CHAPTER TWO: KINDLING THE RAIN (PT. 3)
(v.) arouse or inspire (an emotion or feeling).
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“Shogo Kuroiwa?!” their nana gasped and so did everyone else.
Morning was still a lasting beacon when the twins arrived at their house. Lights flickered warmth to a narrow corridor of patterned walls facing a long stairway that spiralled around an ancient, tall tree growing cherry blossom and crystal.
Their nana was the first to greet them. She spent her dawn sipping tea by the balcony, and counting the plethora of frames of her children, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, while the gardener tended to the field whistling tunes to himself (before the downpour cried over his head). Everyone else, on the other hand, was getting ready to gather around for breakfast.
There were their cousins, Nour and Omar, who were always the first to the table when they weren’t testing out weird experiments, and their Aunt Noraline, who was too busy shouting in the sweet-scented kitchen looking for a Rub-a-Way Bar. Ol’ Bes was, of course, there as well; that freeloader dwarf wouldn’t miss a chance for food. Their father was walking around placing plates on the table, while their mother kept running to the kitchen and back again. And then came the matter of Shogo Kuroiwa, which left them all stumped.
“The Shogo Kuroiwa?” Nour gaped, “He wrote for you?! For you?! Just you?! Are you sure?”
“You know, he’s pretty tall, right,” Omar said, “like seven feet or so, or maybe six. I heard his clothes glow too. You know he actually has quill tips attached to his gloves— it’s insane, I know, but he actually does, it’s a much better manoeuvre in action; everybody knows that. And the smile…”
“You’re joking! Are you absolutely sure it was him?” Nour was ready to choke Louay out of jealousy.
“Yes, yes, all in black, even his glasses,” Youna stood in front of her brother, protecting him from any on-slaught of resentment.
“Especially his glasses,” a girl sprang up between Louay and Youna, “you have no idea what they’re made of.”
“Oh, h-hey there,” Louay chuckled at the sight of the girl.
It was the gardener’s daughter, she took him aside, her eyes looking as though they were about to burst, “Did he talk with you? Did he touch you — of course, he touched you. Wait, are you a celebrity now?”
“Maya, dear,” their nana chuckled, “if it was that easy, then we wouldn’t be here. Certainly not from Shogo Kuroiwa.”
But at this point, Louay was fed up, “Just who is Shogo Kuroiwa?”
He was the impossible. He was everything and anything. Shogo Kuroiwa was one of; if not the best Author there was in the world. They say it was a full moon at the time of his awakening ceremony, which, from where he came from, mostly took place at night and was a sign of divine power only told in legends. Unlike the majority of Authors, Kuroiwa was blessed with an Authority.
Authority wasn’t a rare blessing per se. There was the Author of Allegory, Author of the Bird’s Eye, Author of the Cardinal Tales, and many, many more carrying key elements of Literature to balance the existence of The Word.
And yet Kuroiwa remained a living myth oozing with mystery.
None knew what his Authority was. Some recalled he could level cities like that of an Author of the Null, who was an entirely different person, others believed he was too fast to be called an Author of Duplication. He was a Jack of All Trades. It would be much simpler to call him the King of Authors, but people loved to talk — and the Alarish was never one to silence the mob.
“I heard he teaches at Luxorfurt—” the gardener's daughter came to a revelation, “Wait, does that mean you’ll get there? Should I check the mailbox — their letters are mint-scented, right?”
Oh, was it the twins' dream to enrol there; in fact, every kid dreamed of getting a letter from the Luxorfurt University of Literature. On the surface, it was just any ordinary university for those seeking knowledge, but it was from that exact pursuit of knowledge that came about the study of The Word. It was one of few universities around the world that brought forth Authors of the best kind; not to mention it was a school for children on its own.
“No one is getting letters from Luxorfurt, dearie,” their nana chuckled. “Louay and Youna will awaken and will do just fine in their cousins’ school. They even got a letter of recommendation prepared for them each.”
“That’s too good a dream,” Omar said, “Anyway, you were sayin’ he can manipulate wind?”
“We all can manipulate wind,” his brother poked him, “Though an invisible force above your head? That’s a first!”
“Definitely effective. We should test it out!” He pulled out his quill.
“Not in my house, you little weasel!” Their nana scolded him, “And certainly not before we’re done here.”
“Kuroiwa this. Kuroiwa that. Enough! Lots of other stories to share on the table, you know,” said the twins’ father Zein, “I’m sure ol’ Bes would have some up his sleeve — or… mouth, if we’re talking ‘literal.’ He never shuts up about the one with the mouse.”
“The one with the mouse?” Youna wondered.
