He experienced a brief moment of envy, as he recalled that the girls of his age in the village would be in the round house with the women at the moment, chatting and eating, singing and praying. Somehow the girls found their women’s names without the privation and hardship endured by the boys. Kieli let the moment pass: dwelling on what you can’t control was futile, as his grandfather would say.
He thought of his grandfather, Laughter in his Eyes, who had been the last to speak to him as he climbed the lonely trail from the valley where his people dwelt. The old man had smiled as he always had—he could hardly remember a time when he hadn’t seen a smile on the old man’s face. Grandfather’s face was like brown leather from nearly eighty years of living in the mountains, his clan tattoos upon his left cheek still black despite years in the sun. The old man’s keen eyes and strong features were always framed by steel-grey hair down to his shoulders. Kieli resembled his grandfather more than his father, for they both shared the olive skin which turned nut-brown in the summer and never burned, and in his youth Grandfather had also had hair the color of a raven’s wing. Others remarked that an outlander must have joined their family generations ago, for the Orosini were a fair race, and even brown hair was unusual.
Kieli’s grandfather had whispered, “When the gourd is empty, on Midsummer’s Day, remember this: if the gods haven’t already provided you with a name, that means you’re allowed to choose one you like.” And then the old chieftain had smothered him in a playful, but still strong, hug that sent him stumbling along the path. The other men in the village of Kulaam looked on, smiling or laughing, for the festival would soon be upon them, and the time of the naming vision was a joyous time.
Kieli remembered his grandfather’s words and wondered if any boy actually had his name bestowed upon him by the gods. Examining the gourd, he judged he would be out of water by midday. He knew he would find water at a brook halfway down the path to the village, but he also knew that meant he had to leave the ledge when the sun was at its zenith.
He sat silently for a while, thoughts of his village dancing through his mind like the splashing foam of the brook behind the long hall. Perhaps if he set his mind free, he thought, if he didn’t try too hard to find his vision, it would come to him. He wanted to return soon, for he missed his family. His father, Elk’s Call at Dawn, was everything the boy hoped to be—strong, friendly, kind, resolute, fearless in battle, and gentle with his children. He missed his mother, Whisper of the Night Wind, and his younger sister, Miliana, and most of all, he missed his older brother, Hand of the Sun, who had returned from his own vision but two years earlier, his skin burned red by the sun, except for a pale print of his own hand where it had rested all day upon his chest. Their grandfather had joked that Hand was not the first boy to have come to his vision while asleep. Hand had always been kind to his younger brother and sister, taking care to watch over them when their mother was out gleaning the field, or showing them the best places to find ripening berries. Memories of those berries, crushed with honey and served on hot bread, made Kieli’s mouth water.
The celebration would be joyous, and the thought of the food that waited below gave Kieli cramps of hunger. He would be permitted to sit in the long house with the men, rather than in the round house with his mother and the other women and children. He felt a pang of loss at that thought, for the singing of the women as they oversaw the domestic chores of the day, their laughter and chatter, the gossip and the jokes, had been a part of his daily life for as long as he could remember. But he also looked forward with pride to being allowed to sit with the men of the clan.
His body shivered uncontrollably for a moment, then he sighed and relaxed as the sun warmed him further. He let his stiff muscles loosen, then moved to his knees and attended to the fire. He placed a few fresh twigs upon the glowing coals, then blew upon them, and in a few minutes it was done. He would let the flames die down after the mountain air warmed up, but for now he was thankful for the nearby heat.