The trail leading away from our home is mostly gravel, though there’s several patches where the dirt underneath soaked through enough over spring for that gravel to settle into a hard, flat path which now catches my feet as I alternate between chasing every bend and dip and waiting around for the parents to catch up. Trees shade everything in yellow-green, and the occasional breeze swoops through with a chill reminder that even the hottest days will cool to night when fires will be needed for warmth as much as utility.

“You can run ahead, but if you get lost we aren’t looking,” Pop calls after me, though they aren’t in sight yet. I can’t help being a little excited, as I split my attention between the unfamiliar sights and admiring the wide sliver of wood in my hands, which Mom had called a token. It’s etched with the first thing I learned to write, and read: my own name. I tried to make them teach me all of the letters, but Pop promised it would be better tomorrow, when we can spend a whole morning on it.

The path ahead is clear in the morning light, and music carries through the trees from the village like it does every month during the festivals. The only way I could get lost is if I deliberately wander off the path.

I quickly pocket a dark blue rock that’s just the right size and shape for pocketing, and climb back onto the trail in time for Mom to come to a stop, arms crossed as she watches my return from the creekside.

“Enjoy the view?” she asks, and I get the sense she’s holding back. I pretend to seriously consider for a moment, then smile broadly.

“Yeah! Does the creek go all the way to the village?”

“It sure does, and well past as well. There’s a pond at the bottom of the valley that fills every spring, and breeds leeches all summer long until it dries down to muck for winter. I just wish the cold and snow would kill the leeches, it would be wonderful swimming then.”

“I bet it would be really hard to get lost, too, if you can just follow the creek all the way there and back.”

Mom chuckles, and pats my head before urging me on.

“You're right about that, but you should still be careful about how far ahead you are. Safe beats clever every time. Now come on, before all those smarts get you into trouble,” she says. Pop laughs at that.

“She doesn’t need smarts to get in trouble, we've seen that already.”

I suddenly stop in front of them and spin around with a jump, landing with my fists on my hips and giving Pop my most smug glare. It’s at least enough to surprise him, even though both parents are more amused than anything.

“Well, I’ve only got any smarts ‘cause of Mom, so don’t get too cozy with the pointing and laughing.”

Mom doubles over laughing, while Pop makes it through at least three stages of grief before he also breaks down into giggles. With my point soundly made, I return to leading the way.

We reach the village’s edge still laughing, but my giggles are replaced with a gasp as a colorful view greets us. About a dozen kids close to my age are running around, with only a few in clothes of a suspiciously similar color to my own dress, but all of them with white hair. It’s clear, really, but at a distance they’re all gleaming snow.

I suddenly feel extremely self-conscious about my own hair. There’s a few adults with darker tones, sure, and some of the merchants are practically raven-haired, but the more I look the more I see hair trending toward more vibrant colors that want to blend with the surrounding trees. Greens and browns and yellows mixed with ashy grays and mottled browns. Someone who looks maybe fifteen has their loose braids dyed in split tones of deep green and sunshine yellow is doing an excellent job of ignoring the stares, glares, and side-eye coming from neighbors older than them. My steps slow to a halt, and Mom reaches down to hold my hand as soon as she catches up.

“Come on, it’s okay," she says, leaning in a bit. More than a bit, actually, since I'm barely tall enough to reach her waist. "Nobody is going to be mean on your Name Day, Ka-, ah, kiddo."

I nod, not quite believing her, but I don't get much chance to think about it as both parents pull me into the crowd.

By the end of an hour, I've seen exactly four buildings, and everything else has been people, stalls, rainbows of cloth hung over carts or windows, and food.

Oh gods does the food smell good. It looks good, too, though a few people have the absolute messiest piles of melted goop I've ever seen in shallow bowls, which they dip bread crusts and sausages into.

My stomach grumbles a bit, and I'm reminded we skipped breakfast for this exact reason. I turn to Mom to ask for something to eat, only to find her accepting the biggest turkey leg I've ever seen from Pop, who then hands me a much smaller piece.

"Roasted pinky for our little Red," he says quietly as I accept the food. I want to ask what 'pinky' is supposed to be, but the smell makes my mouth water so much I almost droll on the spot.

