Leaping Brook pulled herself carefully up the ridge and peered over the top. The muffled shouts and war whoops of the village youths suddenly rang clear. They were playing Hunters and Prey.

She watched Surefooted Hunter spring from his hiding place - a clump of spiny dewberry bushes, dying now for lack of water - and tackle his best friend. The two youths crashed to the ground with a loud thump and lay winded, giggling stupidly. She balled her hands into fists. If only she could join in their games like she used to.

When Leaping Brook had first asked worriedly about her budding breasts and the hair beginning to grow under her arms and in her groin, Mother had taken her aside.

"You are nearing the time of your womanhood," she explained in a low voice, her grey eyes kind. "It is the custom that girls should not mix with males at such a time, for fear of contaminating them."

Leaping Brook gazed dully at the body which had betrayed her, at her perceptibly widening hips. "It's not fair," she whispered.

Her mother frowned slightly and shrugged. "It is the custom," she repeated. Then, seeing Leaping Brook's misery, she reached out and held her close. "My daughter," she sighed. "Why make life harder than it need be? Change what can be changed; accept the rest. Any other course is fruitless." Her hands gently stroked Leaping Brook's long brown pigtails.

"But why should it be different for boys? Why do males have all the power?" Leaping Brook heard the unattractive whine in her voice but was unable to alter it.

"Who says they do?" asked her mother enigmatically. But she had refused to explain further, saying only, "When you are older you will understand."

Surefooted Hunter glanced up, and Leaping Brook ducked quickly out of sight. It was risky spying on her former friends like this. And what did it do but emphasize the fact of her exclusion? If she was caught ... She sighed and rubbed a piece of grit from the corner of one eye. What was one more complaint to add to the already huge list? She was always getting into trouble these days. For some reason, the least thing could provoke a storm of anger or tears. There must be something wrong with her to feel this way all the time.

She peered over the ridge again. The land around the village was taking the drought hard, and a cloud of dust now surrounded the scuffling youths. Then there came a long, mournful note, and they stopped fighting, and feverishly began to straighten their tunics and breeches. The village shaman, Wise Counsellor, stalked pompously into view, still clutching the conch shell he had blown. He began to harangue the youths, gesticulating with his ceremonial staff to emphasize each point. The breeze blew his words fitfully toward Leaping Brook's hiding place.

"Stop this at once," he ordered. "... work to be done ... acting like silly women ..."

The youths shuffled their feet and stared sheepishly at the ground.

"... back to the village," Wise Counsellor continued testily, and the youths trooped off in single file.

Leaping Brook hissed as she recalled the old shaman's jibe about 'silly women'. It made her feel even more inadequate, and she was helpless to do anything about it. With all her will she had tried to reverse the changes now taking place throughout her body, but nothing seemed to work.

She become aware that for the last few minutes there had been a dull pain in her lower belly. A fist seemed to be opening and closing in her gut, and she wondered if some of the breakfast fruit had been rotten. It wouldn't be the first time - this unbroken heatwave was making everything decay more quickly than ever. Then realization hit her like a stone. Her time had come - it had taken thirteen summers, longer than the most of the other girls, but it was finally here.

And she was out in the open, far from her mother's tent. If any male caught a glimpse of her in this condition, he would be forced to undergo ritual purification, and she would never hear the last of it. She curled up miserably, trying to ease the cramping pain, pressing her fists into her belly. There was nothing else for it. She would have to wait until dark.

Leaping Brook lifted the door flap, and swiftly entered the tent. The men were all at their suppers; no one had seen her. Though the pain had almost gone, she still clutched her stomach with one hand. Mother's gaze rested on it, then travelled up to her face.

"So. It has come?"

She nodded dejectedly.

Mother put down her weaving, rose, and hugged her. The embrace jarred Leaping Brook's sensitive breasts and she yelped softly. Mother released her apologetically.

"Why?" asked Leaping Brook, her face at last crumpling into tears. "Why couldn't I have been born a boy?"

