Tinashe scarcely dared to breathe as she slipped past the eastern border of her village. Many tribes hunted bountiful game in this lush forest, and for that reason, it was never safe, even for a group of armed men. For a lone woman without weapons, the risk was even greater. Warring tribes would gladly kidnap an enemy to be used for ransom, slave labor, death as a public spectacle, or a life of abuse for the pleasure of others.
However, the tranquility of the woodland was irresistible. The birds who warbled in the blossoming trees never criticized a lady whose intricately woven braids came loose and hung in long tresses. The fish who swam in the coolness of the babbling brook never complained about feet without the ceremonial designs painted around the ankles.
She paused to nibble a few berries, perfectly ripened in the warmth of the summer sun. Although she wished she had brought a basket, Tinashe knew that a large number of berries would announce to her entire village that she had been in the forest. Her mother would scold her and give her extra chores, and the young men would no longer see her as marriageable.
Zeltzin had already been painting the black ochre speckles around her ankles for weeks, making innumerable trips to the garden in bouts of indecision concerning what flowers would make the most appropriate bouquet for the festival. Beginning that evening would be three days of events allowing young men to show their speed and agility in tournaments and foot races. The bachelors would be drawn to the intricacy of the young women's ochre designs, and pairs of champions and beauties would naturally form. If their families agreed to the match, the pair of mutual admirers would be wed at the end of the festival in a grand ceremony, uniting all couples simultaneously.
There was only one man who had captured Tinashe's eye, her childhood friend Ekundayo. He admired the spirited young woman who could best even the swiftest runners in a race, who thought for herself and made her own rules when deemed necessary, but their love was not meant to be, for not only was her beauty beyond compare, but their social classes would forever separate them. How could a simple farmer ever hope to win the approval of a merchant's family?
Closing her eyes, Tinashe lay down beneath the shade of a large tree, enjoying the slight darkness of the shade as the wind blew through her hair. The warmth of the sun lulled her until she was nearly asleep.
Hearing a twig snap, she sat up immediately, breathless as her heart pounded. Had she been found by an Adversary, or worse, a Marauder?
To her immense relief, Ekundayo stepped out of the clearing and sat beside her. "I thought you might have wandered off."
Tinashe hid a smile. "Lucky guess."
"Finally old enough to participate in the festival, and you take off hours before the events begin!"
"All you need to make a marriage work is equal social status, beautiful ankles, and the ability to win a foot race." She sighed. "I really don't even see the point. Women have babies just so the Marauders can abduct them. It's a wonder our tribe has survived this long." After a pause, she asked, "Will you be competing for the first time?"
Ekundayo shrugged. "I might…if any young ladies I admire are watching."
Their hands met as they looked into each other's eyes, no longer mindful of the dangers that lurked in the deceptively pristine woodland, but their reverie was interrupted by a sharp gasp. Looking up, they saw a young woman with a basket of leaves. Her drab robe and war paint easily identified her as a Marauder.
"Please don't hurt me," she began in the common language among all tribes. "I am not like others among my people. I want only leaves." She held out her basket for emphasis.
"Why?" Tinashe queried.
"My mother brews herbs," the Marauder answered, "to heal illness or tend wounds."
"Think she's a witch?" Ekundayo asked in his native language.
"If she is, she's a very frightened witch," answered Tinashe.
Unable to understand the words they spoke to each other, the Marauder began slipping away into the shadows as quietly as she could. It was her only hope, for she knew she could never outrun the enemy tribe. No one could, for among all tribes, theirs was the swiftest, just as hers had a reputation for pillaging.
Tinashe watched as her enemy retreated. Perhaps it was for the best. Let all three of them forget this chance encounter and go about their lives, pretending they had never met.
"We should go back," she remarked.
Ekundayo agreed.
"Race you?"
Those were the two words he could never resist. No man in the village had ever bested his speed, but he had yet to win against Tinashe. However, he loved the feeling of small clouds of dust billowing beneath his bare feet as he watched the wind cause the beautiful tresses just ahead of him to dance.
For a while, Tinashe held back, running shoulder to shoulder with Ekundayo. They were as wild birds, flying together in perfect formation. She wondered if she would ever fool Ekundayo into believing he could win. Allowing him to run past her a few yards, she put all her energy into a tremendous burst of speed and reached the village moments ahead of him.
"You have won!" he declared, panting slightly. "Any man in the village is yours!"
Tinashe smiled warmly. "Any man?"
He took his hands in hers, and they leaned forward, but before their lips could meet for the first time, they were interrupted by a shrill scream.
"Just look at you!" Zeltzin scolded, glaring at her younger sister. "Loose hair! Plain ankles! Racing as the men do! Who do you think you are, a vagabond?!"
She caught Tinashe by the wrist and dragged her to their tent. Although they were hardly nomadic, the tribe prided themselves in their ability to live simply.
"Where were you?!" Zeltzin demanded, winding her sister's hair into tight braids. "I hope you weren't sneaking off into the woods again! You know what happened to our brothers and sisters!"
Their mother had borne eight children. One had died in infancy of an unknown illness, and one had met a hunting accident as a young man. The others had been lost to Marauders. For having two children out of eight who survived to adulthood, other women referred to her as "the Blessed Woman of Great Fortune," for it was rare that more than one child out of ten would see maturity. As a result, the once thriving tribe had been reduced over the years to the inhabitants of one small village.
As soon as Tinashe's hair had been woven tightly into the proper style, she took the small pot of liquid ochre and gingerly dipped the brush into it, but instead of painting her ankles, she blackened her eyes and drew tears on her cheeks, thinking of the sorrow that inevitably befell all mothers when their children were lost. Perhaps she could be forced into attending the festival, but she would never allow anyone to force her into presenting herself as marriageable.