Page 4 of 5

Memories
by Laze Aultrem

A man tiptoes across the large, dim room. Outside, the dawn is near breaking, and the early tendrils of light delicately brush a pattern against the section of floor nearest the open window. The room is filled wall to wall with padded sleeping mats, each mat having a space of four feet separating it from the others, creating crisscrossing pathways, and the mats are filled with sleeping children.

As he steps softly, he carefully checks each child he passes to make sure they are not being disturbed before treading on. His final destination proves to be a mat like any other at the farthest end. He kneels down by its side, smiling warmly. The inhabitant is a small girl-child, barely grown enough to be considered scrawny, still clutching to the book she had been reading at bedtime. With her face mooshed into the pillow, all he can see of her features is a tanned and freckled cheek. The rest is hidden by her undeniably red hair, unruly and frazzled at this hour of the morning.

He reaches his hand out, briefly touching her shoulder. She immediately awakens and turns to him, curiosity gleaming in her tired grey eyes. It is evident that she has been waiting for this. He pointedly glances to the window, presses his fingers to his lips, and taps her green robes folded next to her on the floor, signaling for her to dress quickly and quietly.

She nods, picking up her clothing and putting the slim volume it their place. Slipping on the sleeveless and high-necked robe, she's ready in moments. As they are both retracing his steps, one slumbering figure shifts in a mat close to their feet. The man and the child both freeze in their tracks, unconsciously holding their breath, until sure that the shifter was merely reacting to an uncomfortable dream. Both of them having come to this conclusion at the same time, they lock eyes and scurry the rest of the way out.

Upon reaching an outside door, the man shuts it firmly and leans against it, his breath coming fast and his chuckles low. The child, fist planted on her hips, tries to glare up at him, but the beginning of a grin mars the effect.

"Stormwrought, you're just as bad as Bellias, aren't you," she whispers teasingly to him. "Excepting that Bellias would never dare to take such a risk as you have this day by shirking duty and sneaking a child from the house, so I suppose that makes you worse. And on such a day!"

Grinning back, Stormwrought nods. "Just as you imply, the day is indeed special. There is a picnic awaiting us at our usual spot, where we shall have a grand view of the ceremony and subsequent celebrations. We ought, naturally, to return by the time the feast commences, but, until then, it is our responsibility to keep up our strength. The repast I have prepared for us will ensure that we meet this responsibility head on."

The child flourishes a bow. "I do accept this responsibility willingly, and commit myself henceforth."

"Then let us hurry. The day begins anew, and the women of the world are at hand."

Onward the two trek, making haste in a rather slow and meandering fashion, over the intertwining bridges of the city. Stormwrought's long-legged gait proves to be no difficulty for the child, who keeps pace without appearing to rush. Barefoot, she is spry as a fawn, as well as coloured like one. Her long hands trace the railing as they walk, and occasionally she peers over the edge to catch a glimpse of the brackish water far below.

She has no worries for her safety. The wooden bridges were built solidly by the city's architects long ago, and are under routine maintenance every year. Worn to a velvety texture by the feet of busy citizens over the passing seasons, the beams are still as tight-seamed and firm as they ever were.

Her hand clasps briefly over a stray branch, enjoying the feel of the cool leaves on her palm. Branches are a common enough sight, but only a few are within her reach. Labor crews are sent out regularly to prune them, preventing the trees from tickling too many heads. The result of the trees remaining thickly layered with leaves beneath the bridges and, overhead, seeming to have naturally grown out of the way out of respect for the city dwellers, is breathtaking to those on the walkway.

Breathtaking, that is, for those to whom it is not a common and everyday sight.

Stormwrought had spoken truly when mentioning the womenfolk. Overhead, the sky was still grey from the night's touch, but ,already, women everywhere were preparing for the full of day a half hour earlier than the city's normal rising time. Naming Days were common enough, perhaps occurring a full two dozen days out of the year, but, just the same, they were something to be excited about. After all, a name was only earned once in a lifetime, and all of Lochmaere's citizens wanted to be there to bear witness.

The child smoothes her pillow-shaped hair over her ears in a futile effort to tame it as an elegant raven-haired woman bearing the pearls of a master crafter in her plaited hair brushes past them, respectfully nodding a greeting. As she does so, the woman makes direct eye-contact with Stormwrought, who flushes deeply at her indiscretion, and smiles.

