Extra One

Ancestor Night

 

 

As the autumn days shortened, night fell early. On one particular night, though, the village would remain as bright as day throughout the hours of darkness. An enormous bonfire blazed at the center of the town square. Lamps and torches lit up every lane. A candle was set in every window and each house kindled its hearth fire, the light spilling out through doors open to welcome neighbors for a share of cake and ale. The town bustled with adults visiting house to house while their children ran wild in the streets, playing pranks and stuffing their faces full of sweets.

At the edge of the town square, a group of teenage boys, all wearing their clothes inside-out and masks covering the upper half of their faces, took a break from their shenanigans to riffle through their bags, showing off trinkets they’d swiped from their neighbors.

After spending all day helping to sweep fallen leaves from the square and carrying wood for the bonfire, their adolescent bodies, already bulking up with impending manhood, still had plenty of energy for the night’s revelry. They were loud and rowdy, their voices cracking as they ribbed each other with lewd insults, pushing and shoving while trading their stolen loot.

Some distance away, Kyrzhan stood alone, furtively watching them through the eyeholes of his mask with more than a little trepidation.

At fifteen, Kyrzhan stood almost a full head shorter than other boys his age, and his body was still slender and delicate. He had no interest in the rough games others enjoyed, preferring to spend his time reading, learning accounts to help with the family business, or arranging flowers with his grandmother. Most years on Ancestor Night, he would accompany her to bake spice cakes and serve them to visiting neighbors.

But his grandmother had passed away in the spring, and his mother had insisted that he go out to “have fun with the others.” He’d only wandered the streets alone for an hour, with a mask on his face and a hood over his head, trying not to call attention to himself in the bustle. He knew that with the permissiveness of the festival, and most of their fathers still traveling with the merchant caravans, the village boys would be at their most fearless and ferocious tonight.

Even so, when one of those teenage boys left his friends to throw more wood onto the bonfire, Kyrzhan plucked up his courage and hesitantly approached him.

“Gavrekh?” he called softly.

The boy tossed the log he held, then his eyes met Kyrzhan’s briefly before darting over his shoulder to the friends he’d left behind.

“What are you doing here?” Gavrekh asked coldly, blue eyes glaring through the mask beneath his short blonde hair.

“I, um… have something for you.”

Kyrzhan fished around in his cloak before remembering that he wore it reversed and its pocket was outside. He finally found it after an awkward struggle, then reached his hand toward Gavrekh. In his palm sat an apple the color of an autumn sunset, deep hues of burgundy and orange with a burst of golden yellow around the stem. It was small, but its skin was perfectly unblemished and gleaming, as if it had just been plucked from the tree.

“It’s a rare variety from Thalesia,” Kyrzhan said nervously. “Brought over by Alchemists. It’s very hard to get.”

Gavrekh’s hard stare softened, and he hmmph’d.

“Did you steal that from your own kitchen?” he chuckled.

Kyrzhan smiled shyly. When he tilted his face to look up at the taller boy, his hood slipped back and his mahogany hair lit up brilliant red in the firelight. Gavrekh looked at Kyrzhan’s smiling lips, then at the apple, his eyes filled with unmistakable desire – whether for the lips or the apple Kyrzhan couldn’t bear to guess. His smile widened and he barely stifled a small gasp when Gavrekh took the apple and lifted it to his nose, inhaling its scent with relish.

Gifting an apple on Ancestor Night was an old tradition among lovers. It was believed that if a couple shared the apple without cutting it, they would never part. The number of seeds inside could predict how many children they would have in the future, and the number of twists it took to remove the stem would show how many decades they would be together. Even without those rituals, the gift itself was seen as a token of deep affection.

“I thought, maybe…” Kyrzhan stammered, “if you wanted… after the memorials... we could go to Orchard Hill. The sky is so clear tonight… all the stars are out…”

Gavrekh’s smile fell away and the coldness returned.

“I don’t…” he began, then looked over his shoulder again just in time to see his friends rapidly and noisily approaching.

“Gavrekh, what’re you talking to this loser for?” one of them bleated. “Did he… oh Gods! Did this little chicken give you an apple!?”

The boys all began to cackle wildly. Kyrzhan’s chest seemed to cave in as Gavrekh stepped away from him and joined in their laughter.

“Of course not!” he shouted. “I’ve had this in my pocket all night! It’s for Dreia, I was just asking him where she is.”

“Well, where is she, chicken?” one of the boys asked, grabbing a handful of Kyrzhan’s cloak and pulling him forward.

“I… don’t know,” Kyrzhan whispered through trembling lips, desperately holding back imminent tears. He had no idea where his sister was, and though there was no love lost between them, he certainly wouldn’t tell these ruffians even if he did.

The boy shook him roughly. “Don’t know, or don’t want to tell?”

“She won’t be out here in the rabble,” another said. “You might as well give that apple to the pipsqueak!”

