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“Hey, Jett!” Tilly’s voice rang across the corridor as she hurried closer. “We’re meeting for dinner. You’ll be there right?”
With a sigh, Jett scratched at her dirty hair with her even dirtier fingers. “Not tonight, Kid.” Something thick and gloopy trailed down the back of her neck.
Tilly made a sad little disappointed noise but nodded. “You look like you need a long, hot shower.”
“Two. At least.” Jett gave Tilly a nod and swept around her, careful to keep the mess confined to her own person. “Have fun.”
It was said with all the evenness she could muster, forcing her voice into its normal tones and cadences. All the same, she could feel Tilly’s eyes on the back of her head, could imagine the worried furrows between her brows. Her skin itched with the need to avoid the scrutiny and her stride lengthened to a near-jog.
Before she even made it through the door of her quarters, Jett had her uniform jacket off, tossing it onto the empty bed. There were advantages to having your room in the very bowels of the ship, and one of them was no one wanting to share with you. Wearily, Jett stripped out of the rest of her uniform and stuffed it into the chute on her way into the small bathroom.
One quick shower later, and she padded back into the room and picked up the bundle she had prepared the night before. It was heavier than she remembered it being, or she was more tired than she had previously thought. The coarse fabric rasped against the callouses on her hands, smelling faintly of the seaside.
Jett stepped over to the console and typed in commands to override the fire detection protocol for 3 hours and to dim the lights automatically in 5 minutes. She could have spoken the commands of course, there was no regulation against anything she was doing, but it felt wrong somehow, talking beforehand.
On soft feet, Jett crossed the room to the corner farthest from the door. She knelt to lay the bundle on the floor, unraveling the twine holding it together and tying it tightly around her left wrist. The scrape of it against her skin was a sharp contrast to the soft ribbon that had joined that hand to her wife’s so many years ago, and for a moment Jett was lost in a sense memory: strong hands holding her arm still, fingers broader and wider than hers tying the fabric in the complicated traditional knots that she had fumbled her way through just a few moments before, the trailing of a thumb against her pulse point.
She let the memory linger for a moment before returning to the ritual. The small obsidian plate she set to the side, then placed the black candle into the equally black holder and steadied it in the center of the square of fabric. The match she set on the plate, taking a moment to line up the setting with the picture of the ritual she had seen so often before. Seen, but never done herself.
When she was satisfied, she rose and stripped off her clothing slowly, piece by piece, until she was left wearing nothing but the twine around her wrist.
A soft chime from the computer. “The Soyouzian Solstice will begin in one standard minute.”
Jett closed her eyes and sank down to her knees. Her steady hands took the match as she waited in hushed expectation for the computer’s next prompt.
A softer chime and the lights began to dim slowly. “The Soyouzian Solstice has begun.”
At the very last second of vision, before the room darkened completely, Jett struck the match and lit the candle. The darkness fell around her, draped itself over her shoulders, caressed the back of her neck. Jett closed her eyes, conjured the words and forms until they almost floated in front of her eyes, and reached out for the plate.
The grains of salt stuck to fingers damp with hushed expectation, were as coarse against her lips as they were meant to be. Salt for our tears .
She reached out again, brushing her fingers over the head of the match and raising the faint taste of ash to join the salt. Ash for our fears.
The next part of the ritual required a specific fruit found in abundance on Soyouz, but nearly impossible to get in their current circumstances. Jett had substituted the closest equivalent fruit she could find, something sour, and swallowed back the automatic apology to her wife. Sour for our sorrow.
The Three Sorrows mingled on her tongue when she licked her lips, and it was nearly enough to stop Jett in her tracks. Her heart clenched in wanting and she was forced to take a deep, steadying breath. And another. And another.
And finally, when she felt she had enough control of the grief filling her chest, she began.
“ Darkness of our mothers, we beseech thee…”