Fire Dancers in the Sand

By TJ Withers-Ryan

When Fern's Mountain tribe kicks her out, she's determined to find something exciting to do with her life.

 

But she gets more than she bargained for. Her training in the beautiful – but dangerous – art of fire dancing reveals she has a magical fire within.

 

As she makes new friends and falls in love for the first time, how will she know whom to trust with her secret?

 

And when her new family are threatened, will she be strong enough to protect the people she cares about?

 

Fern needs to become bolder, fiercer, and wiser – in a hurry.

• Language: English
• Publisher: TJ Withers-Ryan
• Release date: Apr 20, 2021
• ISBN: 9780645146714

TJ Withers-Ryan

TJ published Fire Dancers in the Sand, the first book in her Fire Dancers series, in 2021. With a double degree in Laws with honours and Fine Arts (Writing), she worked in publishing for a decade in roles including editor, proofreader, and marketing before joining the corporate world. In her spare time, TJ enjoyed more than a decade of serving the young adult community in Australia as a youth group leader, youth mentor, young adult group leader, and creative writing teacher. Before becoming a mum, she loved studying languages and travelling throughout south-east Asia, practising martial arts, and painting. These days, you can find TJ on social media, working as a corporate copywriter, and generally trying to survive #mumlife.

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First published 2021 by TJ Withers-Ryan

Produced by Independent Ink

independentink.com.au

Copyright © TJ Withers-Ryan 2021

The moral right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. All enquiries should be made to the author.

Cover design by Carol Mac

Edited by Michele Perry

Internal design by Independent Ink

Typeset in 12.5/17 pt Adobe Jensen Pro by Post Pre-press Group, Brisbane

ISBN 978-0-6451467-0-7 (paperback)

ISBN 978-0-6451467-1-4 (epub)

Disclaimer:

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To my parents, who raised me with love and fed me lots of good books, and to my baby, whom I love more than words can say.

Contents

A ceremony

Trading

Asking

Parchment and preparation

The circus

Bugs and baths

The brand

A stupid goat

Of gods and men

The first lesson

In the ring

The fall

Change in the air

The walled city

Hide and seek

The road south

Gifts

Into the sand

Certainty

On the run

Riots and revelations

Conversations

The seaside

Glossary

Acknowledgements

About the author

For more by TJ Withers-Ryan …

A ceremony

Bat-Erdene

My tribe is one that loves formal ceremonies. There is a ceremony for the first day of each season, a ceremony for the first snow and another for the first thaw. There are healing ceremonies and lambing ceremonies. Any excuse is enough for our chief to gather everyone together at the central campfire over a meal.

Personally, tonight’s ceremony was one that I wished to get over and done with as quickly as possible.

The autumn breeze cooled the night air as the moon rose in a deep blue sky. The mountains became dark silhouettes that did little to shelter the valley. I was wearing a new coat, which my mother had specially embroidered with red and white flowers to commemorate the occasion. Although it was beautiful, it didn’t quite block the wind, so I was shifting my toes inside my boots to try and keep warm.

The bonfire crackled and popped loudly. Its heat was almost too much on the face when you stood close, but barely enough if you were just a few steps back from the flames. Little sparks spun into the air every few seconds, turned and twisted in the breeze, and fell as ash onto the tribe’s hooded cloaks or hats.

I breathed in deeply. The air smelled of woodsmoke, and of the lamb roasting on a spit over the edges of the fire. I’d always had a fascination with fire, even though it was dangerous in our dry climate.

The drums had been playing a steady beat, not loud, but constant, like a heartbeat. Our chief gestured, and the drums stopped. He stepped forward; his robes fastened tight around him. The fur lining of his hat shimmered in the wind. His eyes glinted above his heavy beard, which was more salt than pepper these days. Like all of our people, he was pale-faced and flat-nosed, and mostly made of lean muscle, wearing bulky layers against the cold.

My own heartbeat begun to speed up, knowing what was coming. Last year, I had seen my friend Qadan go through this when he became a man, and now it was my turn to become a woman.

But I had an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of my stomach: the dread that my ceremony might have a more drastic conclusion than any others.

‘It is a great day,’ the chief’s voice sprang out over the fifty people assembled around the fire to witness my coming of age. ‘We are gathered as witnesses for the God who led us from the wilderness to these valleys of plenty, and for those who are not present with us, as one of our own completes this ceremony.’ He gestured at me. ‘She started the night as a child, and she will end the night as an adult. She will choose a name to be called by, a place to work for the good of our tribe, and a mate to join her tent. She will speak at our fire for the first time tonight. Will you agree to hear her?’

I caught my mother’s eye. She looked calm enough, but I knew she’d been worried about me in the lead-up to the ceremony. My father kept trying to tell her I would ‘find my path’ soon enough, but I think she wished she could simply tell me which path to take. My father didn’t waste a great deal of words on important things. In my whole life, I’d heard more from him about the weather or how to deliver a lamb, than about anything else. My mother had been the one to shower me with words about how she’d met my father, why he had chosen to be a shepherd and she a cheesemaker, or how I might choose my own role.

My parents couldn’t speak for me tonight – another member of the tribe had to be willing to ‘hear me’ enter the tribe. So I stared into the light from the flames, squared my shoulders, and waited.

The chief looked around, and in spite of knowing these were my people and my friends, for one gut-wrenching moment I was afraid. If nobody was willing to hear me, I wouldn’t be allowed to choose a name for myself. In our tribe, no child was named at birth, because God alone had their true name written on the stones of his palace. At eighteen, I was now permitted to seek out and find that true name for myself. But without an accepted name or a role within the tribe, or even a chosen mate, I would be cast out into the wilderness, considered dead, and left to become food for the jackals or frozen by the winter rains. My hands clenched in the folds of my tunic.

A voice spoke above the breeze. ‘I will hear her.’

I looked – it was Tsetseg, my mother’s closest friend.

After she spoke, the other voices joined her all at once in a ripple of sound. ‘I will hear her … hear her … hear her …’

It rumbled over me until I could breathe again. I looked around and saw serious faces looking back, a few with kind eyes, many blank and waiting.

Waiting for me.

I cleared my throat – now was the time I must reveal my choices. ‘I hear the chief and the voice of the tribe. I am the daughter of Batu and Gerel, and this is my eighteenth winter with this people.’

I didn’t hesitate; I’d run over this speech in my head a hundred times before tonight. I knew everything I needed to say, everything demanded by tradition, and the chance that I was going to take.

‘I have learned from this tribe the ways of shepherding and of hunting, of defending the sheep from wolves with my bow or sling and stones, of building the fire around which we gather, and building the tents in which we sleep. I eat what I can hunt. I make the clothes I wear from the wool of our sheep, the flax of the field, and the skins of our predators. I chart my course over the hills by the sun, the stars, and the many faces of the mountains. I have read the scroll of our ancestors and spoken the story of how God came to us in the wilderness. I thank this tribe for teaching me the way when I was just a child, and I thank the God of the hills for giving life to our tribe.’

I walked to the fire’s edge, my leather boots soft on the rocky ground. As I bent one knee towards the heat, my braid slid down over my shoulder. I took a long brand from the fire and waved it in slow, careful strokes in the air while sparks fell from its tip. The word I spelled out with the glow from the branch appeared to stay in the dark air for a moment, then faded. I’d seen this before, but I still didn’t know if this was magic or created by the simple optical illusion of a dark night and a bright firebrand.

I spoke again. ‘I have chosen the name Batu-gerel, after my father and mother, and the name Julei, or Fern, after the way the fern shifts and moves in the breeze.’

The tribe murmured. It was certainly tradition to choose a ‘family’ name that combined your parents’ names, but my other chosen name departed from their expectations. Ferns rarely grew here in the mountains, where the dry season lasted too long to keep them alive. They were native to tropical areas like the Golden Islands, where they flourished in the humidity, sheltered from direct sunlight by a jungle of other plants and trees, and soaking up nutrients from the rich soil. Even when ferns managed to grow in the cooler climes of our nearest neighbour, the Tokseng wetlands, they were prone to frost damage in winter. No ferns lived here, where the dry air and the harsh mountain winds would whip them to pieces.

