@jiubilant
From the diary of Knocks-on-Wood, Caravan Drover to Vyra Demnevanni:
Midnight. 14th, Last Seed. 1E 649. Trade Job: Nine. Route: Nchuleftingth -> Bamz-Amschend (via. Sadrith Mora). Progress: 26km. Wind: East, 96. Weather: Clear. Lunch: Steamed ash yam and hackle-lo saltrice with crab. Progress Report: Little to report. Steady progress. Calm weather. No sickness. Miscellaneous Notes: "What's your fondest memory?"
[TEAR IN PAGE. REST OF ENTRY MISSING]
"It's… well."
She looks distant. Like the world's going pale. There's nothing but grass under her knees and stars up dotting the sky and since the wind's stopped, all of a sudden, and it makes the quiet feel so loud.
It's late. You wonder whether maybe, maybe you both should've gotten flat-out drunk instead.
Dangerous territory, questions.
"It's my, ah." She speaks without warning. "My uma."
Before you can ask—
"Ma or pa, mum or dad, mama or papa—" She twists a hand, like she's the esteemed noble instead of the wild cast-off, as she says those words, "—or what have you. The chimer words for them always felt so wrong."
She takes a long sigh. Leans right back into the dirt. Doesn't look at you.
"My uma. I don't remember much about her. Suppose that's why it's so fucking fond." She hacks out a laugh. "Ironic. Half of what I remember isn't even mine. Her face, I only know what she looks like from the daguerrotypes my omas kept around. She's younger in those than I am by decades. Hadn't even gone on sabbatical yet—"
She shut her mouth, suddenly. And she's quiet for a while. She – damn, was this too far? You hadn't even expected an answer—
"I don't even know what she sounds like. You know, they say you'll mourn twice, the day you forget your uma's voice." There's a hasty laugh, tough, under her breath. "I mix hers up with my uncle's and some of my cousins'. Dawned on me a while back that I muddled them all up. I couldn't even tell you the day I forgot."
You can't see in the dark. You can't see her pull at the dirt beneath her fingers.
"The bits that I do remember, they're nothing much... but they're mine. Smell of her hands. Her favourite earrings – the ones I thought were ugly. The pattern of her, um, fuck – cutting-garment? Not a robe, sturdier, more practical, it's workshop-wear, but still long... smock, or frock, maybe?
"That was my favourite thing. It changed colour. I mean, they all did – they're made from brass weave and spidersilk, and brass – brass can be lots of colours, depends on the light and tone. I remember hers had pink in it, sometimes, if the light was right."
She breathes out, suddenly.
"And it had these..."
She gestures, tracing something you can't see in the air.
"These parallel lines, that would trail out of floating semi-circles, and those lines would criss-cross each other, cut above and below without ever touching..."
Her hands twist around each other, at something out of reach.
"... I don't know how to explain it, but they were almost... they looked almost exactly like these stringy little sea creatures that'd wash up on the shore near Kemel-Ze. Looked like baby netch jellies made of wire. Called it her jelly-fish-frock."
You can almost feel her smile.
"I could've spent hours tracing the pattern on that damn thing. How every circle seemed to interlock, but didn't. How close it all got to crashing into each other, but didn't. Used to jump with my fingers from fish-leg to fish-leg, until my uma got tired of it and told me I'd spent too long, gone and drowned in the sea. Glug-glug-glug."
She sits up, suddenly. Hands still stuck mid-air.
"My uma – I remember this time. I'd gotten really upset about something – no idea what, I just remember being so upset and just... running and clinging to my uma. Clinging to that smock... and I think about how it smelled of her, her and fresh soap my omas made, and sometimes soot and hot metal and sometimes a little of the sea, because the soap couldn't always get rid of that smell. I didn't really give a damn. It was my uma. My uma. I'd just hold on to her, my uma, and try to bury myself in her clothes and cling on for dear life."
Her voice goes soft.
"Guess I thought I might drown too, if I let go, huh."
She puts her hands on her knees. She doesn't look at you for the longest while.
"... it was a really nice texture," She mumbles under her breath. "Just... really smooth."
