Tears for Amaia
“Can you hear me, Amaia?”
Her words fell quieter than a whisper, but she poured them into the polished floors as she pressed her head against the mosaic tiles.
She hoped the whisper would slip in through the cracks in the grout, through the foundation of the temple, and into the earth beneath.
“I’ve been praying to you every night and every day and in the middle of my days,” she said, doing her best not to sound angry or bitter. She paused for a moment, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “But you don’t answer me. Am I not … praying loud enough? Long enough? Do my prayers lack conviction?” she asked.
Her arms wrapped around her body so firmly, she could suffocate herself if she squeezed any tighter. But she only held on so tightly to prevent her body from shaking, as it often did when she prayed while in the caverns of this particular lonely feeling.
To feel forsaken by the god who was supposed to watch over you, care for you, cradle you in their palm. To hear nothing from them and feel as if they’d forgotten you …
“They say you are a quiet goddess. But you speak to those you have blessed. Am I not your blessed child?”
Fingernails dug into her back. Her eyes welled up. They felt leaden, sealed so tightly that the tears pressed against the barriers of her lids. As she did her best to hold back the tears, she could hear the temple bells twinkling in the distance.
“If my voice goes unheard and my prayers unanswered, what will become of me?”
As the true words left her, her body sank against the tiles.
“Please don’t forget about me,” she prayed. “Don’t leave me without your blessing.”
With these words, Silvang lifted up her head and stared at the silent woman before her. At nearly nine feet tall, cut from the oldest tree on Karas, the wooden woman was a wondrous sight. The wood was rich and dark, twisted with so many knots, it seemed to move and shift before your eyes.
Her dark hair grew long and blended into her gown. Her arms reached out at crooked angles like branches as she gazed down on the patrons who came to pray. Her name was cut at the stone panel at her feet in suun-kiarr, the original language of the Kiarna Islands. In the common tongue, her name was Amaia, goddess of the earth.
“If you can hear me,” she said, speaking louder now. “I beg something of you. Give me magic. If only a small bit. I have to have something. I have to know that I mean something.”
She looked up, hoping to see a flicker of something in the goddess’ eyes. Some of the patrons who visited swore they’d seen her smile after a series of prayers. Silvang had never seen a thing, just the same solemn expression as always, staring back at her from the unmoving wood.
She had always felt solace under Amaia’s warm and wise gaze. After all, nature had always been where her soul felt most at ease. She liked the deepest reaches of the jungle. The caves that stretched out beneath the ocean water.
But having never heard the voice of Amaia herself … it tormented Silvang. Why was she unworthy?
She twisted her fingers into her skirt again, working up the urge to make greater demands from Amaia. But a slice of light skipped across the floor as the great door to the closet-like prayer room shifted open.
“Silvang!” someone called.
Her name echoed across the small cove walls, spiraling up into the domed ceiling.
Silvang glanced over her shoulder to see the intruder, her sister Kiirsa. Kiirsa clapped a hand over her mouth and tried to stifle an embarrassed laugh that came through.
“Sorry,” she mouthed, dropping her hand away from her face. She beckoned to Silvang. “We’re going to be late. The ceremony’s starting.”
Silvang looked back up to Amaia. Show me something. Anything.
But nothing but a solemn expression.
Batting tears into her lashes, Silvang rose off the ground. She smoothed out the front of her dress and turned towards Kiirsa, into the hallway bursting with hot red light from the sunset barreling off the ocean.
Kiirsa saw the expression on her sister’s face and laced an arm around her waist as they walked the long stretch of open hallway to where the bells rang the loudest.
“Are you crying?” asked Kiirsa, her free hand on Silvang’s face. Silvang did her best not to shirk away from Kiirsa’s touch.
“Nothing,” said Silvang.
“If nothing happened, there would be no reason for your tears …” Kiirsa paused in the hallway. She cocked her head. “She didn’t speak to you.”
Silvang shook her head, lips pressed together. She hated crying. In front of anyone. She squeezed her eyes shut and when she reopened them, she resolved to smother the sadness.
Kiirsa gave a heavy sigh. “I know Mother and Mirin are always pressuring you, but … sometimes the gods don’t speak to us, Silvang.”
“They spoke to Mother. And Mirin. And Ress.”
Kiirsa scoffed. “You want to know what I think? Well, you already know what I think — that half of those people who say they’ve heard the gods are lying just to feel like they’re like everyone else. There are thousands of Kiarnans who live their lives every day never hearing the voice of their patron — even Kiarnas with magic.”
Silvang dropped her chin. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You can’t think less of yourself if you’re not hearing Amaia,” said Kiirsa. “You’ll drive yourself crazy.”
Silvang looked up at her sister and offered a muted smile. She’d gotten fairly good at shifting her outward emotions over the years, especially in a house like theirs.
She pulled away from Kiirsa’s close grip and instead laced their hands together. “We don’t want to miss Mirin’s blessing.”
Kiirsa saw the shift in her sister’s face and nodded. “You’re right.” She squeezed her hand and they resumed walking along. “If we missed even the introduction, we’ll never hear the end of it from her. I wish her blessing wasn’t the same day as your birthday. I bet no one’s even congratulated you on a beautiful twenty-two, have they?”
“You can be the first,” said Silvang.
Kiirsa kissed the top of her head twice. “Hello, beautiful twenty-two.”
