A Change In The Season

In our small settlement, we live on the edge near the forest. It is quiet and peaceful. We collect firewood from it that keeps us stocked through the winter, warm and cozy. The soil is rich, and our gardens are bountiful. We have never had a winter where we counted the days until Ostara with dread. We are blessed because we follow the rituals.

When we are not helping mother with home chores, we enjoy playing out the tales of our people. Our favorite is the Nagaulli, because pretending to grow wings and claws delight both me and my sister. We each pick our favorite Nagaulli and agree that we are going to be attending the solstice ball. My sister and I will never know what silk is, but we both like to play admire each other’s imaginary ballroom dresses that are made of the material.

“Oh, what dazzle and shimmery your silk gown has this solstice,” I say to my sister with a bow.

She giggles and bows, “Feel the softness. Like butterfly kisses on your fingers.” I smile and pretend to rub the fabric delicately. We continue play through the story of the Nagaulli solstice as it has been told to us, where each member of the court makes their offerings to the Sovereign. A gift unique to each, that represents their promise to serve and provide.

But, we are interrupted mid-story. Mother calls from our home and it is time for us to return. We pretend to shift back into our little bodies, shedding our extravagant gowns and animalistic traits.

Mother has a smile on her face as we approach. She explains she needs us to run an errand. She has the tiha braided cord in her hand. My sister and I hold out our wrists. Since I am the oldest, the large loop is placed in my left hand, knotted around my left wrist as mother sings the leader verse. She then ties the end of the tiha on my sister’s right wrist and sings the follow verse. Completing the ritual by drawing the protect rune in the air.

“Now, go little darlings to retrieve the items on this list,” she says as she hands a slip of paper to me. “If you cannot get them all before the sun hits the tree-line that will be okay. Just return home together,” She places a kiss on top of each of our foreheads.

“We will mother,” we nearly both say in unison. Bounding off down the dirt path from our home to collect what mother needs. From what I can read, the items appear to be ingredients for my aunt’s favorite dishes. I tell Kenia that my guess is Auntie is coming over for dinner.

Kenia smiles, “Yukan, let’s get everything quick then, so we can have it ready for when she arrives.” I love this about my little sister. Her heart is so big and caring.

As we enter the village center, we see the monument dedicated to the first Onani who came here and built their homes. Each seasonal transition, we decorate and celebrate around them in our ways. My little sister is excited because Mabon is her favorite celebration. The decorating has already begun, squash and gords at the statues clawed feet. The cool, crisp air that accompanies has arrived even though Mabon is still weeks away.

It is during Mabon where we honor Onake, the fox-faced Nagaulli whose sly-cunning helped our people through the forest to find this place to call home. Onake is honored during Mabon as he continues to keep us hidden and safe. The rituals we will perform at Mabon will sustain his mana which his magic feeds on. Thus, the cycle is renewed and will continue each season.

We pass other children with their tiha keeping them together. Within the protection wards of your home the cord is not needed, but even here in the village center we would not dare to think the rules could be overlooked even on a simple errand during the daylight. The stories are too familiar to my sister and I, of what happens when one of a pair is lost or stolen. The rituals are what keep us safe.

We are easily home before the sun has reached the tallest tree peak. Mother greets us warmly, and just as I had guessed, Auntie is coming over for dinner. Mother unties the tiha and performs the home ritual for us.

We help mother in the kitchen because we both love cooking. Kenia looks up from her bowl, still stirring, and asks, “Ma, why do the Onani in the monument have clawed feet but I do not.”

“Because Neneki gifted them with claws to make faster travel through the forest when the founding Onani were searching for a new home,” mother responds.

“Yes, but why did we not get to keep them?” Kenia’s face is scowling.

Mother chuckles lightly, “Kenia, every gift comes in it’s season.” There is a knock at the front door. Mother leaves to greet her sister. They look nearly identical, except for the common tells of older and younger siblings in a pair. My mother and I, being the oldest, share the same features: the birthmark of the half moon on our forehead, the elongated and pointed ears, and honey golden eyes.

My sister and Auntie share the younger traits: dark violet eyes with a freckle below the right, and small but pointed ears. But my Auntie has the Eki tattoo on her mouth and chin that shows her honor as Imbeki-ani. My sister covets it and has on more than one occasion taken mud from the garden to draw one on herself.

As she enters our home, Aunties eyes shimmer in the lantern light that she carries, showing the duality that she now possesses due to her shift at the Imbeki. The youngest will always perform the rituals and rites, taking turns throughout the year at one of the four towers at the border of the settlement. This is the other reason my sister covets the Eki.

