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 he turned her away,
for he swore that he wouldn't be married.
For 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.
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