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.
