Elevation 1: The Thousand Steps. Helen Brain

and I nudge her and signal that she must stop. Then it’s me, taller than all the other girls in the colony, and lastly Jasmine, feisty Jas, who only comes up to my shoulder, but who makes up for her tiny stature with her don’t-mess-with-me attitude.

      Soon the hall is full, all five hundred sabenzi groups, plus two hundred teachers, mentors and cell parents, all waiting in silence for the High Priest and General de Groot to descend from the upper galleries of the bunker. Finally, footsteps ring in the corridor outside. Nobody turns around. We keep our heads forward, eyes down, trying to be invisible, as the soldiers open the doors and the general, the High Priest and a team of worship leaders march up the aisle. I feel Letti shivering, and I slip my hand into hers.

      “Praise Prospiroh,” the High Priest calls when he reaches the altar.

      “Praise Prospiroh,” we respond dutifully, and kneel down on the stone floor.

      The High Priest walks slowly around the altar with his hands in the air, followed by the six worship leaders. His eyes are dark and large, his jaw and shoulders square, his hands expressive. He lights the big brass thurible and the worship leaders pull on the chain that raises it to the roof. Fragrant smoke pours out as they swing it across the expanse of the meeting hall. I begin to feel woozy.

      “We are gathered here for the sacrifice,” the High Priest says. “Prospiroh, the source of our abundance, desires that we be purged of the weak. He blesses us with strength and prosperity, but those who do not please him do not thrive. Theirs are the weaknesses, the diseases. Their depravity infects each one of us. Prospiroh desires that only the best, the strongest, the most powerful abide in his colony, preparing for the day when it is once again safe to return above. All stand.”

      Am I one of the weak? Am I freakish? I look different from everyone in the colony with my red hair, green eyes and pale skin. People whisper that I have witch’s hair. And then there’s my birthmark … I stand up, pull my cap lower down over my forehead, and keep my hand hidden.

      General de Groot salutes the High Priest, then swaggers down the aisles, inspecting us one by one. He’s a short, stocky man with a jutting chin and blue eyes that cut through the rows, zooming in on anyone who shows any sign of weakness. Behind him walks the High Priest, scanning us for imperfections.

      I’m quaking. Don’t cough, Fez, I think. Just don’t cough.

      The general calls Shameema in Year Three – she broke her elbow falling off her bunk and it’s bandaged up. He pulls out Jaco, the guy who lost an eye when Major Zungu hit him for backchatting. He picks three Year Fives who are sneezing and coughing.

      One to go. We’re almost safe. He’s walking away from us. Thank you. Thank you.

      But then he turns and strides down our aisle, straight towards our row. I bend my knees deeper, keep my head bent down. My thighs are burning. I dare not look but I can feel his eyes drilling into me. Sweat beads on my forehead but I can’t wipe it away.

      He’s going to see how pale and thin Fez is. He’s going to pick him.

      He comes closer, closer. My heart is racing. He’s next to Jasmine, looking down our row, but just as I feel I might throw up from fear, he moves on to the row behind.

      “You,” he says to the person behind me. I’m too scared to turn around to see who he has chosen.

      But when I hear her scream I know who it is. It’s Tanaka, the girl from the weaving gallery with the crooked back. I feel her gripping the back of the bench. “No, no, no,” she screeches. “Not me. Don’t take me.”

      We’re frozen. Nobody argues with the general.

      “Fetch her,” he snaps, and I feel one of the soldiers pushing into the row behind me.

      “Not me, not me!” Tanaka screams. “Ebba’s got a birthmark. Take her.”

      I shrink. I feel Letti and Jasmine closing in, packing me tight, gripping my hands. The general is running his eyes up and down me. Assessing my value to him.

      “A birthmark is nothing,” the general snaps. “She’s strong. She can work.”

      The soldier drags Tanaka out of the row. “No!” she screams. “Not me, not me. Take Ebba. She’s got witch’s hair.”

      She grabs my cap. My hands fly up to save it, but it’s too late. The cap comes away, it’s in her hands, and the High Priest swoops down to end of our row, shoving the general aside. His eyes spear me. I don’t move, I can barely breathe. I can feel Letti’s hand shaking in mine.

      He points straight at me. “You! You with the red hair.”

      I look directly at the High Priest for the first time. His eyes are hard and full of contempt. Without dropping his gaze, he jerks his head towards the altar. “Go.”

      I have been chosen.

      Letti and Jasmine are gripping my hands like we’re grafted together. But I’ve got to let go. I’ve got to leave them.

      I want to throw myself at the High Priest’s feet and beg for mercy, but I’ve seen his face. The sneer on his full lips, the hooded eyes burning with disgust. I stumble up the aisle, not daring to look back.

      The worship team steps forward and takes our arms. They lead us into the bathroom, where they strip us and wash us, even though it’s only half an hour since we showered.

      I’m in shock. I sit there dumbly while a woman unplaits my hair and brushes it so it flows down my shoulders in red curls. She paints my eyes with blue powder. “Such a privilege,” she murmurs, as she spreads red on my lips with a thin brush. “Such a privilege to sacrifice yourself for the good of the colony.”

      I’m not sacrificing myself, I think. I have no choice. But there’s no point in protesting. Not when there are twenty soldiers with shotguns outside. So I sit there, letting her do her job. When she’s finished she opens a basket and brings out a white shift and trousers and helps me put them on. Then she takes a wreath of silk leaves, and places it on my head, clipping it into my curls with a bobby pin. I feel like my heart will break.

      We’re all ready now. The six of us, scared and pale, looking like wraiths in the white shifts. And the worship leader says, “It is now time to bid farewell to your sabenzis, praying that Prospiroh will strengthen them, and all of us, by your sacrifice.” He opens the door, and our sabenzi groups troop in, trying to look brave.

      Letti and Fez run into my arms. Letti is crying, and I hold her away from me and wipe her eyes. “No, Letti,” I say firmly. “Don’t cry. If you cry then I’ll cry …”

      Fez tries to say something clever or funny, but he can’t think of anything, so he just stares at me with his big eyes, and his Adam’s apple is going up and down in his throat.

      Jasmine says, “Bend your head forward,” and she slips a chain around my neck. I look down. The charm I was wearing when I was discovered as a baby is hanging between my breasts.

      “Don’t you want to keep it?” I say. “It’s not going to be much use to me now.”

      She shakes her head. “No,” she says, with a crack in her voice. “You arrived with it, you should leave with it.”

      The worship leader announces, “It is time for the procession,” and we line up, each holding a lighted candle. We’re followed by the members of the worship team, who are chanting the Processional for the Long Night. Billows of smoke from the sacred herbs loom up around us, and we’re surrounded by the tinkle of the tiny bells on the team’s ankles and wrists.

      We proceed back to the meeting room where the High Priest stands, chanting in his sonorous voice, which resonates around the room. His hands are elevated as though he’s pointing towards the world above.

      When I’m two steps away from him, his chant falters. He’s staring at the charm. Then his eyes flicker to my red hair, and down to my hand as it clutches the candle. He sees