Chương 11: Before Starlight

By late summer, waiting had become harder. The grain was beginning to turn gold across the valley, and every visible change in the fields meant Starlight was getting closer. Green Hollow grew busier as harvest approached. Tools were repaired, storage spaces cleaned, carts checked and weather discussed with the seriousness of military planning. Festival preparations appeared several weeks before the actual day. That was when Lily abruptly removed Joe from most household work. The decision came without discussion.

Joe reached for a basket one morning and Lily pulled it away.

"Leave it."

"I can carry that."

"I know."

"Then why—""Because you're not twisting an ankle two weeks before Starlight." Joe looked at the basket. It contained vegetables. Lily saw the look on his face.

"Don't start."

"I wasn't."

"You were about to explain why vegetables don't break ankles." Joe closed his mouth. Lily nodded once.

"Good." Mike was not much better. Later that day, Joe went outside to help him gather wood from near the edge of the field. Mike took one look at him and pointed back toward the house.

"Go inside."

"I can carry the smaller pieces."

"I know you can."

"Then—""Your mother will blame me if you come back with a scratch." Joe considered that. Mike leaned closer.

"And she's already warned me twice." That explained more.

"Go bother your grandmother." Pam objected loudly when Joe returned.

"Why me?" Mike shouted from outside, "I heard that." Pam shouted back, "Good." Joseph sat near the doorway repairing a basket and seemed to miss the entire exchange until several moments later.

"Why is Joe inside?" Pam looked at him.

"Because Lily thinks vegetables are dangerous." Joseph nodded slowly.

"Vegetables can be slippery." Pam stared at him. Joe decided his grandfather's contribution had not improved the discussion. Mary suffered most from the arrangement. Joe had gradually taken over a number of small household tasks over the previous years. Once the adults decided he should avoid unnecessary work, those tasks did not disappear. They moved downhill. Usually toward Mary. She was five now and deeply opposed to this development.

"This is your job." Mary stood in the yard holding a small basket of vegetables as though Lily had sentenced her to hard labor. Joe was sitting beneath the tree.

"Apparently not anymore." Mary glared at him.

"I was making houses." Her mud village occupied one corner of the yard. Several lumps represented homes, while a much larger mound was apparently Blackwood. Joe looked at it.

"What happened to Blackwood?" Mary turned toward the mound.

"What?"

"It looks flooded."

"It's not flooded."

"Half the road is mud."

"The road is supposed to be mud."

"Then it's very accurate." Mary narrowed her eyes.

"You don't understand." That was possible. She lifted the basket, took several steps and stopped.

"This is unfair."

"Probably."

"You should carry it."

"Mother said no." Mary looked toward the house as though hoping Lily had somehow changed her mind. Lily appeared in the doorway.

"Mary." Mary immediately started walking again. Joe watched. Lily did not need to raise her voice very often. Mary had already learned what came afterward if she ignored the first warning. Ten minutes later, however, Mary returned without the basket and with an expression Joe recognized immediately.

"Want to see something?" This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience. Joe became suspicious.

"What?"

"A bee."

"No." Mary frowned.

"You don't even know."

"I know enough."

"I found where they live." Joe stood.

"Mary." She grinned. Then ran. Joe caught her before she reached the far side of the yard. Mary twisted in his arms.

"I wasn't doing anything."

"You were running toward the bees."

"I was going to show you."

"From how close?" She stopped struggling. Joe waited. Mary looked away.

"Not close."

"How close?" She hesitated.

"I touched their house." Joe closed his eyes.

"With what?"

"A stick." Of course.

"You poked a beehive."

"I didn't poke it."

"What did you do?"

"I touched it."

"With a stick."

"Yes."

"That's poking." Mary looked offended by the accusation.

"It wasn't hard." Joe dragged her back toward the house while she complained the entire way.

"Lily!" Pam called from inside.

"Your daughter found the bees again." Mary froze. Then turned toward the doorway.

"You tattled!" Pam appeared.

"I absolutely did."

"I tell you things!"

