Call of the Dragon

Chapter One

When I lift my gaze, it is to scales that shimmer in scarlet and gold.

The dragon balances on her enormous coils, wings folded tightly against her sides. Great claws grip the altar, each talon thicker than my wrist. Her mouth is open, teeth studded with diamonds that sparkle in the flickering light of the temple’s torches. The statue of Yida rises before me, as tall as the subterranean chamber that stretches around us, dark rock glittering with veins of gold. Her head touches the stalactites of the cavern, eyes of black pearls gleaming as I hold a hand to my heart and bow before the goddess.

“Please,” I whisper. “Grant me your blessings this day.”

The prayer hall fills quickly, swarming with priestesses wearing wrappers in the browns of the earth, their hair rivers of black braids. I flush when I see Iya standing with Kakra and Panyin, scanning the crowd of women and girls, looking for me. I was hoping to stay unnoticed, but from the curl of my mother’s beckoning gesture, I know I will have no such luck. My back is slick with sweat as I ease my way through the crowd.

“There you are.” The lines around my mother’s mouth loosen as she seizes my wrist. “Come now, take a place at the front where I can see you. And try not to look as if you are about to pass out. Remember, you are my daughter.”

Not your father’s. The words unsaid hover between us. She thinks that if everything is perfect, then it will make up for his shame. The years have not softened the ache of his absence, and I force myself not to blink so that the sudden glaze of tears doesn’t fall.

Iya glides up the short steps hewn from gray rock, the last priestesses enter the hall, and the doors are closed as my mother steps forward. She waits for absolute silence, glittering in swaths of golden fabric. Thin chains drape across her forehead, loop around the long column of her neck, and lie across her chest. Wide bands of gold encircle her wrists. Her hair snakes down to her waist, and when she raises her head, the brown skin of shaved undersides gleams between braids.

As the principal iyalawo, she lights the amber candles and replaces a bowl of old rice with a new one, setting it on the altar next to the crystal she keeps there, which shines in the colors of a fresh dawn I so rarely get to see. Said to be one of Yida’s tears, shed when the dragon goddess decided she was missing her husband, it’s always on display. Carefully, Iya scoops out twists of gold from a pouch that hangs next to the crystal, adding to the growing pile that glints next to the flames. With each full moon, she takes the gold down to the inner sanctum, deep inside the mountain, offering it to the goddess herself. When I was very small, I’d wait by the door, terrified the dragon would devour her, even though I knew better.

“Yida, Mother of the Earth, we send you our gratitude for the world you helped create with Dam, for the weight you bear as you coil deep beneath us. We give our prayers to you through the layers of this world, with gold to show you the wealth of our love, and food to return the nurture you provide. Please feel our gratitude for sharing your idan with us, and for keeping our kingdom pure.” Iya surveys the hall full of girls and women with flashing eyes. “We give thanks that tonight Dam’s stars will hover over your holy stones, signaling the next Dírágónì ceremony, a decade since the last. We give thanks that some of the pious will be chosen and that the gods will imbue them with their idan. And we give thanks that Yida and Dam will use their idan to cleanse the lands, keeping the emi buburu at bay and ensuring that the shadow spirits cannot return to destroy our world.”

My mother holds up her hands, and the hem of her wrapper lifts high enough to show the red dragon that coils around her ankle. No one utters a word as she raises her right foot and brings it down on the floor in a stamp that slaps hard in the quiet. She does the same with her left, and then the hundreds of women and girls copy her, filling the hall with the pounding of their feet.

I point my toes to begin the prayer, and frowning slightly, I try to relax and bring my sole down. The stone floor is rough against the skin of my feet, but I relish the sting, letting it hone my focus. Beside me, a girl who only reaches my shoulders whirls along to my mother’s moves, and I spin with her, breathing hard as I try my best to count the steps between each movement.

“We send our prayers into the very earth!” Iya shouts as she stands before us, thick plaits cascading over one shoulder. “Only when we are barefoot can we connect with the land. Connect with Yida. To look forward to welcoming her. And to remind the goddess of our eternal thanks for the blessings and power she bestows on the Kingdom of Kwa.”

