Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 1: Bren gathers mushrooms; lunch with Alina; they walk to the spring
***
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment