Six: Future- Solar Maximum
‘Clemence, our stellar pupil, you shall receive this new ordainment first to guide your class into this new phase of your lives.’
He offers me his hand to rise from the ground, my legs shake surely due to the effort of kneeling for so long, I feel my blood roar in every inch of my body when I take his hand.
I climb up those few steps, he sets me down onto the altar, facing the crowd, sitting on its surface with my legs swinging, feet trying to graze the fallen filaments of leaves from the nest. I wear a yellow robe, formless, covering from above my collarbones and running to my ankles and wrists.
I see his muddled reflection over in the crystal that hangs from the ceiling, as he approaches from behind, holding a fruit. It is of a shape I have never seen before in my life; I can barely comprehend it or compare it to any other fruits I have felt in my hands. Its colour is rich, its hues transforming from a deep red to the blue of the skies during a storm. He raises it to the heavens, right above my head, and pulls its flesh apart. Its waters flood down onto my head, every lock I possess veiling my face; sticking to my cheeks, my neck, the bridge of my nose.
‘Let the waters of the fruit of life bless Clemence in the same way the dewdrop of Helianthus have during her life, let it nourish her as the water of her mother’s womb had before her birth.’
The pit in my stomach grows deeper as my yellow gown becomes more and more stained, the bleed of liquid expanding across my body and glueing itself to my flesh.
He moves to unbutton my dress and no one says a thing. I have nothing underneath this. I don’t dare move; I tell myself this is normal. He isn’t going to undress me, why would he?
‘Let her shed these clothes for her second birth, in remembrance of her state the day she became earthside.’
It flows down my body, pooling at my legs. The fruit’s water has stained every goosebump now present on my arms. I don’t look down at the sight of my bare body lest I cry. For the endless moments I am left there sitting on the altar in front of my people, I keep my head up, motionless, but not looking at the crystal dewdrop. The dried sunflower petals dig into my thighs.
‘And now.’ The priest says covering me in a mantle of plaid. ‘Let her dress in the way of Helianthus.’
I am helped into strange clothes. A tunic of straw the colour of toasted wheat. The plaid mantel still over my shoulders. He covers my head in some sort of veil. I am grateful for the warmth of fabric, but the pit in my stomach stays, the shivers keep on climbing up and down my spine, my hands shake and I hide them in the mantle.
I am made of clay and try to hide my laboured breathing once he grabs me and carries me, still facing the crowd, I don’t know where to look. Back, back into a secluded spot in the grove. I stand with my back to a wooden plank and there’s a fissure up in the Grove’s trunk that lets some light in. Squeezing my eyes I can make out a sunflower.
The priest ties me to the plank and I cannot move, he does so with plant veins. First my ankles, overlapping, then my arms, outstretched in an invitation. I keep on looking away from the blurry crowd, far into the distance, and only at the sunflower which dances in the wind.
‘Clemence of Helianthus, of the Scarecrow’ The priest says.
The sunflower moves its head.
‘Clemence of Helianthus, of the Scarecrow.’ My people repeat in unison, in whispers that mimic the rustling winds.
I catch a peak of its seeds; They aren’t a crystal white as I have always seen depicted, always have been told. They are as dark as the night in the absence of Helianthus.