"Then tell me things that don't sting." Mary looked betrayed. Lily came outside.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." Pam answered from behind her.

"She put a stick in the bees."

"I did not put it in!" Lily turned toward Mary. That was enough to stop the correction.

"What did I tell you last time?" Mary stared at the ground.

"Not to touch them."

"And?"

"Not to go there."

"And?" Mary became quieter.

"Not to take sticks." Lily crossed her arms.

"So you remembered everything." Mary's face began arranging itself for tears. Lily did not soften.

"Don't start crying now. You weren't crying when you were bothering the bees." Mary looked toward Joe. That was a mistake. Lily noticed.

"Don't look at him. He isn't going to save you." Joe had no intention of trying. What followed was brief, loud and entirely predictable. Later that evening, Mary sat beside Joe with her arms crossed so tightly that she seemed determined to become smaller through anger alone.

"Mother is mean." Joe made a noncommittal sound.

"She smacked me."

"You poked bees."

"I didn't poke them."

"You introduced a stick to their house." Mary thought about that.

"She is still mean." Joe nodded solemnly.

"I'll keep it secret." That satisfied her. Mary had discovered over the years that Joe was the safest person in the family to complain to. Pam sometimes repeated things because she found them entertaining. Mike usually gave advice even when nobody asked for it. Joseph occasionally forgot the beginning of the complaint before Mary reached the end. Simon was worse. Every complaint eventually reminded him of something that had happened to Simon. Joe mostly listened. That alone made Mary loyal to him.

There was another difference as well. Adults spoiled Mary because she was the youngest, but that attention had limits. Nobody worried about her future the way they worried about Simon's training or Joe's approaching test. She was fed, protected and occasionally indulged, but when serious discussions began, Mary was usually sent away or ignored. Joe rarely did that.

He answered her questions even when they were ridiculous, listened to arguments about mud houses as though their structural integrity mattered and explained things adults often dismissed because she was too young. Partly, that was because Joe had lived in another world where being a girl did not automatically make someone's future seem already decided. Mostly, however, Mary had simply become his little sister. He was fond of her. Even when she tried to attack bees.

As Starlight drew closer, the family began treating Joe differently in smaller ways too. Lily never announced any of them. She simply did them. His portions grew slightly larger. Not Simon-sized portions. Slightly larger ones. One evening, an egg appeared in Joe's bowl. Simon noticed first. His eyes moved from the egg to Joe, then toward Lily. Lily caught him.

"Say it." Simon immediately looked back at his food.

"I didn't say anything."

"Good." Simon lasted several seconds.

"I train every day." Lily heard him.

"So does your mouth." Pam laughed. Simon looked wounded. Lily pushed the bread toward him.

"You'll survive one egg."

"I said nothing."

"You were building toward it." Simon muttered something and tore off a piece of bread. Joe looked down at his bowl. Lily noticed him too.

"Don't make a face."

"I'm not."

"You're thinking." Joe looked up.

"What does that have to do with my face?"

"There. That's exactly what I mean." Joe decided to eat the egg before she changed her mind. The next morning, Lily checked the soles of his shoes. Joe stared at her.

"What?"

"They're wearing through."

"They've been wearing through for months."

"And now you tell me?"

"You can see them." Lily gave him a long look. Joe reconsidered the usefulness of that answer. By afternoon, Mike had repaired the worst section with a piece of leather he had been saving. Nobody said it was because of the test. Nobody needed to. Even Simon became strangely helpful. Not openly helpful. That would have required admitting something. Instead, Joe would discover small things. A water cup placed beside him when he was reading. A warning that the eastern path was muddy after rain.

A reminder that Hall disliked children arriving late. One afternoon Simon found him stretching behind the house.

"Don't do too much." Joe looked over.

"I'm stretching."

"I can see that."

"Then what's the problem?"

"If something pulls now, Mother will somehow blame me."

"Why you?"

"Because I know martial arts." Joe considered that.

"She might."

"Exactly." Simon watched him for another moment. Then added, "You don't need to do anything now anyway." Joe straightened.

