NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 18: 507 words

Afterwards, a few things stood out to Bren when he thought back to the weeks leading up to his departure. The first was Magda's complete indifference to him. It might have been her occupation with her new role as clothier, but he wasn't sure.  Something seemed odd about it all--he saw her often enough, but she never looked directly at him, and she hardly spoke.  Instead, she rushed away.  He thought back again to the Gathering.  It seemed that he had seen her after the announcements--perhaps they had danced?  But he couldn't remember.  When he tried, his head started to pound again.

Overall, he was glad that she seemed not to pine over his impending departure.  Perhaps she had moved on from what had always been an unlikely crush--after all, he he was four years older, and had been in love with Alina since Magda was toddling around at her sister's heels.

Another thing that stood out was a dramatic shift in his work pattern.  Rather than staying busy gathering plants and mushrooms for various villagers--notably the healers--he was left idle much of the time.  There was always a change in work when the thirteens were confirmed in their occupations, but there was only one Gatherer in this season's apprentices--only one, to replace Bren.  Only select individuals or tradespeople solicited his services, though these seemed to pay quadruple the price that a mushroom generally fetched--even for the rarest ones; the tokens he received were those that would be most useful for a journey.  He would be able to buy dried meat and fruit, and have an entire wardrobe ordered before he left.  This, he did not do.  He bought food for the journey, but he had clothes to bring, and did not need more, since the reason for his departure was to seek labor away from the limits of his home, and inevitably to return as something other than what he was. When he returned, he would need a new wardrobe, perhaps.

Beyond a sac that he would require for carrying his supplies, he would need no cloth items.  So as he collected the coins that were of use to him, he used them to purchase, along with foods, medicines, bandages, and goods that were said to have value in the world--like wool, and small pieces of the rarer woods.  The rest of the clothier tokens, he would give to Alina.  She could use them to purchase her family’s supplies without having to do the labor that could be demanded in exchange for the tokens.  He would easily save her a week’s work—she could be selective in taking in work when she had a surplus of tokens.

When he was not gathering, he collected things for himself, as well, which no one would begrudge him since he was leaving.  He collected pieces of the ancient trees that had, over the years, turned to rock--those also were reputed to have value, although in the village they were worthless.

NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 13/14: 1,095 words

Magda glanced over to the high seat as Alina rose, joined Bren, and walked away from the council circle.

***

Like all of the thirteens, she was restless--ready for the festivities to begin.  She didn't have long to wait, now.  As Alina and Bren drew away, others began drawing nearer.  From the direction of the storyteller, a small group came out and stood around the fire.  The only time the storytelling stopped during the Gathering was when the announcements were made.  Seemingly, the time was at hand.

The storyteller stepped through the crowd and extended his hand to the Matriarch, who let him escort her to the opposite side of the fire.  His voice rose and fell over the assembly, reviewing the records--births, deaths, marriages--helping to make as well as record and recount the history of the village.  Finally, it was time for the names of the thirteens, who would now begin to practice a craft in a focused way.  Magda stepped forward into the applause as her name was called, and her list of skills:  "One of our most trusted errand-runners, accomplished gatherer and dye-maker, knowledgeable in the healing arts, embroidering prodigy."  Her face darkened as he continued to list those with similar accomplishments in her family--and not one was a healer, though there were gatherers.  And then, the applause.  She caught sight of Bren, then, in the crowd, his eyes on her, and the most extraordinary expression.  Of course, she thought.  He is to be married.  And she fervently wished that the wistfulness and pride were truly directed toward her.  With the others who were seventeen or older, Bren took a draught of heady elderberry wine after each name.  He drained his cup at her, and someone--Alina? she wondered--stepped forward to refill it.

Magda continued to listen politely while the other names were read, with their accomplishments.  Steppan beamed as his mother was named as head boulanger--his grandmother, several aunts, and two male cousins had shared that profession.  His grandfather had, late in life, taken a place as a healer.  His speciality had been gathering medicinal plants and fungi--much like Bren.  But her friend had not inherited that talent.

The list had several more members, and more than a few people were swaying--notably the young men.  The thirteens initiated the list of things that were to come in the next year--they were now practically adults, and could themselves start to look for marriage partners.  These they could arrange themselves, to take place any itme after they turned 17, but the match had to be approved by an elder, who would advise as to the potential successes of the unions.  Bren's grandmother had long suspected his attachment to Alina, and must have thought that the two were well-suited in order to approve the union so easily.  Magda pouted at the ground when their engagement was announced, but clapped along with the rest.  She knew it would happen. . .  and was likely as happy for them as she could be.  The girl looked up and shrugged a shoulder to herself as the storyteller's voice died away.  A high, clear note sounded, and the from the four corners of the crowd--almost into the forest--the open song rang out.  She pretended not to see Steppan approaching her--there would be time for him later--but dashed into the crowd.  Bren had disappeared from view, and the whirling of the flutes was getting faster.  Couples paired off, and skirts began to twirl in the dark.  Around the perimeter, high white torches brightened the faces of dancers.  She would find Bren before Alina, and claim the dance he had promised.

She found him at the very edge of the clearing, one hand leaning against a tree--and the other, fumbling at his pants.  She drew away a little as she saw this, and felt her face grow warm, but she realized almost immediately that it was all right--he straightened to turn back, reaching out for the tree when he felt the ground shift beneath him.

He felt her before he saw her, coming up behind him on the left.  She had slipped away from him earlier.  She put a tentative hand on his arm and he turned and grasped her, sliding his hands through her loose hair and closing his eyes as he drew her head toward his.

He was surprised by her warm, open mouth.  It remained open as he placed his on top, and she was rigid and frozen.  The elderberry wine that had filled--and dulled--his senses was replaced by a taste and a smell--of vanilla and lavendar.  Her lips were soft but firm on his, and he pressed harder, willing a reaction from her.  He  wrinkled his brow slightly, but he needed this, and she had clearly wanted him, too.  His tongue probed past her little sharp teeth, and met hers, which jumped slightly.  He looked at her then, and saw eyes, round and scared, close to his own.  He pulled away abruptly.

"By the Flame, Magda!"

The girl squealed, then, turned and ran back into the crowd.  He tried to follow, but caught himself on a root--or perhaps his own feet.  He head reeled and his stomach churned--he lowered his hands to his knees to steady himself, and didn't fall.  His breath came hard as he realized what he had done--damn, he had known that Alina had her hair up tonight.  But at the same time, he was badly affected--he closed his knees together somewhat tighter and tried to recover his breathing.  He ran his tongue over his lip--the feel of her was gone, but he tasted vanilla; the salt was his own.  But the lavender was in his nostrils.  It clung to his shirt.  He should have known--Alina never smelled of the dried lavendar--hers was a spicier smell of cinnamon and bay.  He did not know her taste.  He cursed himself again, but decided against running after the girl.  She would need to remain composed in the crowd.  Maybe she had rejoined her friends.  He would have time to apologize.  His head throbbed, then--and he remembered his injury from a few days before.  He wished she hadn't run off.  He swore again, and jumped at the sound of a soft voice behind him.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."  She was taken aback by his tone.  "Well. . .  my head."

Alina gave him a look of pity and knelt by his side, leaning to kiss his brow.  Bren did not pull her closer, but closed his eyes to hide his confusion--and guilt.

But she would be all right--Magda would be all right.  Wouldn't she?  He wasn't so sure about himself.  

NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 12: 1155 words

She looked at the half-mushroom engraved on her token piece, and nodded.  He drew her to him then, and they slowly ambled through the oblivious crowd, moving closer to inevitability--and Bren's grandmother.

***

The old woman hadn't moved from her seat by the fire--the seat of honor.  Magda sat close watching the fire.  Alina wondered whether Magda's admiration for Bren wasn't simply an extension of her admiration for his grandmother, who was, indeed, an admirable woman.  She had, in her youth, been apprentice to the storyteller, and fell in love with her fellow-apprentice, who was two years older.  They had pledged to marry although it was forbidden, but the summer that she turned 16, the old storyteller died, and her beloved was chosen to replace him.  For a year, she was his apprentice, and helped him to assume the role for which he was chosen.  He had died several years ago, and she mourned for him as if he had, indeed, been her husband.

She married at 18 to the master carver, who was, himself, a prodigy.  He was fair-haired and ruddy-cheeked, and many believed that he was decended from a wild race from over the eastern sea.  In Bren, both his looks and his talent were reborn, and his grandmother demanded more from him in return.  She bore him seven sons, and meanwhile, studied healing.  She was forty when her husband fell ill, and she was able to ease his pain and keep him with her for longer than others with the same malady.  When he died, she would not remarry, but was welcomed as one of the healers.  As a healer, and one who had been a storyteller, she also taught the children of the village.  Her family home was converted to accommodate the ill in one wing, and a library and schoolroom in another.

