Dragonfly Song

Dragonfly Song by Wendy Orr

Book: Dragonfly Song by Wendy Orr Read Free Book Online
Authors: Wendy Orr
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clay shards.
    ‘We call the boys and their namers,’ says the chief.
    Boys and their mothers shuffle into a raggedy line. Two boys don’t have mothers; a grandmother stands with one and a father with the other. The woman at the front of the line looks panicked. But she can’t run away now. She salutes with her hand on her heart.
    The chief nods at her and she takes a deep breath.
    ‘I present to the gods Luki, son of Misha the tenth,’ she taps her own chest, ‘daughter of Ina, daughter ofIsha, daughter of Misha the ninth . . .’ She chants on right back to Misha the first, so many daughters-of ago that Aissa loses count.
    Have there been Aissas before me?
    How can I step up with no one to name me and my line?
    It’s one of the first things a child is taught: the long chant of who they come from, mother to grandmother and on till the beginning of time. But Aissa knows only Mama and Gaggie. She doesn’t know their other names, and she couldn’t say them if she did.
    But she has her own name. That is infinitely more than she had yesterday morning. It’ll have to be enough.
    Luki chooses a shard from the basket of smashed pots, and the guard hands him a lump of charcoal. The boy squats in front of the basket. Carefully, he draws his leaping-deer name on his piece of clay, and drops it into the urn.
    He and his mother step back into the crowd. The next mother and son begin.
    Aissa watching from her nook
    knees trembling
    holding her mama stone
    for comforting strength,
    because the last boy
    is dropping his name
    into the urn.
    The guard rolls the urn,
    tumbling smashed-pot pieces
    for the gods to choose.
    The chief reaches in,
    pulls out a shard.
    ‘Luki,’ he says.
    The boy stands
    straight and proud.
    In the audience
    his grandmother faints,
    thumping hard to the ground
    as if her heart can’t hold
    the joy and dread
    a bull dancer brings.
    Aissa feeling nothing
    outside her quivering self;
    the Lady’s calling the girls,
    but still Aissa hides –
    her legs as useless
    as her voice.
    A no-name girl
    can’t be named.
    The gods won’t choose
    a bad-luck child.
    So she watches
    as one by one
    the girls step up
    with their mothers
    or a father or an aunt,
    with their neat plaited hair
    and their line of names.
    She watches the Lady
    stare at their faces
    as if searching for a sign.
    Too late for Aissa
    to step up now,
    as the last girl
    charcoals her name
    on her scrap of clay.
    Then Milli-Cat comes,
    twining round Aissa’s feet,
    and as the girl
    drops her name in the urn,
    Milli-Cat nudges
    behind Aissa’s knees
    with love and purrs,
    till Aissa steps out.
    She holds her head high,
    step by slow step.
    The square seems to grow.
    She never thought it could be so far –
    these twelve paces to the Lady.
    ‘Who names this girl?’
    the Lady demands.
    Blind Kelya does not see
    the child she loves
    standing alone.
    ‘It’s the girl called No-Name,’
    says the tall guard
    and in the audience
    someone laughs.
    ‘She has no voice,’ adds the guard.
    ‘She doesn’t need a voice to dance,’
    says the Lady,
    filling Aissa with warmth
    as if the sun
    is shining on her.
    ‘Has she lived twelve springs?’ asks the Lady,
    and from the Hall,
    Kelya’s voice, growly with grief,
    calls yes,
    so that now the sun
    glows right through Aissa.
    But the Lady startles
    at Kelya’s voice.
    Just for a moment
    she looks into Aissa’s eyes –
    then shakes her head,
    as if she’s seen something
    that can’t be true.
    ‘Make your mark,’ says the Lady,
    so quietly,
    it seems her voice doesn’t work,
    and Aissa knows
    that the gods have chosen
    and this is the sign.
    The guard holds out the basket of shards.
    Aissa chooses:
    a piece long and thin,
    tapering down to a point
    like a dragonfly tail.
    She takes the charcoal,
    draws the sign of her name,
    and drops it in.
    The guard rolls the urn;
    the Lady’s hand dips inside,
    slowly, slowly,
    as if touching and choosing,
    and pulls out a shard.
    Aissa feels a light
    burn

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