THE OMEN GIRL | Wattys 2020 Winner

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Connected to the main chancel of the temple is an inner sanctum of black tourmaline. Walking through it, echoing through it, is like entering the dark of space, an endless galaxy that stretches on and on.

The sanctum houses a kori tower – a tiered structure like a step pyramid, one of absolute black as the chamber around it. It is topped with spiralling roofs in the shapes of cosmic clouds, gaudy in gold. And sirens of gold adorn every tier, crowding the steps and corners.

There are one hundred and fifty sirens in total, and each of them hold in their hands an unlit star like dark glass.

I wait with the racers at the base of the tower, watching, restless.

Standing before us all is a stick of a man, very old, with skin like wet clothes left on a line. Like all Suns, he is robed in the colours of the sun – red, yellow, with a sash of white. He paces in front of the group, slowly, because he is very old.

His name is Brother Marat, and he is the one in charge of our preparations before the month is up.

"There are three kinds of stars." The old man holds up one finger.

"The first is the Joining star – characterized first by its size, typically ten times that of a normal star. It is capable of bonding with thousands of souls, and houses within it many voices. Its lifespan is a thousand years."

"The second," he holds up another finger, "is the wishing star, one that has power enough to grant a wish, any wish. It is known to be cunningly faster, far more playful and mischievous, and bright enough to scorch the eye. There is no record of a wishing star dying."

Finally, he holds up a third finger.

"Whistling stars, or simply – stars. Typically the size of a fist, with a lifespan of a century or so. These are what we use in our slings, what we bond with in our anchors, and what you see before you upon the kori tower."

Brother Marat gestures behind him, and we shift. We know what is coming.

After passing the honour of the Joining comes the Choosing.

In the Choosing, each whistler is given their turn in wooing a star for themselves, a star specifically set aside for the Decade-Races. These stars are swayed not by the time one has spent in training – years or months or weeks makes no difference. And no amount of capsules spent in preparation for this moment will sway the opinion of one.

Instead the star looks at a person's Ah, the Ahs that I still don't quite understand.

Brother Marat gestures for us to follow, and he leads us slowly, slowly, up and around the steps of the tower.

He points as he goes and explains.

This siren here, he says, holds in her hands the star that bonded with Tiras, who won the Decade-Race twenty years ago. According to Tiras, he says, the star was a serious thing, with barely any sense of humour.

This siren, he says, holds the bonded star of Nim, who won forty years ago. He called the star stubborn, but also stubbornly loyal.

This is the star of Avan. This is the star of Kit. This is the star of Togarath, who came back with not one, but three whole wishes.

On and on and on, Brother Marat relays. I don't know how he's managed to remember the names and stars of so many people, even the ones who did not win, only participated. Combined, the names number nearly a hundred. Maybe that's why he looks so very old – the ages of all the people he carries in his head end up writing themselves in the lines of his skin.

Some stars, fifty or so, are unbonded, untested, because they are newly harvested from cosmic storms just this year. These have the advantage of youthful vigor and speed, but the disadvantage of an unknown personality. The star could be unruly, or timid, or lazy. None of which will help you win the race.