without the ashes of Beauty
When the Dynasty of Silence fell upon the kirin lands, we no longer had access to our nirik forms. Which means we had to surrender some of our most valued traditions.
One of these—one of my favorite—was called the Transcendence of Beauty.
The event happened every year, in the last week of September, just at the end of the wet season when the wildfire danger was the lowest. The most beautiful single young kirin in the village—never the same kirin twice—would be chosen by a council to perform the ceremony. I was never chosen. Although according to my parents, I was a very beautiful kirin in my younger years, “Autumn, you are such a pretty kirin,” papa would say…though it would be immediately followed by a plea for me to marry a handsome young kirin before it was too late.
The beauty was chosen the first day of summer, and then the preparations would begin. He or she would be clothed with the most elaborate silk garment, designed an army of our finest tailors. The night before, they would be treated to a royal banquet with our Empress and a stay in a guesthouse in the Imperial Palace.
At dawn, the Beauty would process, in their most beautiful attire, to the center of the village square, with all the kirin watching outside or from the upper floor windows of their homes. Ceremonial music would play, and the beauty would transition between various carefully planned poses, such that every side of the town square could gaze upon the Beauty—the crown jewel of the kirin land.
And then they would combust.
They would turn to nirik form. The flames towering twenty, even thirty cubits high. The whole village would gaze upwards. Ten seconds later, only the kirin was left. No dress, no cosmetics, no lacquered hairpins. After a moment of silence, the ceremonial music would play again, and the former Beauty would walk themselves off.
All things are impermanent, beauty is no exception. Our nirik form reminds us of this truth. Beauty does not last forever.
And where the pile of ashes lay on the dirt where the Beauty once sat, the most beautiful flowers always grow.
Today, Fern Flare died.
You wouldn’t know her very well—though she was once the Beauty of the Year at age 19. She wore the most beautiful 10-layered ceremonial silk dress, the belt embroidered with ferns, her favorite plant. She worked very closely with the tailor. Her mane was curled and waxed such that it glistened in the evening sunlight.
“Are you ready?” I asked Fern Flare.
“Yes,” she said. “This dress is killing me in this humidity.”
I gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. “Maybe this will cool you down.”
The ceremony was beautiful. She was carried by sedan chair to the center of the village square. An orchestra of drums and flutes played as Fern Flare sung an opera aria she had chosen.
Then when the all the formalities had concluded, she lowered herself—quite gracefully, I may add—and a blink later we saw nothing but fire.
There’s something special about the nirik flame of a young, beautiful kirin. The way it glows. The energy and power of the flame. It mesmerizes me. Awakens me. It drives me mad.
I kissed Fern Flare that night. And I kissed her again. And again. And…again.
The winter immediately following the Vow of Silence was the coldest winter in living memory.
When we were ordered to immerse ourselves in the magical waters of the Stream of Silence, destroying our vocal cords, Fern Flare held her mouth closed tight enough that she was able to retain most of her speech. All the other kirin failed at this, including me, and so I fell silent along with everyone else. But I was still able to communicate with Fern Flare, as long as she rephrased things into yes/no questions.
“Are you ready?” Fern Flare asked me.
I answered her with a kiss and a smile.
“All right.” She turned to the small crowd gathered in her living room. “Torches ready?! Let’s march!”
We walked out of Fern Flare’s house and followed the avenue to Rain Shine’s imperial palace. Fern Flare took the last of the nirik flames in her hooves and ignited wooden poles to use as torches. When the winter wind weakened the flame, we added more wood to keep the fire alive.
“Rainbows won’t light up the sky, unless you let it rain!” A song I had written before, but only Fern Flare could sing now. She chanted alone as the twenty or so of us young rebels marched in the blizzard outside.
Her voice was much harsher than when she sang the aria two years ago. Instead of melodious and airy, it was gritty. Tuneless. Fury.
She was 21 years old.
The blizzard slowed our progress, as two inches of snow quickly increased to six, then ten. Most of the kirin, not used to the cold winters without their nirik flame, could not carry on and rushed back to the refuge of their wood burning fireplaces.
By the time we kicked down the palace door, there were only two torches left.
“You can’t give up your laughter because you’re scared of a little pain!!” Fern Flare continued to scream.
The Empress turned to face us, her ears perking up. She too had taken the same Vow of Silence. The grand palace hall had not heard echoes of the spoken word in so long.
The blizzard raged on outside the kicked-down door, snow pouring in. “Give us back our voices!” Fern Flare shouted. “Give us back our fire! Candles will not glow until they burn!”
Empress Rain Shine was kind at heart, but when she set her mind to something, it tore every last bit of goodness in her heart to shreds.
She gently tapped the top rim of a silver bucket, tipping it over. Fern Flare could not run fast enough to prevent the fluid inside from splashing onto her face.
