Once again, Zamani sat alone on the stage beyond the Norsey. Memories of the long day danced on his mind in ragged and incomplete circles. On the whole, all had gone well. He was beginning to feel comfortable among the Shee. As to his dealings with Ragezeg and Yagi, he felt assured that his decisions were good. The Mithal had admitted to his weakness with Rikchi. Zamani had been there, he already knew, but then Ragezeg went on to confess his indiscretions with Glotk, Zetl, Xuri, and Tuito.

Now, there was a shocker!

He sat alone in the night, legs folded. He considered the day, his friends, the mine, the Dirt monsters, and mad Pecks. He considered Yagi, and Xarhn dressed for school in the Mother Soul. He considered Ragezeg and all the children he had sired. He had many thoughts to consider, as they spun in damnable circles just above his head.

He watched two girls walk up the path to Thletix. They laughed secretively, with heads bent together. Tosh and Shabani walked around the Norsey, down the boulevard, and disappeared behind the school. Far up the path, he noted the swaying of hot new gems, as the Shee left their mons, cages between them, and headed for town.

The girls reappeared, pulling and pushing a large sedge platform with great difficulty. They giggled as they lost their grip, faltered, yet slowly moved the great thing in stops and starts - managing to drag it all the way to the door of the Norsey. They left it there, sitting on its four short legs, and quickly slipped through the door. A flash of dim orange light briefly illuminated the sled.

Zamani yawned.

The night was silent, and the only thing before him was the sled. He looked at it, but not from interest. There was the fact that it abundantly declared its maker's skill. Still, it was just a sled in the night. It sat before the door that two silly females had gone through, and they might reappear at any moment. Still, it was just a sled in the night. Zamani yawned again, then fought back his fatigue with a deliberate attempt to focus his heavy eyes on the one object available to him.

Indeed, it had been fashioned well. Long, polished poles ran the length of each side, and extended far beyond. Two ornately woven seats had been attached to the center of the sled. They sat grandly side by side. Two rounded poles looped above the seats, supporting a canopy of fine silk.

The families had reached the Norsey. Some held their new pyres, unwilling to let them go. Others set their cages on the dirt to stretch and rub tired muscles. Shadows danced high up on the Norsey wall as they moved close to one another, and the din of their gathering grew. Beams of new light darted between the milling Shee. They raked across Zamani's burning eyes, but he would not turn away. He rubbed them hard with his fists, captive of the spectacle, and looked on.

The Shee were in their processional attire, and each Sith was something grand. The males wore ankle-length white gowns, each bearing one small personal adornment. Their pait caps were of nechsta petals and were rolled into cones. Sedge sandals lifted them from the dirt of their world.

The females also wore sandals. Their white ankle-length skirts had been left unadorned, but lush mantles of nechsta covered their breasts, while intricate crowns formed beautiful garlands that fell gracefully about their shoulders. As for their faces, all but the eyes were hidden by veils of silk.

Returning from the mine, Takax had explained to him the procession in detail. The procession of this eve honored new life. These combined families - the entire Shee population - would begin at Thletix, follow the path that wound tight by each mon, and end where they began. Joy would lead the procession in dance; the Mithal and Teller would follow, representing guidance and understanding. Then the young girls would go next, to sing the four songs. At the center of the procession would be the seats of honor. Fathers would bear the sled upon their shoulders as the mothers walked beside them. The boys would follow, beating toms. This would signify the beating of the new mother's heart. Finally, the processional rear would be brought up by those who carried the first and last light. The light spoke of their past and future, of their growth and change.

Indeed, everything in the procession had a meaning. The white gowns and skirts were the pure souls of the wearers. The female mantles represented the covering guidance of the males who were their own. Adornments on the male gowns were the gifts of their open hands – whether given or received - whatever held timely significance. Sandals were worn to represent youth, and when the Sith's own mon was reached, the sandals were removed and placed mon-ward on the smaller individual path.

This, as Takax had explained, was because the young are believed to exist in a state of separation from the ties of adulthood. Placing the sandals meant they belonged. Similarly, veils signified motherhood. When a mon was reached, a veil was removed – the emptiness of youth being answered in birth. The petal cones of the male pait caps were worn with the small ends forward. On reaching a mon, the cap was turned around, for it was said that a boy's life had been enlarged: he had become a father. The long garlands of the female headpiece invoked length of days. Zamani could see the significance, but there was a place deep inside of him where all this ceremony served only to annoy.