"Hush, child," soothed her mother. "You are a woman now. And there is much to be done."

Mother had already explained the proper rituals. Leaping Brook was to be confined for four weeks, with only the company of other women. During this time, she must not touch the earth with her bare feet, nor leave the tent, and every morsel of food must be fed to her by another's hands. And once the confinement was complete, she would be given a new name. She gave another sob. To have even her birth name obliterated! It was rubbing salt into the wound.

Mother gathered her cloak and left to fetch Leaping Brook's maternal aunt. The two women returned a little later with a pitcher of water from the village well. The well was going dry, and Aunt recounted her difficulty in persuading the men to allow them some water for the washing ritual. In the end, Wise Counsellor had come to see what the commotion was about. Unusually, he had sided with the women.

"Rituals must be rigorously followed," he said. After all, wasn't it a missed ceremony which had led to the drought in the first place?

Mother snorted at this last remark. "He's convinced one of the women has secretly miscarried and buried the baby's body without ceremony," she told Leaping Brook.

"And has she?" She was glad to think of someone else's misfortune for a moment.

Mother shook her head. A wry smile lifted one corner of her mouth. "Of course not ... But it is time we began, daughter. Strip off those clothes."

Leaping Brook removed her tunic and shift, then stood in the large, empty bowl her aunt had placed in the centre of the tent, where the poles met and the roof was highest. Mother and Aunt soaped her thoroughly, then emptied the pitcher over her head. Water sluiced down her body, taking most of the soap with it. The cold forced the breath from her lungs, and she stood, naked and shivering, as they dried her with a rough towel.

Next, Aunt gave her a menstrual plug and demonstrated how to use it. And finally, Mother went to a wicker basket and pulled out a new tunic and shift. Leaping Brook recognized the material she had seen her mother sewing a few months ago.

"Daughter. Girl child who is no longer a child but a woman," intoned her Mother, holding them out. "Put on your adult clothes."

Leaping Brook took the clothes and pulled them on. They were slightly too big around the breasts and hips - to allow for future growth, she supposed. "Thank you, Mother," she said awkwardly.

Mother nodded. "Sit."

She sat crosslegged on the floor, and allowed her mother to braid her hair in the single adult braid, while Aunt produced some delicate shell earrings and a mother-of-pearl bangle.

"These belonged to your Grandmother," said Aunt, replacing the bone sleepers in Leaping Brook's ears with the earrings, and slipping the bangle onto her left forearm.

Finally, they dabbed her wrists and the base of her throat with a strong musky scent which made her head swim.

"And so is the first stage completed," intoned her mother.

For the next three weeks, each day followed the same routine. The two older women prepared the breakfast fruit - sometimes leaving the tent to fetch food or water - and patiently spooned it into Leaping Brook's mouth. It was humiliating to be treated like a baby, but she held her peace. Then followed the ritual story telling. Mother would recite a tale which Leaping Brook must learn by heart. It wasn't as hard as it at first sounded. The tales had a beauty and rhythm all of their own which made them easy to memorize, and the magical exploits of other women fascinated her. There were tales of Plague-woman, Flood-woman, Storm-woman ... If only they were true, she thought wistfully. What adventures! How she envied the women.

Then came lunch, and more tales, then dinner, and yet more tales. Each night she was hoarse from the chanting, and exhausted and ready for sleep. But even then her mind was full of magical, exotic images, and she woke the next morning as tired as ever. Gradually, a restlessness began to steal over her, and her muscles seemed to twitch with a longing for action, fresh air, and escape from the confines of the tent.

Leaping Brook could feel the pressure beginning to build within her. Yet Mother seemed oblivious of the brewing stormclouds, ignoring the sharp retorts which seemed to spring from her daughter's lips more and more frequently.

Mother finished reciting the Tale of Fire-woman and looked at her expectantly. She shook her head. The dull pounding in her temples was making thought almost impossible. "I'm sorry," she managed.

