It is a difficult task to learn to be the provider for our family. I am worked to no end – herd the animals, fish for supper, cut the firewood, stage the boat, hunt for winter. Father behaves as expected, but Mother is not gentle. I seek to obey, but some errands are pointless. Some tasks are like punishment.
Amon woke to a clutter of voices and activity, the scent of smoked meat stew filling the air. He sat up slowly, pressing his palms to his eyes to ease the blur of sleep. Through the small window above his bedroll the sun shone bright and orange, peaking beyond the horizon and casting brilliant rays over a pink and blue sky. Puffy white clouds were overlayed with dark, shadowy bottoms, and if Amon had not heard the bustle of his family in the other room, he would have assumed that the world was just barely awake, its eyes half-lidded in a similar fashion to his own.
Apparently, not.
“Amon!” his father’s deep voice called from right outside the door. “It is already day. Do not avoid your family!”
Day? He shook his head and sighed into the thin blanket now bundled at his lap. And family? He wondered. Their presence would explain the ridiculous amount of noise out there, but as far he knew they were not expected the night before. After a few more precious seconds of groaning, Amon tossed the blanket aside and forced himself to get up. Quickly, he folded his bedding and placed it on top of his wardrobe, sliding the bedroll to a corner to stand against the wall.
He dressed in a thin jacket and pants set, the airy fabric patterned with his village’s spiraling teal threads over a sand-colored background. The jacket adorned the village’s symbol: a soaring pointed-nose fish surrounded by glittering, turquoise water droplets, its head angled to the sky with tumbling waves behind it. On the seam of his pants were two solid teal stripes that stopped just before his knees. Amon tightened the teal sash around his waist, covering his bare navel, then hurried to yank his boots on and lace them. He heard a slight rustle behind the heavy curtain separating the bedroom in half.
“Aya, I can hear you,” he said, pulling the straps on his right boot taut. He twisted them around themselves twice and then tucked them deeply under the cuff. “Are you dressed yet?”
The rustling behind the curtain became more frantic. Crossing his arms, Amon leaned against the windowsill looked up, catching sight of a bird lazily passing by. The sun was slightly higher now, enough for him to see its gleam from this angle. A handful of sporadic stomps and a yelp later, Aya tugged open the curtain and walked straight to his wardrobe, immediately pulling out the bottom drawer with hardly a glance his way.
Amon frowned. “We have company,” he said.
“More of a reason for me to have it,” Aya retorted before lifting a stack of his winter clothes. She withdrew a blade from beneath them, the knife’s tip curved and polished. Lowering the knife to her side, Aya finally turned to look at him, the lattice of golden chimes knotted into her hair and hanging over her ears and forehead singing with the motion. “Do you have my holder?” she asked.
“Can you say please?”
Aya’s already deep brown eyes appeared to darken even more. “Amon, I’m not in the mood.”
“Neither am I,” he said, but his words were soon followed by a smile. He pushed off the wall and reached around his sister, swiping a small, leather scabbard from beneath the other stack of clothes in the drawer. he offered it to her, then took the opportunity to twirl the hair curling around her shoulders, careful not to touch anywhere near the ringing ornament. Aya sheathed her knife and seemed to relax, her shoulders dropping as she hid the weapon under her sash. The blue of it was much lighter than his, near as rich as an early sky, but the pants she wore were ugly and tattered. Not too often did the women choose to wear a workers' outfit over their own attire, and not too often were said pants far too large for them.
He cupped her shoulder gently and lowered his voice, drawing down just enough for them to hold eye contact at her level. “Hey, look at me,” he said, pausing for her to lift her uncomfortable gaze to his. “You know what to do if they become too much. I’ll be right there with you, you know that, right?” Aya adverted her eyes. He tapped her shoulder. “Right?” he asked again.
Aya sucked in a long breath and then nodded. “Yeah.”
He clapped her on the back in a release then smoothed out his clothes in one fluid motion. “Then good. I think Mom is making food. Do you think our cousins are staying the whole day?” Amon started towards the bedroom door.
Behind him, he caught a glimpse of Aya’s smirk. “I think they would loathe to do that.”
Amon let out a chuckle as he grabbed for the handle. “Yeah,” he said, “let us hope that they do.”
