The Gathandrian Trilogy 01 - The Gifting

undone. Such an act would damage them both. Beyond any repair. Of course, his charge did not know this; only Simon understood the meaning.
    He stood up. Turning the boy around so both of them faced the birds, Simon held his hand, more to quieten the tremble in his own fingers than to give reassurance.
    “There…there is s-something I need to say,” he started and then closed his eyes to try and regain control. This was not the way to begin. If they survived the experience, he wanted to give the boy something to remember, didn’t he?
    He took a steady breath and opened his eyes.
    “Hear me,” he said, the stammer gone now, “hear me and understand what I say. And, if it pleases you, stay and share in this ritual.”
    Yes, that sounded better. So far, so good then. A breath of movement through the birds and a wave of white feathers. Then stillness once more. He searched for the lead-raven and found him, not in the middle of his vast flock but at the end of the front line. One talon was raised, delicately, as if he were about to step through a nest of young birds. His dark eye caught Simon’s and held it.
    An impression of the sky’s swiftness, the beating of wings and the cry of many companions. Together, so many—together— one.
    And then the image vanished and Simon stood where he had been before. Body and thoughts together. On the grass, with the boy’s small hand in his.
    The snow-raven lowered his claw and Simon breathed again. They would allow this ritual then. The necessary audience would be birds, not people. He hoped it would be enough.
    Squeezing the boy’s hand, they walked forward a few paces together onto the grass. Each step released handfuls of small yellow seeds that drifted upwards, glittering in the light. They clung to their shoes, staining the worn leather.

    Isabella
    Boy and man stop. Hartstongue glances back. Isabella and her brother remain where they are, Johan because he will not follow unless the scribe asks him to and Isabella because she wants to see him fail. Sweat lines the coward’s forehead, even as the morning chill makes him shiver.
    “Come closer and watch,” he says. “I need your witnessing eye.”
    At once, Johan takes the few strides needed to bring him within touching distance of the boy and scribe. After a slight hesitation, Isabella follows. Hartstongue gazes into their faces for a moment. He sees compassion and empathy in her brother’s. She wonders what he thinks he sees in hers. Then he turns around.
    “Come then,” he whispers. “Let us begin.”
    Releasing the boy’s hand, Hartstongue steps away so he stands alone. The boy leans towards him as if to run into the safety of his embrace again, though he will find no comfort there. But the scribe shakes his head, frowning, and the child remains where he is.
    Spreading his arms wide, Hartstongue spins a slow circle. Then he speaks.

    Simon
    “It is the custom of my people,” Simon said, “that the name of a man or a woman is the thing that holds them, the power that gives them being. My name is Simon Hartstongue, and my naming ceremony took place in the village of Hartstongue in the White Lands, a place far distant from here. Or where I can only imagine here is. I was five years old and the ritual was performed by…by my father.”
    Simon’s throat filled with tears, but he swallowed them down, continuing to spin his circle, arms outstretched, in order to proclaim the ritual to all those present. Two circles went by before he found it in himself to continue.
    “I have no training,” he went on. “And, in the lands I come from, a name-giver must go through at least three summers of training before a gathering of the elders tests him and finds him acceptable or not. It is not an easy task. I do not take it up lightly. But I come with a heart of love for my friend, a boy who has shown me acceptance where I had none, and respect where I did not think to find it. He has learned a little of the skill of writing from me and has—before we left to take this journey—almost been an apprentice to the art I have tried to teach him. He has been a good pupil but, more than that, he and I have found friendship together. Because of who he is, and the poverty of his birth, he has not been gifted with a name. In the life we led, I did not think to question this; it has been the tradition both of us were born to. But now, here, and because of what I have seen during my brief travels, I question the wisdom I have