It was the greatest day of the solar cycle. The entire village was celebrating. The thumps of dancing feet mingled with the pounding of ceremonial drums. Musicians blew into their flutes and strummed their strings in a joyous ballad that lifted the hearts and raised the spirits of everyone around the large campfire. Hunters marked their chests and faces with bold colors drawn in intricate designs. All of this was to call forth the ancient gods to judge us and see if we were worthy of continued existence. If we were deemed unworthy, how quickly or extended our deaths would be depended on the god that decided we were no longer worth their attentions.
The bleating of goats was silenced as they were sacrificed on the altars of each of the gods. The village's shaman entered the light cast by the ceremonial fire. The glow from the flames reaching deep into her hood only when she drank from her tea. Ceremony and tradition demanded a brew that was made from haws that she alone could harvest and dice fine enough for this one night. The musicians reached their envoi as the village chief greeted the shaman to the ceremony. As the shaman passed the half full cup to the chief, her hands appeared to shrink to the size of a baby's as they nestled inside his large palms.
The shaman stepped up to each altar and offered a prayer to each god separately. She asked the mother god whose ova spawned us and the stars above for continuing new lives to be born from the women of the tribe and the species of the animals we hunted. She asked that our heavenly protector heft his axe above us in order to protect us from those that would harm us. Her request to the god within the mountain below us was simple. She requested that he keep his sloping grades gentle enough for our hunters to remain surefooted and his soils fertile enough for the trees in which we lived to continue to grow.
The final altar was for the god we all respected as well as feared. It was a god that we all wished to never meet, but were also aware of how necessary his presence was. She prayed to the god of death. She asked that he keep his scale balanced. She asked that he not let it tilt too far in his favor and kill us all. She also requested that he not let the balance go too far the other way. Too little death would put a drain on the resources around us and force the herds we relied on for food to move to more plentiful feeding grounds.
Finished with her pleas and requests, the shaman returned to the chief to collect her emptied cup. Only time would indicate whether or not she had been heard. Only when the sun once again rested on the tip of the correct peak four seasons form now would we know if this ceremony had achieved its goals.
Most of these words were easy enough to incorporate into a story. I will admit that I had to look a couple of them up in order to know how to fold them into the narrative. Ultimately I look on this as a way to expand both my vocabulary and flex a few more creative muscles.
If you happen to hear about or know of any other writing challenges, please let everyone know in the comments or drop me a note on Twitter.
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