I’ve never noticed the shyness in Kesh, but I guess there was never reason for him to act shy. Handing Shava his flute, he shows her how to hold it. I slide away when he begins to show her the ideal way to pucker her lips.
Food eventually is brought out and people crowd in and seat themselves on the ground, which has been strewn with clippings of soft stalks that your clan must have brought from the south. The food is perfect—roasted bison and mussels stacked high on every mat. My mother tries to help with the distribution, but an elder from your clan—a man old enough to be my father’s father—gently scolds her and tells her to have a seat. He is clearly in charge of food preparation and takes his responsibility very seriously. “This feast is to honor your clan. It is our gift to you,” he says.
His words remind me of the lessons my father has taught me about generosity and service to others, and how the Divine requires these traits in a clan leader. As I watch, my mother smiles and sits down.
A crew of women and a few men of about my parents’ age carry out wave after wave of mats. One man weaves through the clumps of seated figures passing out drinking bowls—not the ornately carved cups of bone we drank from in your camp, but shallow, tightly woven bowls coated with resin. Chev follows behind him pouring mead from a large waterskin into every one.
With all but the servers seated, I’m able to scan the crowd more easily—I see Pek and Seeri, Roon and Lees, my mother and father. But Lo is nowhere to be seen. And, I notice, neither is Seeri’s betrothed.
Of course, neither are you.
Second helpings are being brought out when I get to my feet. The food is excellent, but a sense of loneliness overcomes me as I notice that even Kesh is leaning toward Shava as if telling her a secret. This is a familiar feeling to me—this sensation of being more alone the greater the size of the crowd. I felt it the morning I met you—it was the feeling that drove me to the meadow pretending to search for honeybees when I was certain it was too early to find them. I needed to escape some invisible pressure, and I have that very same sensation now.
Getting to my feet slowly, I ease into the shadows on the far side of the kitchen and disappear behind it. Moving along the outside of the ring of huts, I make my way to the door of my family’s home fairly confident that no one has seen me.
I exhale a deep breath, the kind of breath that burns my lungs like I’ve been holding it all day, and duck under the mammoth hide that drapes over the doorway, only to step back quickly when someone inside the hut moves.
I’d expected to find the hut empty. Instead I find you standing next to my bed.
“I’m sorry.” That’s all you say. You don’t move, but stand frozen in an awkward posture, caught between coming and going. In your hand is a small cup made of intricately folded dark green leaves that are unfamiliar to me. “I wanted you to have this,” you say. You glance around, looking for a place to set the cup, and I become intensely aware of how cluttered my family’s hut is. A set of harpoons Pek and I are carving from a core of ivory lies jumbled at your feet.
You set the cup on one of the pelts that serves as a rug. “It’s a gift.” From where I stand, I can see the golden color of the thick liquid inside.
You’ve snuck into my hut to leave me a cup of honey.
“Honey from your home? From the south?”
Your eyes are on the tiny vessel at your feet as if you hope that it will spontaneously answer my question on your behalf. I feel somehow embarrassed for you, though I’m not sure why. “Well, I’m anxious to try it,” I say, hoping to set you at ease a bit by acting—inexplicably—like this gesture of yours is completely normal. “Would you like to share it with me?”
Of course you’ll decline. It’s obvious you can’t wait to escape from my company. You’re practically twitching with embarrassment.
Just as I’m shifting to the side of the door to let you pass, you answer, “Yes.” Clearly, I can’t read you at all.
“Oh, all right.”
Faint light bleeds in through just a few open vents in the walls, but I’d almost believe your cheeks color pink as your feet shuffle beneath you.
I offer you a place to sit on the haphazard pile of pelts that collectively form my bed. I seat myself on the bed opposite—Pek’s bed.
Suddenly I can’t quite think how to share the cup. If I were alone, or even with my family, I would simply dip my fingers in it. But the thought of eating honey with my fingertips in front of you seems far too intimate.
Then you surprise me. You pick up the cup and tilt your head back, tipping it above your mouth until the honey runs down onto your tongue. It drizzles onto your lips but you run a finger across them to catch it before any drips onto your chin. All your self-consciousness melts away as you move your finger from your glistening lips and smile. “Your turn,” you say.