In a quaint, dusty corner of the village, where the air carried the scent of bread and hay, Basim, the blacksmith's apprentice, was in the midst of a crisis. His small room resembled the aftermath of a minor hurricane, as if it had been visited by an exceedingly indecisive god of chaos.
He stood before a chipped, dimly reflective piece of polished bronze, attempting to tame his wayward locks. Each strand seemed to have a mind of its own, entangled in a fierce debate on which direction was best. Despite his best efforts, his hair remained defiant.
Beside him, a trio of well-worn shirts engaged in their own battle for supremacy. Which one, they vied, possessed the least number of holes from the blacksmith's relentless cinder-spitting forge? The decision was like trying to choose between three identical twins with slightly different freckle patterns.
As Basim's gaze shifted from his hair to the shirts and back again, he caught a glimpse of the fuzz adorning his face. It was a noble attempt at manliness, but it was more like an adolescent camel had rubbed its chin against his cheeks. He pondered whether to take a razor to the unsightly growth, or leave it be in the hopes it might give off an air of rugged charm.
The young man's mind buzzed with anxiety, as if a swarm of locusts had mistaken it for a particularly fine crop. He was preparing for something significant, and the weight of the occasion hung heavy in the air. The anticipation was palpable, like a too-warm hug from a well-meaning but sweaty relative.
With a sigh, he chose the least hole-riddled shirt, gave his hair one last futile swipe, and decided to let the fuzz stay. After all, manliness could be a matter of perspective, and perhaps the fuzz would someday become a beard worthy of songs and tales.
He took a deep breath, opened the door, and stepped out into the sunlit village, ready to face his most daunting challenge to date. Even considering that some weeks ago, he and his friends had stood in opposition of a slew of Sand Striders and emerged victorious. This was worse, for some reason. Also, he thought, the village really hadn’t made a big enough to-do about that day. It was damn-near amazing beyond reckoning, yet, all anyone had been talking about in the days that followed was the festival. A bit rude, really. But, he knew he was just lollygagging, or really, stalling for time. He had something he’d set his heart to do, and it was time to face judgement for it.
Despite his nerves, a small grin crept across his face, as he imagined the stories that would someday be told of Basim, the brave, once-fuzzy-faced youth who had squared off against the biggest challenge of his life.
—
In Kephri's Rest, the festival's remnants clung to the village like the final notes of a song, echoing through the air before fading into memory. The villagers moved with purpose, gently dismantling the elaborate decorations that had turned their humble homes into a forest of colors and shapes.
The scent of burnt incense and lingering traces of laughter clung to the air, as if the joy of the festival refused to be ousted without a fight. Mothers and daughters untangled the delicate strings of beaded ornaments that had adorned every window and door, each one a tiny galaxy of color that shimmered in the warm sunlight.
Children dashed between their parents' legs, their laughter like wind chimes. They retrieved the silk ribbons that had been wound around the sturdy trunks of ancient palms, their vibrant hues now subdued by the passage of time and celebration.
Fathers and sons carefully removed the oil lamps that had turned the village streets into a sea of flickering golden light. Their faces were streaked with soot, and their laughter rumbled like distant thunder, as they recalled the evenings spent in revelry under the night's jeweled mosaic.
In the heart of the village, the elders worked side by side with the young, dismantling the grand wooden stage where musicians and performers had danced with the shadows cast by the firelight. The timbers, worn smooth by countless steps, were reverently returned to the storage hut, waiting patiently for the next festival to call them back to life.
As the villagers worked, a woman named Nef paused, wiping sweat from her brow, and took a long drink from a water skin. She couldn't help but smile as she watched her daughter, Sefira, assist other villagers in rolling up a large, intricately woven carpet that had served as a dance floor during the festivities. Sefira was a handful at times, with a strong will and a fire in her eyes, but Nef knew that her daughter's hard work and determination would serve her well once she completed her apprenticeship with the village's potter, Khonsu. She was the volatile mix of herself and her husband, and that could sometimes be troubling. Though, with each passing season, she seemed to be blossoming into something more courageous and independent than either of them had been at her age.
Nef’s thoughts wandered, musing over Sefira's future and the woman she would become. She imagined Sefira becoming the backbone of the village, an essential member of the community, her pottery gracing the homes of everyone around her.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sight of Basim approaching, looking uncharacteristically nervous. Nef stifled a chuckle as she noticed Basim's attempt at presentability. The young man's hair was slicked back as if it had been tamed by a spirited wrestling match, and his shirt was nearly hole-free, save for a few stubborn cinder scars.
Nef found the sight endearing. She knew Basim as a chatterbox, a whirlwind of energy, and it was amusing to see him so strangely on edge. She suspected she knew the reason for his trepidation, and her smile widened as she watched him make his way toward her daughter, swallowing an obvious knot in his throat with determination.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
—
"I'm telling you, Hetepet, if you roll it from the shorter end, it'll be much easier to carry!"
Hetepet shook her head, smirking.
"Sefira, trust me, if you roll it from the longer end, it'll be less bulky and more manageable! I've done this countless times."
“We’ve done it the same amount of times, Het,” Sefira giggled. “Unless you’ve been taking secret carpet-storing lessons behind my back.”
“Maybe I have been,” Hetepet said, raising an eyebrow. “All for this moment, when I could finally put you in your place.”
Their banter was interrupted by Basim's quiet voice.
“...uh, Sefira…”
Sefira turned, startled by the unexpected mildness in his tone, and found herself face to face with the usually boisterous young man.