Gavrekh pulled his friend off of Kyrzhan, but any hope that this action was well-intended dashed away as Gavrekh suddenly pushed Kyrzhan to the ground. Only the hood falling back in soft folds prevented his head from cracking on the paving stones below. As Kyrzhan opened his mouth to cry out, Gavrekh leaned down over him, pried his jaws open, and stuffed the apple in, wedging it between his teeth. Pain shot through Kyrzhan’s face, and his eyes flooded with tears as his mouth flooded with the sweet juice of the apple, mixed with the iron tang of blood.

“Stay away from me,” Gavrekh ground out, his voice low and menacing beside Kyrzhan’s ear.

Khyrzhan whimpered, his voice muffled behind the apple blocking his mouth. His mind was a whirling mess of conflicting heartache and terror, but before he could make any sense of the situation, Gavrekh was forcefully pulled away and a fist crashed into the boy’s nose, sending him sprawling back into the crowd of his friends.

“Zarayan Sevei! You’ve gone too far!” someone yelled.

“You want some too!?” came the blustering answer. “Perhaps I should stuff my fist into your mouth! You can tell me how it tastes!”

Kyrzhan turned his head and spit out the apple with some effort. Then he lay back on the ground, squeezing his eyes shut, listening in a daze to the sounds of punches, kicks, and grunts playing out all around him. After a few minutes, several adult voices rang out, yelling at the boys to disperse. Feet thundered away across the square, but Kyrzhan didn’t open his eyes until a warm hand caressed his face, wiping the blood from his cracked lips.

“Are you alright?” Zarayan said gently. “Sorry I’m late, I had to wait for my aunt to come over and help Mom out.”

Kyrzhan looked up at the boy hovering over him with concern, and spied a scrape on his cheek through the mop of brown hair hanging around his face. He reached up with a pointed finger.

“I’m fine. What about you?” he asked, poking at the scrape.

“They got worse,” Zarayan laughed, grabbing Kyrzhan’s hand and helping him up to his feet. “Come over to my house. You can stay the night if you want.”

Kyrzhan rubbed at his aching jaw, moving it gingerly side to side, and licked his throbbing teeth. “I have to go to the memorial,” he said regretfully.

“Looking like that?” a high, imperious voice sounded nearby.

Kyrzhan’s sister, Dreia, marched toward them with an air of authority. Thirteen years old, she already stood as tall as Kyrzhan and carried herself with a fierce and haughty air. She was dressed in a multi-colored brocade gown beneath a blue velvet cloak. The jeweled mask tied with satin ribbons around her coiffed, strawberry-blonde hair made her only concession to the holiday.

With a disdainful gaze, she took in the sorry sight of her brother. In addition to the bleeding and dreadfully swollen lips, his cloak and mask had been torn, and there were bits of dried leaves and straw in his disheveled hair.

“I have to go,” Kyrzhan answered as he began an attempt at neatening himself up. “Grandmother’s spirit is waiting, and Mother…”

“Grandmother doesn’t want to see you,” Dreia sneered. “She’s ashamed to face the Heavens with such a disgrace to our family. Just run along with your… friend. I’ll tell Mother you’ve been taken by the fairies.” She paused to give Zarayan a spiteful glare. “That’s not far from the truth, is it?”

Kyrzhan’s fingers, combing the leaves from his hair, froze in place. His lips began to tremble again, his face flushing with anger. Before he could form a retort, Dreia turned on her heel and strode away. Kyrzhan cast a guilty glance at Zarayan, then looked at the ground.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m sorry she said that about you.”

“Don’t apologize for her,” Zarayan said, throwing an arm around Kyrzhan’s shoulders and turning him away from the town square. “Come on now, let’s go get you cleaned up.”

 

At midnight, while the rest of the villagers attended rituals for their departed friends and family, Kyrzhan and Zarayan sneaked away to climb a hill on the edge of town. It was called Orchard Hill for the groves of fruit trees surrounding its foot, but the hill itself stood bare save for a lone, ancient maple tree on its crest.

Kyrzhan was spooked the whole way there. If they were ever to meet with any goblins or ghosts out here in the darkness, this would be the night for it. But they made their way with no problem under the light of a bright full moon overhead, and Kyrzhan always felt some measure of assurance with Zarayan at his side.

At the top of the hill, they leaned against the maple and drank from pilfered bottles of fermented cider while gazing at the sky. There would usually be a heavy blanket of clouds at this time of year, but tonight the sky was crystal clear, and the stars looked like silver dust spilled across black velvet, not a speck of the sky left undecorated.

Kyrzhan couldn’t stop thinking about Gavrekh, and as the cider went to his head, his tears began to flow again. He tried to hide it from Zarayan, but couldn’t suppress a few unbidden sniffles.

“Would you rather go to the memorial?” Zarayan asked quietly. “I know you miss your grandmother.”

