TESSERA

I

Like a raindrop whose start is unclear, Harpie, plummets from the sky. The harsh, cold wind stings her open wounds where her wings once were. Frail, broken, she hangs onto the storm that washes her down. Everything else is out of reach. Suddenly, a vast darkness weighs on top of her, as harsh pressure fills her lungs. Disorientated, heavy waves and thick storms combine. She has given in, ready to let her body flow and be carried away by nature. The current pushes her elbow into the sand. Aware of her orientation now, she can aim her hands above her and use her last remaining breath to push upwards. Relieved to feel rain on her forehead and rocks under her feet, she clenches the wet sand with a fist and curls herself around an old rope that feels like a thick heavy braid. All her remaining energy is used to hang onto the rope with the few fibres left of her being. Her last memory is of the cold algae knotting around her thighs. 

The sun hits her face and she squints her eyes open. Sea foam moving up and down the soles of her feet. She jolts away from the water, but is calmed by the sound of seagulls in the distance. Her hands are cramped from being interlocked all night through and her face is sore, dry and half covered in sand. A sharp stinging in her back begins to burn, salt has entered her wounds. Reaching over her shoulder with her long fingers, emptiness overtakes her as she remembers that her wings are gone. Covered in gashes, cuts and markings, she grieves for the purity and simplicity her body once was. 

Fibres and splinters in her palm refocus her thoughts. Where is the rope? Looking up, as her vision becomes more clear, a small boat tied to a mast can be seen in the distance. Nearby, an archway hides at the foot of an overhanging cliff. A cave perhaps. She picks herself up and begins walking barefoot across the sand. Conscious of her large nose and wide set eyes, she holds a hand in-front of her face at all times. Her bird-like features could instantly give Harpie away. 

Not a cave, but more of a passageway amongst the cliffs, the sound of footsteps echo along with the gentle rhythm of the water against the walls. The stream flows through the passageway and Harpie follows it, bothered by her weakness and the delicateness of her feet on the sharp rocks below. She isn’t used to walking on ground like this. She isn’t used to walking on ground at all. Her right hand follows the shape of the wall behind her, maintaining her balance. Until an unevenness in the rock catches her attention. A marking has been etched into the wall. Unable to see in the low light, she glides along the marking with her thumbs, closing her eyes to help visualise the shape. Some sort of tall rectangle with a circle above, her index finger can make out a long thin triangle facing towards it. Memories flash of the small engravings that used to be in her schoolbooks, the smell of paper, and the feeling of running your fingers along the quilted edge of the cover. How did she end up in a place like this? Alone under a cliff with the echo of water dripping from the ceiling. A cold drop catches her back and runs down her open wound. She takes a moment to crouch down and wrap her arms around her knees, feeling the warmth of her breath on her thighs. She peers between her legs and notices a soft light flickering upon the surface of the water, lifting her gaze, making her notice the small lantern lit up in the distance. 

Following it, the flame begins illuminating some belongings before her. A small leather notebook wrapped in string, a battered metal tin, a dagger, tobacco and a netted bag of herbs and leaves on the floor. Unsure whether anyone is there in that moment, she skims a small stone along the water, and watches for any reaction.

“You know it’s rude to throw a rock into someone’s kitchen”

Startled, and feeling stupid for her quick decision, she covers her face and leans her back against the wall. The Journeyman is perched on a rock, watching her as he cuts into his apple with a knife. 

“If you’re looking for food, you’re better off heading up the coast, there’s a festival this evening with all the bread and wine to last you three winters, and luckily for you, everyone will be wearing these” 

The sharp sound of something metallic scratches the floor by her feet, Harpie crouches down to pick up the object which the Journeyman has just thrown to her. A hard mask with large ears like those of a hare, and a fox-like expression, she brings the mask up to her face and ties the mask with 2 knots at the back of her head. It fits perfectly and conceals the upper portion of her face. Without saying a word, through the eyelets of the mask, she can now face the Journeyman and make out his silhouette. 

Hooded, stubble, salt in his dark hair and the skin on his hands battered by the sea. He wears a long coat with visible repairs and leather harnesses with buckles holding various objects, pockets, and protective layers around his waist, torso and shoulders. Hand stitching along the edge of his hood make up a diamond-like pattern like one of a harlequin. He owns a staff made of hawthorn leaning up against the wall behind him. 

Confused, but wanting to keep this encounter brief and her features concealed, Harpie nods with gratitude and walks back past him, making her way back towards the entrance of the cliffside. At the final turn, with daylight hitting the side of the walls and the smell of sea salt in the air again, the sound of drumming echoes and commences in the distance. She follows it. 

——

II

No words are exchanged, only the sound of drums, low humming and crowds walking in unison. Leather boots that still have sand on them now begin their transition from beach to forest floor. Harpie has found the tail end of the festival march. Looking down at her own bare feet in comparison, she lowers her long skirt to sit just below her waistline so that her feet can be hidden, as well as tightening the ties of her mask. No one can know that she is among them. Lifting her chin to see above the long line of town folk, she is relieved to be following a crowd of anonymous mask wearers like hers. The path starts angling upwards, grass softens and muddies, and as fog settles onto the forest floor, the steepness of the hill grows. A trail of dispersed lanterns are lit one by one as the sun begins to set, mapping out the windy path of the mountain up ahead. 

