vanilla and flowers.
“You should take these off if you’re going to get into the mud,” she grumbled.
“That’s helpful,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You try to get them off.” He tugged at one of them to demonstrate. It was a solid three-inch-wide band of silver, and too small to slide over his hand. He’d had them on ever since he could remember.
“You know they’ve got magic in them. Otherwise you’d have outgrown them by now.” Bird used her fingernail to dig out some dried mud. “Your mother bought them from a peddler?”
He nodded. It must’ve been during some prosperous time in the past, when there was money to spend on silver bracelets for a baby. When they weren’t living hand-to-mouth, as Mam always said.
“She’s got to remember something,” Bird persisted. She never seemed to know when to leave off. “Maybe you could find the peddler who sold them to her.”
Han shrugged. They’d had this conversation before, which he mostly got through by shrugging. Bird didn’t know Mam. His mother never came to the camps in the mountains, never shared songs and stories around a fire. Mam didn’t like to talk about the past, and Han had long ago learned not to ask too many questions, lest she slam her switch down on his fingers or send him to bed without supper.
The clans, they were all about stories. They told stories about things that had happened a thousand years ago. Han never tired of listening to them over and over. Hearing a familiar clan story was like sliding into your own bed on a cold night with a full belly and knowing you’d wake up safe in the same place.
Bird released his one hand and picked up the other. Her fingers were warm and soapy and slippery. “These symbols must mean something,” she said, tapping the cuff with her forefinger. “Maybe if you knew how to use them, you could—I don’t know—shoot flames from the palms of your hands.”
Han was thinking he was just as likely to shoot flames from his rear end. “They look clan-made to me, but Willo doesn’t know what the symbols mean,” Han said. “And if she doesn’t know, nobody does.”
Bird finally dropped the subject. She rinsed off his hands and wrists and used the hem of her skirt to dry them. Pulling a small jar from her pocket, she uncorked it and smeared something onto the silver with her fingers.
He tried to pull away, but she had a tight grip on his wrist. “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Polish,” she said, rubbing the silver with a dry rag until it shone. She rubbed polish onto the other cuff. Han submitted, though he didn’t really want to call attention to them these days.
“Are you coming to my renaming feast?” Bird asked abruptly, her eyes still focused on her work.
He was surprised by the question. “Well, I’d planned to. If I’m asked.” It had never occurred to him that he wouldn’t be. Bird’s family was prominent among the clans, since she was niece to the Marisa Pines matriarch. Bird’s coming-of-age would be celebrated with a huge party, and Han had been looking forward to it.
She nodded once, briskly. “Good.”
“It’s still a month away, right?” For Han, a month was an eternity. Anything could happen in a month. He never planned more than a day or two ahead.
She nodded again. “For my sixteenth name day.”
Finally letting go of his hands, Bird dropped her own into her lap. She extended her bare toes out from under her skirts, studying them. She wore a silver ring on her right small toe.
“Have you decided on your vocation?” Han asked.
Among the clans, boys and girls to the age of sixteen were expected to train in all skills, from hunting and tracking and herding and use of weapons to weaving and metalworking and healing and singing.
At sixteen they were reborn into their vocations and began apprenticeships. Everyone was required to have a trade, though clan notions of a trade were more flexible than in the city.
For instance,
“You should take these off if you’re going to get into the mud,” she grumbled.
“That’s helpful,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You try to get them off.” He tugged at one of them to demonstrate. It was a solid three-inch-wide band of silver, and too small to slide over his hand. He’d had them on ever since he could remember.
“You know they’ve got magic in them. Otherwise you’d have outgrown them by now.” Bird used her fingernail to dig out some dried mud. “Your mother bought them from a peddler?”
He nodded. It must’ve been during some prosperous time in the past, when there was money to spend on silver bracelets for a baby. When they weren’t living hand-to-mouth, as Mam always said.
“She’s got to remember something,” Bird persisted. She never seemed to know when to leave off. “Maybe you could find the peddler who sold them to her.”
Han shrugged. They’d had this conversation before, which he mostly got through by shrugging. Bird didn’t know Mam. His mother never came to the camps in the mountains, never shared songs and stories around a fire. Mam didn’t like to talk about the past, and Han had long ago learned not to ask too many questions, lest she slam her switch down on his fingers or send him to bed without supper.
The clans, they were all about stories. They told stories about things that had happened a thousand years ago. Han never tired of listening to them over and over. Hearing a familiar clan story was like sliding into your own bed on a cold night with a full belly and knowing you’d wake up safe in the same place.
Bird released his one hand and picked up the other. Her fingers were warm and soapy and slippery. “These symbols must mean something,” she said, tapping the cuff with her forefinger. “Maybe if you knew how to use them, you could—I don’t know—shoot flames from the palms of your hands.”
Han was thinking he was just as likely to shoot flames from his rear end. “They look clan-made to me, but Willo doesn’t know what the symbols mean,” Han said. “And if she doesn’t know, nobody does.”
Bird finally dropped the subject. She rinsed off his hands and wrists and used the hem of her skirt to dry them. Pulling a small jar from her pocket, she uncorked it and smeared something onto the silver with her fingers.
He tried to pull away, but she had a tight grip on his wrist. “What’s that?” he asked suspiciously.
“Polish,” she said, rubbing the silver with a dry rag until it shone. She rubbed polish onto the other cuff. Han submitted, though he didn’t really want to call attention to them these days.
“Are you coming to my renaming feast?” Bird asked abruptly, her eyes still focused on her work.
He was surprised by the question. “Well, I’d planned to. If I’m asked.” It had never occurred to him that he wouldn’t be. Bird’s family was prominent among the clans, since she was niece to the Marisa Pines matriarch. Bird’s coming-of-age would be celebrated with a huge party, and Han had been looking forward to it.
She nodded once, briskly. “Good.”
“It’s still a month away, right?” For Han, a month was an eternity. Anything could happen in a month. He never planned more than a day or two ahead.
She nodded again. “For my sixteenth name day.”
Finally letting go of his hands, Bird dropped her own into her lap. She extended her bare toes out from under her skirts, studying them. She wore a silver ring on her right small toe.
“Have you decided on your vocation?” Han asked.
Among the clans, boys and girls to the age of sixteen were expected to train in all skills, from hunting and tracking and herding and use of weapons to weaving and metalworking and healing and singing.
At sixteen they were reborn into their vocations and began apprenticeships. Everyone was required to have a trade, though clan notions of a trade were more flexible than in the city.
For instance,
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