A little while before the sun sets on another uncounted day in the life of the green world, a procession reaches holy ground. For an hour they have walked at a steady and solemn pace along the rising jungle track, each man carrying a torch and each woman a gift of fruit. This is the cone of the volcano; the ground within the concave dip where the fire pools display the precious blood of the earth. Lava priests lead the way, dancing, jumping and singing round the grove. The old religion is strong here with none of the weak hearted nonsense introduced by the schismatical and blasphemous tree guardians on another shore. In fact the heresy has never been preached here at all. Fires are lit around the edges of the crater where the jungle has crept up to the lip. They are propitiation and imitations designed to please the spirits and prevent them from unleashing the true fire. It is to the true fire and the one blood that the priests must attend. Night falls.
A red glow bathes the arena in even and disturbing warmth. The priests are now still but the rest of the village start to dance and shout, drinking cheap liquor from the Lumcis fruit; staining their thin garments yellow and orange with intoxication; daring the spirits to respond. Shadows cast by flickering flames twist in and out of the trees. They are ancestor support, jumping in and out of reality when the spirits are to be summoned and bolstering the courage of the motionless priests even as they twist around the trunks, cackling and crackling in their half courageous, half frightened games of hide and seek. Stars shine with intense interest for the twilight does not last long enough here to conceal the ceremony from their timeless and insatiable curiosity. Joints spring and feathered crests splay wide. Upper and lower arms fold and stretch. Some climb and leap from the rim with loud screeches, spreading vestigial wings as if to fly but only crashing down to rejoin the frenzy.
A man in a dark coat sits at the rim; an alien; a new wise one from the spirits. They leave him alone out of respect and awe. He watches without interfering. In this way the doctor has learned to live.
A circle of four high ones stand around the central pool. They cannot go too close because the heat rising from the bubbling orange fluid would burn their feathers. They are nervous. What if this time, as fifteen cycles ago, the spirits should be angry, goad the earth to bleed and the fire erupt?
Then half the village had been killed scrambling to safety and only one priest had survived. The lava rumbles softly. No one can tell where it will break through the thin solid crust to form a new pool. The ground here is always hot and the rock never more than twenty cycles old. Thick and rich is the blood of the earth.
Now the larger moon, hard and white, peers over the edge of the trail and all at once there is stillness and quietness. The dancing stops and even the ancestor shadows seem to be more circumspect, scuttling behind the thicker larger trees with only an occasional peek to see what is happening at the centre. Those whom the lava claimed in death are already in the host of spirits and these around the edge will never be released by the earth. Ancestors are such cowards!
Night birds call softly. The wail of the lonely sea hunters gliding over the moonlit ocean comes through the black air, mournful and occasional. One at a time with careful and ritual precision, fruit is thrown into the pool. It hisses quickly and quietly as the molten rock reduces it to carbon and steam. The ritual chants begin and the people wait.
With half their hearts they hope the spirits will answer the summons. With half their hearts they fear the spirits will answer the summons. The night vigil will be long but warm. They settle down, crouched and drowsing as the weird song continues to wait for the souls with power - waiting for the spirits.