Aunt laid a hand on Mother's arm. "She needs rest." The two women exchanged an unfathomable glance, then Mother put down the book.

"Sleep, Leaping Brook. We'll continue in the morning."

For a moment Leaping Brook lay still, all her senses alert, wondering what had woken her. The tent was quiet, except for the gentle, rhythmic snores of the other two women. She let her muscles relax and lay there trying to recall the dream from which she had awoken. She realized suddenly that during the night she had reached a decision. One more day cooped up inside this tent would drive her over the edge. She must get out of here - if only for a moment.

Almost before she was aware of it, she had flung back the light blanket and padded over to where her clothes lay dimly visible in the darkness. She pulled on her new shift and tunic, and slid into her sandals.

A slight noise made her turn. On her Mother's pallet, something gleamed in the moonlight seeping through the tentcloth's chinks. Leaping Brook sucked in her breath sharply. Was Mother awake? Were those her eyes shining? She crept closer and peered down at the sleeping form, but both eyes were shut, the breath still rhythmic. Satisfied, she turned away.

Quietly she belted her Mother's doeskin sheath round her waist. It wasn't stealing, she reasoned - more a temporary loan of the knife. There were still a few food scraps left from dinner, and she wrapped them in a piece of cloth and tucked them in her tunic pocket. The water skin was only half full by the feel of it, but it would have to do. She slung it over her shoulder, hearing the faint slosh of its contents. Then before she could change her mind, she grabbed her blanket, crossed to the tent flap and slipped outside.

An immense black sky pressed down on her, and the full moon stared unblinking. She felt suddenly alone and exposed in the harsh light. Millions of stars winked coldly at her. What are you to us, they asked, but a mere insect, less than nothing? Overcome with terror, she shrank back. But then a night bird called its familiar three notes, and she heard the distant hunting barks of wild dogs, and the fear vanished as suddenly as it had come. Her heart began to leap with joy, and freedom, and endless possibilities.

Leaping Brook's breath smoked in the night air, and she pulled the blanket round her shoulders for warmth. I've broken the taboo, she thought, astonished at herself. What will Wise Counsellor say if he catches me? Soon the guard patrol would come, scouting for intruders hoping to steal the well water. She couldn't stay here much longer. But the thought of returning inside the tent was now overwhelmingly claustrophobic. There was really no choice but to leave. But where should she go?

She stared up at the stars, now warm sparks of encouragement. North, beckoned the brilliant Pole Star. Come north to the ocean. She remembered her mother's tales of the blue water that went on forever. Water! An end to this choking dust. That's right, said the star. Follow me.

Leaping Brook took a very deep breath, then accepted the invitation.

The Pole Star vanished when the dawn came, and Leaping Brook stopped, disconcerted. Daylight revealed an unfamiliar golden landscape which stretched unbroken by landmarks on all sides. The red clay and dense scrub of the village had disappeared. Ahead lay mile after mile of barren sand dunes. For a moment she hesitated, but only for a moment.

At every step, she sank into fine sand upto her ankles, the clogged sandals making it difficult to walk. Exasperated, she removed them, buckled them together and hung them round her neck. After that the going was easier for a while, and she enjoyed the sensation of the warm grains of sand beneath her bare feet. But the sliding slopes were exhausting to climb, and fast sapped what little energy she had.

She stopped frequently, digging in her tunic pocket for food scraps and swilling tepid water from the waterskin round her mouth. Often she had to rest and massage her aching legs. Unaccustomed to the constant strain, her knees were beginning to hurt. The sun burned down, and she covered her head with the blanket; for a while she felt blessedly cool, but then the blanket grew hot, and sweat beaded her face. Sweat had also soaked the area between her breasts and under her arms. Only the thought of the ocean kept her going. She concentrated on placing one foot in front of the other in what she hoped was a northerly direction.

