Dindi
Dindi blamed herself.
How many times had her clan, her teachers, even Kavio warned her not to wander off alone? And still, she wandered.
She knew better.
But… she loved people—wished them happiness and peace. Still, the farther away she was from them, the more joy and peace she felt herself. When she was alone, no one punched her. No one clubbed her over the head until she passed out. And she certainly didn't wake up tied to a post inside a hut made of sealskin, while a group of women brushed her hair, painted her nails, and rubbed kohl around her eyes.
But that's exactly how she woke up.
"She's awake!" said the woman painting her eyes. "Fa, little niece, shut your eyes again, would you? You'll smudge the kohl."
"She has a black eye," said another woman, frowning at Dindi's face. "The last thing she needs is more black around her eye."
"I'm trying to hide the bruise," the first woman snapped. "Or at least make both eyes match."
Dindi imagined what she must look like. One black eye from the bruise, and the other carefully painted to match. Like a raccoon.
Her clothes had been changed. She hoped the women had done it—and not the men.
She now wore very fine clothes in the Blue Waters style. Her breast band and legwals were not cloth, but smooth, shiny leather made from sealskin—chewed and cleaned three times to make it soft and waterproof. Otter fur trimmed the edges. The sealskin had been bleached, painted in blue, green, and orange, and decorated with glowing shell beads.
Dindi had seen Blue Waters women working on clothes like this in other clanholds. She knew this outfit was expensive. Strange, then, to dress a prisoner in something so fancy.
Around her neck, Dindi always wore her corn doll—carved from a dried cob, faceless, plain, but powerful. The women had stripped away all her other clothes, but somehow the doll remained. Maybe they hadn't seen it. That wouldn't surprise Dindi. The doll wasn't exactly invisible… but it didn't like being noticed.
"Her hair's not very long," the second woman muttered. She lifted a hunk of Dindi's waist-length hair. Blue Waters women usually grew theirs to their calves or ankles.
"It doesn't matter," said the kohl woman.
"The hair net's longer than her hair."
"It doesn't matter."
"It won't look good."
"It doesn't matter!" the kohl woman shouted, nearly poking Dindi's eye. Then she added more sweetly, "She's going to wed a shark. Do you really think he'll care what she looks like when he eats her? Close your eyes, little niece. Relax now!"
Dindi closed her eyes. But it was hard to relax with the words wed a shark and eat her spinning through her mind.
She could guess what was happening.
The shark that attacked them yesterday had probably swum upriver and now hunted in this estuary. Maybe this clan fished here and had lost food—or even people—to the beast. So they had decided to give the shark a bride. That meant Dindi was a human sacrifice. Either they hoped the shark would accept her and leave them alone, or they hoped to lure it close enough to kill it.
Either way, it would end badly for Dindi.
At least now she knew why they'd dressed her so nicely.
They were preparing her for a wedding.
The women finished fixing her hair and face. They untied her from the post—but only to tie her up again. Her hands were bound behind her back, and a leash was clipped to the golden torque they had locked around her neck.
Two women held her by the arms. One tugged the leash. Several more circled her closely to make sure she couldn't escape.
They marched her outside.
A crowd waited.
The moment she stepped out, voices burst into song. Dozens of men and women clapped and drummed. Children jumped and laughed. Old aunties gave high-pitched ululations. Men waved spears decorated with ribbons and leather streamers.
Everyone celebrated.
They looked truly happy—probably because they'd found a stranger to sacrifice instead of one of their own daughters.
Across the crowd, Dindi caught sight of a bier—a funeral platform—set up near the end of the clanhold. A man's body lay on it… or part of a body. Some limbs and the head were missing.
Her stomach turned. The shark was a man eater. And by the way the people honored that body, the man had been important.
The singing crowd led Dindi to the docks. There, two men lifted her into a small canoe meant for one person. The women tied her in place. There was no seat, so they forced her to kneel, tucked her legs under, and pinned her down with a net.
They tied her hands to the sides of the canoe, her wrists sticking out over the water in a painful position.
Then the men pushed the canoe into the river.
And waited.
The boat rocked slightly on the water.
And everyone waited.
The singing had faded once they reached the river, but now the drums began again. Soon, the beat was joined by rattles and a strange, sad sound like a wail.
From beyond the fence of wooden stakes and bone spikes, a column of dancers came into view. They wore veils and long cloaks dyed deep ocean blue. Their faces were hidden. They played the drums and blew into long conch shells, adding their haunting voices to the rhythm.
And they began to dance.
Their movements were bizarre—twisting, flowing, sensual. From their arms and feet spilled ribbons of glowing blue magic that wriggled like eels across the ground and into the water.
Dindi shivered.
These were Tavaedi dancers. Not hexers. Not dark magic wielders.
And yet… something about their magic felt wrong. Twisted. As if their dance contained more curse than healing.
Then—from the water—something answered.