Prologue
“Is this your first birthing since joining my camp?”
Haya looked up at Elder Thea Olana with a nod as she dried her hands. “Yes, Elder.” The warmth of the birthing tent surrounded them as the others tended the mother, gathering close to acknowledge the life-bearer’s pain.
“Then take this,” Olana gestured with the newborn in her arms. “You know the naming ritual. See to it, and take him to the nursing tent.”
Haya stepped closer, taking the baby in her arms. The child wriggled, squirming in its blanket, blinking in the light. “My thanks,” Haya murmured as she stepped from the tent.
The night air was cooler, and the babe’s eyes opened wider as he felt its touch. He waved his small fists seemingly against the air itself.
“You’ll be a strong warrior,” Haya smiled down at the babe. “We’ll seek your name, then find you a teat to suck, yes?”
Behind her, the all too familiar chant rose from the tent. “We are the life-givers. Life-bearers of the Plains. This is our burden. This is our pain.”
Haya walked off, bearing the child toward the naming circle. The sounds of the chant and of the camp faded behind her. She smiled down into the newborn’s eyes, who was staring at her now.
The naming circle was just on the next rise, the sod cut away to expose the earth. She glanced at the four bowls at the four points, making sure they were full and properly positioned. She took her stance in the middle of the circle, and gently pulled away the blanket, exposing the naked baby to the air.
The child cried out, like a baby gurtle seeking its mother.
“Hush, little one,” Haya chided the babe. “How else can I hear your name when the elements speak it?”
The tiny face scrunched tight.
Haya laughed, rocked him, and sang the traditional tune.
“Heyla, tiny warrior,
Heyla, cease your cries
Heyla, the moon is rising
Heyla, close your eyes.”
The babe’s face cleared, his eyes wide and fascinated.
Haya faced the east and raised the child high to the morning sky. “Elements,” she called out. “Behold. The Tribe has grown. The Tribe has flourished. A new warrior comes to us, and we would ask his name.”
She lowered the child, pulling the blanket back around him to keep him warm. She knelt to face the small bowl on the ground, filled with black, burning coals. “Fire, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you warm him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
The child yawned, pushed his fist into his mouth, and started sucking it.
“Patience, little one,” Haya whispered, and turned on her knee to face the next bowl on the ground, filled with dirt and stone. “Earth, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you support him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
Another turn, and they faced the bowl filled with water.
“Water, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you sustain him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
The babe sneezed.
One final turn, to face the empty bowl. “Air, behold. This is a child of the Plains. I ask that you fill him through his life, until the snows and beyond.”
Haya stood, then, and lifted her face to the star-filled sky. “Elements, name this child of the Plains.”
And then she listened.
The camp was silent and still, waiting for the dawn. There was bustle about the birthing tent, but even that seemed quiet and hushed.