Sharp screeching pierces the air and sends shivers down her spine. No one flinches, despite the acuteness of this scream, it sounds as though a child is being tortured far away. The tall figure with the mask of a stag in front of her looks right at Harpie, looking behind their shoulder. Eyeing her up and down whilst walking, their pace slows, and Harpie’s heart is now pounding in her ears as the figure looms over her. Thankfully, they merely hand her a lantern and light it for her before turning back around and re-joining the group. Harpie nods politely. A kind gesture from a stranger. As the rope that pulled her out of the sea, the lantern now guides her through the night.

The screaming continues and multiplies the further up they go. Harpie recalls the human folk tales read to her as a child, and the description of that of a banshee, or the laugh of a cackling mage. In the dark, she treads over something sharp. It’s a toy which has been dropped by a child. A hare made of twine and wool upon closer inspection. She pockets it in the linen satchel hanging on her hip. 

The crowd comes to a standstill and so do the drums. Only the random shuffle of bodies and twigs breaking under shoes can be heard, that and the occasional caw of a crow up a tree. It’s no longer a march, but a long queue. The stillness of standing in one place lets through the soreness and pain back into the joints. Thirst and salt on the tongue. Open wounds scratching on fabric. Knotting of matted hair. Swelling of the soles of the feet. Stepping to the side of the queue, onto the cooler grass, she draws a little attention. The mask of a hare pivots and faces her directly. Harpie pulls out the child’s toy from her pocket and brings it to eye level. The human shakes their head and stands back to face the rest of the queue.

The sound of fire starts to crackle and hot wine is being passed around. Quickly going to her head, and having not had water or food all day, she is naive as to what lies further up. Something weirdly soft brushes her hand. Short and bushy fur. Two foxes are standing by her feet, brushing her leg like hungry cats. They squeal and rub their noses against one another. The squealing echoes out of different trees in her surrounding. It wasn’t screaming she’s been hearing, it’s the sound of several dozen foxes wailing. Looking up above the crowd, she can now see the front of the queue, and with it the large cauldron of boiling broth above fire lit logs. A deer’s skin has been stretched and tied above the large broth, pulled to each edge of the cauldron. As crowds part and move along, Harpie moves closer. She witnesses that each masked human is taking turns to bow and kiss the forehead of an elderly cloaked man kneeling by the cauldron, and then stroking the skin of the deer, providing their blessings. As babies being held by their mother’s begin to get cold and cry, the high pitched screeching of the foxes grow. An agreement so old it knows no beginning. It is said that the exchange of the life of the oldest townsman along with that of a willing deer, is sacrificed and returned to the earth in order to maintain balance and harmony amongst fauna, foe and land. Giving way for a rich harvest to last the next twelve years. 

The heat of the flames burning before her make her body and face sweat. The wine now uncomfortably heavy and bogging her mind down. The townsfolk draw closer. A gap amongst the flames and bodies reveal a pipe being lit further back, and a familiar looking staff leaning against a tree. Looking all around in desperation for some answers, she realises that she is last in the queue. Knowing no exit, Harpie is now face to face with the old man, she knows her touch will be his last, his faith is sealed, and yet, old and frail, he appears content with the honour and relief of his sacrifice. Bowing and leaning closer with everyone watching, the old man whispers in her ear:

“You are the last one my child, do not feel pity” 

Having no time to let the reality of the situation sink in, she is surprised by the touch of his hands around hers, shaking, she holds them tightly, only to feel something cold. She looks down to her open palms to find that she is holding a knife by the handle, placed there by the elder. Shivering and sweating simultaneously, the mask feels heavy and sticky to her forehead. She realises that she must be the one to help him carry out his sacrifice. Looking up helplessly to a sea of masked strangers staring back at her, she notices a hooded silhouette beginning to take his mask off before her, politely bowing. Lifting it slightly just enough to reveal his face, it’s the Journeyman. Continuing to bow, they are now both looking to the floor, he uses his staff to draw 4 shapes in the dirt like a signature, a tall rectangle, a small circle, a dome and a triangle, same as the marking etched into the walls of the cave. It is time. 

Harpie refocuses her mind, looks back down at the blade. The old man is already holding the handle, her hands wrap around his and his eyes close. And just as the pointer of the ouija board is pushed by a force unknown by those who hold it, the blade enters the old man’s chest. 

Like an orchestrated dance, the townsfolk flood in gracefully to untie the deer skin, place it over the old man’s back, and carry their bodies away to be buried in the crops. Foxes pull away at any deer scraps left behind, and retreat back to their dens. A deep respectful silence now falls. Harpie is still kneeling on the floor, her body in shock, and her hands are locked around the handle of the dagger, covered in blood. Never before had she set foot on earth before this day, and already has she claimed the soul of a man. The Journeyman kneels before her, places a warm hand on top of hers, and the other is holding a thick handkerchief around the blade. Prying it out of her fingers, he retrieves the dagger, folds it inside the handkerchief and pockets it in his back satchel. A townsfolk kneels beside her with a bowl of warm water, she washes the blood off her hands, and finally stands up to brush the dirt off her knees. Masks are staring at her from all angles.