The first weeks and months were very difficult on me. The acolytes lived a life I never expected. Morning and evening prayers were led by the High Priestess. I did not grow up Buddhist. I did not think this would involve a change of religion, too. My family was one of the few remaining Russian Orthodox adherents. Not surprising. The ornate cathedrals and regalia of the priests fit our little corner of Londinium.
After prayers, we went to our academic classes – mathematics, philosophy, history, sciences. Physical education, which included self-defense, was in the afternoon. Only those near the end of their training began studying the intimate arts.
Music and dance classes developed mental and physical discipline.
I was already an accomplished dancer so these classes came very easy for me, even if it was a different style. So long as a dancer is willing to set aside her previously learned techniques, it is easy to adapt to a new movement pattern. The dance studio was my one refuge.
The other girls resented me. While they were mostly polite and never said anything to me directly, I felt the stares, the occasional whisper. They were put through a rigorous exam and application process when they were much younger to enter Madrassa. My father sent a few waves and here I was.
It hurt when my birthday came and went with no one to celebrate it. My parents did not send a wave. I mentioned it to the other girls in the dorm. No one responded with even a greeting.
I should have been at home. There would have been cakes, guests, friends, presents, singing and dancing. My mother would have made sure that my favorite singers were there to perform. Instead, I wandered from from class to class, hurt and lonely.
So I hid.
Others spent the out of class time in the gardens or library. Older students would venture to the nearby towns for shopping. I spent it in the dance studios. It was the one place in the entire school where I felt like I was myself. I could vent my frustration and anger through my dancing. I would abandon all of the technique and fling myself wildly across the room. Sometimes, I would collapse in a heap, crying.
“Little one, pick yourself up off the ground,” the soft voice came from the doorway. Without looking, I knew it was the High Priestess. I pushed up to my knees, wiping the sweat and tears from my face. My hair was a mess. I was exhausted – physically and emotionally. The recent months had worn on me.
“Let’s talk, Calina.”
Tea and a Whisper 