“Ah, curses,” the old dwarf slammed his grip on the table, “not the one with the mouse. Dreadful thing, really. I remember it like—”
“Nope, don’t start. Every time a mention of it crosses my ears, I’d be hearing nothing else for the next few days, so let’s say…” Aunt Noraline shouted heavily and quickly as she hastily served a pot on the table — it was far too hot for her liking. She was a rather tall and dishevelled woman with braided red hair that seemed to shiver even when she wasn’t walking. “I’m-I’m not particularly fond of it!” She smiled to detract attention, “Have you heard of what’s gone down in the city? They say the festival’s been cancelled!”
“Cancelled?!” The twins’ mother Dounia gasped. She quickly ran to her sister-in-law’s aid as she brought another boiling pot of all things tasty.
“Festival’s cancelled…?” Youna dreaded her thoughts.
“Hang Hon,” the mother halted suddenly before realising how heavy and hot the pot in her grasp was. “Ouch! W-Which festival are we talking about here?”
“Hectadha! What else?”
Youna breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t the Ceremony.
“Hold your horses right there!” The old dwarf stood up. He brushed his beard with care. His eyes lit up with shock, “No meat?! And I had to catch me two Nargoats in the Fancy Forest? The nerve on them! Hand me a handful of that goulash, would you, lad?”
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“Oh relax! Did you all get hit on the head? The Alarish can’t simply prohibit celebrating the festival, and frankly: no one can. It’s a customary holiday,” Zein commented, “It’s just the street fanfare that’s been cancelled, I presume. We can still comfortably celebrate here.”
“Well, that’s all the more reason to stay at home and I’m very much fine with it if I do say so myself. Sweetie!” Noraline called to her son Nour, “Would you be a lad and turn on the telly for us?”
A second later and her eighteen-year-old son ran up to the small television box by the kitchen counter and turned it on. Festive laughter soon overtook the hectic noise the family made, it was another one of those old-school game shows the old dwarf Bes favoured (this one was “The Carnival Whale Game'' hosted by one Robin Holiday.) “Leave it on, lad,” Bes immediately said, “We don’t wan’ no news to rain cries on this table.”
“Right! ’Cause nothin’s better for your eyes than a few ladies from Nordétoile, eh?” The eighteen-year-old chuckled.
“Nour!” Noraline gawked at her son with the most threatening pair of eyes she could ever muster to hold — her second son Omar was heaving with laughter while the three other children there eyed one another with confusion.
“Can we please refrain from talking for a moment? And turn off that damned box, will you!” The twins’ nana glared at her daughter and grandson. Once everyone was seated comfortably with their plates at the table, she stood up, waved her hand across the table.
“By the name of that which is merciful, let the feast begin!”
✥
Breakfast at the Ashmouns was as much a celebratory gathering as was lunch and dinner. Everyone would gather around in the dining room, which was humble and tight enough to have a table befitting around eight people; and if more happened to be present, then the family would quickly bring out a few chairs from the reception room to squeeze them together near the table.
Among the sparkling silverware, bowls of broad beans, plates of boiled eggs, and hotpots floated a kettle of warm water and a teapot pouring nightcaps for those who desired; not to mention the spice being passed around from one hand to another (Zein liked his plate to be perfectly chilly.) Once someone was done with their food, their plates would suddenly fly dashing out to the kitchen sink where the au pair stood by watching them wash, while she waved her quill along like a music conductor.
“I’ve heard you invited the Feglas over for dinner tonight, huh, mother?” Aunt Noraline asked.
Louay and Youna’s eyes swelled. Their father pretended not to hear, and their mother spat out her drink before quietly muttering to her sister-in-law: “Where do you keep hearing this shit?”
Their nana paused, “Well, of course, I did. And the Jeagers too,” eyes rolled around the table at the mention of that name. “What neighbour would I be if I didn’t. They’ve shownshown hospitality numerous times, especially the Feglas. Do you not remember the Culling? It’s only fair that I repay the favour with a few invitations.”
“But nana—” Youna cried, her feet stompingstomping the floor, “Today’s the ceremony.”
“And that's exactly why I’m inviting them. It’s enough that they’re coming to your ceremony out of their own volition.”
“Five meiras Jeager’s daughter begged them to go so she would hex Youna before the ceremony,” Nour whispered to his brother, to which he replied: “You bet!” The two brothers laughed among each other before their mother kicked them both in the leg and they quickly fell silent.
Youna sunk back in her chair with a dangling lip. Louay was too busy with his scrambled eggs, which was personally prepared by his mother, and yet he still thought silently on the matter.
