Ivory and Bone(45)

“I do. Are they identical?”

“This one is ivory. The one Lo wears is bone.”

Of course, I think. Bone is porous, rough, and common. Ivory is lustrous, smooth, and strong.

If Lo is to have a pendant of bone, you must have one of ivory.

A sigh comes from over my shoulder and I only just remember that Shava is still beside me. “Do you think we will go hunting for hives again tomorrow, Kol?”

I hesitate to answer. I would love to go. I would love to go alone.

Before I can construct the best reply, Shava takes advantage of my silence. She wants to talk about bees. “Mya, have you ever had the chance to taste Kol’s honey?”

Once again, I’m amazed by Shava’s boldness.

“I regret that I have not,” you answer. “I had the chance once. But I was foolish, and I didn’t appreciate the value of the offer that was being made.”

My eyes lock onto yours. You stare back at me, and your lips curl just a bit.

“Sometimes I let my pride get in my way. I fail to thank someone who saved my clan from a predator, or saved my sister from drowning in dark, icy water. Or I refuse a gift of honey that was offered in the spirit of friendship.”

“That’s too bad,” Shava says. “I’ve tasted it myself, so I know what you missed. Such a shame. After all, what would life be without honey?” She giggles.

“Please excuse me,” you say. Dropping your eyes, you hurry away, melting into the crowd in the direction of the huts.

“Well, she’s quite rude,” Shava says.

I watch you as you make your way to the edge of the crowd.

“She clearly doesn’t like you very well,” Shava adds, and as she says these words, you flick one quick glance over your shoulder.

And I see it: the ember that had been glowing in your eyes is ablaze.





EIGHTEEN


I watch you until the door of your hut pulls back and then falls shut behind you again. When I shoot a quick glance at Shava, I find her staring at me as if she intends to read my thoughts. “I’d like to find my brother Kesh,” I say. I don’t really need to see Kesh, but I’m looking for an excuse to get away. I move to step around Shava, but she perks up instantly.

“That sounds wonderful. Let’s go.”

I want to tell her I have something personal to discuss with Kesh, but her face gives away some hidden awareness of my plan. She smiles, but behind her docile features I see an edge of cunning—a mental rehearsal of her response should I suggest that she stay here. Something in that contrived innocence seems pitiful—I see her suddenly as someone well aware of her status as a person others are frequently trying to avoid. Maybe it’s because you’ve made me feel less than welcome myself at times, but I can’t help but sympathize with her a bit. “This way,” I say. I turn and head toward the musicians in their place by the entrance to the kitchen. I almost offer my arm to Shava, but think better of it. I’m sure she needs no assistance in keeping up.

Kesh stops playing when he sees me approaching. He clambers to his feet to look over my shoulder. “Shava—I haven’t spoken to her since she came back,” he says, a bit too loud.

I’d forgotten. Shava and Kesh had once been close. They’d played together as children and had been almost inseparable until she fell for Pek.

“I’m so happy to see you,” he says, sliding over to make room for her to sit beside him on the flat stone he occupies near the hearth.

“I’m so happy you still play the flute,” Shava answers. “I wish I could play.”

“I could show you. . . .”

I’ve never noticed the shyness in Kesh, but I guess there was never reason for him to act shy. Handing Shava his flute, he shows her how to hold it. I slide away when he begins to show her the ideal way to pucker her lips.

Food eventually is brought out and people crowd in and seat themselves on the ground, which has been strewn with clippings of soft stalks that your clan must have brought from the south. The food is perfect—roasted bison and mussels stacked high on every mat. My mother tries to help with the distribution, but an elder from your clan—a man old enough to be my father’s father—gently scolds her and tells her to have a seat. He is clearly in charge of food preparation and takes his responsibility very seriously. “This feast is to honor your clan. It is our gift to you,” he says.

His words remind me of the lessons my father has taught me about generosity and service to others, and how the Divine requires these traits in a clan leader. As I watch, my mother smiles and sits down.

A crew of women and a few men of about my parents’ age carry out wave after wave of mats. One man weaves through the clumps of seated figures passing out drinking bowls—not the ornately carved cups of bone we drank from in your camp, but shallow, tightly woven bowls coated with resin. Chev follows behind him pouring mead from a large waterskin into every one.

With all but the servers seated, I’m able to scan the crowd more easily—I see Pek and Seeri, Roon and Lees, my mother and father. But Lo is nowhere to be seen. And, I notice, neither is Seeri’s betrothed.

Of course, neither are you.

Second helpings are being brought out when I get to my feet. The food is excellent, but a sense of loneliness overcomes me as I notice that even Kesh is leaning toward Shava as if telling her a secret. This is a familiar feeling to me—this sensation of being more alone the greater the size of the crowd. I felt it the morning I met you—it was the feeling that drove me to the meadow pretending to search for honeybees when I was certain it was too early to find them. I needed to escape some invisible pressure, and I have that very same sensation now.