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.
11.10.2013
11.09.2013
NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 9: Breaking 10,000 with 605 more words!
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.
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.
11.08.2013
NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 8: 729 words
A bell rang in the front of the house then, followed by a clatter of limbs hitting wooden floors as two more sisters struggled past one another.
***
"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.
11.07.2013
NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 7: 1265 words
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.
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?"
"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.
"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.
11.06.2013
NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 6: 475 words
Link to Day 1: Bren gathers mushrooms; lunch with Alina; they walk to the spring
Link to Day 2: Magda muses on trades; delivers a message to Bren
Link to Day 3: Bren wanders the forest and heads home, but veers too far south; has an accident
Link to Day 2: Magda muses on trades; delivers a message to Bren
Link to Day 3: Bren wanders the forest and heads home, but veers too far south; has an accident
Link to Day 4: Bren convalesces
Link to Day 5: Bren resumes gathering; Magda visits the boulanger
***
Commentary: I'm sort of proud of these 475 words. Because it was really tempting just to skip altogether, and to accept failure on Day 6 based on my inability to write at all on that day. Such is the psychological temptation with NaNo. So here we have a scene that directly contradicts the initial description of the clearing--but this, my friends, is why it is a draft. Right?
***
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, they could be
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.
Link to Day 5: Bren resumes gathering; Magda visits the boulanger
***
Commentary: I'm sort of proud of these 475 words. Because it was really tempting just to skip altogether, and to accept failure on Day 6 based on my inability to write at all on that day. Such is the psychological temptation with NaNo. So here we have a scene that directly contradicts the initial description of the clearing--but this, my friends, is why it is a draft. Right?
***
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, they could be
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.
11.05.2013
NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 5: 971 words
Link to Day 1: Bren gathers mushrooms; lunch with Alina; they walk to the spring
Link to Day 2: Magda muses on trades; delivers a message to Bren
Link to Day 3: Bren wanders the forest and heads home, but veers too far south; has an accident
Link to Day 2: Magda muses on trades; delivers a message to Bren
Link to Day 3: Bren wanders the forest and heads home, but veers too far south; has an accident
Link to Day 4: Bren convalesces
***
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.
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.
11.04.2013
NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 4: 793 words
Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 1: Bren gathers mushrooms; lunch with Alina; they walk to the spring
Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 2: Magda muses on trades; delivers a message to Bren
Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 3: Bren wanders the forest and heads home, but veers too far south; has an accident
***
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 posessor 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.
Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 2: Magda muses on trades; delivers a message to Bren
Link to NaNoWriMo 2013, Day 3: Bren wanders the forest and heads home, but veers too far south; has an accident
***
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 posessor 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.
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