At nightfall the Pole Star returned and Leaping Brook was relieved to see she had not strayed too far off course. She was bone weary and tempted to sleep, but it would be better to use the star as a guide. Travel by night, and rest by day, she thought. I'll sleep tomorrow. The decision heartened her, as did the fall in temperature, and she made good progress. When dawn came she threw herself down on the lee side of a dune and slept.

Hot sun on her eyelids woke her, and she blearily sat up. The shadows had shifted and now the dune afforded little shade. She took a mouthful of water, then felt in her pocket for food. There was none left. Her stomach growled in protest.

Now what do I do? She looked round helplessly. There was no vegetation for miles - no tubers to dig, no dewberries to pick. She remembered the knife at her waist. What was there to hunt in a desert? She had not seen even a scorpion. For a moment despair threatened to overwhelm her.

"How could I be so stupid as to set off so ill prepared - into the desert of all places," she groaned.

And then an even more terrible thought struck her. Suppose the ocean wasn't to the north after all, and she was marooned in these dunes forever. Tears sprang to her eyes, and she keened out loud.

"Mother, I need you," she sobbed. "Why didn't I listen to your teachings when I had the chance?" And hard on the heels of that thought came the bitter knowledge that, had she been a boy, she would not have had to leave the village this way.

The sobs eventually turned into hiccups, and Leaping Brook knuckled the tears dry and tried to get her thoughts back in some kind of order. What can I do except keep walking? she thought. There was still some water. Used sparingly, it would last for a while. She stood up, feeling the sun beat down, but also feeling a slight breeze from the north begin to ruffle her hair. It seemed a good omen. Very well. She gazed back at her tracks, smudged now where sand had filled the indentations, but still faintly visible, and set off towards the ocean once more.

It had taken Leaping Brook two more days to reach the ocean, and by now the water skin was completely empty.

The texture of the sand was different here. More coarse, and strewn with what looked like tiny translucent shells. Blue water stretched for miles, and she gave a whoop of joy and broke into a staggering run down the sloping beach. Something stubbed her toe, and she hopped the few remaining steps, cursing with pain, but also laughing with exhilaration.

She stopped, rubbed her sore toe, and stared in fascination as the huge waves thundered up the beach, hissed slowly to a stop, and slid back the way they had come. Then the lure of the water to her hot and sticky body became irresistible, and she dropped her blanket, shucked the empty waterskin, knife belt, and sandals, and plunged in.

She dived and surfaced, letting the undercurrents and waves toss her around, relishing the feel of cold, clean water against her hot skin, tasting the tang of salt on her lips. It was magnificent. No wonder the tales were full of the ocean. No wonder the shaman journeyed here annually to replace his conch shell. She laughed out loud. Wise Counsellor would be horrified to know a female was swimming in his precious ocean.

But eventually the euphoria wore off, and tiredness and cold began to creep over her, so she waded ashore and flung herself down on the sand, letting its warmth seep up into her body while the sun's rays bathed her. After a while, she felt recovered, but an overwhelming thirst had set in.

Somehow she had expected all her problems to be solved once she reached the ocean. She had even thought she could drink the water, but one mouthful made it abundantly clear this was out of the question - the salt made her want to retch. To have come this far, she thought, her stomach churning with hunger, her lips cracking, just to perish on the beach. Was she destined to be a pile of anonymous bones found by the shaman on his next visit? And a deeper grievance struck her. Was she never to see her mother again? A potent mixture of grief and anger began to build inside her.

She leapt to her feet. "It's not fair," she yelled hoarsely, shaking her fist at the remorseless sun which even now was besieging her village. It wouldn't be long before the drought killed her mother, aunt, and childhood friends too.

"Rain, damn you," she screamed, feeling the words scour her throat, seeing flecks of spittle and blood fly from her lips. But the sky remained stubbornly blue, and the sun beat down as before.