"Basim!" she exclaimed, her eyes widening in surprise. "You're a bit late to help with the carpet, aren't you?"
Attempting to regain his usual composure, Basim tried to muster up a joke.
"Well, I thought I'd save my grand entrance for when the carpet was already rolled up, so I wouldn't trip over it," he quipped, his voice still betraying a hint of nervousness.
Sefira chuckled, sensing that something was amiss.
"So…how did you enjoy the festival?" she asked. “I have to admit I didn’t get enough of a chance to indulge, what with Khonsu being sick. You wouldn’t believe how many vessels get broken during celebrations—I felt like I was working non-stop.”
"Oh, it was great! I especially loved the fire dancers. Their performance was…uh, mesmerizing. And the food... I've never eaten so many pastries in my life!" Basim replied, attempting to hide his nerves with enthusiasm.
"I agree, the fire dancers were incredible! And those pastries were heavenly," Sefira added, smiling. “I’d heard you nearly came to blows with that vellum that tried to cheat Yasmine out of her win.”
Basim had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Oh…you heard that, eh?” He said, scratching at the back of his head. “Yes, well, fortunately it didn’t need to go further, what with those Ka-sen putting a stop to it.”
Sefira nodded.
“Still, I can’t believe it,” she continued. “Was Zeni alright?”
“Uh, Zeni?” Basim asked.
“Yeah,” Sefira said. “You’re close, right? Thought I’d heard that she’s the one who caught him in his cheating in the first place, and got an arrow loosed at her for her trouble.”
Basim nodded vacantly, the memory of Zeni’s efforts summoned back to him full strength. He’d been terrified she was going to shrivel up like a sun bleached date in the process…and that shape he’d seen hovering over her when—
“Close?” He suddenly registered, his face growing red. “We’re just friends—that is, I mean…we’re good friends, yes—and I suppose…close. Just like Yasmine and I are friends, but we’re merely friendly, and—you know, now that I think about it, I wouldn’t even necessarily say we’re that close. Practically strangers. She doesn’t even cross my mind—not like some people. Er, that is…”
He was spiraling and quickly reined himself in.
“I mean…yes,” he stated. “Zeni and I are friends. Just friends.”
Sefira smirked, seeing his reaction and gave him a knowing glance.
“Ah, so you’re just out here being friends—but not friends—with all these pretty girls, I see.”
Basim paled.
“No!” He exclaimed. “It’s nothing like that—her and Yasmine are like my sisters. In fact, I can hardly tell the difference between Zeni and Iset most days, save for the hair color—and the fact that Iset is in Heliopharos, of course. And Yasmine—she’s not even like a sister. She’s like a particularly testy aunt who kills animals and people with equal measures of apathy.”
“I see,” Sefira mused. “So…you are close, then?”
Basim, feeling as though this was not going at all the way he anticipated, decided to unwind the bandage.
He took a deep breath and ventured, "Sefira, I was wondering if you might like to... um, well, maybe we could go down to the stream and, you know, have a picnic? I've got it on good authority that the lotus flowers are in full bloom this time of year, and it could be a nice way to...uh, unwind after all the hard work."
He paused, his face flushing, and quickly added, "But, of course, only after we're done with everything here. I wouldn't want to neglect our duties to the village."
Sefira looked at him, touched by his earnestness, and couldn't help but smile. She was done teasing him for now.
"I think that sounds lovely, Basim. A picnic by the bank would be a nice way to end the day. Let's do it."
—
Yasmine, having been near enough to the commotion to overhear all of it, considered. She’d been making her way to the village square to locate Basim to give him his festival gift. Sure, it was a bit belated, but she’d wanted to make sure it was just right. She’d been pleased with the result, and proudly marched along the road with it tucked under her arm. Perhaps he’d want to use it right away? That thought made her smile, and imagining Basim’s joy with receiving it made her heart flutter.
That was when she’d seen him chatting up the pottery girl looking eight-kinds of red. She listened, growing more and more…itchy. After the young man’s proclamation, she merely stood, staring at the spot they’d been in as the two youths walked away together from the tear-down.
“Testy aunt…?” She muttered softly, lowering the parcel in her arms and setting it to rest against the outer wall of a home. The oblong shape made it awkward to do, and it slid, unraveling in the process as it tumbled to the ground. The linens spilled open to reveal a magnificently crafted fishing rod. Basim had been complaining about the one he’d made himself, as it often couldn’t support the weight of any large fish, and would bow until the line snapped. This one was made using an acacia, and she’d implemented similar methods as for bowcraft, ensuring it was both strong and delightfully springy. She stared at the gift sitting in the dirt with her neck and face growing hot.
“Yasmine?” Came a voice. It was her grandmother, Keela. The old elder stood at the intersection of the alleyway where Yasmine herself was.
Yasmine turned, only slightly so that most of her face was hidden and waved in greeting.
“Yes, gran?”
“What are you doing over here, skulking like a thief?”
“I could ask you the same question,” Yasmine said. “Why are you hanging out in the shadows in-between homes? Avoiding helping with the clean up?”
Keela wrinkled her brow.
“I’m looking for that blasted beast—he’s gone off again and there’s a mouse scurrying around in my bedroom I need taken care of. I swear to Horus, that little rogue is never where he needs to be.”
Yasmine, casting another glance to the fishing rod, nodded at Keela.
“I’m off again, gran,” she said. “Hope you find the cat.”
With that, she, probably more quickly than she needed to, raced away, destined to find her way to the outskirts so she could be alone with her thoughts.