Telling the Gods

“It is the risk of carrying the stone, to lose yourself, but the gods must know that the dead are coming.”
It was important to honor the gods. Hopa was only nine, but even she knew the life of the tribe depended on obedience to a higher power. The gods were fickle and they demanded attention.
“You will take the stone there, Hopa,” the smoky old priest had told her as they sat cross-legged in front of an amber fire, “The gods will need to know that someone has died. They will not accept your brother on his journey if they do not know he is dead. This is the way.”
Hopa knew about the way. This was not the first time her family had carried the stone. Her mother had died two years before and her father carried the stone then. He never came back. Scout Pilo had told Hopa that he had seen her father wandering the woods. His hair was wild and his feet were mangled and he was wrapped in the bloody carcass of an animal. He was calling for the tribe, yelling familiar names and screaming for Hopa, but he would never find them. He had lost himself and was no longer welcome.
“It is the risk of carrying the stone, to lose yourself,” the priest had muttered staring into the fire, “but the gods must know that the dead are coming.”
Hopa had traveled several days in her journey to the gods, but could see no end. There was no path, no way to measure any progress. The priest had been very cryptic in describing the task. “Follow the sun as it rises and the shadows as they fall. Move quickly and the tribe will be waiting for you.”
She had been quick. She ran across the land, lapping speedily at streams and ripping plants away from the soil for food. She knew what was good and, more importantly, what would make her sick. Her brother taught her. He had been a hunter for the tribe and would spend weeks away at a time, living only on what he could find. He knew about the way the water flowed and where the animals were and how to trick them. He knew how to move quickly and throw a spear and how to become invisible in an instant. He knew about Hopa and how she liked the sun after rain and how she was afraid of the warrior dances under the moon. He knew her and he had been the only one left.
“It is the risk of carrying the stone, to lose yourself, but the gods must know that the dead are coming.”
Hopa gripped the stone tightly in her hand and ran faster than she already had, faster than she thought she could. She jumped over the hills and skipped around the rocks, pushing her legs farther than they’d ever been before. Her chest tightened and her eyes watered and her muscles screamed until she stopped in a tremor of heaving and gasping. She tried to continue, but, with vision blurred, she stumbled, falling forcefully down on the thick, brown earth. Her body throbbed against the land and she let out a long and stricken wail, drawing out the dark feelings from deep inside. She lay on the cool, wet ground sinking in a treacherous grief.
But she did not drown. The tremors stopped and the wailing ceased and when she raised her head she had arrived at the valley where the gods waited and watched. They stood in a circle in large, pointed hats with great, long arms that rolled into the land and snowy, white beards that remained resolutely still despite the cold winds that rushed about them. The air at the feet of the gods was calm and crisp as Hopa approached the stone pile that had been visited so many times before; by her tribe, by her father, and now by she herself. With tenderness and humility she placed her stone on top, glad that, whatever the cost, the door was now open for her brother’s final journey. The sounds of her tribe whistled on the wind and as she turned from the stones she saw them in the distance, waving, and smiling, and calling her back home.
“It is the risk of carrying the stone, to lose yourself, but the gods must know that the dead are coming.”