Through the crack in the door I watch the silhouettes of the village kids kicking balls in the dry dirt. I could be with them if not for my sin. Father tells me I must not approach the children lest I taint, or otherwise curse, them.

I glimpse pieces of their strong bronze legs and mostly-grown arm-and-ear-feathers—they are nearly approaching their coming of age. It won’t be long until the chieftain dresses in his ceremonial robes and welcomes them as full members of the tribe. Not long until the great bonfire is lit, and they dance with the young women in the village streets. I glance at my own arm-feathers. They are just as long, and yet I am forbidden from nearing the girls. What would it be like just to talk to them?

Yet I know I will never lead a family, never experience the love everyone else knows. I haven’t had a reason to dream since the day I was born.

A large shadow passes near the door, and I shrink back. Light streams into the black room as the door opens, illuminating the straw-like form of my mother some feet across from me. Father, a great fur coat wrapped around his shoulders and with bearlike shoes, closes the door slowly and tensely behind him. I wrap my arms around my legs and melt into the corner, expecting the worst.

Father walks over to Mother, his boots slamming the ground, each step like a buffalo’s stomp. My mother cowers as he raises his deep, guttural voice. “You need only hold on a month longer. The chief has announced the coming of age ceremony will be held at the next full moon.”

Mother steals a glance at me, her cheeks pale, lips dry like a withered rose petal. She starts to raise her slender arm, but it falls and she whispers, “I am not fit for our tribe anymore. I will only bring shame on the women and on myself.”

“Your shame will leave alongside him. Eat and rest. Your salvation is on the horizon.” He wraps his large arms around her shoulders, but she makes no movement to return the affection.

I run my forefinger through my dirty white hair. My mother will be free of the shame of her son’s sin once I leave the tribe. I want to feel happy for her like a son should love his mother, and yet the most she’s ever done for me is keep me alive in this purposeless, empty world. I find it hard to wish for her welfare.

“I must cast away my kin to free myself,” My mother’s lips barely part. Her shoulders shake with sobs. “I am told to forget I was a mother. If not the shame of my son, I will face the shame of the childless.”

I am fed and given shelter, yet why do I stay? In a month’s time I will be cast into the wilderness. I have not been trained to live with the wolves or make dwellings like foxes. I may as well face my impending death now. And yet, though the danger is so imminent, I stall.

I rise from my corner and step once toward my father. My mother turns away.

My father is twice my size, black-haired like my mother, with the stature that reminds me of a grizzly bear. If I had inherited my father’s features, perhaps I could have been loved.

He slaps me. I can feel the redness in my left cheek. The message is clear, but my father seals it with his words. “Return to your corner, Devil’s Child.”

My father is fond of that name. Maybe, if the devil was my father, I would have been accepted.

***

Through the window I see the new men celebrate in front of the bonfire. The women dance in circles around them, dressed in dazzling feathered gowns, their jewelry gleaming in the light of the full moon. The men choose their partners, the dance picks up, and the older men and women cheer.

If only I was among them, carefree and heart ablaze. There is one young woman, brown-haired with shining green eyes, dancing freely in the crowd. She twirls her gown to the beat of the music. I imagine myself swinging her gently, leading her through the motions, and finding love in her eyes.

Someone bangs on the door. I catch a glimpse of the chieftain’s robes. My mother and father are out celebrating, and they know I will not be home when they return tonight.

The knock is more forceful this time. I crack open the door. The chieftain is wearing his festal robes, but he holds a scowl on his face. “Your mother has held off your banishment for long enough. Come.”

I look back to the corner of the room where my mother so often sat, head in her hands. Where her quiet tears slipped down her forearms on account of me.

If only those tears were shed because she loved me. I follow the chieftain.

We reach the edge of our land, unending plains spread out before me. Will I be able to survive . . . and do I want to?

He speaks again to me. “The gods have shown us mercy, and we’ve managed still to feed ourselves with your curse upon us. Depart and be glad no more guilt hangs upon your head.”

I touch my white hair again. Was keeping the Devil’s Child alive an act of mercy or hate?

“I hereby forbid you return to these lands.”

He leaves me with nothing but the clothes I’m wearing. Shouldn’t I feel sad? Yet I find no sigh in my throat. At least my mother is free.

I wash in a nearby creek. In my reflection my moonlit hair glows in contrast to the deep tan of my skin. My mother’s cowering eyes stare back at me, a heritage I will not be able to forget.

***

By the end of the first month, I have made a spear and learned to cook. I have no shelter, but that is fine because I hate enclosed spaces. It reminds me of my home . . . In the sixth month I’ve put on a bit of muscle. I found an old dagger on the side of a road and did my best to sharpen it.

In the second year I’ve managed to take shelter in caves, but the darkness still haunts me. Will it end?

Five years and I know most of the terrain by heart. I have no trouble fending for myself. I barely avoided a gu, the king of venomous spiders. I even found a young rabbit left behind by its mother. It reminded me of myself, so I’ve been treating it.

