Of course, now the whole ritual seems strange, but at the time it was considered a normal part of our routine. Even with our newly gained knowledge, my sister and I didn’t question it too much—until Adam grew sick. Then we couldn’t pretend Mana’s Hearth was anything other than what it was. What it is.
Adam was born missing the lower half of his left arm, though it never troubled him. I’ve learned, since escaping the Hearth, that people within are born with a higher chance of disabilities. Like me and Taema. My guess is that it’s either because of the bloodline being so intermingled in a small populace, or because the drug Mana-ma gave us for Meditation did something to babies in the womb.
Anyway, Taema and I had both been sweet on Adam. We still hadn’t quite figured out how romance would work, with us being conjoined. I guess we thought we’d deal with it when the time came. I think we would have been happy enough sharing Adam, if he liked us.
That might sound odd to some of you, but I don’t care. San Francisco has poly relationships aplenty, even if none of them are with conjoined twins. The Hearth would have accepted it just fine.
Adam caught an infection when he was tilling the fields, which most of the men and some of the stronger women took turns with. He cut himself on the plow and didn’t wash it properly, or something. It shouldn’t have been fatal. If he’d had access to a needle full of magic medicine from the city, he’d have been right as rain in less than an hour. But whatever infection Adam caught was more stubborn than our medicine could handle.
He grew worse, and was moved to the Wellness Cabin. People weren’t really allowed to go see him, but Nurse Meadows allowed us to peek in through the window. He was happy to see us. I liked to think he was sweet on us too, but that he liked me best. We brought him some grapes. His leg was all wrapped up and propped up in a sling. He was sweating and pale. I hated to see him like that. But he didn’t seem on the brink of death or anything. I figured he’d get better in no time. Just needed some rest.
“How are you feeling?” I remember Taema and I asked at the same time. I hated when we did that. We’d have the exact same tone, timing, everything, as if we were creepy echoes of each other.
Adam smiled weakly at us. “Been better, T-and-T,” he said, and we both fought down blushes. I’d always liked the joint nickname, understanding we were two, but also one. And he didn’t even know we called each other T when we were alone.
We threw him the grapes, and he tried to catch them in his mouth. He missed, or we missed, more often than they landed in his mouth, and soon the floor of the cabin was littered with green grapes. We collapsed into laughter, clutching our sides.
“You cheered me up and no mistake,” he said when we’d run out of grapes. We reached through the window, each of us holding out a hand. He reached out with his one hand and clasped both of ours in it. I remember his skin was so warm. Too warm.
“We’ll come visit you every day until you’re well,” we promised.
But he was gone the next day.
Considering the rudimentary medicine, there weren’t actually that many deaths in Mana’s Hearth. His was such a shock for Taema and me. We couldn’t cope. He was there, and then he wasn’t. We’d never see him again. We lay in bed, arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, foreheads pressed against each other, just sobbing. It wasn’t fair.
There wasn’t a funeral; we didn’t really have them in Mana’s Hearth. We didn’t gather around a corpse and plant it in the ground, or burn it up. I knew they did something with the body, but not exactly what. People mourned, and people would still talk about Adam and others who died and say they missed them; but there’d be no celebration, or wake, or anything like that.
Seems backward too, doesn’t it? Looking back now, I see that, but the Hearth doesn’t celebrate beginnings or endings. We focused on celebrating the day-to-day life that continued. The passing of seasons had a special meaning for us, but other holidays that lingered on from past religions we had nothing to do with. In the Hearth there were no Christmas trees or Hanukah menorahs.
I tried to convince Taema to get a Christmas tree, the first year we were living in San Francisco, but she didn’t want one.
“We’re never going to believe in it,” she said.
“Does anyone? It’s a tree in the living room with pretty lights, and there aren’t many Pagans around anymore. Santa Claus and a tree have nothing to do with Jesus. And not a lot of people seem to believe in him here, either.”
“Shouldn’t we celebrate winter?”
“Why? We don’t believe in Mana-ma or her God anymore, either.”
She had no answer to that.