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night dreaming about the Dance to Womanhood. Before Chenoa participated during the last ceremony, she talked about it nonstop for two harvests prior. Her chatter was exhausting, especially because Chenoa was the kind of girl who went from baby to adult, skipping all of the fun parts in between. And the Dance to Womanhood certainly wasn’t an invitation that could be refused. It would be like refusing good fortune from Hunab Ku.
    “But, my dress,” I whispered, a half-hearted attempt at an excuse. My eyes traveled down to my knees. Certainly Gaho had noticed that the tassels turned wrinkled and dusty.
    “Nonsense,” she said. “You look beautiful.” She placed a firm hand on my shoulder. Her other hand fingered my necklace. Then both of her hands moved to cup my face. “My beautiful Aiyana,” she whispered, brushing her soft, warm nose against mine.
    There and then I fought the urge to cling to her like a child. I wanted to cry heavy tears against her chest and beg her to let me go home and hide in the corner of our pit house. I wanted to tell her that I didn’t want to become a woman, never would. Besides, it was too soon and I wasn’t ready. Couldn’t she see the fear in my eyes? Couldn’t she tell? But instead of using words, my lower lip only quivered.
    “Come,” Gaho said. “Drink some wine. A few sips will settle you. And you look thirsty.”
    Gaho led me by the elbow to a spot away from the fire pit where Chenoa rested on her knees, ladling wine into clay cups. She offered them to the men as they passed, along with one of her smiles. This was her favorite task at every ceremony. She always volunteered to ladle out wine. I didn’t understand why. It seemed boring and silly. Couldn’t a man ladle his own wine?
    “A small one for your sister,” Gaho instructed her, still wrapping her hand around my elbow.
    Chenoa nodded and emptied no more than a few raindrops worth of wine into a cup, barely enough to quench a rabbit. She gave it to Gaho, and Gaho lifted it to my lips. The sweet warm liquid dribbled down my throat, and I closed my eyes. It did taste good. I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink since before ball court. Suddenly a few drops of wine was not nearly enough.
    “Better?” Gaho whispered.
    I nodded, dragging my tongue across my lips.
    Gaho handed my cup back to Chenoa. “Good,” she said as her eyes darted past my shoulders. “Because it looks like Yuma and Miakoda wish to begin.”
    ***
    Yuma was the tribal leader for the White Ant Clan.
    He was everything that Miakoda of the Red Ant Clan was not: tall and slender like a saguaro, handsome, articulate, and regal. When he gazed into your eyes, you thought you were staring into a bottomless night sky. They always danced and sparkled as he listened intently to the children’s embellished tales about snared rabbits or to the boys’ bravado about ball court. When he listened, it was as if for that moment you were the most important person in the village. And when he spoke, you held your breath for fear you’d miss a single word. He was also the only Tribal Leader of the White Ant Clan I’d ever known. Next to Ituha, Yuma was like a second father to me.
    For the Rain Ceremony, Yuma donned his white albino deerskins and matching sandals. Three necklaces strung with polished stones and grey shells hung around his neck and rested just below his bare chest where he painted yellow lines along each rib. Yuma strode into the middle of the growing crowd near the main fire pit. He lifted his hands above his head and the villagers fell silent. Miakoda immediately did the same from the other side of the fire except he held the carved walking stick in his right hand that he always carried and sometimes used on misbehaving children.
    Without being told, the villagers began to shuffle to their mats around the fire, sitting with their families, Red Ant Clan members next to White. Gaho and Ituha took their coveted places beside Miakoda and his family as