"I know." Simon nodded. Neither mentioned the test. That seemed to be happening more often as the day approached. Everyone had spent months discussing Starlight. Now that it was close enough to count in days rather than seasons, the household spoke about it less. Joe understood why. There was nothing new to say. One evening, Mike came inside after checking the western field and announced that the first festival merchants had arrived. Mary immediately ran toward the door. Lily caught the back of her shirt.

"Where are you going?"

"To see."

"See what?"

"The merchants."

"You don't even know where they are."

"Then I'll find them."

"No." Mary turned toward Joe as though requesting legal assistance. Joe looked away. He had learned from the bee incident. Simon asked, "Who came?"

"Two carts from the southern road. Cloth seller and somebody carrying metal goods."

"No herbs?" Mike shook his head.

"Not yet." Simon tried to look uninterested. He failed. The festival meant different things to all of them. For Mary, it meant sweets, crowds and things she was not allowed to touch. For Simon, it meant merchants who might carry medicines the family normally could not afford. For Mike and Joseph, it came after harvest, when they finally knew whether the year's work had been enough.

For Lily, apparently, it meant preventing Joe from encountering vegetables, wood, mud, rivers, sharp objects and every other hazard she suddenly remembered existed. Joe had only one part of the festival on his mind. The black stone. He had thought about it so often that he had exhausted every useful possibility months ago. It might react. It might not. Neither answer could be reasoned into existence. That did not stop his body from becoming increasingly aware of how close the test was. His sleep grew lighter.

Not badly. Just enough that he sometimes woke before sunrise and immediately remembered the number of days remaining. Three. Then two. The evening before the festival, Lily called him back inside earlier than usual.

"The ground is damp." Joe looked toward the yard.

"I've walked on damp ground before."

"Inside." He obeyed. There was no benefit in winning that argument. Dinner was ordinary. That surprised him slightly. Grain porridge. Vegetables. A small amount of preserved meat divided between them. Nobody made a speech. Nobody wished him luck. Pam told a story about a merchant cheating someone over lamp oil. Joseph forgot halfway through why the story had started. Mary complained that Simon had taken the larger piece of meat. Simon insisted both pieces had been identical. Lily told both of them to eat.

The normality helped. Afterward, Joe went outside one last time before bed. The sky was clear. Mary followed him. Of course she did. They lay in the grass near the house, close enough that Lily would not complain, while the sounds of the household continued behind them. The constellation villagers called the First Ship had begun appearing earlier above the eastern hills. Mary pointed toward it.

"Which one is the ship?" Joe followed her finger.

"That group." Mary stared.

"It doesn't look like a ship."

"No."

"Why do they call it that?"

"I don't know." Mary turned toward him.

"You don't know lots of things." Joe looked at her.

"Neither do you."

"I'm five." The answer came with complete confidence. Apparently that explained everything. Joe looked back toward the stars. The First Ship. The villagers had been calling it that for generations. Somewhere behind him, Pam probably knew three stories explaining why, and at least two of them would contradict each other. The First People crossed the darkness between the stars. They came beneath a new sky. They raised the First Hearth.

Joe still did not know whether any of it was history or merely a story that had changed over generations. For once, he let the question remain unanswered. Mary shifted beside him.

"Are you scared?" Joe turned his head. The question surprised him.

"A little." Mary seemed equally surprised that he had admitted it.

"Why?"

"I might fail tomorrow." She thought about that. Then shrugged.

"You can come home." Joe stared at her. Mary continued looking at the sky. To her, the answer was obvious. Pass or fail, he would come home afterward. Something inside Joe relaxed.

"Yes." Mary pointed toward another star.

"That one looks like a chicken."

"It doesn't."

"It does." Joe looked. It did not.

"Maybe a little." Mary seemed satisfied. Behind them, Lily opened the door.

"Both of you inside." Mary groaned. Joe stood. Tomorrow had spent years being somewhere in the future. Now it was simply tomorrow. He brushed the grass from his clothes and followed his sister inside.