A wave of tiredness and despair washed over her. This was it, then. It had all been in vain. She had failed, unlike the heroines of the magical tales her mother had told her. In those stories, when each heroine had been tested to breaking point and beyond, she had chanted a command and it had been heeded. Leaping Brook was suddenly struck by a thought. Was it possible for a woman to use such magic in reality? Surely not; it was the province of the shaman. But what had she got to lose? She took a deep breath and calmed her agitation. And for a moment, she believed totally in what she was doing.

"I command you to rain!" she chanted.

Without warning, the sand beneath Leaping Brook's feet glowed white, and warmth spurted through her bare soles, up the length of her calves and thighs and into her groin and abdomen. It both terrified and exhilarated her. What dangerous power had she unleashed? For a moment, the spreading heat lay quiescent beneath her ribs, throbbing gently to the beat of her heart, as though gathering its strength. And then it darted up into her shoulders and along her arms, making the mother-of-pearl bangle glow like starlight. Her wrists tingled fiercely, and one by one the hairs on each arm crawled erect. A cloud of white sparks fizzed round her fingertips, and she gazed at it, startled, then abruptly knew what was required.

She pointed accusingly at the relentless blue sky, and with a sharp crack of thunder, lightning flashed from her finger tips and streaked upwards. A strong smell of salt and burning reached her nostrils.

Leaping Brook continued to point at the sky, feeling the awesome force burn through her until she thought her head must burst. How long must I to do this? she wondered, as her limbs began to shake like someone with palsy. I can't control it much longer. And then her body buckled and she fell heavily. And as her feet lost contact with the sand, the lightning bolt vanished.

I've failed, she thought dully, gazing up at the blue sky, her vision beginning to blur. It was all for nothing. But even as she sank into oblivion, she saw a huge black thundercloud forming directly above her, and then she heard the welcome hiss of rain.

When Leaping Brook eventually regained consciousness, a few hours later, it was still raining.

It was night when Leaping Brook crept into her mother's tent. The journey back had been straightforward, the continuous downpour cooling the desert heat and enabling her to travel twice as fast. The rain had filled her waterskin several times, and it looked like it was going to continue for a while yet.

Mother and Aunt looked up from their sewing and gazed calmly at her for a moment, then smiled a welcome.

"I'm back," said Leaping Brook tentatively, puzzled by their silence. She crouched in front of them, and carefully laid down her mother's knife in its doeskin sheath. But instead of the angry outburst she had expected, the women gazed at her with respect.

"And now is the last stage completed," said her mother, calmly continuing to sew. "You have discovered your power, girl child who is no longer a child but a woman."

Suddenly everything fell into place. "You knew," accused Leaping Brook. "You were watching when I left. I was meant to go, wasn't I? All those tales you told me were true."

"Tell us your own tale, daughter," said her Mother, smiling. "It must be included in the ritual for other girls."

Leaping Brook took a deep breath and began.

When the last day of her confinement was officially over, Leaping Brook left the tent. The torrential rain had at last stopped; the well was full, and green shoots were already poking through in the gardens and orchards. Herds of deer had been sighted browsing not far from the village - meat would soon be plentiful again. A circle of women waited for her, and each one in turn kissed her on the cheek and whispered her thanks. It seemed they all knew her story.

Wise Counsellor pushed his way through the huddle of men gathered to witness the naming ceremony, and stalked up on proud legs. He thumped his staff twice on the ground.

"I bring you your woman name, Leaping Brook," he said solemnly. "While you were confined, I used my magic to bring about the ending of the drought. So you shall be named 'Drought-woman'. Do you accept this name?"

She nodded, carefully avoiding the eyes of the other women for fear she would burst out laughing. Let the greybeard believe he had done this; the women knew better. As the shaman walked away, Drought-woman felt a laugh gurgle at the back of her throat.

"What amuses, you, my daughter?"

"You said 'Change what can be changed; accept the rest'," she told her mother. "Perhaps it is time to change a few more of our village customs."

"Perhaps it is," said Mother, smiling.