Kyrzhan shook his head. “No, I don’t want to make her ashamed to face the Heavens.”

“Don’t listen to your rotten sister,” Zarayan growled. “Your grandmother loved you.”

“She didn’t know…”

“I think she did. She was a smart woman, nothing got past her. She knew just who you are, Kyri, and she loved you.”

He raised his bottle and clinked it against Kyrzhan’s saying, “To Old Lady Damah!”

Kyrzhan smiled weakly. “Thanks,” he whispered, then winced as he set the bottle to his swollen lips.

Zarayan’s face wrinkled in sympathy. “What set them off this time?” he asked.

“Gavrekh…” Kyrzhan sighed, turning his face away in embarrassment. “I… gave him an apple.”

“Oh, Kyri, no… not Gavrekh…”

“He said he liked me...” Kyrzhan buried his face in his hands, his voice smothered as the tears returned in force. “He even kissed me. I don’t understand… why would he be so nice to me and then… and then do this?”

Zarayan groaned and wrapped the side of his own cloak around Kyrzhan, drawing him down to his chest. “It can be hard for some people to accept themselves,” he counseled. “It’s his loss.”

Kyrzhan only cried harder, wailing into Zarayan’s shirt until the fabric was soaked through. Zarayan only stroked his hair, letting Kyrzhan cry himself out. When he finally quieted down, Zarayan laughed, and tried to lighten the mood.

“I can’t believe you kissed that guy,” he huffed. “What was that like?”

On a sudden impulse, Kyrzhan lifted his face and planted his still sore lips against Zarayan’s, leaning into him with drunken abandon. Zarayan’s teenage body was sturdy and robust, and his lips were sweet, dewed with lingering drops of cider. 

Kyrzhan’s head swam, but he knew it was only the alcohol. When Gavrekh kissed him, he felt as if he were standing in the midst of a lightning storm, his entire body prickling with excitement and the anticipation of yet more intimate desires. He felt none of that now, but Zarayan’s warmth and dependable solidity were irresistibly comforting.

Zarayan jolted, then grasped Kyrzhan’s shoulders and gently but firmly moved him back.

“Woah, Kyri…” he breathed, “what are you doing?”

Kyrzhan tried to fix his bleary eyes on Zarayan’s face, and found only shock and confusion there. He knew he should feel ashamed of his actions, but only grief rose up to overtake him again.

“Even you don’t want me!” he lamented, hiding his face in his hands once more.

“How can you say that?” Zarayan answered, the hurt plain in his voice. “You know I love you, just… not like that. And that’s not what you want from me either, you know that as well as I do.”

“I–” Kyrzhan sniffed and wiped at his face with the cuff of his sleeve. “I don’t know what I want.”

“As my Mother says,” Zarayan smiled, “you’re fifteen, you don’t have to know what you want right now. There’s plenty of time to figure it all out.”

Kyrzhan turned his face away and sighed. ”I wouldn’t say no, though, if you did want to…”

“I know,” Zarayan said cheerfully, “but it would only last until another pretty face turned your head, and then where would we be?”

Kyrzhan gaped with exaggerated shock. “What are you implying!?”

“Come on, Gavrekh’s your third crush in as many months. Who will it be next week, got your eye on anyone?”

“I–” Kyrzhan snapped his mouth shut and hung his head. “I just don’t want to be alone. You’re going off with the caravans next summer, and I’ll be left here where no one wants me, not even my family…”

“I’m your family!” Zarayan said adamantly. He placed a finger under Kyrzhan’s chin and gently lifted his head. “Kyri, look at me. I’m your family and I always will be. You’re my heart-brother, and no matter where I go, I’ll always come find you again. In the meantime you can use my name to threaten whoever needs it.”

Kyrzhan pursed his lips against a new wave of complicated emotions. He only nodded silently and allowed Zarayan to pull him back into his arms.

“And listen,” Zarayan continued, “someday you’ll get out of this backwater and make your own life somewhere far away from all these ignorant assholes.” A teasing tone crept back into his voice. “And there you’ll have men falling at your feet, throwing themselves at you, with your brother Zarayan there to beat away the ones you don’t want. Just leave a few good ones for me, eh?”

Kyrzhan laughed aloud and relaxed back against Zarayan’s shoulder.

“Nope,” he said defiantly. “I’m keeping them all to myself.”

“I figured as much,” Zarayan groused.

Kyrzhan burrowed further into Zarayan’s cloak. Drowsy now from the warmth and the alcohol, he fell into silence and gazed up at the night sky. The moon was setting, and a few wispy clouds were moving in, dimming the stars, but he wasn’t afraid. He knew that Zarayan would lead him safely back home through the darkness.

“One,” he murmured sleepily. “I’ll leave you one good one.”

Zarayan patted Kyrzhan’s nodding head and pulled their cloaks further around them both.

“That’s fine,” he spoke through a stifled yawn. “One will be plenty.”