The evening and the morning were the fifty-seventh day.

* * *

On the fifty-eighth day, in the midst of a storm so angry we imagined sea gods locked in battle, a young pale lad of perhaps twelve rains came into our quarters and stood among us. He looked terrified but said nothing. With mouth covered and eyes wide, he stared at what must’ve been a horrific sight. We’d noticed him, sweeping and mopping the upper deck, but he’d been spared the experience of our holding station. Now, with neither permission nor preparation, he’d found his way to us. He might’ve been searching for a storage room or a food cellar or perhaps a compartment of weapons. Obviously he’d lost his way. Tears fell on his trembling left hand as he studied the room, lit only by the flickering candle in his right. Slowly, involuntarily, he moved among us, compelled by something far greater than mere curiosity. He reached forth a shivering, wet hand and touched black flesh, not with contempt and disdain, but with compassion and sympathy. He’d had no idea what his fathers had done. Now his fragile spirit couldn’t bear the truth. For a moment, we felt for him as if he were our own. He had not chosen this legacy of hatred and abuse. Yet he would have it, and one day he’d probably be its perpetrator. He left suddenly and returned with a water bucket and quenched our thirst. We nodded our gratitude; he nodded his apology. Still, he did not leave. Our eyes begged him to free us but, of course, he could not. Yet his desire to do so stood in his tears. We nodded more vigorously until slowly, just as he’d come, he ascended the staircase and disappeared.

We thought of ourselves at his age, what we knew, what we wanted to know. Most of us, at twelve, were midway through our second manhood rite. We whispered about pretty girls and mocked ugly ones. We vied for elders’ praise and admiration. We dreamed of homes full of children and livestock too plentiful to count. We raced to determine the fastest among us, then raced again to unseat him. We heard elders speak, although we didn’t always care to listen. We were boys. Like any other boys. We wanted to know the world. So our people initiated us into knowledge of the universe. They taught us to read the movement of the stars in the sky. They showed us how, by the scent of the wind, to discern north from south. They taught us to bury our feet in the soil to learn the temperature of the earth. They insisted we study the behavior of ants to know the magic of community. They told us the wonder and spiritual qualities of fire, water, earth, and air. They taught us the differences and compliments between men and women. And with all this, they still said they knew nothing.

Some elders taught deeper levels of knowledge. Like how to interpret the song of the wind. And how to speak to diseases, of the body and the mind, and have them obey. One day, we would share this knowledge, they said, with our sons and daughters, and they with theirs. We were being initiated. Every boy in our village longed for his day in the forest, having dreamed of catching a wild beast without harming it. This was an assignment none escaped. Its purpose was never perfectly clear—since the beast was always set free—but the village applause bestowed immeasurable honor upon any boy who succeeded. Then, after our nineteenth or twentieth year, we’d be ushered into our last rite. This was when we’d learn the final secrets of manhood. We could not marry, have children, own a home, or acquire cattle until successful completion of this stage.