But I’d chosen the name because I felt it fit me – someone with the desire to wander, who had never really felt quite at home here in the mountains, who had always found the winter too long and the high air too dry. For the hundredth time, I wondered whether I’d chosen my name wisely.

Perhaps I should have been more prudent and chosen a plainer name. Every other woman in our tribe was named for native flowers or virtuous characteristics.

Sarnai, the rose.

Uranchi, an artist.

Bayarmaa, a mother.

Chinua, a blessing.

Khonorzol, the thistle.

Tsetseg, the flower.

Gerel, the light one.

Oyuunmeg, the noble one.

There would be no other Julei, no other ‘Fern’ in our tribe. People would be talking about this name, this choice, for days to come – maybe my whole life.

The chief’s eyes narrowed, but his face stayed otherwise still and calm. He raised his shepherd’s crook above his head and stamped it down hard in the dirt. ‘Welcome to our tribe, Batu-gerel Julei.’

The tribe lifted up a ragged cheer together. My mother smiled at me. My father shouted and his eyes squeezed half-closed in his version of a smile of approval.

Each member of the tribe lined up to give me the ritual greeting. In the cold air, they gripped both of my forearms and I gripped theirs, leaning in to touch foreheads. Some of the older ones were wearing gloves already, although it was not quite winter yet.

They would say my name, ‘Batu-gerel Julei’ or ‘Batu-gerel Fern’, and I would say theirs. Some hesitated over the strange name, but said it anyway, as quickly as they could. I still felt the burning fear of rejection, but it didn’t come.

It would be difficult to describe how I felt about the tribe as a whole and each of the people who gripped my arms in theirs. Some gripped hard, especially the young men. They probably felt they had something to prove because I had not yet chosen a mate. Others gripped my hand firmly because that was how they touched everything. They were the ones who always held their tools and hunting weapons firmly in their everyday life, almost as if they were holding fast to the rock of the mountain. I knew these people so well – the people I had seen every day for the past eighteen years, who were my brothers and cousins and aunts and uncles, friends and teachers and providers.

The chief gestured everyone back around the fire so we could complete the ceremony.

Here was the part I was really nervous about. If they’d thought my name was controversial, wait until how they heard my next failure to meet the usual traditions …

I didn’t take it for granted that I had any choice of occupations at all. In some of the further-flung tribes, women had only one choice – mother. Sometimes the women couldn’t even choose their own mate. Those tribes claimed God didn’t want women using the herbs to prevent pregnancy. Our tribe, on the other hand, believed God had shown us where to find these herbs and how to use them.

‘One God, many expressions,’ our chief always said.

But I thought some expressions of God were better for us mortals than others.

Not for me to judge, I reminded myself.

But with so many roles available to me in the tribe, I was disappointed to find that, as always, none of these options struck a spark within me. Not even a little.

I was dying to go somewhere, anywhere, and see more of the world, more people, more ways of living. It was the reason I’d tagged along on trading missions in the past, accompanying the traders to the markets down south, on the border of the Tokseng wetlands – an odd choice for a female. I genuinely enjoyed meeting strangers and making new friends.

I knew that this would be a ‘safe’ choice, one more in line with my eagerness to explore, and it would guarantee agreeance from the tribe … but there was something that was willing me to push beyond the normal, the safe.

The unknown was more alluring.

And maybe there was a job I didn’t yet know about, somewhere out beyond where the traders went, something that was right for me.

So, when everyone was relatively quiet, I swallowed and pressed on. ‘I have not chosen yet a role in the tribe. I have not chosen yet a mate.’

A murmur ran around the fire like a gust of wind.

I held my breath. Would I still be welcome now that they knew I had only decided one of the three things I needed in order to be called an adult of the tribe? I looked to my parents for support, but their faces made my gut clench. My dad’s mouth gaped open. My mother’s eyes were wide with fear, darting from me to the chief and back again. I couldn’t blame their surprise, as they had had no idea of my feelings.

The chief hesitated. He stared at me for a long moment.