Yet even though I survive, I cannot say I live. I have no purpose but to sharpen my weapons and improve my traps. I am alive, but for what? I haven’t seen another person since the summer.

In spring of the eighth year my rabbit companion dies. I miss being able to talk to another living being, so I tease the border of the Fworrowan land. What life would I be living if I had been born with my mother’s hair—my father’s?

I hear a voice—light, melodic. On instinct, I hide myself in the growth.

A woman passes in front of me with an uncertain stride, but she is not Fworrowan. Her midnight-sky hair drapes to her waist, and canine-like ears adorn the top of her head. Her pale skin glows in the light of the sun and black clothing of a style I have never seen covers her. She stops, an unsure look in her gaze.

Something draws me to her. I quietly step out of the tall grass and shuffle toward her.

“Are you lost?” I hope my voice doesn’t sound threatening or dangerous. Should a wandering man even approach a lone woman?

She jumps and turns to me. She takes a moment to examine me—I must look like a wild animal. I wonder when is the last time I washed.

The woman speaks quietly, “I escaped from the Panthers. I’m a long way from home in Ora land.”

I have not heard of the Oras, but they seem to be a beautiful race. I open my mouth to speak again, but realize I have nothing to say. With effort, I repeat words in my mind before I speak them, “I’m only familiar with the plains around here. I cannot guide you home.”

A faint hint of a smile touches her lips. “If you’re familiar with this land and can guide me south, I would be appreciative, but I’d like to know who you are first.”

My mother gave me a name. What was it? I mutter the sounds on my tongue, trying to remember their order. After many seconds of silence I whisper my name. She tilts her head at me, so I try to speak louder. Still, she doesn’t hear, and steps closer to listen. Afraid she might get too close, I speak my name clearly, “Trexorio.”

“Trexorio? What a name. I’m Rahaysa.”

I stand awkwardly for a few moments, unsure of what to say next. There is a person in front of me, someone who isn’t running away. I fidget, both wanting to hide in the grass again and keep speaking to this woman.

She clears her throat and continues. “Will you guide me south? I don’t know the dangers of this area and it will be safer to have a man walk with me.”

“Gu’s.”

“Goo’s?”

I bite my lip. Conversing is a rather difficult task. Hopefully it will be easier to learn than hunting. “Gu’s are dangerous spiders. They could kill you—look.” I squish a brown-transparant spider at her feet.

She chuckles a little. “Okay, well . . . I’ll do my best to be careful.” She begins walking away.

“Wait!” I shout, but I do not know why. I suppose I don’t want to lose this human. With a rather unconvincing tone, I stammer, “I can keep you safe from the spiders. I can walk with you and hunt food for you.”

She tilts her head a little again, her hair slipping gracefully down her shoulders. “As for food, I can find some in the next town. You can show me where the nearest one is.”

“No.” I say, a little too fast. I am not ready to be rejected again—in my homeland or any other.

She frowns. “Why not?” When I don’t respond, she complies. “Okay. Hunt for me. I don’t have anything to repay you with, though. Oh! I could cut your hair for you. It must be awful having it all in your face.”

I cover my chest-length hair with my hands and look down in shame. “I will go hunt.”

***

By mid-afternoon I have caught a rabbit and built a fire to cook it in. I pass a chunk of the meat to her, and she dips her head thankfully.

She is so close to me—just across the fire. I rub my knee anxiously, not used to this proximity with people my own age. I study her features—her round face, small nose, and blue eyes that shine in the light of the fire. She is shorter than me and skinnier, and I can’t get past the fairness of her skin. Has she ever seen the sun?

Her cheeks redden. She motions for my dagger. I have just finished cleaning it. Hesitantly, I pass it to her, and she stands behind me.

Her light, slender fingers gently touch my scalp. She slides them through my hair to remove tangles. I gulp, and my stomach feels more tangled than my hair. Why doesn’t she shrink back at the sight of me? Why does she so willingly touch my devil’s hair? She is the first person I have known to touch my hair. What if I have passed my curse to her?

She hums gently as she dislodges the last few tangles. I doubt my blade will be sharp enough to cut my many strands, but she manages to trim several inches off.

She breaks from her humming. “Where do you live, Trexorio?”

“In the wilderness.”

“Then no wonder your hair is so long! You don’t belong to a village?”

Does she not care about my curse? Maybe she doesn’t know. I am afraid to ask.

My head feels lighter, but I’m frozen in place. Clumps of hair are strewn about the ground like fallen shackles.

She finishes cutting and steps in front of me. I cannot meet her gaze. “That looks much better. What do you think?”

She licks her finger and rubs a spot on my cheek. “There. Now you look perfect.”

My heart thumps like I have just fought off a wolf. I lean forward as if my whole body is pulled to her. Is this feeling . . . purpose?

She smiles again, and I want to stay with her. “Come on, Trexorio. Finish eating before the sun goes down.”

I pick up a clump of fallen hair, twisting it in my fingers. What my parents so feared, this stranger is willing to care for.

I look up and meet her gaze for the first time. Maybe there is a purpose to this empty world.