Dancing Stones

Chapter one

                                           A LITTLE TURBULENCE

With practiced slices, Teya cut into the soft skin of her thighs. She gasped. The blood welled up in bright, scarlet beads.

She imagined how horrified her father would be if he discovered what she'd been doing with his precious spearheads. The thought made her press the blade deeper.

It hurt. Her breath hissed through her teeth. But the immediate calm that flowed over her was worth it. For a moment her body softened, and she was able to breathe in the golden morning, eyes closed to feel its warmth.

'Teya! We're going to be late. Get down here now!' Her mother's voice made her jump with guilt, and she hurriedly grabbed the disgusting hanky she kept under her bed, and dabbed at the mess on her thighs.

'Teyacapan,' her mother yelled. 'I won't tell you again.'

'I'm coming, Bolshevik.' Teya scowled, checking to see that her bedroom door was locked.

The hanky was stiff and brown with her dried blood. She wiped the spearhead too, and looked at it. It was her favourite, thin and perfect – beautiful. Chipped from jet-black volcanic glass, it was razor-sharp, and so finely hewn towards its tip that is was almost transparent when she held it to the light, the black swirling into misty grey.

Gently, as though laying a baby bird to rest in its nest, she placed it among the other knives and spearheads in the dog-eared cardboard box. They glinted up at her. Some of them could have been two thousand years old, her father had told her. Some he'd found himself in Peru. Others his own father had given him and had been passed down through the family for generations.

'Thanks heaps Dad,' she said to the spearheads. 'But that's it. That's the last time. I won't do it again. You'll never hurt me again.' She closed the box and slid it back to its secret home under her bed.

She hauled herself off the bed, then reached for her hairbrush, as she always did, and started on the impossible task of brushing the knots from her hair.

The image in the mirror didn't please her. She looked like she'd been flying on the wings of a bird, her hair whipped into a wild thicket by imaginary winds. Why couldn't she look like the other Bondi girls? Why didn't she have blonde hair, a cheeky snub nose, something interesting to put in a bra? Okay, red hair would be fine on a pretty pale girl, but on a dark skinned half Peruvian one it just looked stupid.

Yuck. Too thin, too flat chested, just too... yuck. Her gymnastics teacher told her it was a real gift, that big boobs just got in the way on the balance bar, but what was the point of a perfect triple handstand when you looked like a stick insect in skinny-jeans and a boob tube? 'Baby-horse legs', they called her at school.

She scowled at herself, standing there in her undies, the morning sunshine setting fire to the tangled, unruly mess leaping down her shoulders. She'd been threatening to cut her hair off for years, and some days – especially lately – she'd been tempted to grab some scissors and hack it right off at the roots. And as for her body, its sharp planes seemed even more awkward than usual. All acute angles, no curves at all. Just like a Picasso painting she'd seen once on a school excursion. Freak.

She threw on some baggy jeans and an old T- shirt, then scraped back her hair, trying to capture it in a hair tie at the back of her head. Rogue tendrils immediately made a bid for freedom, so she jammed on a baseball cap and pulled it low over her eyes.

Why did she still care about her appearance? It had been less than a year since her world had imploded. Since the 'awful time.'

No. No. No ...