*
The house outside of Amon’s bedroom felt as if it were on fire. Firstly, because the heat from the sun and burning stove was near blistering, and secondly, because of how many people were rushing back and forth, carrying armfuls of items from pots, pans, containers, dishes, furs, tools, to a variety of other crafts. His aunt Sarana blew him a kiss as she passed by, nearly knocking into him although they were barely out of the doorway. Her arms were stacked with bowls and a bundle of spoons were pinched under her arms. Amon watched her beeline for the kitchen before turning to their living space.
The “room,” although it was more of an open passageway, was larger than the average Khosanian’s. Amon’s father often held counsel here when either villagers or leaders themselves wanted to meet independently and without arousing suspicion. His father was an established hunter, fisherman, and fighter, earning the respect of many of the other families. However, when the council offered to seat him on their board, he had refused the rigidness of politics and sought to continue his work in practice rather than theory. Instead, his father makes himself available for less formal, more private discussions. For that, their living space is treated in some regards as a ceremonial office, with his father’s many trophies and tokens displayed on the walls and a small tea table rooted at its center.
All around the center table his family carried on with their tasks. Amon veered around his cousins carrying table parts and tents from the storage room, his uncle Utaro who was stocking handheld tools into a couple of nice cases, and his female cousin Nhora who was consumed in her organization of village dresses. Aya trailed closely, sticking to his side as their family hustled and shouted commands at each other, their operation very strange for such an early morning and on a random day. Amon spotted his father talking with their neighbors at the entrance to their home and hesitated to announce their presence. He had no clue what was going on, anyway.
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Someone pinched his right hand, drawing his attention away from his father and to the floor where his matron grandmother sat. She held a steaming, ornate teacup in her free hand; while her skin looked very frail and near translucent, the sharp pinch she kept to keep Amon at bay was far more telling. “Sit, boy,” she commanded in a whispered, silken voice.
Amon sent Aya a look of uncertainty before they both kneeled as a gesture of respect and then sat.
Amon bowed his head and began speaking. “Thank you, matron Fatimah, for granting us company. How may we serve you-“
His grandmother nearly ripped his skin off with her next pinch, tiny fingers like steel pliers on his wrist. “Oh pah, Amon! I’m your grandmother for Our Grace’s sake, you don’t have to be so formal,” she said and finally let go of his hand. “Ma Fa works just fine, I told you.”
Amon kept his wince silent as he settled his hand under the table so he could rub the pain away. He cleared his throat, trying to keep his voice neutral. “Ah, thank you, Grandma Fa,” he said, feeling his face heat from the disappointment in her eyes. “It is nice to see you, but I am wondering why…” Amon looked around the living space again and watched the business-like chaos. Why were his cousins moving tables and chair and tents out of the house? Why was his aunt and uncles organizing crafts and tools that took them all winter to gather or create? What was his father talking about with the neighbors, and where was his mother? Amon craned his neck to try to see into the kitchen. “Why is everyone here?” he asked.
Grandma Fa’s expression took on a genuine curiosity for just a moment before fading into amusement. “We’re all in for it once you replace your father!” she exclaimed and waved her hand back and forth, the many bracelets handing loosely around her wrists clanking loudly and wildly. She sipped her tea, crackling, and then grabbed another cup from the center – this one just as white and pristine – and placed it in front of Amon. She poured him a full cup, beckoning, “drink, drink my dear boy. You will have a long day ahead of you at the market.”
Amon furrowed his brows. He accepted the tea gracefully, sipped out of kindness, and then handed the warm cup to Aya without taking his attention off Grandma Fa. It would have been impossible for him to miss the clear disdain that fell the old woman’s features.
Amon straightened his posture and asked, “What market do you speak of?”
“I offered you tea, boy.”
“Will you be charged as an honorary for the event? The market must be very important to be so spontaneous, to which I cannot imagine your absence being easily dismissed,” Amon praised, increasing his volume in hopes of being heard by nearby family. The diversion did not go unnoticed; his grandmother caught the eye of his uncle who was heading out of the door with two heavy sacks, and even Amon’s father seemed to pause his talk in anticipation of her reply. Amon curled his hands in his lap, willing her to refocus, and only when her signature smirk return did he ease up. Too bad he gave his cup of tea away to Aya; his mouth was incredibly dry now.
