Dindi

You never forget the night of your Initiation.

Always, you are taken by force. By now you know the rough hands twisting your arms and blindfolding you belong to your own kinsmen, but this doesn’t reassure you, since by now, also, you have heard the other Initiates whisper legends that some children will die during the rite. The tribe has no use for the weak.

Switches, whittled from green saplings, strong and springy, sting the back of your thighs to herd you down stone steps, into some kind of underground cavern. The stone beneath your bare feet is unhewn, too rough for a kiva. The chamber narrows, until you have to crawl, but your hands are tied behind your back, so you writhe like a worm. Gravel grinds under your belly and cuts up your knees.