Sia, Part One

“Is everybody in? Is everybody in? Is everybody in? The ceremony is about to begin.”

—Jim Morrison

Sia stood in the center of the circle, holding hands with a man on one side and a girl—Dawne, my clients’ 20-year-old daughter—on the other. They held hands with three others.

            Sia knelt on the hardwood floor. The rest of us—15 or so, counting me—watched as she lit a red candle next to gray pewter goblet.

            Then she stood up and pulled her T-shirt off. 

            In a moment they all were naked. Dawne laughed. 

            Sia lifted the goblet and took a deep gulp of whatever was inside. Then she passed it to the man next to her—his name was Adam, African American, young and slim. The goblet went around the circle to Dawne, who gulped the last of it, and then Sia set in on the floor.

            They crossed arms to join hands again, and closed their eyes.

            “Icarus.” Sia’s voice was a whisper, but we all heard it. “Lift us up. Give us the gift of flight.”

            Sia’s feet rose from the floor. One inch, two inches . . . 

            The rest of them rose too. Dawne giggled. The woman beside her opened her eyes and looked down with a gasp. 

            They let go of each other’s hands and floated up toward the cabin’s rafters. Dawne kicked her feet, laughing, soaring up and then around the room. A short guy spread his arms like wings, following her.

            Around me the others gazed up, enviously. Maybe tomorrow, a woman muttered behind me. Our turn.

            I kept my eyes on Dawne. Not because she was naked, but because I was trying not to focus on Sia. 

It had been a long time since I’d last seen her.

Then someone or something rustled behind me. I looked over my shoulder.

Then all hell broke loose.