Once she is out of sight, the child glances cautiously over her shoulder before saying, "That was badly done and very inappropriate of her. I am glad that she did not ask you the name of my mother, so sure was I that she would question my being outside, but this situation is not much better. A woman of her station should certainly be expected to know how to behave in public. Are you all right?"

By all appearances, Stormwrought is still quite disturbed by the experience. He raises his hand and shakes his head, holding off further conversation for the time being.

"At least she did not touch you." At this, Stormwrought stares at the child. Under his gaze, she finally retreats into embarrassed silence.

Soon they arrive at a tree of large proportions whose numerous split trunks and heavy branches support a cleared deck of even larger proportions. There are many more decks similar to this one scattered throughout the city proper. Stormwrought points to one such twenty yards away. "That is where Grace has decided to hold the ceremony today. From our vantage, nothing will escape our notice."

He reaches up to a cord attached to the tree and pulls on it, causing a rope ladder to fall from a hidden nook. She grabs hold of it and swiftly climbs as Stormwrought steadies it with his hands. Reaching the top, she finds herself on a railless deck of intimate size, wide enough for four seated people. It is certainly more than enough room for them.

She is sitting cross-legged and has opened a wicker basket set in one corner, laying out utensils and containers of food, by the time Stormwrought joins her. He pulls the ladder up after himself, coiling it neatly out of the way. "Have you found your favourite yet?" he inquires of her.

Gasping, she quickens her pace. "You brought them?" Abandoning organization, she piles everything haphazardly until her hand closes on a covered clear glass bowl. She pulls it into her lap, removes the lid, and plucks out a single fist-sized breaded mazonra from the half dozen in the bowl. She tears off a corner and nibbles. Steam rises from the center where the heavily spiced potatoes and grak, and the yellow pepper cheeses have been revealed.

"Have a care. They are still hot."

She nods to him, agreeing cheerfully.

He sits down next to her, unstacking the pile she has made, placing everything neatly by itself. Once he is satisfied with the setup, he begins filling up his plate with sweet corn mash, curried rolton, a hot, thick, yellow stew, and black bread.

"How long do you think it will be before the announcement is made?" she asks between bites.

He looks to the east where the sun shows half its golden disc. "It will likely be in less than an hour. You do know how everyone loves to make a day of the celebrations. Unless the formalities are begun soon, they won't have that opportunity. Look over to where the men are preparing the table. The last thing they will bring out is the pitcher of water. At that point, all is in place."

"I wonder what name my sister has earned for herself. She must be so anxious."

"Very likely," Stormwrought concurs dryly, "but after having waited nine years, I am sure she can wait one more hour. Are you going to keep it *all* to yourself?"

The child hunches protectively over the bowl as he tries to liberate a mazonra from her. "Of course I am," she grins. "But you are changing the subject. What name do you think Grace has decided on?"

He feigns a martyr's sigh, then spoons himself more of the yellow stew and tears off another chunk of bread. "It's difficult to say. You do know how your mother enjoys putting her sense of humour to work at times like this, and your sister certainly does have many quirks to play off of. I do not think it would be wise to venture a guess. We could be at it for hours, and by then we will already know Grace's choice."

She leans back against the trunk and stares up at the sky with a wistful expression. "She is fortunate, my sister. Even having waited nine years. Somehow I doubt I will have earned my own name by then."

"I would not be surprised. You do not take your lessons seriously. You are the only one of Grace's children with enough raw talent to become her apprentice once you take your place in society, yet you are always after the laborers to teach you weapons and tracking, or chatting it up with the concubines in the kitchen as they prepare the meals, or sneaking down to the swamps in a dangerous attempt to espy an anaconda or the green Jenny, or daydreaming on the rooftop. It is already your sixth year! Your mother is greatly displeased with your unwillingness to hone your skills, buckle down, and focus on the future she intends for you to have."

She purses her lips tightly and shoots Stormwrought a look of long-suffering. "At least I do not share my sister's shyness towards men. It is no secret that she would prefer much more to be among women than to even think of a man. How long do you suppose it will be before she finally starts her own harem? Twenty years? Fifty?" The arch in her voice is higher than the one in her eyebrow as she makes her query, though it is lightly asked.

He smiles, amused. "She will not be one the city looks to for replenishing of its numbers. Bearing children, however, is not the only way to contribute to society. She shows promise as a historian, and has already been requested to apprentice under one of great importance."