For many years now, she had been an elder, and for several years, the oldest of the elders--the Matriarch.  Bren estimated that she was eighty-six years old.  She had seven sons, four of whom were still living, and from the 5 sons who had married, had 14 grand-sons.  It could have been argued that Bren was her favorite, but her favor and her scorn were often difficult to distinguish.

Except that she did seem to favor Magda--who, conspicuously, was a girl, and had talent.  Alina had no particular reason to be ingratiated to her or to fear her, so she was polite and mild, which was her way with most people.

Alina approached now with some apprehension.  The Presentation of the youth would begin soon, and after the announcement and welcoming, other announcements would be made, including weddings and engagements.  It was for Alina, now, to approach, and tell her of their arrangement.  Magda drew away as Alina approached, and the old woman looked up.  Her eyes were bright, and though her cheeks were soft and withered, her strength was still apparent in her bearing, and the line of her jaw.  Alina approached, and took the mushroom-shaped seat next to the high seat.

"My Mother."

"Child.  Do you have something to ask me?"

Alina glanced at Bren, standing a few feet behind her.  "I would like to be married, and I ask the blessing of the village on my arrangement."

The Matriarch's eyes twinkled, though her mouth remained grave--a trait she passed to her offspring, Alina had often noted.  "You are a clothier and  dye-master, are you not?"  Alina inclined her head.  "Then you are free to marry."  Alina nodded again.  The examination continued.  "And you ask the blessing of the community?"

"Yes."

The old woman looked thoughtful.  "Have you been married before?"

"No."

"Have any others claim to you?"

"No."

"Do you have any reason to believe that you might be with child?"

Alina blushed furiously, and nearly whispered, "No."

"It is not an indictment on you.  Will you stand by that answer?"

Alina lifted her head, and spoke proudly.  "Yes."

"Good girl.  Answer with pride!  Now... when will you marry?"

Alina shifted uncomfortably, and glanced to the ground.  "We cannot yet marry, but would like to be betrothed."

The white brows drew together.  "No?"  She lifted her head slightly, and saw her grandson.  Alina swallowed hard, but the lump threatened to choke her.  "Brencis.  Will you approach me?"

He stepped into the firelight at her bidding.    Alina pressed her lips together.

"Will you be betrothed to this young woman."

"It is my wish, grandmother."

"When will you marry her?"

"When I have something to offer to her."

The fire crackled behind them.  The old woman glowed orange in its light.  She pressed her fingertips together, and simply sat.  Alina looked between Bren and his grandmother.  He shifted from one foot to the other impatiently.  The old woman sat, staring past him to the fire.  Several minutes passed with only the barest hint of movement.  Finally, Alina broke the silence.

"I wish to be betrothed, Mother."

The steely gaze turned to her.  Her eyes did not twinkle.

"I cannot do this, child.  I cannot bind a woman of the community to a man who will not marry.  You know the stories."

Bren spoke quietly, but firmly.  "There is one way--if an elder will vouch for the man.  Will you vouch for me?"

She regarded him dispassionately.  "What assurance can you offer me of your return?  And how can I announce your betrothal and your departure in the same Gathering?  I can't--in part for her safety."  She gestured to Alina, who flinched.

"You must--for her safety."

"You should stay.  If you cared about her--if you cared about me--you would stay."

Bren shook his head.  Alina wondered to see him so determined.  She made a decision.  "You must permit this."  The old woman's brows raised.  "If you do not, I will go with him.  Then you will lose a gatherer and a clothier."

For a moment, the old woman looked amused, though she didn't betray it when she spoke.  "There will be more to replace you.  Your sister, for example."  Alina glanced to Magda, who had retreated a distance away, and now stood with Steppan and the other thirteens.  She was surprised to hear a cold, strong voice close to her ear.  "But I will grant this.  But you must try to persuade him to stay in the three weeks until his departure."

Alina turned to the woman, now, and kissed her withered hand.  She glanced at Bren, and he watched the tears trace paths down her cheeks.  He wanted to dissolve into the woods, or to become dust.  He was tired.  He was desolation.  He bowed low to his grandmother.

"Thank you."

"You have no reason to thank me.  Return, instead, to your intended.  You are hers.  But you have no claim on her.  If she chooses to marry while you are away, you must be content with another."

"Yes.  I know our laws."

"Then go.  And celebrate her.  You are both dismissed."

Magda glanced over to the high seat as Alina rose, joined Bren, and walked away from the council circle.

NaNoWriMo2013, Day 11: 1328 words

The song, Bren knew, was one from the first generation after the people settled, and was meant to establish the benefits of settled life as opposed to the nomadic--for he dies a horrible death, cold and alone.  It also serves as a warning to young men--for the love of a woman is a sacred trust, and should not be violated.

The story was one that always weighed on his heart, and even more now, as he sought Alina with his gifts.

***

As he stood brooding in the half-shadow, he felt a warm weight on his arm.  He turned, half-expecting to see Magda, but instead Alina's eyes shone up at him.  A secret smile played about her lips.

His breath caught at her beauty.  Unlike Magda, whose hair was mostly let down, hanging well past her shoulders with a braid at each temple--yes, he signed to himself, he had noticed--Alina's hair was wound in a crown around her head, leaving her neck and just the barest hint of her shoulder naked to the cool evening air.  He watched as his hand moved up toward Alina's bare neckline, then, without touching, traced the line of her neck.  Realizing suddenly what he was doing, he snatched his hand back and looked away.  Her grip on his arm tightened, and he felt her lean on him slightly.  They stood for a moment, close together, and Bren did not listen to the fate of the young man, alone and friendless in the world.  He forgot to hear how he was on the verge of starvation, taken and brutalized by pirates, and then sold as a slave.  He wouldn't have been surprised by the vultures picking at his entrails, but even as the chanting continued, his senses were full of the girl by his side, warm and sweet-smelling.  Then, she tugged on his arm, and drew him away, further into the shadow of the trees.  It was cooler here, away from the fire, and she was lightly clad.  A heat came off of her, though, as if she burned with her own inner fire.

Bren remembered the gifts he held, and noticed also that she clutched something tight in her left hand.  He looked down at her face again, and she dropped her eyes.  She handed him the item shyly.

"This is for you."  He took it with his free hand, and its length fell free.  He lifted it up, surprised by its weight.  Alina smiled as his mouth hung slightly open.  He felt a stinging in his eyes and blinked once--twice--and again.  He looked at the garment--a perfect, green wool traveling cloak--and then back at its maker, beaming in the near-darkness.  He realized that her gifts were still in his other hand, closed his mouth and swallowed.

"These--" his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat.  "These are for you."  She took the three objects that he handed her, and her face lost some of its joy as she saw what they were:  the carved portrait, the book, and the pen.  She looked at him, standing, the cloak in his two hands.  Her eyes were large and pleading.

"To. . . remember you by?"

He swallowed, and nodded.  "Well--no.  Not really."  He spoke definitively, and she looked curious, ad something else. . . impressed?  His confidence buoyed, he continued.  "I carved the portraits when I was confined to bed for three days.  I thought mostly of you."  She nodded and colored slightly.  "The book and the pen took me much longer.  They are of myself--my talents, if you will.  But I thought... That when I am gone, perhaps you will write--not just letters to me, but write of everything that happens.  That way, when I return, we can share what you have written, and I will know how it has been with you.  I don't want to leave you, my Alina."

Her eyes held a mixture of sadness and anger now, and when she answered, her tone was defiant.  "Then why do you have to leave?"  He started to answer, but she spoke over him.  "I know. . . mushrooms.  But. . .  You can do other things.  When you marry. . ."  She stopped short, but continued.  "When you marry you will have the chance to ask for a new vocation.  And every three years after that.  You know that as well as I!  And if I... if you were to have a daughter, then your grandmother would raise that child to be a leader and a healer!  You could give her that!"

It was a weak appeal, and she knew it, but he stared at her for a moment, and gathering up the cloak, suddenly dropped to his knees.  For a moment, he buried his face in the cloak, then lifted it, his eyes unnaturally bright.

"Then. . . you have chosen me?"

She laughed, then.  "Of course, you ninnyhammer.  What did you think?"  She was thoughtful for a moment, then offered her hand.  They were mostly covered in the dim light, but she suspected that they had been seen by one of the passing shadows.  He grasped it, and rose.  The cloak dropped again, almost to the ground.  "Will you try it on?"

He let go of her hand reluctantly, touching her fingertips as long as possible.  Then, he swept the dark cloak over his shoulder and pulled the hood over his fair hair.  He seemed to disappear into the night, except for his ruddy cheeks and his full lips.  Alina stepped forward, then, and into his arms.  He held her close, and her lips pressed against his own.  Her kiss was firm and soft, and he breathed in her breath as he held perfectly still, wondering what he could--what he should--do.  As he parted his lips slightly, she pulled ever so slightly back, and then rested back onto her heels.  His breath seemed caught in short gasps.

"Will you stay?  We can be married tonight.  My mother approves. . ."