A group of girls press closer to my mother, seeking her praise. Like that will help them. Yida will choose whom she pleases.

There’s only a little time left before I am needed. I clamber to my feet, patting the bag that bumps against my hip, taking com­fort in the crush of wild ginger and lavender inside. It’s time to check on my batch of alligator pepper infusion and collect the henna paste, but I know I’ll need to slip out to avoid having to help with temple preparations.

I hurry through the prayer hall doors just as a temple nundá slinks through my legs, nearly tripping me. The feline yowls in annoyance, only stopping when I reach down to rub her triangular head. The scriptures say that hundreds of years ago, nundás were bigger and could fly, but now time and breeding have rendered their feathers more decorative than functional.

“Hello, little one,” I croon, letting my fingers sink into her plush red fur. The nundás are often desperate for attention, and they steal food but are tolerated by iyalawos because they keep down the population of cloud rats that invade the temple in winter.

The nundá nudges against me before lifting her head, sniffing at the waft of chicken stew coming from the kitchens. She slinks off with another meow, tiny wings fluttering as she pads quickly toward the service tunnel.

I raise my eyebrows. “It’s good to see where your priorities lie.”

“And what about yours, Moremi?”

Startled, I look down, pointing my toes in respect, my shoulder-­length skinny braids creating a curtain between me and Iya. My bag slips and lands on the floor, spilling some of the herbs.

I snatch them up and stuff them back inside. “I’m just going to get the henna to decorate the initiates,” I say to Iya. It’s not a total lie. I’ve been perfecting the consistency of the henna for a while, and I can’t wait to try it out. But the truth is, I want some air, to escape the crush of the mountain above us.

“Look at me properly, daughter,” Iya says.

With a small sigh, I do, eyes lifting from the broadness of her hips and the brown satin of her shoulders.

“Am I that terrible to behold?” asks Iya as she reaches for my hand. Beads of sweat slide through the gold scattered over her round face. She smiles up at me, although it does not quite meet her eyes. And there it is. The tiny flicker of disappointment that is always there.

I stoop, painfully aware of how abnormally tall I’ve grown in the last year, much taller than any of the other girls and women in the temple. Awkward long limbs and the clumsiness of a guiamala foal. I couldn’t be more different from my mother. “Of course not, Iya.”

“Is there anything you need for later?”

I shake my head. “I just went to find some more herbs while the henna paste was thickening.”

“And you added the sanctified golden dust to it?”

“Yes, Iya. The scripture on initiation helped.” As did the others on healing herbs and prayers that I managed to slip into my bag. I smile now, a curl of pride catching in me. “The color is exactly what you asked for.”

“Good. With Yida’s grace, tonight will go well.” Iya tightens her grip on me, her eyes skating over my face as she sucks in her bottom lip for a moment. “And are you sure you don’t want to offer yourself to—”

I pull my hand away, scuffing my feet on the rock beneath us. “I told you, I’m happy being an iyalawo of this temple. I’m proud of being an iyalawo of this temple. The scriptures speak of so much, and just today I learned that—”

“Yes, yes, we all know how much time you spend in the archives.” Iya frowns up at me. “Knowledge is power, but if you were one of the chosen, then you’d be able to channel the goddess’s idan. If you just tried.”

We hold each other’s gaze as Iya realizes what she has said. My prayers are not exceptional enough for me to be considered one of the pious, let alone to be chosen by Yida, and they never will be. Of all the priestesses, I have been the slowest to learn the steps, and the most unnatural in my movements. And of all the priestesses, I am the only daughter of the principal iyalawo.

My face flames with heat as I look down at my large feet. Temple prayers have always been hard for me, the rhythm slippery. I’ve mastered the basics, but that’s all it will ever be.

Iya sighs. “Moremi, I just want what is best for you.”

I don’t respond as I hook the bag back on my shoulder, stomach clenching in that familiar manner. When it comes to my mother, I feel like I am a constant disappointment.

“I need to get the henna for the ceremony,” I finally say.

“Of course,” says my mother quietly. She looks at me for a small moment before turning her back to me, heading for the prayer hall.

I open the door of the temple and plunge into a cool afternoon breeze.