Sara climbed up to the cliff edge and clambered to the top. She was unsteady on her feet, so I took her arm and pulled her a couple meters back in case she fell. “Are you okay,” I asked. It was her first time climbing to the headwater and I was as apprehensive as she was to make the jump.

“Now or never,” she smiled weakly, clearly unable to unroot her feet from where they contacted the earth.

“Come on,” I said as I started to strip off my clothes and she followed suit. I peeked over the edge to make sure we had the right trajectory and turned back to her.

I reached out my hand and she took it, following me as I took a couple running steps toward the edge and jumped off. We left behind the rocky edge and flashed past the mossy cliff face on our way to the pools below. Sara’s screams followed us down the entire way until we piked at the end and plunged into the icy water. I swam to the surface and waited for Sara to come up, then led her to the edge as she cackled with adrenaline-fueled laughter. We dragged ourselves onto the wet rocks and lay there, basking in the sun until we were too hot to stay.

I rose first and greeted the approaching group. Sara stood as soon as she remembered why we had jumped, and stood to face the warriors who were approaching with our clothes from the top. It was more than a fun excursion we had. The jump from Fighter’s Leap was a rite of passage for those wishing to take up arms in defense of our village.

Marco, the warrior chief, approached and anointed Sara’s forehead with water from the top of the fall, symbolizing her acceptance into the ranks of the warriors. “Welcome, Sara, to the warriors of Kamazoe,” he said.

I’d had no doubt that she would make it since she was the fiercest and most skillful fighter among us, and had shown time and time again that she was prepared to do whatever it took to defend our village. She let the water drip off of her face for a few minutes before she lifted her eyes to meet his and said “I take this oath to my grave,” she spoke clearly the oath of the warrior handed down through generations, “and swear to defend the freedom of Kamazoe or die in the attempt.”

The second chief Harland stepped forward and presented her with a beautifully carved dagger. She unsheathed the stone blade and made a slice across her palm. The blood flowed freely and she used it to color across the top of her chest, then that of Marco, ending the ceremony. Harland bandaged her hand and the group of warriors departed, leaving us alone to clothe ourselves again and rejoin the party as they made their way back to Kamazoe.

The red stain was visible above the neckline of her dress and she wore it with pride. “Do you realize that you’re the first female to enter the warrior ranks,” I asked, turning back to her as she followed me through the bush. The ruin of the old civilization appeared in places along the path we took back to Kamazoe: an ancient automobile covered in rust and moss, the rusted remains of a giant highway sign laying half buried in the dirt.

“Yes,” she replied, no fear or apprehension in her voice now, only confidence and happiness. I knew she would serve our village well.