Bren gripped her with one arm, looking pained.  For a moment, he wavered.  Then his foot hit something soft.  He looked down.  The mushroom was large and brown, and would have been sliced and sautéed, and eaten with bread and perhaps cheese.  He brought his foot down on it, hard.  Alina squeaked, then clapped her hand on her mouth.

"I can't.  You know that.  I cannot be a whole man with you. . ."

She swallowed hard, and looked scared.  In a very small voice, she pleaded.  "Are you sure?  You. . . could try. . . You could try. . . tonight."

Bren moved closer, then, and pressed her gently against a tree.  She could feel him--the whole length of him--and was aware of how he wanted her.  For a moment she hoped--feared--that she had won.  Then, he relaxed, and drew away.  Part of her felt relief, and then shame at her lack of conviction.  He turned his back to her and stood, face deep within the cloak.  She hesitated, still leaning on the tree.  And she knew.  Finally, he spoke.

"Is it a traveling cloak, or a wedding cloak?"

"It is a traveling cloak."

Her voice was thick, and he knew that it was with the greatest effort that she avoided tears.  Good, he thought.  It was the same for him.

"Then. . . I'm afraid I must go.  I will be a better man for you when I return."

"If you return."  She whispered into the night.  Then, she spoke more clearly.  "If you will go. . .  You must make your promise to me.  Tonight."

"That, I will do.  And I will return to marry you, Alina.  And will you promise?  Will you wait for me?  Even though you're not truly bound once I leave?"

"I will always wait for you.  No matter what happens.  I am yours."

"And I am yours, my love."  He drew a token and his knife from the pouch at his waist, and sliced the token cleanly in two so that the metal core was visible between the layers of wax.  He handed one to Alina, and kept the other.  "Keep this, and we will know each other when I return."

She looked at the half-mushroom engraved on her token piece, and nodded.  He drew her to him then, and they slowly ambled through the oblivious crowd, moving closer to inevitability--and Bren's grandmother.

NaNoWriMo 2013, Days 1-10, in more or less linear fashion

Bren loathed mushrooms.  The bag tapped against his leg as he walked, releasing their earthy, pungent fragrance, not unlike mold, he thought ruefully.  And that was why he found himself gathering this morning--mold had erupted in the storerooms.  It was his job to gather more.

The forest was quiet and still, and unnaturally clean.  This was the way his people cultivated the woods.  Not planting themselves, they instead took prodigious care of the existing wooded area--clipping here, cleaning there, and gathering.  Always gathering.  He had to admit, though, the walk was pleasant.  The grass was a yellowish-green, and the trees were turning from green to golden with the barest hints of orangey-red.  The light that filtered through the trees was also golden, and made kaleidoscope patterns on the path before him, and danced on his bare arms and his face.

It was easier to walk through the well-tended areas than it would have been to pick a path through thick underbrush, and easy to stalk and to spot his prey.  His mocking "hmph" disturbed the silence as he bent to carefully loosen his quarry from the hidden hollow at the base of the tree--his dangerous prey.  His grandmother had often chided him for such thoughts as a boy.  Mushrooms were dangerous, she countered.  They could be deadly.  But that was not quite what he had had in mind--then or now.  To a mind with a little discriminating capacity, an edible mushroom and a deadly one were not enough alike to pose a problem.  Of course, there were the little children who, every year, ate the wrong mushroom and fell sick.  Every now and then, one would die in the course of training as a gatherer, and the community would mourn.  His mouth twisted uncertainly as he reconsidered--maybe there was some skill involved after all.  Again, his mouth twitched into a hard smirk--skill a 10-year-old could master.

Bren found the clearing where the gatherings occurred, and sat on one of the fat, hewn logs that made their sitting, resting, and occasionally trysting places.  This one was split in two and laid on its flat side, the curved part forming a seat wide enough for three.  In front, a slice of tree trunk three feet in diameter formed a perfect surface for eating.

He pulled his rough-weave bag over his head.  He unbuttoned and removed the sling that held the mushrooms and set it aside carefully.  The old women would scold him if be bruised or broke them.  From under the sling, in the larger compartment of the bag, he withdrew a finer cloth and spread it over the tree-slice in front of him.  He shuffled the mushrooms further away, and brought out two small brown loaves, a bright white wheel of cheese, and a small net of pinky-brown figs.  He brought out a small wooden plate and a small, bright knife.  He took the knife, pinched it between a fold of the fine cloth, and swept it free again, removing any dust particles that might have settled on the blade.  Then, he drew a fig from the net, clipped off the stem and very precisely, deliberately, pared the thin outer membrane from the fig, leaving only its moist, glistening red flesh.  He set it on the plate, and reached for another.

As he clipped the fourth stem, he saw her moving through the trees.  She appeared for an instant, and then disappeared behind another trunk.  She was moving smoothly, slowly--almost gliding through the flickering light filtering through the leaves.  Her grey work dress was the color of the smooth trunks, so that she could have disappeared completely.  But she was wearing, instead, a dress of deep pumpkin that rippled and floated with her motion.

He leaned his head to the side and watched her absently, a  smile spreading on his lips as he peeled the last fig, leaving it naked and tantalizing on the plate with the others.  He cast a cold glance toward the mushrooms.

She paused at the edge of the clearing and met his eyes with an answering smile.  He rose as she approached his table.

"Alina.  You came."

"Didn't you know I would?"

He colored slightly, and shrugged.  "Well, I hoped..."  He glanced down at the lunch.  "But you know, it's not the usual day.  I thought you might not..."  She slipped beside him and brushed his cheek lightly with her lips.  He squeezed her hand briefly.

"Are you hungry?"  She nodded, looking at the meal with shining eyes.  He broke one of the small loaves and handed it to her.  Then, he wiped the knife again on the cloth and sliced the cheese into thin wedges.  He moved the plate of figs between the two of them.  She took one and popped it into her mouth with a bite of cheese.  "Delicious!"  He did the same.

For a while, they ate in silent contentment, letting the light ripple over them, savoring the sourness of the cheese and the rich sweetness of the fig, punctuated by the toasty brown flavor of the bread.  The leaves moved faintly with the breeze, and a small chipmunk scurried across the clearing, stopping for  a moment to chatter to the light breeze.

She finished the last fig.  "How is the mushroom gathering?" He scowled, and she laughed.

"See for yourself!"  He nudged the detatched pocket, which brimmed full of mushrooms.

"Oh, Bren!  They're lovely!  What a wonderful harvest.  The women will be pleased."

He snorted a "hmph," and she looked at him reproachfully.  "Well, they will, you know."  He grumbled under his breath.  "You have a very important job, Bren."  She pulled a delicate lacy white variety out of his pack.  "This is such a fine specimen!"  He wrinkled his nose slightly.  "I know."  She squealed over what was, admittedly, his finest--a vivid green and orange banded mushroom, and one of their more useful medicines.  Gradually, he let her draw him out of his discontent.  Alina always made him feel appreciated, important--manly.  Even as a gatherer.  The fact that he was one of the best seemed little consolation--except when she was near.

He brushed away the crumbs from his cloth and wrapped the remaining cheese with his knife, in the cloth.  He tucked these into his gathering sack, and replaced the mushroom pouch, which took up almost all of the space in the bag.  He had gathered all he could without crushing the ones he had, or without returning to deliver his harvest.  But was early.  He could spend some time with Alina before heading back--as they usually did.

She rose before he did, and he watched her balance along the top of the log-seats, hopping to another as she came to the end of one.  The thin layers of her dress fluttered below her knee.  She had made the dress, he knew, and dyed the fine silken tree-fiber fabric with alder bark and bloodroot.  She had embroidered the intricate leaf pattern that spread over the dress, also--perhaps with the help of one of her sisters.  Magda was the most gifted at such things.  The garment was simply draped over her slender frame, and her fine, firm calves showed beneath its edge.  Bren caught his breath and looked away, but not before considering the texture of her creamy, white skin.  He rose, slung his bag across his shoulder, and moved across the clearing, moving slightly west, opposite the side of the clearing from which she had appeared.  He would have to return before long, but for now, he turned away.  She was waiting for a sign, and drew up alongside him quietly.  They had been friends a long time, and these meetings had tended the same way since he was ten and she was eight.

There was a cool fresh spring that they could reach before the sun tilted into the western half of the sky.  As they walked, Alina grasped Bren's hand like a schoolgirl, and swung her arms in time to their steps.  Her fingers were warm and reassuring.  He knew what he wanted.  But he did not know what she wanted.  He did not think they wanted the same things, somehow, but he did know that he wanted her.

"What are you thinking?"  Her voice was warm and rich, like spice cake.  Her brown hair somehow picked up the orange tones of her dress, and she fairly glowed with the warmth of firelight in winter.  He was thinking of these things, and of the trees thinning in front of them.  But he sighed.  He knew what she meant.  It was a trick they had.

"I'm thinking about these foul mushrooms.  About a future of mushroom gathering.  And about pushy old ladies.  And you?"

