The horizon is red, a newborn sun of spilled wine and blood, cicadas chirping, thick air stirring. It was a hazy sort of day.

A red sky, they say, is cursed,

Though I was born under crimson heavens,

And still named Dhan'ya; blessed.

Once every lunar year, the clouds tint a cinnamon shade. Mothers lock their doors and paint the knobs with turmeric, fabled to ward of Manda. Evil spirits. We dress in robes of watery blue to combat the flames of red and adorn ourselves with strings of opal and topaz.

My brother, Akoya, was named for the pearls that hang from my ears. He tugs at my embroidered sleeves and I crumple my dreamy muses, plucking them from the depths of my mind and tossing them away our way out the door. Mother gathers her silk garments in her gloved hands and slings flowy fabrics over her shoulders. The air is hot and sticky but she endures it without complaint. Someone will die today and it won't be one of her children. She'll pray till the brink of new dawn.

Houses are decorated with flowers and strings of fragrant spices; fumes of cumin and rosemary waft through the crowded streets, mixed with the shouts of vendor propaganda. This herb will protect your soul! This stew will revive your ill! The superstitious and foolish line up by their carts.

My youngest sister Camellia, named for her rosy complexion, beckons a coin from Mother's purse and buys a freshly baked apple, dreamy nutmeg and cinnamon making my mouth water. She shares a bite with me, and four with Aphra, her favorite sister. When Aphra was born it was prophesized that she would grow to be haughty and spoiled, so she was given a name of insignificance; Aphra means dust.

The five of us traverse through crowded roads until the streets narrow and thicken with trees. We turn our heads eastwards when passing the Bend- a scarred piece of flesh on mother earth's grassy body, where the air ripples like an upright ocean; the deepest part is planted on our land amongst tall oaks, and the waters thin out in the clouds. Somewhere in the heavens lies the shore. Mother prays as we pass the expanse, its sour smell tinting my eyes red. Manda live inside the Bend, and on the eve of each red day it takes a child into its home.

Soon we reach a tall stone building, cold, dark, and clammy. No candles are to be lit on red days.

We wait in line to kneel before old spirits, asking them to protect us from their evil brother. My turn arrives when the first hints of dusk lick the warm day. I crouch on the floor, littered with flowers, and add a marigold to the scattered bouquet. The plant of my birth month.

I say my prayers and return to my family. Akoya looks up with me, pearly eyes washed with fear. "There is no reason to worry, Akoya dear." I assure him. "You said your prayers?" He nods. "You gifted your flower?" He bobs his little head again. "See? That is all you must do. Now come sit."

The red sun dips below the blood tinged horizon.

Howls echo off of the stone walls, and

We pray.

The clocktower chimes.

The door flies open, sending a gust of summer wind.

A shadow crawls into the room. A long, spidery thing. Manda's claw.

As it washes over the crowds, people hunch over and tighten their eyes, releasing no breath until the black figure has moved on.

Soon it approaches me; mother is whispering violently, and Camellia is bolted to Aphra's side.

My heart pounds as the shadow creeps over my head, sending a chill through the air. I sigh with relief when the warmth returns, though something feels different- a shift in weight. My lap is light.

I look down and see-

Nothing.

Akoya, sitting on my lap moments before, is cocooned in black fabric. The claw retreats, making its way back towards the Bend.

I run

Along with it,

Trees scrape my cheeks.

It retracts, the

Hand returns to

Its body, Akoya in its arms, and

I return with it.

I hold my breath and jump into the depths of the Bend.