Fern Flare let out a blood-curdling scream, becoming breathier and breathier as she collapsed to the ground. Until she could scream nothing but cold winter air.
And with that, the Stream of Silence claimed its final victim.
Rain Shine carried Fern and rested her on a hard couch with elaborate woodworking on the legs. Dipping a wash cloth in the bucket and placing it on Fern’s head.
Rain Shine motioned for me to leave.
As I stepped away from our wretched Empress, I looked back at Fern Flare once—no, twice. I looked up at my torch—the winter wind bleeding through the open door had extinguished it.
No point in staying any longer.
I loved a part of Fern Flare. That part died that cold winter afternoon.
Today, Fern died at home at the age of 97, surrounded by her five children and the photograph of her late husband. A clean diet of fresh vegetables and spring water was what the village attributed her longevity to. Now she is gone, I am the last kirin alive to have been an adult prior to the Dynasty of Silence.
In the decades in between, Rain Shine’s daughter and later granddaughter took over the throne, each of them silent copies of one another. Even in droughts, the Stream of Silence still seemed to have a regular flow of water.
In my younger years, I travelled across the dry forests and canyonlands, searching for a cure. I desperately chewed unknown bitter plants that yellowed my eyes and made me vomit blood.
I never found a cure for Silence.
My desire for adventure seemed to turn off any male suitors, so I never married. Yet somehow time has been kind to me, and since Fern’s death I am now the eldest kirin living in the village. The younger kirin come to ask me for advice. Whether they should accept offers of marriage, or make a business investment, or choose a certain career path.
I know nothing of any of those things. But they keep treating me like I do.
I sit on my old rattan chair, positioned in the center of my living room. They prostrate before me, dropping their eyelids—is my aged face that hideous of a sight?—and they pass me a scroll, penned in their finest calligraphy. My eyes aren’t working, and I only skim about half of the text.
Autumn Bl…O wise one…humbled by your…day…sk for your guidance. I have…ffer of marriage from…most handsome and rich kirin in the vill…But…not the one I love…should I accept?
Do I know this handsome kirin she speaks of? There are many handsome kirin, but none I know who are rich—my memory fails me. I remember scenes in my life—like in a theater, with scripts and music playing the orchestra pit. Without the voices, it’s like the scene is incomplete.
Nearly seven decades of my life have been incomplete memories.
The young kirin mare looks up at me with expectant eyes. She is quite beautiful herself. She reminds me of Fern Flare.
I turn to the window to my left to rest my eyes. I feel so lethargic. I’ve been sitting all day dispensing advice like some all-knowing goddess. Should I take my walk before or after luncheon? It might rain this afternoon, so maybe. I’m not looking forward to the lunch of unflavored cooked oats my live-in caretaker provides for me, anyway. Nuh-unh, no sir, no way. Not at all.
I shake my head.
The kirin mare prostrating before me (who is she? when did she even get in here?) widens her eyes, almost like saying, “Really? Are you sure!?”
Yes, I think I should take that walk before lunch. Those clouds outside look like a downpour waiting to happen.
I nod my head.
The young kirin mare smiles wider than I’ve seen yet, bows quickly, and bounds out the door with excitement. Whatever she was trying to ask me, my answer seems to have made her happy. That’s good.
Age turns impulse decisions into wisdom.
I come home from my walk. My caretaker treats me to a better lunch than I was expecting—steamed cabbage buns with pickles and rice. I'm only just starting to eat when Rain Shine—no, Rain Shine’s granddaughter, Plum Rain, they look so much alike—storms into my home. She shoves a scroll into my face. A twenty, maybe thirty-cubit long royal tirade. This one, I skim even more.
Rich…wealt…reputati…the village expects them to marry…I expect them to marr…honor to…why must you forbid it…you call yourself a…what an embarrassment to my kingdom…
She taps the soft bone in my skull with her firm hoof. And she frowns.
I’m 96 years old. Nearly seven decades of my memories are incomplete. I don’t think either are my fault.
Plum Rain is young and beautiful, just like her grandmother Rain Shine—which are admirable traits, don’t get me wrong. But there is no fire in her name. There is no flare or blaze. Instead there is rain. She lived her whole life in Silence. She lived her whole life with niriks being the stuff of legends. She never learned the lessons.
I respond to her with a short, barely legible scroll. The fire governs all. The fire turns beauty turns to ashes. The fire keeps love burning. You cannot stop the fire. No matter how hard you try.
That is something I know for sure.
Plum Rain is unamused by my response. I offer her an umbrella and escort her out of my property. The afternoon downpour I predicted would come is about to start. That’s fine though. The rain will be good.
The flowers don’t grow as beautifully as they used to, without the ashes of Beauty.
Author's Note
As part of the third prize for Iron Author I also got a live dramatic reading of my story at the EFNW convention, which was super cool!
Congrats to the second place and first place winners!