The Feglas were no devils, but they were no saints either. They were a peevish elderly couple of poking ears and proud owners of the nearby reed farm. Then there was their granddaughter, who shared not a shred of personality with them, and always made their visits somewhat tolerable — she had even become a close friend of the twins’ mother.
Now the Jeagers, on the other hand, were akin to a family of high standards yet knew not a single thing of proper etiquette (and the twins’ nana was taught enough of it in her time). Among them was Lalishia Jaeger. She was one of those pretty and charming girls born with a silver spoon in her mouth. She had no dreams, no expectations; just empty words coated with hatred.
“It was quite the spectacle when we hexed that paint bucket over their heads,” Nour remembered, “you shoulda seen her reaction.”
“Yeah, she was like ‘My father is going to hear of this!’ and all that,” Omar turned up the pitch of his voice and laughed, “and then it turns out the next day he gave her a good ol’ beating on the face instead.”
The twins’ cousins were quite feared as they were loved by those around them. Their imagination was far too fierce and troublesome for one’s liking, and so were their “experiments.” They were especially troublesome when it came to dealing with the Jaegers and Lalishia, who was the subject of all their mischief. They had once tricked her into eating a Tarte “prepared by their cousin,” and she was never seen again that evening — until the morning when the au pair found her passed out in the guest bathroom by the ground corridor.
“One of our greatest achievements…”
“Mhm, and it will never be mentioned again,” Aunt Noraline smiled, “unless you want me to take your quills again.”
“Hey, don’t blame us. We told you; it was all Louay’s idea.”
“Louay!” His mother glared at him, “You hexed Lalishia?!”
“What?” Louay said before dropping his sandwich, “I did not really hex anyone… but yeah, it was my idea.”
“But why? They’ve done nothing to you—”
“No, they bullied Youna. I couldn’t just sit still. She’s my sister!”
“That’s my boy,” his father patted him on the head.
But it did not sit too well with his mother, “You encourage this?”
“N-not the action though— that was very inappropriate, son. Never do that again.” His father then leaned closer to his ear, “But you thought of your sister and that’s more than enough. Proud of you, pal.” He winked.
His mother eyed Youna a look for confirmation but she shrugged.
Youna’s mind was elsewhere, too clouded with the misfortune that was to come that evening. She didn’t particularly hate anyone (she didn’t like to) but she did not exactly shower that hateful girl with love.
Lobelia’s bunch was no better in her eyes either: from the elf boy always at her boot; to her cheap knockoff; to the tall brute; to even a meek little girl who claimed to see the dead. They were all pampered kids too petty to do anything for themselves; and they would do anything in favour of bothering Youna, who tried her best not to pay much attention — even when they ruined her favourite dress.
Youna was conflicted. “I still don’t want them coming,” she said.
“Dearie, don’t sulk around like that.” Her nana tried to soothe her, “You should be happy, excited. Your gift is a cause for celebration!”
“But what about Louay?” Omar accidentally muttered.
The whole table went silent.
“What about me?” Louay wondered, aggravated by the thought of what would come next (yet the sandwich in his mouth was enough to keep him at bay).
“Well,” his nana edged to break the silence, “um…”
“He’ll do just fine!” Youna gave a cloddish grin and hugged him, “I bet he’ll get an Authority even.” Louay tried pushing her away out of embarrassment but she clasped her arms too tightly around him.
“Fifteen it’s the Authority of Sloth,” Omar whispered to his brother but Aunt Noraline pulled their ears out with a sharp glare.
“We just have to wait and believe in him. Remember what you said, nana? Live, Wait, Know?”
“Live, Know, and Wait,” the old matriarch said and then chuckled quietly to herself as she remembered that saying. It was a golden rule: ‘Live, Know, and Wait. Time is an ever-ticking clock that rewards the patient.’ That was the family’s creed since its inception centuries ago. It was not a matter of being old or young enough. It was a matter of patience; the oldest virtue in the book. “And you’re quite right, Youna.”
Though Louay shared the same doubts with his family about ever awakening to The Word, he still waited; as did they.
The earliest it had been for The Word blossoming within someone was at the mere age of five — children held too much imagination to no surprise — the latest, on the other hand, was fourteen. If one didn’t awaken by then, they were ordinary, and many were just ordinary.
Louay might have turned fourteen not too long ago, however, there was not a rule in the book that stated one should ever awaken at the exact age of fourteen. This day was as much special for him as it was for his sister, it was where the doubtful awakened and the dull affirmed their “ordinarity.” There was still hope, Youna believed and so did he, to some extent.
“All right, chop-chop,” their nana clapped and everyone started moving off their seats, “it’s almost eleven and time waits for no one. We should get ready.”
It was almost time for the Yaqizah Ceremony.