“We have dinner ready. I knew you would be coming,” Mother says as she presses her forehead to my aunts. My sister and I begin setting the table.

“You say that as if the raven didn’t caw,” my Auntie replies smiling, “Oh, looks like my favorites.” She gives my sister and I a big group hug and we know she isn’t talking about the food we have made.

Auntie says the blessing before the meal and we eat. The leftovers at the end are placed on the sunishi dish.

“I will do the honor,” Kenia says eagerly. She runs to put on her boots.

“No, little one. Not this evening. I will place the offering to the Neneki-ishi. I must be heading back to the Imbeki this evening.” My Auntie stands up from the table.

My mother replies, “But the honor has always been with the children and you usually stay the night with us. Why must you?”

My Auntie is placing on her cloak. Her face is serious even though she smiles. It is my gift to see what is not quite there. I know. “The veil is thinning.”

“It thins every year,” my mother responds but turns her head toward me, catching my eyes and we share a look.

My Auntie sighs, “It is thinning earlier this year. So as precautions dictate, we must react in kind. It is nothing to fret about, though the eldest always do.” She winks at my sister. “Come Kenia. You can still place the sunishi on the alter with me, but right back inside and I won’t leave down the path until I see you enter the door.”

This has not been the way. I am confused. My mother nods in her silent agreement. I go to retrieve the candles and matches. She is retrieving the Na-ani beads and mirror. We have the table cleared and are ready to scry when Kenia has come back inside. “Oh, Auntie said you would be doing that. Can I watch?”

“Yes, but be quiet,” I say as I light the candles around the mirror now laying flat on the table. My mother and I entwine the Na-ani beads around our arms as we join hands over the mirror. Mother and I speak the ritualist word in unison that will alter our gift of sight – trading off the visual of this world for the future. The honey-gold in our eyes bleaches to milk white as we peer deep into the mirror. The visions come.

A fox curled up under his tail, deep in a dark burrow.

“Onake still slumbers,” my mother says, “But the veil is thinning.”

“Yeah, Auntie already told us that,” my sister retorts. I shush her.

In the dark, something creeps. I speak, “Something comes from the darkness. A creature is stirring that should not be.”

“Vague,” my sister mumbles. I want to elbow her, but I keep my gaze on the image coming forward in the mirror. I cannot understand what I am seeing. I have no words for it.

“A..boy..” the words are more of a question as my mother speaks them.

“Eww,” Kenia makes a gagging sound.

“Kenia, you said you would be quiet,” I say, annoyed.

“No, you said for me to be quiet. You should have saw that I would not,” Kenia says. Mother clicks her tongue and I feel Kenia go still.

The figure, a boy, is walking in the woods. I know those trees. He is drawing symbols on them. I do not recognize them. There is a shuddering. I recognize this as our veil. I can understand enough that whatever he is doing, it is affecting our veil. What I do not understand is.. “Why is Onake not responding to the veil disturbance?” I ask out loud.

“His mana is low. It is almost his season, and he will be replenished on Mabon,” my mother says squeezing my hands.

“Can we start the rituals early? Wake him earlier?” Kenia asks.

We do not answer her. A third vision takes shape. Cloaked figures walk down the streets on our settlement. It is night. No one here walks the streets at night except the Imbeki, but they always carry the tower lantern. These figures have no lights. They have strange tools, sharp and heavy looking. Casting off their cloaks, I see their faces in the moonlight. They raise their tools and begin to smash them against the monument at the village center.

In shock, mother and I say the releasing word and our hands break free from each other. The Na-ani beads uncoil themselves from our arms and lay on the table.

“This is not the way.” I respond, “Everything in its season.”

“What did you see?” my sister questions.

“Yukan, go to the cabinet. I need to fortify the home wards.” My mother begins re-arranging the table.

“Is Onake okay?” Kenia says with worry in her voice.

“Auntie and the other Imbeki-ani will perform the rituals at the towers that protect during the seasonal transitions. This is our role to play in the seasons. When Onake wakes, he will feel what we feel and see what we have seen. He will know soon enough,” my mother sounds confident, but deep in the gift we share, I feel what she feels. Fear.

“What were they?” I ask as I return with the spell components.

“Humans,” my mother replies.

“Like the ones from before the founding?” Kenia asks, mouth agape.

“It won’t be like before the founding,” my mother says quietly, “We follow the rituals that keep us safe.”

My sister and I repeat, “We follow the rituals that keep us safe.”