A small figure, all white and nechsta, freed itself from the bedlam of the mob. In a blur of fluttering petals and trailing garlands, Xarhn raced toward the stage. Had he not been so sleepy, he might have moved. She flew at him, sandals slapping loudly, and leapt into his startled arms. The force of her knocked him on his back, and she lay atop his stunned body. Her garlands formed a room in which only their two faces were real; Phar Sheeth had gone away. She panted happily in his face, and her breath seemed much sweeter than the flowers she wore.

He probed her sparkling eyes when suddenly she pressed her lips to his, and the familiar ache returned to him. It was an overpowering slap that left him tingling from the top of his head even to the soles of his feet. Noting that she had closed her eyes, Zamani did the same. He surrendered to the communion. It was new to him and wonderful; he wished it not to end, but when, at last, Xarhn lifted herself above him, he opened his eyes to find her studying his face with an earnest and penetrating gaze.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Yet stunned, Zamani was taken further aback. Should he answer? Love was an itchy thought, something to be avoided. Sure, he liked her, and it wouldn’t hurt to let her tag along; - but, love? - his mind reeled. She rolled off to her back and lay beside him with a sated sigh. The din of the mob rose and fell, but the swell became a distant song as she took his hand and squeezed it with all the force of her passion.

She quietly boasted, “I lead the procession.”

“I’m pleased.”

“Have you been given a place?”

“No.”

“Well, you can go with us all the same. Will you?”

“You must say please,” he teased, noting that his fingers slept in her tight grip.

“Please; will you?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Xarhn lifted herself up on one elbow, leaning over his face with intent eyes and tickling garlands. She said, “Well, think hard; don’t make me hurt you.”

Zamani had to smile. Such a manner this girl had. He felt her small fist in his ribs, the sudden force of which knocked the breath from him.

She asked in mock anger, “Are you laughing at me?”

“Well, of course, I am. Silkhead.”

Suddenly, the sound of beating toms rose up through the night. Xarhn sat excitedly on the edge of the stage.

“Ooh!” she cried.

Zamani followed her up, and saw that the procession had begun. The Shee gathered into straight lines, and Zamani could see two figures in the seats of honor. Light bobbed on poles as each Sith took his place. Then, Zamani noticed an overlarge Sith trotting toward him.

“I must go,” said Xarhn.

She reached up, pulled his head around and kissed him hard and quick. Then she scooted away past the advancing mass of Takax.

“Friend,” he said hurriedly, “I need your help.”

“You’ve but to name it,” Zamani yawned.

“We begin; come quickly.”

As Takax pulled Zamani along, he explained he had no partner to carry the first and last lights. The new, hot gems had to be carried on a specially made pole. Zamani saw what his friend meant when they arrived. A long pole of woven sedge stretched between two cages. The ends of the pole forked into double prongs that slid through notches in each cage. To keep the ends from sagging, four evenly spaced shoulders were required.

Takax joked in hushed tones, “You’re taller than me, but I think we can make it work if I walk on one tiptoe, and you walk with one bent knee.”

“Right.”

The procession moved forward, toms sounding loudly. Voices drifted back from the head of the march, sweet and melodious, as the girls sang the song of birth. Zamani met his friend's glinting gaze, shared a smile, and marveled at how quickly he had been assimilated into the Shee. He remembered Xarhn's kiss, and his smile broadened.

Each mon was stopped at in turn. A cap was turned, a veil removed, and sandals placed mon-ward. Tinokta-mon was the first. Shinshar-mon came next. By the time they reached Tazig-mon, the second song had commenced. It was, Zamani recalled, the song of youth. They reached Pax-mon and continued up the path.

Upon reaching Charchon-mon, all toms ceased to sound. The final strains of song drifted away, and the straight line of procession broke up, as all jostled forward in eager anticipation. Zamani and Takax removed their burden to join the press. Within the circle of Shee sat the platform. To one side stood Rikchi, on the other stood Charchon, holding the child in his arms. Ragezeg and Yagi faced the hushed assembly with all the weight of their age and wisdom. The Mithal spoke, and his voice dominated the rapt silence.