Grandma Fa’s bracelets clunked from another fan over her face. “You should know better than to ask rhetoricals, Amon. I will be sitting with the council during their announcement.” She closed her eyes to drink from her tea, slowly, then peered an eye open on the exhale to look at his father. “We did not know to expect visitors until very early this morning, honestly the dead of night, so we are in the process of making ourselves more,” she tsked, “presentable.” Grandma Fa took another long drink from her tea. “There is also much for us to trade in the mid-summer, so our merchants are looking forward to garnering some new partnerships. Your father, however, is apparently preoccupied, so your mother gathered your relatives to set up our family’s front.”
Amon heard the chime of Aya’s headpiece in time with seeing her lean just slightly forward in his periphery. Her interest must have been piqued just the same as his. Feeling a bout of nervous excitement, Amon couldn’t get his questions out fast enough.
“Grandma Fa,” he started, “who are the visitors you refer to? You make them sound as if they are completely new to the area and village. And what announcement is the council going to make? We have not had a meeting since the start of summer, and usually we don’t until harvest.” Such spontaneity could not bode well. While his village welcomed visitors and foreign trade, the markets and festivals were scheduled out many weeks ahead. No one simply ventured into the mountainous terrain and rough waters unannounced.
His grandmother was taking too long to answer. Amon stared earnestly, crossed feet growing numb, lower back stiffening from his posture. The bells around Aya’s dark hair chimed again and he could practically feel her radiating curiosity, anticipation overtaking them both, the continued movement of their family behind their backs a mere blur. Yet his grandmother poured herself another cup of tea with unbothered ease, her gaze casually flicking between Amon and their guests. Although she still wore her lavender sleep gown, Grandma Fa’s movements contained a seemingly natural grace, years of training and precision formed into talent. She sipped, lowered her cup with a clink to its plate, and pursed her lips in contemplation.
Moments later, she met Amon’s stare. “This is a mere rumor for the time, but I have heard that the visitors are arriving to warn-“
“Our Matron Fatimah,” Amon’s father interrupted from the door, dismissing the neighbors with a curt bow. He approached their table confidently, fingers needled together before him. When he was directly in front of Grandma Fa, Amon’s father struck his fist to his chest and bowed more deeply. “I have need of my children,” he said.
Grandma Fa scoffed. “Right as I was getting to the good bits,” she said and then downed her remaining tea. Rising with her, Amon tried to offer his grandmother an arm as she stood but the wiry woman shooed him away. “I should be getting on, anyway,” she said. “Apparently there’s work to do. Amon?”
He jolted at the tone of her voice, his name a command, and prepared himself for a lecture. It was pleasant surprise when instead he received warm arms over his shoulders, drawing him in for a brisk but welcomed hug. His shoulders slacked and Amon relaxed into her embrace, closing his eyes to live in the moment. He did not think much of it when his grandmother shifted so her lips were closer to his ear, not until she whispered, “Don’t let her out of your sight.”
Grandma Fa let go immediately. Amon watched as she left him with a soft smile and returned his father’s bow with a nod of her head, snapping at one of his cousins to walk her out of the house. The warmth from their embrace had slipped into ice, the caution only emphasizing the knot of anxiety now twisting his stomach. The sun had barely rose and he was already so confused, feeling very uncomfortable with the guesswork. He turned to Aya to see if she heard Grandma Fa, but his sister’s presence was withdrawn, her attention now zoned on their father.
Their father, who was still observing them from a few feet away, his expression masked from emotion.
Amon hated the silence.
Carefully, he asked, “We’re up now, father. What would you like us to do?”
"Well," his father started, contemplation crossing his stoic features. And then his expression fell into a smile, white teeth showing wide. “Nothing yet!” he beamed, his jovial continence in stark contrast to his controlled and muscular build. The change in attitude made Amon feel uneasy.
Gesturing to the kitchen, his father urged them on, saying, "I was asked by your mother to send you two to the kitchen to eat, so I would hurry if I were you."
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Note: Thank you everyone for reading and welcome to our little adventure! I aim to post on a weekly basis, so be sure to look out for the rest of Aya and Amon's story. See you soon!