"I'm thinking about you.  Wondering what you have in mind... for the future.  Wondering... what it is you really want.  I am your oldest friend."

He squeezed her fingers.  "I know."  He wanted to lace his fingers with hers.  He wanted to pull her close and crush her against his chest.  But he couldn't.  How could he?  All he had to offer her was a lifetime of mushrooms and servitude.  Well, not quite.  He was free.  And he would serve her.  But he knew it wasn't enough.

"I'm thinking about going away."

She made a little choking sound, then cleared her throat.  "I thought you might."

They walked in silence for several minutes.  As the trees thinned, a wall of rock rose before them, and they heard the tinkle and burble of water.  It was a small pool, with clear water from the rock above.  The water was cold and sweet, and both of them sat and drank deeply, thirsty from the walk and the salted cheese.  Alina looked down now, and Bren felt shamed by her drooping mouth.  But he could barely stand it.

"Alina--be fair!  What can I do?  What is there for me?"

"My friendship?"

He faltered.  "Well... Yes.  But what is there for you?"

She sighed.  "I don't know.  You?  My family?  You know I have never wanted to leave."

That was true.  When they were small, they played games in the firelight during the gatherings.  He thought she was a cousin then--and now, he was glad that she was not.  He played like he was going on an adventure.  She cried if he left her alone, and yet she refused to go on his journeys.  He smiled a little.  Things did not change so much.  Except that he no longer wanted to make her cry.

After searching for hours, Magda found them at the western edge of the forest.  She narrowed her eyes at them.  They sat close, talking in low voices.  While she would have liked nothing more than to startle them both, or perhaps to creep up and hear what they were saying, something stopped her. Something in her sister's demeanor. She was a great judge of gesture--bodies spoke to her of the souls within, which only Bren's grandmother seemed to understand.  And Alina's back was bowed slightly, her head drooped, and she looked absently at the ground.  Bren's shoulders were straighter, and he moved jerkily.  He was not loud, but something agitated him.  Something within.  That wasn't uncommon for Bren.

It was Bren whom she was sent to find--and it was Bren whom she always hoped to meet in the woods when she was sent on errands to the gatherers, as all the youth took turns doing while they were still learning the trades.  From nine to thirteen, all of the children would learn to gather, and to cook, to weave, spin, and dye, to sew and embroider, to tend the goats, to tend the forest.  A very, very few were taught to harvest trees--usually the sickly, stunted, or diseased--to reduce the trees to pulp, to fiber, or to boards, and fewer still, to build.  There was not a large demand for furniture, and houses were built infrequently--often of reclaimed wood.  Even fewer from each generation would one day be among the wise.

Magda would turn 13 at this year's Gathering.  Or, well, she turned 13 two months before this year's Gathering, but at the Gathering, she would celebrate.  And on the next day, the sorting and choosing.  She wanted very badly to be a medicine-maker, a keeper of wisdom, advisor of the young.  She had the sense that allowed her to see  who was troubled, and, if they were open to her, could talk to them, and ease their troubles.  But she was born into the wrong family--or so she had been told.  Alina had it, too--or at least, to a degree.  But none of the wise, no teachers had ever come from their family--at least, since the last Turning.  The records were spotty before that time.  At one time, she thought that Bren's grandmother might take her in and teach her the wisdom, but the old woman would not.  She needed a daughter or a granddaughter, and she had had neither.  The old woman still hoped for a great-granddaughter.  But failing that, Magda hoped beyond hope to be a gatherer.  Then, she might at least have the freedom to wander in the woods on her own in the midmorning, afternoon, or even the evening, depending on what she was sent to gather.  And at least all children--regardless of house or profession--were taught to write.  So she had that.  As had all of her four sisters who were old enough.  They could not be storytellers or sages, but they could write, and that was precious to them.  And the writing would serve her well--or so she hoped.

Because when each child turned 13 in the months leading up to the Gathering--the one to usher in the warmer months, or the one to usher in the cold months--there were some tests and observations.  They would be observed at their tasks by the artisans, who assessed their individual skills.  Then, the children would write an essay about what they felt their calling to be.  These essays would also be considered, not only for the preferences expressed, but for the reasons.  A calling was sometimes not a conscious choice, after all.  Sometimes a child could express a preference not to be assigned to a trade that they found particularly onerous, but that was always a risk.  The request not to have a job was often taken as a sign that that particular job was the right one for that candidate.

As part of the process, the families would be surveyed, to see whether talent for particular jobs was part of the family legacies--the families took pride in having generations of master artisans, and different families treated the lone practitioner of a craft differently.  Magda's family--and Alina's--had had a wide range of artisans, and were considered suited for most professions.  She had that in her favor, as well, even if their main craft was one she did not enjoy.

These were the things that ran through her head as she navigated the forest on one of her last days as errand-runner.  This was one thing that was forbidden to those who turned 13, because it was good for the younger children to learn the forest, and after 13, their skills were put to better use by being apprenticed.  But though she did others' bidding, there was a freedom to running errands.  She was able to learn the forest, and to be near the trees, and to smell the grasses.  The light played on her path, and she was able to feel the changing of the seasons in her blood, gradually.  She could let her hair down and have it whip around her head on windy days.  She imagined it rustling like the leaves overhead before she bound it again.  And she could speak to the people she happened to meet, working in the woods, and to the person to whom she was delivering the message.

She decided to draw up quietly, but not silently, so as to interrupt Bren's conversation with her sister without being rude or causing alarm.  She shuffled her feet a bit--but there were no leaves on the forest floor.  The forest tenders had done their jobs too well for her purposes.  She stopped at the last tree and looked at them--Alina, still downcast; Bren a little agitated, but quiet.  She put her hand against the smooth bark and narrowed her eyes at her sister again, looking a bit pouty.  She had wanted to find Bren alone.  It was not Alina's day, and he was always more attentive to her when her sister was not around.  As everyone tended to be.  She stomped slightly, and gave a little cough.  Bren's head jerked up, but Alina was still.  If anything, her face drew further back into her hair--her unbound, unruly red-streaked brown hair that was just like Magda's own, only... more so.

"Magda!"

He glanced to Alina briefly, Magda noted.  She replied with an air of importance.  "Bren."  She nodded.  "Alina."  And nodded again to her sister.  Alina looked up and smiled, and Magda sighed, relaxing just a bit, but remaining in the message-bearer posture.  "I have a message for you, Bren."

"Oh you do, do you?"  He rose from his crouch, and Magda saw that he bristled slightly.  Though he was generally kind to the messengers, and--she flattered herself--to her in particular, he did not like receiving the messages, which were generally of one kind only.

"What does my grandmother want from me now?"  He sounded wretched and ornery, but she knew that he loved the old woman dearly.  Just not in her role as an Elder.  "Can't she leave me alone and let me gather these wretched dirtflower parasites?"  She cringed as he knocked the bag.  He mustn't spill the mushrooms.  He smiled at her concerned face.  "Well?"

"The women need the mushrooms.  The rainbow versicolor one in particular.  You know, the one that little Rada ate last year when she was still learning--"

He nodded, a little impatiently.  "I know the one."

"Do you have one for me to take back?  If not, I am instructed to stay with you until you find one."  Magda's eyes sparkled.  Alina's eyebrow rose slightly, but her sweet smile remained.  Damn Alina, Magda thought.  It was impossible to be jealous of her.

"He has one."  Magda tilted her head at her sister's comment and smiled a half-smile.  Bren didn't show his crop to just anyone, mainly because he hated touching the things.  But he would show Alina, and if she were not there, Magda would also suffice.  He knew that she admired him, and liked to humor her, Magda thought with some regret.  But they were friends, and Magda could not discount that.  She was certain that she seemed much younger to Bren, who, after all, had known her from birth--if he remembered when he was four.  It was possible; Magda remembered that age well.

"Can you take the whole wretched pouch?"  Magda shook her head.

"Sorry, my brother.  I am instructed only to bring the versicolor."  She held out her own rough sac, like his, only the black of the errand-runners.  Bren rummaged through the bag, visibly holding his breath.  Both young women--for that's what Magda was--cringed at his carelessness, but after all, he was responsible for gathering more if they were unacceptable.  And they never were.  "I think they don't trust me," she said, and shrugged.  The corner of her mouth quirked up.

"Hah!  Not likely."  Bren smiled and handed over the mushroom.  Magda was one of the most trusted errand-runners.  They would be sorry to lose her this year.  "There--take the blasted thing."  She liked mushrooms--was a little in awe of them, actually.  They were life-giving food and medicine, but could also mean death.  They could be lacy or smooth, colorful or plain.  Almost all of them--whether on the ground, tree, or in a pouch--were beautiful.  She was working on a dress embroidered with a million of them, for the Gathering, though she hated the work of it.  So she admired it, perhaps for a moment too long, before closing the pouch and nodding her farewell.  Bren and Alina smiled and bowed in response, but then seemed promptly to forget that she was there.  She looked at them for a moment longer as Bren resumed his crouch near her sister; then, she turned and crunched away, careful to crush the blades of grass a bit flatter on her retreat.

