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
‘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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