them exchanging money for bets they had made regarding the baby’s sex. Dershik laughed as Little Hilik came up to him and handed him five blueies. He had told Dershik it would be a girl.
“Aren’t we supposed to carry the new father to the feasting hall?” Dershik tried to hide his true feelings, wishing to forego the tradition. But everyone started shouting and before he knew it, people were grabbing his legs and lifting him up. The midwife shouted for them to leave, and soon Dershik found himself being carried awkwardly through the hallway, down two flights of stairs and through another hall, everyone singing and trying to touch him in hopes his virility would rub off onto them. Dershik wished for a quick death. Maybe they would drop him and he would hit his head on the floor. But he made it to the feasting hall safely and was finally set down before the seat of honor, plates of steamed and roasted grains already set on the table. Long strings of sausages were piled up in bowls and everyone shouted and sang. Dershik mouthed a ‘thank you’ as his brother poured him a glass of sweet barley wine.
People placed bets on the name of the baby, trying to guess what letter it would start with and Dershik drained his glass. He tapped it and someone filled it again, which he promptly drained. Someone set a plate of food in front of him, slapping him on the shoulders and ruffling his hair. When someone asked if he needed anything he simply relayed the request for meat and bloodroot to be sent to the birthing room on his behalf. When Dershik looked over at his father, the man only looked amused, allowing his oldest son his time in the light.
Dershik ate and answered questions about the baby, which weren’t many. Who did he look like more, what color hair did he have, what color were his eyes, was he heavy? Soon the musicians started to play and dishes of salads with colored eggs were put out. He drank another glass of wine and picked at his grains and sausage, the grease from the meat starting to congeal on the plate. Ceric didn’t seem to have much of an appetite either, drinking only herbal tea. When someone asked Dershik to join in a dance he politely refused, nursing a glass of spirits mixed with heartberry juice as the people spun round and round.
Whether to spite him or encourage him, his father got up and actually sang. His father was well known for his singing voice, so when he climbed on the platform and asked the band to play “Three Are the Aspects of Love,” a shout went up and the people banged their fists on the table, making the plates jump and a pitcher overturn. “Don’t mind Dershik,” his father called over the crowd. “He’s just saving his energy so he can give his son a sibling once Jerila comes out of the birthing room.” His father raised his glass to Dershik, who slowly sank in his chair, his face burning with embarrassment. Ceric sat there, still as a stone.
The celebration was for the birth of the child, not for Dershik himself so eventually he was able to excuse himself. The music was raucous and when it seemed it couldn’t get any louder, he pushed himself out of his chair, ready to make his exit. The room spun as if it was joining in the dance itself and he took a few breaths before he pushed the chair back, grabbing a half full pitcher and hitting Ceric on the shoulder with his hand. “I can’t take this anymore,” he said, carefully making his way out of the hall and toward the staircase. If Ceric responded, he hadn’t heard it. Anything his brother would have said could only make him feel worse.
Dershik clutched his stomach and leaned over, vomiting on the first landing. The sound of digested food hitting stones and the smell made him heave again, emptying his stomach of its contents. “I’m all right,” he said, in the off chance anyone was around and watching, waving imaginary onlookers away before he walked up the steps. He took them carefully, knowing a great uncle had
“Aren’t we supposed to carry the new father to the feasting hall?” Dershik tried to hide his true feelings, wishing to forego the tradition. But everyone started shouting and before he knew it, people were grabbing his legs and lifting him up. The midwife shouted for them to leave, and soon Dershik found himself being carried awkwardly through the hallway, down two flights of stairs and through another hall, everyone singing and trying to touch him in hopes his virility would rub off onto them. Dershik wished for a quick death. Maybe they would drop him and he would hit his head on the floor. But he made it to the feasting hall safely and was finally set down before the seat of honor, plates of steamed and roasted grains already set on the table. Long strings of sausages were piled up in bowls and everyone shouted and sang. Dershik mouthed a ‘thank you’ as his brother poured him a glass of sweet barley wine.
People placed bets on the name of the baby, trying to guess what letter it would start with and Dershik drained his glass. He tapped it and someone filled it again, which he promptly drained. Someone set a plate of food in front of him, slapping him on the shoulders and ruffling his hair. When someone asked if he needed anything he simply relayed the request for meat and bloodroot to be sent to the birthing room on his behalf. When Dershik looked over at his father, the man only looked amused, allowing his oldest son his time in the light.
Dershik ate and answered questions about the baby, which weren’t many. Who did he look like more, what color hair did he have, what color were his eyes, was he heavy? Soon the musicians started to play and dishes of salads with colored eggs were put out. He drank another glass of wine and picked at his grains and sausage, the grease from the meat starting to congeal on the plate. Ceric didn’t seem to have much of an appetite either, drinking only herbal tea. When someone asked Dershik to join in a dance he politely refused, nursing a glass of spirits mixed with heartberry juice as the people spun round and round.
Whether to spite him or encourage him, his father got up and actually sang. His father was well known for his singing voice, so when he climbed on the platform and asked the band to play “Three Are the Aspects of Love,” a shout went up and the people banged their fists on the table, making the plates jump and a pitcher overturn. “Don’t mind Dershik,” his father called over the crowd. “He’s just saving his energy so he can give his son a sibling once Jerila comes out of the birthing room.” His father raised his glass to Dershik, who slowly sank in his chair, his face burning with embarrassment. Ceric sat there, still as a stone.
The celebration was for the birth of the child, not for Dershik himself so eventually he was able to excuse himself. The music was raucous and when it seemed it couldn’t get any louder, he pushed himself out of his chair, ready to make his exit. The room spun as if it was joining in the dance itself and he took a few breaths before he pushed the chair back, grabbing a half full pitcher and hitting Ceric on the shoulder with his hand. “I can’t take this anymore,” he said, carefully making his way out of the hall and toward the staircase. If Ceric responded, he hadn’t heard it. Anything his brother would have said could only make him feel worse.
Dershik clutched his stomach and leaned over, vomiting on the first landing. The sound of digested food hitting stones and the smell made him heave again, emptying his stomach of its contents. “I’m all right,” he said, in the off chance anyone was around and watching, waving imaginary onlookers away before he walked up the steps. He took them carefully, knowing a great uncle had
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