Come on, I thought. He knew what words came next in the ceremony. Why didn’t he say them already?

The tribe began to murmur, just loud enough to catch the words … ‘What’s happening?’

The chief’s eyes ripped away from mine, and he stared at his feet for a moment, then looked around the other faces around the fire. ‘The tribe has met you, Batu-gerel Julei. But … because you haven’t chosen a way to be a part of this tribe … you cannot remain with us.’

My stomach dropped like a stone. The campfire became almost silent, with only intakes of breath around me.

Then the wailing began. My mother was nearly screaming, and my father had to hold her back.

‘Julei! Fern! No!’

‘Mother,’ I whispered, in shock.

My father pulled her back, drawing the two of them away from me, from the fire, from everything.

I knew there was a chance that this could have been the result of me not choosing a role and a mate, but did that really just happen? I’d not heard of someone being rejected from a tribe in decades!

How was this possible? I was sure that I would have been supported, by my parents at least?

I had no idea what to do.

In my naivety, I’d honestly thought they would give me another moon at least, to see if I could decide with a little more time. So I had no plan for this reaction.

Close to panic, I swallowed, my throat dry.

I could pack up my tent and head south, to Tokseng, look for a job in the cities? I only had enough food stored in my new tent for the next day. Would it be enough to get me to Tokseng, if I stretched it? It was at least a full day by wagon, so maybe slightly more by foot. I would have to rest more often than a mule would.

‘Elders,’ the chief said, ‘do you recall any cases where someone who has not made their choices was allowed to stay in our tribe?’

I looked around, hope and dread rising equally within me. I tried to see where my parents had disappeared to, to will them to respond positively, or just respond at all. But they didn’t. My mother’s cries were muffled now, but I couldn’t see her or my father anymore.

And the elders shook their heads, looking concerned.

The chief folded his hands. ‘In that case, the judgement is made. Batu-gerel Julei, you are no longer part of the mountain tribe. We pray you fare well in the world.’ To the tribe, he said, ‘We cannot see her anymore. We will never speak her name again. She is dead. Help her mother grieve for her daughter who has died.’

My mother wailed louder again. Muttering among themselves, everyone shuffled until I was closed out of the circle. No one jostled or bumped me, but somehow, suddenly, I was looking at everyone’s backs instead of their faces. They circled around the fire and shook their heads sadly. Without me.

As the tribespeople moved, I saw my mother and father standing near the edge of the circle, surrounded now by my mother’s friends, who were trying to comfort her. My mother began weeping as soon as she met my eyes, then looked away, her face twisting in agony. My father still didn’t look at me.

My heart broke. I had dishonoured them.

‘Let us eat, together, as many people but one tribe,’ said the chief.

Not knowing what to do, I stood there and watched the lamb be carved up off the spit. Everyone came forward, bringing their own personal bowl made of wood, clay, or tin. In our tribe, we always carried these with us on a hook on our belts. The lamb had been roasting for hours now; it would be so tender to eat. I almost moved to join them. I wanted nothing more in that moment than to pretend I hadn’t said anything, to pretend nothing had happened, to simply walk over to the iron pot sitting beside the fire on some of that afternoon’s coals and scoop out a small heap of stewed tubers and wild onions. The whole place smelled like lamb and wild onions – the meal of our people, the taste of my childhood.

With the ceremony over and everyone eating happily, one of the young children broke the silence. ‘Why does she have to go away?’

Their parent said simply, ‘She chose not to be a part of our tribe. We won’t see her anymore. She’s not there; we pretend she is dead now.’

The child replied, ‘But I can still see her. She’s just standing there, that Fern girl.’

‘No, hush, we can’t say her name anymore, remember? It’s just the rules. We must pretend she’s dead.’

I almost choked. Tears were welling up, my breath gasping against them. My throat felt tight. They had shut me out.

Alone. Unwanted.

‘But … but …’ I heard the words whisper out of my mouth, but no one else would have heard them. I could hardly think.

And I had to go.

Breathing hard, I looked down at my feet in the dark. I moved one, then the other. Then I turned myself away from the circle around the fire; the tribespeople, once my tribespeople,