It was dark. Very dark. The entire clan had gathered around the empty field, the blackness engulfing each figure. They gathered on the night of Litha, when the night was shortest. Clouds obscured the moon and stars completely, making the space opaque, devoid of all light. The ritual was to begin any second.
A drone crept it’s way out of the throats of those standing amongst instruments of all sorts. A baritone note rang out eternally, half the men trading their voices with the other half when they got tired to create an endless noise. Two figures emerged from the blackness, each carrying a beeswax candle in front of them; the only light. It illuminated the figures, clad in robes as black as the deep clouds above. They wore ritual masks, carved of wood and adorned with bone. One mask portrayed an expression of deepest anguish, the mouth twisted in to a horrendous crescent. The eyes were narrow with massive ridges above them, stained a deep green. The other mask was carved in to a face of wide-eyed rage, the brow heavily slanting inwards, strained red. Together, the figures sauntered forwards.
Behind the two men, Shaamans, was a wall of driftwood, hundreds of pieces, along with various hides and ritual items. The hides were scorched with eldest Sunwheels of all varieties, and ravens taking flight.
A guitar started to pluck a simple melody, slow and deliberate. The audience drifted in to a deep trance and the masked figures walked through the crowd with the delicious smelling candles. The two figures returned to the front of the audience, between them and the musicians. The vocal drone continued and the string melody picked up, crawling quicker now. The Shaamans set up a ritual circle, staining the ground with white clays. They lined the circle with candles and incense and began to assemble the drift wood. Together, in a precise dance of arms, they built a mountain between them out of the driftwood, stacking it with flawless choreography.
Skin drums joined the music, driving a dark rhythm, as another guitar joined as well. The aesthetic grew darker and the Shaamans built the tower wider, higher, denser. The mountain grew with the music. The two were a force of creation and wonder. They both paused, almost instinctively. They looked at one another and removed the dark robes to reveal a simple garb of hides. They fell from the shoulder to the waste, proceeded by a simple skirt. They continued to build the mountain of driftwood as the music grew darker, heavier, faster.
They moved away from the growing monolith, now nearly as tall as the two men, and walked a spry circle, weaving amongst the candles. Occasionally, the men would dip down, briefly squatting, scorching the clothing that covered them. Small fires erupted, but the two performers cared not. The grass was growing damp in the cool night air. Far in the distance, so far it was nearly missed, thunder clapped, stumbling across the land. The two men made their way to a central hearth and equipped themselves with a drill and bow. There, they made fire. With archaic patience, they built the friction of wood in to a coal, a coal in to a smolder, a smolder in to flame, and the flame in to many. They two men were bringers of light.
They returned to the driftwood monolith and stacked the final pieces on. It was now as tall as each of the men. They removed their masks to reveal long, very long hair, both on their head and their faces. It was matted in to chunks, strips, tendrils. The two men placed the ritual masks upon the upper sides of the driftwood mountain, opposite to one another. The music had built to an astounding density and the two Shaamans started to scream. They rehearsed ancient verse in a guttural shriek, rattling and tearing their throats. The people droned, the drums pounded and the guitars weaved a dark spell.
In the peak of creation, the monolith stood at its full height, all candles were alight and a fire raged inteh central hearth. But the drums slowed, the guitars died out, and the drone quieted to a low hum. The audience was lulled in to complete, introspective relaxation. The two Shaamans removed their garb until they stood only in limp loincloths covering their genitals. An eerie calm came over the audience. They lowered themselves, down, down. The fell closer and closer to the earth, until they lay, fetal, in the grass. The drumming stopped, the hums silenced. It was like the calm before a storm. The only movement was the flickering candles, the only noise the crack of the central hearth’s blaze.
In an instantaneous attack, the drummers began to beat with the ferocious intensity of a thousand thundering hooves. The guitars blazed with reckless abandon, creating a melody beneath the chaos that was nearly missed by the listeners. The Shaamans leaped up from the earth, now naked, and ran screaming in to the crowd. They tackled and grabbed the audience, trashing them around. They jumped and span, exploding from the spirit; exploding from the animal within. They returned to the front and tore the monolith apart like a tornado ripping through the forest, snapping the wood and throwing it down. In awe-inspired terror, the audience watched. The two men rolled and stomped through the splintered wood, wounding themselves as they embodied a vicious force of destruction. They ran a quick circle, and all the candles were extinguished. The central hearth was scattered and went dark. The two ritual performers disappeared. The air was completely still, the scent of beeswax and incense lingering languidly.
The audience was left stunned, unmoving. They waited, unsure of what to expect next. They expected anything and nothing. Unexpectedly, a candle was lit right under their noses, revealing the two men once more. The guitar plucked the same, steady melody that it had at the beginning of the performance. They stood tall, their naked statures primitive and pure. Both were painted gray with various muds and soils. One grabbed a clay urn and poured upon himself a deep, reddish-black liquid and painted himself with it until he all but disappeared. The other then picked up an identical urn and poured upon himself a white paste, covering himself. Light and dark, creation and destruction, now stood naked before the clan. They took the single candle between them, each holding it with a single hand. They raised it above themselves as high as their arms would reach. They stood, staring at the flame. After a few anxious minutes, they lowered it between their contrasting bodies. The guitar slowed, quieted, dwindled. The flame was extinguished, as if by magic. All was dark, all was still. Thunder clapped for a second time, this time closer. The ritual of spiraling iteration had concluded.