Mom and Pop both laugh as I disappear the meat and am scouring the bone in a very short time.

"Guess you're gonna be getting taller soon, huh?" Mom asks through a mouthful of roast fowl. I shrug noncommittally, then hold the bone up to give it a closer look.

The exposed part I'd been holding is blackened from the cooking fire, but where the muscle and fat had protected it streaks of grayish gold run through bone the color of the horizon’s sky.

“What kind of bird is this from?” I ask aloud, not really expecting an answer.

“Lampincker,” Pop answers, holding out his hand for the remains of my food. I pass it to him and he wiggles the end at me. “The hens look like wildflowers and the mens look like charcoal.”

“Do they start out with clear feathers like we do with hair?”

That gives both parents pause, and then Mom smiles at me.

“Why don’t we go find out?”

I find out too late that Mom really just wanted to chat with her friends, meaning I got dragged over to meet the people we barter eggs from. A squat man who looks quite a bit like an egg himself, and a slender, nervous person who spent most of the conversation hidden behind their husband, who were cheerful and loud and entirely outside of my interest. Both of their names were said multiple times, but I was too busy staring at yard birds stained all the colors of candies and tall enough to knock their heads on Ulesi’s chin.

After talking for a very long time, we do get to go see some late hatches, and I squeal with delight over the pearlescent sheen of their downy gray coats, and definitely not in fear over the fact that two-week-old yard birds are as tall as me. I almost lose my token for the name ceremony trying to climb Mom’s leg to escape them, and thankfully we leave quickly.

Back in the crowd around what must be the village center, Mom and Pop take turns carrying me on their shoulders as we wander the festival. More than once, someone stops whichever one is carrying me to introduce themselves and hand over a small, smooth stone the color of clouds and a little bit of greenery, flowers and leaves and the like. All of the stones wind up in a woven bag I didn’t notice Mom bringing, and suspect Pop might have gotten it along with the food. After only a few hours, it looks ridiculously heavy even as my own hands start to get full with the extra gifts. I half-remember about two of the names I’ve heard, and any time a new one comes up it takes the place of whichever one is harder to recall.

“What are those for?” I ask her when she’s put what must be the fiftieth stone in her bag.

“Well, right now they represent the town, and all of the people you’re meeting. And don’t worry too much about names, you’ll learn those with time. The stones also represent the gravity of our own roles, as your parents.”

“How does that work? You carry me twice?” Mom laughs.

“Not quite, kiddo, though for weight this bag’s already twice yours, and it’ll be twice that again by the end of the day at this rate.”

I blanch at the thought.

“There’s that many people in town?”

“Sure are. There’s also… another purpose for the stones, but suffice to say you started out with three before we even left the house.”

That makes me pause, and I lean over to try and look Mom in the eye.

“I have one for myself?”

She smiles, but it doesn’t quite lift her eyes the way her smiles are supposed to.

“It’s for the other purpose. We’ll talk about that later. The Day of Beginnings deserves happier talks filling the air.”

With that, she gently pats my cheek and we continue through the stands.

A surprising number were offering the flowers directly to me, and more than a few would wave away Mom or Pop’s hand and make me accept it. For every one of those, I “accidentally” dropped it, let the parent not carrying me pick it up and hand it to me, and then later discarded it when we were out of sight. Mom very quickly approved of this game, while Pop leaned more neutral and grumbled about some tradition or another. At least he didn’t try to make me accept one while I rode his shoulders. I’d have stuck whatever it was in his ear, nose, or mouth, whichever was most convenient for me and upsetting for him at the time.

I do end up with about a thousand of the small wildflowers tied with fresh grass in bouquets with leaves, garden flowers, or stranger things like bud-strewn twigs and ribbons. One has a set of what Mom insists are used bone hooks for fishing and are absolutely not used toothpicks. Either way, I have to keep them all on hand, and between the token and the gifts I'm running out of hand to keep them on.

As the afternoon winds towards its end and the shadows which were once underfoot begin to reach for the eastern peaks, a bell is rung on the far side of the crowd from us and the entire village comes to a halt.