paint on their bodies and faces signified their passage into adulthood. They watched and encouraged him to continue. That day was his turn.
The shaman was wearing the ceremonial mask. If he failed the trial, his blood and sea might spray that mask pink. A part of him welcomed the thought. Would the shaman grieve this death? Lost behind the mask and the chant, the shaman’s indifference deepened with each word.
The tribe used to be feared throughout the archipelago—this trial was the reason, by making fearless warriors. Now, there were too few to wage war. The archipelago forgot about this tribe—this trial was the reason, by eliminating warriors. Still, they held the rite.
He concentrated. There was a sweet spot at the center, and a single moment the water peaked with every wave. That’s when he had to jump. Any later, and he would crash on the rocks. Any sooner, and he would float out of the vortex and crash on the rocks.
He took a breath and leapt.
The chanting stopped. He registered the silence as he fell, and then the cold shock of the water. It swallowed him fast, pulling him down and then sideways into the darkness.
Most leaned closer to the pit and watched for any traces of red, others observed the sea. For a moment, there was nothing.
The vortex settled deep. The sea moved him gently back and forth. He opened his eyes and beams of light were fluttering around him. Pulling and kicking, he reached the surface. Cheers came from the cliff. He had made it to the open sea unscathed. A smile came on his tensioned face. All men rushed to the cliff’s edge, waving their spears. All but the shaman, who remained masked and motionless. The smile left.
He swam away, past the rocks towards the sandy beach that lies into the gulf. There, the women started singing with joy. The tribe never allowed them on the cliff during the ritual. He reached the beach and hugged his mother before starting up the footpath for the cliff. The ceremony wasn’t over yet.
No reason this custom should remain. When he grew older, he would end it. He promised that to himself.
Endless waves crashed and receded, shaping the shore in other places, but the ancient rocks were resistant to change, and the pit continued ceremonial.
With broader steps, he approached the pit. Fewer young men were standing there. He wore the mask his father had worn before him. Heavier than ever. Now his son was standing at the precipice, glaring at him with wet eyes. He remembered his own rite like it was earlier that day; remembered his promise, too. All eyes were on him. Whispers started. What kind of shaman could threaten their identity? He paid no importance all this time. Maybe next year, and the years passed. The tradition prevailed. His son reached the age of the rite of passage. He wanted to stop it more than ever, yet he couldn’t. He allowed others’ children to perish in that pit.
The boy took the leap. The shaman stopped chanting and collapsed to his knees. He had failed his son.
Moments later, cheers erupted. The boy would hate him for sure, as he did with his own father. That’s a small price to pay. The boy was alive.
With trembling hands, he pulled the mask and tossed it into the pit. A handful of men saw it, they remained silent. The mask floated on the surface as the water rose; it swirled toward the edge and when the water fell; it disappeared. With the next wave, shards of palm wood floated in the pit.
The expectation to conform, even when it causes harm. Beautifully written