Excerpt: Geomorphosis

The women visit the river at dawn. They move with a quiet grace, swaying in the silvered light. Their bare feet are untroubled by the rocks and bracken, toughened by years of such tasks. The clay pots upon their heads gleam dully, carefully poised and held in place with one hand, the other lifting the hem of their full skirted brown robes.

Steam rises off the yellow green churning of the waters and the heavy scent of minerals mixes curiously with the fragrance of the purple flowers which thrive along the river’s far bank.

The women are silent, even the young girls with their black tresses hanging free and wild down their backs. The dimly lit path beneath the jungle canopy inspires awe despite the repetitiveness of their journey. Always it is the same. Root and tree. Branch and bough. The world is a tangle of green and shadow.

The path is narrow and winding, requiring careful steps. The clay pots are precious, weeks of shaping and baking required for each. Everything is hushed and gentle in the softness, the burble of the river’s rushing muting all other sounds.

They fetch the water into their vessels, sun browned faces serene. One by one they mount the path up from the river bank, the grey basalt rock beneath their feet carved in pale swirls from the lava flow that once formed it. The women move along the path, more slowly this time, the water for the days’ tasks balanced precariously upon their brows.

At the head of the line, a woman blessed by the honor of wrinkled flesh and streaks of silver in her hair begins to sing. Her voice is rough and worn, but the notes ring rich and true.

River grant us life we pray
Comes the dawning, comes the day
Comes the morning, comes the way
River grant us life we pray

The other women join their voices with hers, strands of melody weaving together into an aching harmony that fills the still slumbering wood.

Tree thy wood in which we stay
Leaves that block the suns warm ray
Ocean strong and ocean fey
Gift of fish and bounteous spray

River grant us life we pray
Comes the dawning, comes the day
Comes the morning, comes the way
River grant us life we pray

In the distance a conch shell sounds. The rest of the village is near to waking. The last notes of the morning prayer fade as they enter the hishlyk grove on the border of the village. For one brief moment there is no sound but the gentle slapping of bare feet against hard packed earth, and the slosh of water in the pots.

A young woman`s voice interrupts the serenity of the moment. "Uff. These aren`t half heavy, are they?"

There is a chorus of sighs and one of the older women replies, voice hinting at weariness. `"Oh hush, Asha."

"What? What did I say?"