“New life has been granted,” he called out. “The Maker has opened his hands to us – his Shee. To Charchon, Rikchi, and little Yana let us, likewise, open our hands. In the giving, new life opens complete. In new life is the gift of our completion.”

Yagi took one step up to stand beside the Mithal. He raised his voice and said, “Upon this cleg, our father's fathers built mons, when from Dirt they did first cross over. Upon this cleg, from that first bright midday, we have birthed, raised our young, and lifted them to the Maker. When a father lifts his child above himself, the Maker sends a soul to be caught - both precious and revered. Our custom of waving draws to us a soul to be cherished.”

Charchon stood beside the Mithal and raised Yana above his head. Among the press, not a breath was heard. Slowly, Charchon rocked from side to side; all eyes followed the girl child. Charchon stilled his waving; moments passed in absolute silence. Charchon lifted his face and tightly pressed shut his eyes. The Mithal on one side, the Teller on the other side, each took one of Charchon's arms to brace him. The father waited; the crowd waited. Zamani nodded and was elbowed awake by his friend.

A long moment later, Yana wriggled in her father's hands, spat a coughing whimper and began to cry. The Shee burst forth with shouts of joy. Zamani listened to clapping hands, hoots of jubilation, and raucous laughter. Something in the ceremony moved him; something seemed right, at last. Despite what he knew, he had a good feeling for Rikchi and Charchon. He brought his hands together, joining the jubilant.

Soon, the milling Shee reformed their straight line, and the procession resumed, with the song of attachment. The path wound by the cast and back toward Thletix. The gift of seasons was sung, and the procession broke up. Zamani milled through the bustling Shee, feeling somewhat out of place. All, but he, attended some task or another. Food was piled high by the stage for a night of feasting and merriment. Lights were set and distanced. Fathers congregated. Mothers directed children in final chores. Zamani walked among them as if cloaked in glamor.

The very small were loosed from the Norsey and they flew to their parents, splitting the night with cries of delight. With a pleasant smile, Zivith left the Norsey and strolled among them. Zamani sat with his back to the stage and quietly watched as the revelry began. Already, large pots of berribit wine were being set here and there by the young. Laughter roared and faded, only to swell again – and snatches of conversation fell upon his tired ears:

“They’re still boys, you know. If not for our strength and direction . . .”

“We should put you gathering chipstones. We’d soon hear another song from you.”

“If I had your cache, and you had a bump on the head . . .”

“That strange boy . . .”

“Zamani! Are you with us?”

Zamani roused himself and looked up. Takax loomed above him with lof laden arms. He held one out to Zamani and cheerfully inquired, “Lof?”

Zamani responded sleepily, “No. I have no hunger.”

“You know,” said Takax, “you should either wake up or close your eyes altogether.”

“Deep thoughts, my friend.”

Takax laughed from behind his burden. “Ha! Well, you just stay there, and I’ll get the others.” That said, he was gone.

Zamani wondered how much more he had to endure before he could go back to his nhola home, and sleep. The long, long day had drained him. His wit had fled, his soul dozed; his mind wanted to yawn. He looked, with bleary eyes, through the writhing mass of revelers. He saw Ragezeg, Yagi, and Zivith seated on small stools, engaged in pleasant conversation. He saw mothers and fathers delighting themselves with the Norsey young. The children seemed starved for attention. He saw Takax, Tosh, Shabani, Shirpa, Voytk, and Vreatt serving food and wine. Toward the outer edge of the reveling Shee, he spied Pax, Teefa, and Xarhn seated near their blazing gem. A small boy climbed among them seeking hugs and laughter.

Zamani had not long to wait for Takax’ return. He held a large sealed pot beneath one arm and carried his torch before him. His smile was grand, and five figures followed in his shadow. The gang of youths coaxed Zamani to his feet, and around the stage, where they might find some privacy. Hidden from the adults, but exposed to the gawking gang of friends, Zamani sat with his back to the stage and drew his knees up defensively. All eyes were on him. Takax was the nearest. He planted his torch in the cleg and drew Shabani into his massive arms. Vreatt sat quietly with Shirpa, while Tosh and Voytk huddled further back.

Takax grinned. “Who wants to go first?” he asked.

Shabani corrected him with a stout nudge. “Wait for Xarhn.”

“First for what?” inquired Zamani.

The big Sith encompassed the group with outstretched arms and answered, “We take turns at storytelling.”