The preparations had reached a fever pitch by the last week before the meteor shower. Ceit had been fasting during the day, only eating under Oongx’s night sky, asking her blessing for her every meal. During the day she painted elaborate mandalas from memory, depicting various night skies she would see over her travels as the seasons changed. She had been bequeathed the family atlas for her travels, to be returned when she was ready to ascend. It was a beautiful tome, covered in worn gold cowhide, with gold leaf edges. The ink used inside was void black, made from the family ashes and imbued with the dedication of generations. Animal migratory patterns overlay on frail transparent paper that she could turn to reveal just the geography of the earth beneath. Spindly lay lines drawn in ghost ink spun across the paper, magnetically charged and whirling subtly with power. It was a work of art. And the one true connection she would have to them on her journey. 

The day of the meteor shower was overcast, the humidity heavy in the air as thunder rumbled in the distance. Many of the cows had already begun gathering last night, circling their holy yew tree, which would be set alight for the celebration. The frequent lightning strikes and yearly flames had charred it to a deep shimmery charcoal black, but it always revived, getting a little larger each year, leafy again after each event. 

As she lingered in her bed, mentally preparing for the long day ahead, Ceit wondered what it had meant to Oongx, when she was alive. She wondered why her ancestors had let such a poisonous thing grow so close to their herd. But then, they had been rife with callous practices. Perhaps Oongx left it as a reminder to both herself and to the humans of their folly, of the pain she endured during her life. She wondered if the yew was truly immortal, as was said, or if this tree was another of Oongx’s acolytes, an extension of her body, left here on earth. Did it have its own consciousness? It was a conduit regularly for sentient lightning, passing on Oongx’s messages to her descendants, perhaps some of Oongx’s awareness lingered, trapped. 

If it was an acolyte it sounded like a hard assignment, set ablaze each year and electrocuted regularly. Would it grow to resent Oongx? Would she resent Oongx? When her family grew old and died, and she remained, would she wish she had done so with them? It was hard to say. She would have plenty of time to think about it while she traveled. Maybe that was why Oongx required a journey. She sighed, resolved to give it more consideration then. She rolled onto her side, gazing at her horns, set on her bedside table. She had selected the horns she would have implanted several weeks ago, a dusky gray, only a few shades darker than her hair and with a slight curve, much smaller than Ovu’s. Only the base would be embedded in her skin, screwed into her skull. She would be getting the underlying trephination in a couple hours, where a pair of small holes would be drilled in her skull into which the horns would be secured. 

She was exceptionally nervous about the surgery. A trained surgeon from the city hospital was coming by to perform the procedure, a short half-hour operation that she would remain conscious throughout. She hoped she didn’t faint. Or throw up. That sounded inauspicious. She wondered with the faintest edge of hysteria if Oongx would rescind her acolyte-hood if she threw up. Oh gods. 

‘Ceiti-baby, are you up yet.’ Keris knocked roughly on her door as she passed by without waiting for an answer, heading off to start preparing the fragrant ink that her skin would be painted with during the ceremony. The flowers that were crushed to make it bloomed only in the early mornings, and it was best if they were as fresh as possible. The sound knocked her out of her thoughts. Everyone was preparing for her and the pressure to meet their expectations got her out of bed. Luth had taken to sharing a room with her girlfriend, giving Ceit this one to herself, and she missed the comfort of having someone around to get ready with. Someone to help laugh the nerves away. Breath, she repeated to herself as she pulled a plaid shirt over her head. Breath, as she pulled on socks, giving up on finding a pair that matched and ending up with one star patterned one and one with tiny purple cows jumping over moons. She hoped Oongx wouldn’t be too offended. 

Allegre manned the breakfast stove, making honey milk porridge and some of Keris’ delicious homemade sausages. Being one of the few in the house, while the others were finishing morning chores, she decided she could best show her appreciation by making the coffee, though she would be skipping both it and breakfast itself in preparation for her surgery. Allegre had taken the latest batch of coffee beans out of the rotating drum roaster last night and they were now cooling in a grated metal tray, letting the chaff fall through. She pulled out the old grinder from a cabinet and poured a couple handfuls of the full pound of beans her family drank for breakfast daily into the chamber, before turning the crank. When Luth made the coffee she always spent time gleaning out the defective beans because she said they affected the flavor, but Ceit was less fussy. Coffee was coffee, as far as she was concerned. And enough milk and honey could cover any burnt flavor that lingered. 

Relatives drifted in, assembling plates and bowls and hot beverages. Luth side eyed the coffee mug Ceit passed her when she came in and sighed heavily in resignation, but took it nonetheless. Xia managed to ruffle her hair as he passed her to get more bowls. That’s fine, she thought, no coffee for him. Too soon everyone had piled back out to their respective responsibilities. Ceit worked through the high pile of dishes left behind, hands covered in rubber gloves up to her elbows and soap bubbles floating around her head. Ovu and the surgeon would be arriving soon and she still didn’t feel ready. She washed the dishes carefully, making sure to clean each one thoroughly. Would this be the last time she washed dishes in her family’s kitchen? A couple tears plopped into the soapy water, rippling. ‘Why are you crying over the dishes, silly girl,’ Allegre teased, bumping her hip with his as he squeezed in next to her with the big porridge pot he was cleaning. ‘I’m not crying, you’re crying.’ She teased back, feeling a little self conscious about her tears. It was a bit silly to cry over dishes. ‘Hmm, maybe I am crying. Crying about how many dishes we have left to clean.’ She giggled, tears drying up.