The staff in K'ile Tia's right hand turned end over end in an idle motion. It was nonetheless precisely measured, constant as the passing of days, and the fire on either end drew slow circles of light in the air as he paced the outer perimeter of the gathering meeting. The beads, feathers and fetishes that ornamented his body were illuminated and shadowed in rhythm with the turning fires in his hand, and threw dark shapes upon his skin. The light he held threw his shadow into the gathering, and as he and the fire move his shadow shifted about wildly on the backs of those who had gathered.
His motions were ritual. In walking the slow, turning fire about the outside of the gathering, he was walking the sun about the horizon. It would rise and set, rise and set, and work its way through the sky from season to season as he walked. It was an imperfect gesture of respect to Azeyma, especially in the face of the perfection of the sun's actual movement. The honest, real sunrise, put this imitation to shame. But it was tradition and had always been sufficient for the shaman, the Elders, for the tribe and for Azeyma.
And so K'ile Tia walked the two flames about the gathering, moving in silence, and watched the faces of those gathering. His gaze was bored and dubious, his hair perhaps more fiery than even the fire he spun, his blue eyes looking gray and disinterested in the morning light.
His motions were ritual. In walking the slow, turning fire about the outside of the gathering, he was walking the sun about the horizon. It would rise and set, rise and set, and work its way through the sky from season to season as he walked. It was an imperfect gesture of respect to Azeyma, especially in the face of the perfection of the sun's actual movement. The honest, real sunrise, put this imitation to shame. But it was tradition and had always been sufficient for the shaman, the Elders, for the tribe and for Azeyma.
And so K'ile Tia walked the two flames about the gathering, moving in silence, and watched the faces of those gathering. His gaze was bored and dubious, his hair perhaps more fiery than even the fire he spun, his blue eyes looking gray and disinterested in the morning light.
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