Alina left shortly after her sister.  Her mood had lightened somewhat.  She didn't really believe that he would do it.  She didn't actually think that he would leave.  Bren turned this thought over in his mind as he continued to wander through the forest--not gathering, now, only enjoying one of the pleasures accorded to him as a gatherer--the limited accountability.  As long as he returned with the right variety of mushrooms in sufficient quality by sunset, no one checked to make sure that he was on the job.

There were large, mossy rock formations throughout the forest, but this one, on the westernmost edge, was the one that bordered the forest.  Stretching west, the trees stopped abruptly, and the rocks spread out in a honeycomb-pattern labyrinth.  There were many hiding places, but it was also easy to get lost in the formations.  At least once a year, a part of men had to go in to retrieve one or two of the errand-runners who thought to take the short cut from the northwest to the southwest to deliver a message to a gatherer or tree-tender.  The rocks cut into the forest, right where Bren and Alina had stopped at the spring, and there was a path behind those rocks that could trim several minutes of of a sprint from north to south, but it was a gamble.  Bren was one of the few who could actually navigate the path.  He and Alina had explored it thoroughly during their years as errand-runners.

Bren walked along between the rock and the forest, considering.  It was tempting to disappear into the rocks and not emerge for few days, but with only a half-wheel of cheese, that wasn't really practical.  And he was nothing it not practical.  He sighed to himself, and decided to cut straight across the forest.

The forest was, at it's widest point, a day's walk.  But it widened out considerably to the south.  The trees cradled their village, so that there were trees to the south of the village, and to the west, and then to the north some grassland between the continued outcropping of rocks.  Further north, there was a narrow passage to the river, which traveled east several leagues before doubling back and continuing south.  To the south, there were towns scattered along the river, which opened up to the sea.

Bren did not notice the trees as he passed through.  He did not glance at the roots of the tree or the carefully cultivated logs that grew the mushrooms.  He had fulfilled the days duty.  Instead, he thought of the sea.  He had been to the river before--a wide, wild, rushing thing, brown and turbulent, that ate through its banks and carried the earth to the sea.  But the sea itself, he had never seen.  One day, though.  One day soon.  It had to be soon, because Alina...  Well, she would wait for him if he had something to promise her, but she was outgrowing her mother's home, and she--rightfully--wanted to make a life for herself.  Which meant that she wanted to start her own family.  And he thought... he thought that she had chosen him.  If he did not act on that choice, and soon--well, there were others to whom she could turn.  But he did not want to offer her himself.  Not now.  Not as a gatherer.

He didn't know much about the towns to the south.  He knew that his people preferred their own way of life, and why would they not?  It was peaceful, and they knew no other.  But the southern towns were supposed to be stony, and grey, and sad.  They were said to be dirty and full of disease.  People were cut off from the land--they did not look to forest and field for food, but looked to the sea, and to ships.  Occasionally, they would journey north too look for a better life.  Rarely did such travelers reach the village, but it was known to happen.  There were families who traced their artisanal misfits to blood from the south.  Bren thought he might have been one of these.  His sandy-blonde hair and apple-cheeks were different from the creamy-tan complected, reddish-brown hair that characterized most of the families--including his own.

He had been walking for another hour or two now, and the shadows were lengthening around him as he came upon one of the rock formations that seemed to be planted throughout the forest by a giant's hand, arranging objects in a garden for his pleasure.  This one was on a little hill of earth, and with its earthen base, towered a good 15 meters high.  A giant hand had stacked the rocks, and, when the stack became unstable, leaned it against another, shorter stack.  The effect was one of deliberate bracing, and also a kind of window onto the sky--as if the rock-window cut a hole in the tree canopy above.  The light had lost most of the gold of midday by this time.  The shadows were long and purpley-grey.  The sky that peeked through the rocks was deepening, with hints of pink and orange creeping.  Bren started, realizing that he had walked far out of his way.  The window-rock bordered the wider part of the forest.  He would now have to quicken his pace, and turn to the north.

But the time had slipped away from him, and now he realized just how long he had been walking.  He might not make it back home before dark, and it was possible that, with Alina and Magda able to say when they had last seen, him, and with a full bag, a group would have been sent out to search for him.  So he removed from his bag a special creation of his--a hollow wooden tube holding paint, with a brush attached.  The gasket within would allow the paint to flow when pressure was applied, but would keep the paint from leaking when it was stored.  He removed its protective cover, and on the rock, inscribed the series of sweeping characters that was his particular sign.  Then, he put his instrument away and walked to the other side of the hill to take his relief.  He heard a slight rustling, but when a small quadruped dashed from a bush into the deeper brush, he relaxed.  This part of the forest was beyond what was currently under cultivation.

It was a different sound--a cracking and crashing--that made him spin around, but then something happened, and he fell.  He awoke with searing pain in his head, and a face above him haloed in painfully bright light.  "A--lina?"

A sigh.  "No, silly."

"Oh, Magda!"

"Right.  And glad I found you!  Now, I need to send a signal.  Try to stay still, and take this...."  She put a bitter tincture to his lips and he gagged slightly, but choked it down.  There was that damned versicolor again.  "Yes, I know you hate it, but it will help...."  He swallowed hard and choked a little.  The splitting pain pierced deeper into his skull, and he moaned.  "It will help soon.  What happened?  No, don't tell me what happened.  I will be over in the clearing making the signal."

Bren closed his eyes, but the sunlight invaded, painting neon stripes and spots across his inner eyelids.  The world seemed to be moving, and he tried to piece together what had happened.  He tried to ask, but couldn't seem to form the words.  Something was troubling him.  Where was he?  He opened his eyes abruptly and sat up, then doubled over and retched.  Magda started, then shook her head and pursed her lips slightly, imitating Bren's grandmother.  "Oh no.  The medicine won't work now."

They were in the clearing where the Gatherings were held.  His head had been pillowed on a folded scarf--Magda's own, he assumed--on top of one of the lower split logs.  He looked for his bag, but it didn't seem to be with him.  Overcome by pain and nausea, he lay back down.  Magda packed the powders into a hollowed cylinder of wood, then tossed it up into the canopy, where it emitted a shower of green sparks--green, for a successful search and recovery.  They would come now, to transport him, and he could rest.  Magda came now, gently, to his side, and placed a cool, damp compress on his forehead.  She took his hand and stroked it, and for a moment, she seemed older--older, even, than her sister.  He smiled at her through the pain, and mouthed a thank you.

"How long have they been searching?"

"Since you didn't come back last evening.  Alina and I thought that perhaps you were taking a long route, but after dinner, then sent the men, and today, the errand-runners joined the search."  Bren very nearly nodded, but the vertigo stopped him.  "Water?"

He thought he might be able to handle water, and his mouth was parched, so he leaned slightly toward the water-pouch she offered and sipped.  She took the pouch from his mouth and watched his face, then offered more.  Again, he mouthed a thank you, and she smiled, looking very like her sister.  He leaned back and closed his eyes, and slept.

When he opened his eyes, he saw her rich, red-brown hair, but when she turned to him, he blinked.  Alina sat beside him, now, in her grey dress.  He frowned, and sat up.  Alina grabbed his hand to steady him, then quickly brushed his lips with hers.  There were others in the clearing--preparing to transport him.

"I think I might be able to walk."  His mouth was parched, and he croaked rather than spoke.  The attending matron eyed him skeptically.  She was his mother's sister.  She gave a small "hmph," and continued to make arrangements to have him carried out.

Alina frowned, and looked into his eyes.  "What happened?  We left you not far from here.  Did you fall?  Or become ill?"

He shook his head, still confused, but realized that was a mistake and closed his eyes, hands to his head.  She helped him to lie back down again.

He spoke in a low whisper.  "I wandered a bit after you left, then decided to head home.  I walked too far south, and came to the window-rock.  It was late afternoon, so I marked the rock in case any came searching for me.  Then, I heard what I thought was a falling tree, and turned--but that's the last I remember.  I fell, and blacked out.  Magda found me here.  I don't know how I got here. I don't think I could have walked--not with the pain..."  Alina's fine brows creased together.

"I will tell them..."  But as she rose, Bren squeezed her hand.

"Not yet.  There is time.  Stay with me, please."  He paused.  "Where is Magda?"

"She had to leave you.  She would have preferred to stay."  Alina smiled.  "But she has a fitting this afternoon.  For her dress.  For the Gathering."

"Aaaah, yes."  Bren sighed.  "I will have to thank her."

The transport arranged, a team of men and women lifted Bren onto the taut fabric of the lift and carried him in turns out of the forest.  They gave him Magda's scarf, which had rust-colored stains from his head.  Apparently, something had hit him--hard--as he fell.  Then, something else struck him--almost as hard.  The mushrooms.  He groaned, and closed his eyes.