She is about to make reply, her lips already forming around the words, when she sees something that makes the words unimportant. "What will that be for?" she asks, pointing to a long, wooden object nearly the size of the men bearing it to the platform. It would look like a bench, were it not for the raised edges on all sides, which would make seating highly uncomfortable, and the fire-blackened state of the inner wood. As it is, it resembles most a bathing trough for a large watersnake, assuming one would wish to bathe a snake.

"Your sister's past will go in there." Her glance shows her curiosity, but Stormwrought does not elaborate on his enigmatic answer.

They watch on in silence as women and men, under the direction of Grace, arrange low tables and set them with feast, finery, and cloth-wrapped gifts. One table closest to the strange wooden piece is left bare until a large pitcher, the last item to be put in place, is brought out. The pitcher is heavy enough to require the strength of two people, and has two handles on either side for convenience.

"It begins," is Stormwrought's commentary.

She watches as all eyes turn to where her sister is making her way, unclothed and unshod, to the platform, carrying with her only a filled basket at her hip and a lighted torch. Not a word is spoken until she comes to stand before Grace and places the basket at her feet.

***

Glancing at her naked daughter, Grace says sarcastically to the people, "I was not aware that children had been granted the freedom of roaming the city." Several women grin, hearing the opening statement of the ritual. Naming Days always have the same build up, and everyone finds it easy to relax into the familiar pattern of wordplay.

A voice is raised in the back of the crowd, "That is no child."

"Of course she is. She has not yet bud; she has the body of a child," replies Grace. Her eyes follow a course up and down her daughter's body, as if to suggest that she was weighing every obvious piece of evidence and was finding that none of it contradicted her judgment.

Another voice calls out comfortably, "But she has the mind of an adult."

Grace asks, "How is this to be known?"

A woman near the front indicates the torch still clutched in the young girl's hand. "Do you not see her future in the passion she carries?"

"Passion? I see a spark, perhaps. It will die out without fuel."

"The fuel is there as well. Do you not see her past in the basket with which to feed her passion?" argues the same woman at the front, enjoying herself hugely.

"Then let us see her feed it. One cannot look forward and backward at the same time without growing cross-eyed. I would see which direction she chooses to face, once and for all."

With the practiced movement of one who has been instructed, the girl transfers clothing she had worn as a child, toys she had played with, books she had read, ribbons she had braided her hair with, from the basket at her feet to the wooden trough. She lights it all with the torch, and everyone watches with approval as the fire slowly consumes all of her belongings, crackles rebelliously, and blazes brighter as it grows to a moderate size. The smoke from the fire is a thick grey, and ashes rise up with it.

Grace faces her daughter and says in a detatched voice, "I see now that you are not a child. Childhood is of the past, and there your past burns under the fierce attention of what was called your passion. Do you know what your passion is for?"

"I do not know yet. I know only that everything else in my life is a sacrafice to it," is the girl's careful answer.

"Since you are not a child, you must therefore be a woman. There is not a woman alive in the city of Lochmaere who does not have a name. What is yours?"

"I was a child every day of my life until this day came to be, and I had not the perceptive wisdom of a woman to understand myself. I do not know what name suits me."

"Would you accept a name given you by one who does?"

"That would please me."

Grace nods in acknowledgment. "So. I then give you name in honor of your total dedication to your studies even to the exclusion of male company that might otherwise have distracted you."

Grace does not smile, but there is a definite twinkle of amusement in her eyes as she watches her daughter's

face turn a mortified shade of red, and hears hushed whispers in the background and the definite sound of a snicker or two. She motions surrupticiously for the heavy pitcher to be brought over by women near her. They bring it, and tip it over the girl's head. Clear, cold water plunges onto her form, drenching her. The girl clasps her arms about herself, a deep shudder going through her body at the shock.

"As you were bathed in the waters of my body at your birth, so now you are bathed in the waters of these lands. You are born anew, as a woman, and your name is Shass. Let it be known."

The crowd comes joyfully forward to welcome Shass to her beginning.

***

In their hidden breakfast nook, Stormwrought chuckles over the reaction of his little red-headed companion. She appears to be as equally mortified as her sister had been.

"Was it not what you expected?" he teases.

"Stormwrought," she manages, "if that considered a normal Naming Day ceremony, then, indeed, I believe it would be a mistake to look forward to my own. She was named for her greatest weakness so that our mother, Grace, could enjoy a joke in public. If that is the fate of one endearing to Grace, then I loathe to speculate on that of one she considers shiftless, spiteful, irresponsible, and lazy!"

He laughs out loud, she groans, and meanwhile the rest of the city commences the feast in honor of a new member of society.

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