Rain fell steadily for the three days it took Bren to recover from the incident in the forest.  For those days, he was relegated to his paternal grandmother's house for observation, as head wounds were sometimes known to cause strange behaviors--or death.  During this time, he was questioned by most of the village about the accident, but he could not give any more definitive answers than he had first had when he woke.  The mark that he made on the window-rock had been found.  No one had explored the southern half of the forest.  It would have taken a special party, and no one could be spared in the week leading up to the gathering.  They had to hope that the incident was an isolated one, if trees were being felled.  As for Bren--no one quite knew what to make of his injury, and they collectively decided that he had moved through the forest to the place of the most communal significance--the clearing--in his injured delirium.

Bren did not have a better theory.  The only thing that bothered him was his bag.  It had been found in a different part of the forest--nearer to the eastern edge--hanging from a low branch, close to the trunk of the tree.  It dangled about a meter or a meter and a half from the ground.  There were no mushrooms in it, around it, nor anywhere between the window rock and where the bag was found, nor between where the bag hung, and where Bren lay unconscious.  The cheese, likewise, was gone, leading Magda and many others to suspect an animal--except for the small but important fact that the bag was found hanging. Bren's knife, and his fine napkin-cloth, and his bowl--still sticky from the figs--were there.  He was, at least, glad to have the knife.

He was confined to a room on the upper floor of his grandmother's--well, house did not begin to describe it.  It was a meeting place and a hospital, a library and a school.  But the room he was in was more infirmary than research- or meeting place.  He could have visitors, but these soon wearied him.  Alina came, and Magda, and Damir, his brother.  Many more official visitors came to hear what he had to report.  More than one of the healers came to assess when he might be able to return to the forest.  He might have been sent out sooner, had the rain not been so steady.

He slept, and was well tended.  They made a special effort to give him something other than mushroom broths, though he did suspect that this was due, in part, to his inability to supply the necessary mushrooms for the broth.  Well, the rain would not last, and he would not be in bed forever.

Bren considered what lay ahead--almost certainly, on the day of the Gathering, he would be well enough to be released and resume his job.  He was a gatherer, and some thought the Gathering was an acknowledgment of sorts of the work of the gatherers.  His specialty was mushrooms, but others gathered bark, or plants.  Some gathered whatever useful item they could identify--because there needed to be a place, even for those who were suited to little.  It was good to feel useful; often this was the only consolation he found in the work that he hated.  That, and walking in the forest.  He frowned.  Not a good consolation this time.

As he rested, he was permitted only one visitor per hour.  Most did not stay that long.  When he could, then, he was permitted his knife and a small block of wood, and traced intricate designs in the soft butternut wood.  It was the master woodworker who brought him the wood--mostly Bren contented himself with broken branches that he gathered when he was out on his daily hunt.  But the old man, Stolar, recognized Bren's talent, and also saw the desire of his soul--to create.  And so he slipped him a finer piece of wood when he could, feeding his former apprentice's metier.  No one could deny Bren's usefulness to the community, but woodworking was an art, and when true artistry was wasted, someone in the community mourned--usually the possessor of the talent.

So he worked, for three days, paring away fine curls of wood, shaping the hair of a young woman on one face of the block, the fine lines of her chin and mouth, and bringing life to her bright eyes. On the opposite face of the wood, he carved his own likeness, and on the edges, a scrolling vine pattern with leaves and stars.  It was purely decorative, and would be lovely to more eyes than his own.  He would give it to Alina at the Gathering.

With only a slight headache and no bandages, Bren was released on the fourth day--to gather.  There were some particular requests for the small white buttons for the feast.  They would make a good accompaniment to the small herbed grass hens that were Magda's favorite dish.  As she picked her way through the marshy ground from her own family's house to the boulanger in the early morning, she saw Bren leaving what was, to her, the center of town--the house where the matrons and elders met, taught the children, and healed the sick.  She waved, and he nodded in acknowledgment, looking grim as he set off in the direction of the forest.  She paused for a moment and looked after him, then set off on her way again.

The following day was the Gathering.  The weather had cleared, and there would have been two days to dry the ground by the time the fires were lit.  The main bonfire was lit in the center, on a flat stone that was had been set into the ground, slightly recessed, many ages ago, so it would burn no matter what the weather had been.  The various logs and columns of wood that served as tables and chairs might still hold the moisture, but people would bring their blankets and mats and even carved wooden seats that fir perfectly over the tops of the tree-stumps.  More of a concern would be the ground. Sawdust and straw could be sprinkled and spread as a last resort, but when dry, the packed earth of the clearing would support the dancing and movement of people.  Sawdust and hay limited movement--at least until well-trampled.  Magda was resolved to dance--and to dance often.  It was an important celebration, and anyone whom she asked would honor her on that night.  Even if he preferred her sister.  It was just one night.

Everyone was consumed with preparations, and the errand-runners were busy--in the village this week more than in the forest.  The forest-tenders were in the forest she knew, treading lightly on the soft ground, removing leaves and debris.  It was a steady rain, but light.  Still, she did not envy them their job.  The tedium of clipping, and raking, and gathering.  Bren would find wood debris today to use; otherwise, the forest-tenders would collect leaves and branches for use in textiles, or for kindling.

Magda fingered the tokens in her hand.  Each token represented a promise of service returned for service given--the symbols on each token represented the type of service for which the token could be traded.  Each person had a service that they could provide; so each gave that token as a promise of future service or products in exchange for service or products today.  These were destined for the boulanger.  Everyone would want a loaf of the celebration bread--a loaf of paper-thin sheets of dough folded with bits of dried apricot and sweetened with honey.  As she rounded the corner past the home of the master builder--a grand house, and one of few that were so large--she stepped into the smell of the breads, and the sugary smell of baking fruit.

Magda's friend Steppan was a child of this family, and he met her with a warm shake of her two hands and a wide grin.

"Magda!  How blow the leaves in the trees?"  She smiled at the formal greeting.  Steppan had a certain elegance of speech that she found endearing.

"The leaves are turbulent; the wind strong."  He nodded vigorously.

"Perfect for dancing in the wind, then?"  They both laughed at the private joke, recalling a windy dancing lesson when they were younger.  "You will dance with me at the Gathering, Magda?"

"Of course."  She kissed him on both cheeks, and a blush spread on his already blossoming cheeks.  At that moment, a bell rang, and he started and ran in the back.  Magda heard what might have been an apology called back to her from the rear of the workshop and home, where the ovens were positioned so that the heat might be dissipated by venting outward instead of radiating into the building.  She waited for him to return, but before he did, his mother came down the stairs.

"Oh, hello Magda!  Are you here for Steppan?"

Magda colored, and lowered her head, her mouth twitching with something like regret.  "No, ma'am."  She glanced up to the back.

"Oh, has he gone to tend the bread, then?"  She nodded to herself and paused, then continued more thoughtfully.  "More orders, then?"

"Yes."  Magda smiled.  The older woman sighed, and again glanced back to where her son was working.

"Mushroom gathering is a hard life, child."

Magda narrowed her eyes slightly at the dark-haired baker, and her brow wrinkled.  "I know."  She spoke defensively, but wondered where this observation tended.

"I hope your sister knows also."  She smiled as her son stepped back into the entry room.  "So you have the payment, then?"

Magda nodded briskly and handed over the tokens, at least half of which had mushrooms engraved on their waxen surfaces.  Mushroom gatherers received one token for each mushroom they gathered--except the rarest.  But their labor was not worth as much.  A builder could buy several loaves with a token; a gatherer must hand over several tokens--nearly a days' labor--for a celebration loaf.  Magda pressed her lips together, and wrote the names of the families who had ordered loaves in the ledger; then she placed the appropriate coins next to each order.

"Do you have an errand that you need?"

"No, Magda.  Thank you for asking."  The woman glanced at her son, then smiled gently at Magda.  Magda glanced away, but caught Steppan's hands in hers.

"Goodbye, friend.  I may see you again before tomorrow!"

Steppan gave a slight bow, and Magda turned and exited the shop watched as Magda turned and walked out of the half-open door.

Alina heard Magda enter their home before she saw her.  Their workroom was in the back of their house; the front was, like the boulanger, used for taking orders.  The family specialty was textile, and most of the women and men were employed as weavers and dyemasters.  The first floor was full of the pungent scent of the dyes.  Alina in particular was highly proficient at dying--a master, some said, though at 18 she was young to take that title.  She knew exactly the proportions and the combinations of plants, bark, ground rock, and earth to make vivid, vibrant dyes.  And she enjoyed the work, though not as much as she enjoyed piecing the finished fabrics together into new garments with startling color combinations.  This, she did for herself and her family; it was not her designated trade.

She had just put the finishing touches on Magda's dress, and she stepped back to admire it in the afternoon sun streaming through the windows. The dress was a vivid crimson red, embroidered with flowering vines of the same hue.  Magda would also wear stockings of hyacinth-indigo, and a shawl woven with threads of the blue and the red together.

The shawl was Magda's own work, and it was exquisite.  The threads were woven into a fluid jacquard pattern with Magda's signature leaf and berry pattern. On the rounded bottom edge of the shawl, Magda had embroidered blue leaves and crimson berry-clusters.  Alina fingered the  fine material and laid it on the dress.  She looked up and smiled as Magda entered the workroom.

"It's all done!"

Magda's face lit up.  "Is it?  Thank you for helping."

"You're welcome, of course, but your work is better."

Magda's mouth twisted a little, and she sighed and muttered, "You're just saying that, right?"  

Alina smiled a little sadly, and shook her head.

"Maybe they haven't noticed."

"You know that everyone has noticed.  I don't know that you can hide it.  You're the best embroiderer, and the best dressmaker, and you are only just 13!  You will be a master--if. . . you want to be."

Magda didn't look up.  There was no need.  "Well--"  She choked a little, but swallowed hard and took a deep breath.  She was silent for a moment.  "Can I try it on?"

Alina pulled her sister to her.  She felt the pressure of Magda's head on her shoulder grow for a moment before Magda straightened.  Her eyes were shining as she forced a smile.  "It will be a fine celebration."

"Yes."  Alina spoke very softly.  Her expression was pained.  Magda turned and pulled the sleeve of her runner's tunic.  "Let me help you."  Alina drew the tunic up over Magda's head.  She gathered up the skirt of the crimson dress and lifted it up over the reddish-brown hair.  The girl was almost as tall as Alina was now.  She would be taller in another year.  Magda drew her arms into the narrow sleeves and then out of the bell-shaped openings--which again, were adorned by Magda's own embroidery.  When she dropped the hem, the dress floated over Magda's slim form, skimming her hips, the flared hem playing just above her knees.

Magda's hair was loosely gathered at the back of her head, windblown and falling out of its band. There was no comb in the workroom.  Alina wasn't sure why she was looking around for one.

"Will you sit?"  She gestured to the chair by the window.  It was a work chair that fit nicely against the back when you were sitting.  Magda seemed suddenly tired as she leaned into it, though the girl never showed weariness.  She always seemed driven to the next task--which was, Alina reflected, why she did not enjoy the stationary sewing work that she was almost certainly destined to fill--at least for the first three years.

Alina stroked Magda's hair away from her forehead and removed the band from her hair.  She drew her hands up through Magda's hair, and smiled to feel the girl relax.  There were no knots, of course.  There never were.  Alina had fixed Magda's hair for 8 years, at least.  She thought from a moment, then began from her right temple. She gathered strands as she worked her way to the back, weaving them in a loose, 4-stranded weave.  At the back of Magda's head, Alina drew a clip from her own head, causing a small cascade of her own soft brown hair.  She clipped the first braided rope, then started again on the left, working toward the back.  Where the two strands met, she paused to unclip the first rope and held both together in one hand.  Looking around, she found a strip of crimson fabric on a workbench.  She wanted red leaves, but this would serve nicely.  Tucking the end around the meeting point between the two rope, she move this into the braid that rested on top of Magda's glossy hair.  Alina then tugged on the weave, loosening the cloth so that it formed an undulation--almost a flame pattern, but more delicate. She tied the end with the band that she had removed from Magda's hair.  The thick rope was somewhat off-center, but more charming for its asymmetry.

The afternoon sun shone through the window.  All around them the preparations that Magda had helped to move along were continuing.  Alina put her hand on Magda's shoulder, and felt the light pressure of fingertips on her own.

It wasn't the end of the world--it truly wasn't.  But right now, there was no way to help her sister see...  Alina thought back to her own 13th year, but there was no tragedy.  She was adept at running errands, and medicines and gathering were fine skills--but she had, unlike Magda, grown up with a love of color--of manipulating and putting colors together--of the polished texture of the cloth and lustrous threads that she dyed with the plants and bark that she gathered, or that were brought to her according to her specification.  She loved to color the world, and clothe those whom she loved--and heal them.

"I saw Bren today."  Alina smiled.  Magda often seemed to follow her sister's thoughts.  It was uncanny.  "He was released to the woods."

Alina frowned slightly, and made a small, disapproving noise.  "Do you agree with that?"  She felt Magda stiffen slightly and remove her hand abruptly, and wished she hadn't asked.

Magda mused, "He has been in his grandmother's house for three days.  Even if not fully recovered, he likely wouldn't have gotten any better..."

Alina laughed.  "No.  That's very true."

"I suppose they needed another versicolor."

"No doubt they did."

"I plan to ask him for a dance."  Magda sounded strangely shy when she spoke of the Gathering now, Alina tought.

"I thought you might.  I'm sure he will be flattered.  I will let him know--"

Magda jerked her head to the side for an instant, and Alina was startled.  "Please don't!"

Alina's frown deepened.  "Well, alright.  I don't have to."

"Do you promise?"

"Well, yes!  Why do you ask?"

"I just...  I would just prefer it."

"Certainly, if you wish."

"I do."

Alina leaned and kissed her sister high on the cheek.  "Will you be getting ready now?"

Magda laughed awkwardly.  "I thought that was what I was doing?"  Alina smiled in response.

A bell rang in the front of the house then, and a clatter of limbs hit wooden floors as two more sisters struggled to see who would push into the doorway first this time.

"Let me take care of them."  Magda sighed, but she was smiling.  Alina listened to the girls' first reactions to Magda's dress from the back room.  She did truly look lovely; Alina hoped that she would enjoy the celebration.  She expected to get some pleasure out of it herself, though the prospect was not without anxiety.

She turned toward the now-cold fireplace, and walked beyond it to the shallow cabinet where she kept needles, scissors, and other supplies.  She drew out a luscious green cloak and brought it over to the stone work-table.  It was made of wool--a rare commodity, since they had no sheep.  A shepherd who lived, with his family, several days' journey to the north was the only source.  They were nomads, so if wool was wanted, there was no choice but to wait.  The shepherd had sent two sons and a daughter, all of whom he hoped eventually to marry into the village, to trade the wool for whatever goods the family needed.  The sons could freely set the terms;  those who did not need wool would still trade for it, knowing that there would be many others who would be willing to purchase the wool.  Alina supposed that the wool to weave the cloak had cost her two weeks of sewing and another three of weaving and dying, which did not include the gathering of supplies for her dyes.  Though the gathering was not her favorite task (perhaps Magda would like to take it over if, like Alina thought, Magda was relegated to the clothier's), these were the days on which she met Bren for the mid-day meal.  Their last meeting was unusual for not being on a gathering day.

The cloak had been costly, but Bren would need a traveling cloak.  Though she still hoped that Bren would stay--and meant to do everything in her power to persuade him, she had died the wool a deep green.  Green and brown were the colors fo travelers, and Bren's eyes, too, were green.  She had saved for this gift initially in the hope that they would be wed; a red cloak would have been the traditional choice for his marriage gift.

It was not often, after all, that their young men went away.  Every person was needed, and there was a place for all in the village.  The storytellers were not kind to those who left--or perhaps it was true that travel always ended badly.  But some said that the shepherd had once been a villager.  To be expelled and forced to wander--that was a painful punishment.

Alina became aware of her surroundings when a shadow fell on the wall in front of her.  To all appearances, she had been meditating on the cloak, its shoulders held loosely in her two hands.

"Will he be going, then?"

"Mother."  Alina looked up and smiled.  "I don't know.  He might."  Alina shrugged one shoulder.  "Are you and the twins getting ready for the Gathering, then?"

Her mother looked reproachfully and crossed the room, brushing a strand of loose hair away.  Her hair was the same color as her older daughters--or had been--but peppered with grey and white.  "Alina...  If he goes away, you should choose another."

"Perhaps he will stay."  Her voice held a hint of pleading, however, and she wrung her hands.  "Can you hand me the brown paper?"

Her mother slid a length of wrinkled brown paper to Alina, who wrapped the cloak and tied it with a piece of twine.

"Anyway, I haven't spoken yet.  Perhaps his mind is not made up."

Her mother smiled knowingly.  "If his mind is not yet made up, it is not in reference to you that we are speaking."  Alina's cheeks turned a deep pink.  "Perhaps you are right.  Perhaps he will stay for you."  She stroked her daughter's hair.  "Would you like me to do it for you?  The bridal style?"

Alina's eyes shone as she looked up.  "Please--if you would."  Her voice was thick, and concern flickered across her mother's face, so similar to Alina's own with large, dark eyes and still-blooming lips.

"Shall we go up and dress, then?"  She took her daughter's arm through her own, and they walked out of the workroom and up the stairs to their dwelling rooms.

***

The clearing had been used for many generations now.  Wood for many of the houses in the village had come from this area of the forest, when the forest was more dense.  But for no one knew how many years, they had been culling--selecting the trees that were growing too close to others, or had deformities, diseases, or cancers and removing them, roots and all, and carefully cultivating the saplings, relocating them to optimal distances from the parent tree.  In the clearing, some stumps had been left--but they had not been left alone.  They were still rooted firmly in the ground, and protruded to different heights.  Then, over the years, the wood carvers had come to the clearing, to shape, and smooth, and carve.

While many of the houses and furnishings were plain, here they were able to exercise the full extent of their skill and creativity.  They shaped the remaining stumps into rooted seats of exquisite artistry.  The seats themselves were curved so that to sit in them was to be cradled.  Some were no more than short stools; these had designs and sometimes pictures of mushrooms and animals carved into their bases to delight the children.  Others were carved so that the back rose up and curved at the small of the back; toward the outer edges of the clearing, seats were carved with high backs and head rests.  Some of the trees, while alive, had grown close together--even touching.  Three had grown with twin trunks.  Their carvings were the most ornate, with scrolls and vine patterns.  It was considered good fortune for a young woman to sit with the one she admired--and perhaps better fortune for him.

Though it had rained for three days, the seats would be dry on the evening of the gathering.  After the carving, they had been covered with a thick resin that settled in the cracks and dried hard and smooth.  Some were even faintly tinted in greens, blues, and red.  If dew or rain pooled on the seats, it could be sponged away.

There could be as many as thirty families at the gathering, made up of the matriarch, her husband, their grown children, and their grandchildren.  Often, there would also be great-grandchildren.  So a family, who lived in a large dwelling or two or a cluster of smaller houses, might have twenty members.  There would certainly not be seats for all, so families brought their own tables and seats, blankets and pallets.  They assembled in their traditional space, which included at least one carved, rooted seat--for the matriarch.  Each family would have food for its members, and often more to share, particularly if they had a specialty, like bread, or cake, mushroom loaf, herbed grass-hen, or the thick, brown fricasseed fowl.  Everyone would have various pickles, elder jam, sorrel and bitter greens.

Bren stood in the clearing.  He had staked out a space in the northwestern corner, midway between the slab for the bonfire, far enough away that there was some shadow, and the heat from the fire was less oppressive, tempered by the fresh, cool air of the forest.

His father was closer to the fire with his other son and Damir's new wife, whose belly began to swell with the newly created life within.  Bren sat for now, in the semi-darkness, alone amid the festivities, staring deep into the purple-blue core of the bonfire.  He fingered the small portrait that he had carved, and two other gifts for Alina--a notebook that he had made, bound with leather covers that he had dyed with his own hand, and a pen with a barrel that he had carved himself in a relief pattern, with symbols that represented each of them--an owl and a fox, a mushroom and an iris to represent his gathering and her favorite dye--a purple that was so deep it was nearly black.  He hoped that she would keep him in mind this way, and write as if to him, frequently.  He thought that perhaps, though he planned to leave her, he would be able to read, and experience what she had been through in his absence, to bridge that gap--if, of course, the idea was agreeable to her.  Nothing was done without a woman's consent--it simply wasn't their way.  He had, in fact, already spoken to his grandmother about his plan to leave, and had her consent, if not her blessing.  His own mother had died several years ago, but Bren was certain that she would understand, if not necessarily approve.  It was from her family that he inherited his wanderlust.

His plan was simple.  He would strike east until he hit the river.  From there, he would journey south, hiring on with a ship if he could in order to see the towns in the south from a secure vantage point.  If a town struck his fancy along the way, he would stay on, hopefully doing some woodworking.  He would earn currency to trade for precious items so that he could come back as a merchant, and trade his wares for goods and services for the first years they were married.  He wanted a fine house for Alina--and whatever children they might have.  The thought of having children--with Alina--made his lungs feel tight; as he dwelled on the thought, the tightness traveled lower.  He shifted slightly.  Out of nowhere, it seemed, Magda appeared.  He shuffled the pen and portrait into his bag and placed the notebook squarely on his lap.  She frowned at him quizzically as he looked up at her, bright-eyed and with a slightly exaggerated smile.

"Why are you sitting in the dark?"

"It's cooler here, away from the fire."

"That's true.  But you can't hear the music!"

"I will move in closer in a bit."

"Have you seen the storyteller?"

"Ah... no.  I've been here.  Waiting--"

Magda frowned.  "Yes of course.  For my sister."  Her voice hardened almost imperceptibly, but Bren heard.  "Shall I get her for you?"

"No need.  I will come soon."  He saw her shoulders relax slightly.

"Will you dance with me tonight when you come?"

Bren rose then, as was customary, and bowed to Magda, who was radiant in her crimson dress.  "Of course.  When I come to you, we will dance."

She smiled and dipped into an elegant, feminine bow, and then turned and flounced away, skipping across the clearing.  Bren smiled.  She was an enigmatic child, and kindred to his own divided soul, he knew.

Bren sat for a while longer, then started slowly to make the rounds.  He walked to his father first.  He was the eldest male of his family, and dressed accordingly, in black with gold trim.  His beard was trimmed short, and while his mouth was grim, his eyes sparkled and danced in the light of the fire, betraying the warm spirit within.

His grandmother sat a short distance away, with the same expression.  As the matriarch--possibly the last in his family--she sat, ancient and important in the high-carved seat closest to the fire.  Her silver-white hair was coiled in braids high on her head, woven through with deep orchid and lavender ribbons.  Her tunic--also lavender--fell to her feet, belted with a silvery-grey sash embroidered with deep orchid flowers and leaves.  In it, Bren had recognized Magda's admirable talent--even if she didn't enjoy it, the girl was compelled to do exquisite needlework.  Mushroom gathering was hardly the same level of talent...  Through the heat waves and dancing flames, Bren could see Magda, sitting on the stool at his grandmother's feet.  Magda's expression was both intent and wistful, and Bren thought back to his own thirteenth Gathering, his own hopes, and the looming disappointment, suspecting that his wish would not be fulfilled.

He continued through the crowd, reading the expressions of those who were assembled.  Rapt faces of all ages encircled the storyteller, who had spread thatched mats around his carved stump.  He would likely get a new apprentice tomorrow--he had a girl of fifteen standing beside him, chanting in accompaniment, but it was customary for him to have a boy and a girl, at least until the year one turned 17.  At that time, the apprentice who was of age moved out into the community, sometimes choosing to marry.  When the storyteller died or became feeble, the matriarch would choose a new storyteller from among the former apprentices who were alive, able, and unattached.  Storyteller apprentices were forbidden to marry each other for this reason--the attachments they formed to each other during apprenticeships must remain friendships or the community would lose two possible storytellers with one marriage.  There were not many jobs that required complete dedication to the community, but the storyteller was one.  Healers and teachers were another, though they could, in very rare circumstances, and after the age of fecundity, marry someone of their own specialty. At that point, they locked themselves into their jobs for life--or until one partner died.  Their jobs were simply too essential to have their loyalties divided between vocation, partner, and family.

Bren stood for a while listening to the chanting.  He knew this one--and all of the tales--well.  There was chanting from sundown to sunup during the gathering--another reason for two apprentices.  There were the tales of each Turning, when the world shifted and people were forced to begin again, to adapt--or die.  Others were tales of events within the village--tales of injustice or solidarity.  There was the story of the midwinter fire, for example, when the village dwellings were reduced by half, and more hands were needed to build, and fewer shelters were used to house more people.  Bren had envied the people of that time, since more were called to be builders.  During that time, they had really culled the forest seriously for the first time, and even some trees had burned; trees were more valued as a result, and that had ultimately meant fewer builders.  His grandmother's house was built during that time, and--so the story told--had been home to thirteen families.  That detail may not have been wholly accurate;  Bren was always skeptical when the number was thirteen, since thirteen was a symbolic number.  It meant, more than anything else, responsibility following change, which certainly fit this story.

But being told right now was a story that wounded Bren's soul.  It was a tale of the community, but a cautionary tale, particularly for young men who had intentions toward a certain young woman.  Bren walked up to the edge of the circle in the middle of the story, when the young woman has already declared her intention to her beloved.  He accepts her affection verbally, but rather than bringing it before the village, keeps her for himself, out of the view of her family and the elders.  He swears that it is his intention to marry, but as the months draw on, be begins planning to leave:

And he said to his love, "I must leave you alone
I can't bear to stay here by your side."
"But it's been many months that you've loved me," she cried,
"and I've given you all that I had."
He said that he'd loved her but could no longer tarry
And she asked, "What she should name the child?"
And he shook and he blanched and said he'd never marry,
and he swore as he turned her away
That the child that she bore was no child that he sired,
and he scorned her and sent her to mourn.

As the story continued, the men of the town gather to discuss his fate as one who had disgraced one of their daughters,

And they stripped him and whipped him and send him apart
with food for a fortnight and one
And he goes with their curses for leaving his lover
along the long road of a nomad.

The song, Bren knew, was one from the first generation after the people settled, and was meant to establish the benefits of settled life as opposed to the nomadic--for he dies a horrible death, cold and alone.  It also serves as a warning to young men--for the love of a woman is a sacred trust, and should not be violated.

The story was one that always weighed on his heart, and even more now, as he sought Alina with his gifts.