- RUZES AND ORANGES -

So humble, so disciplined, clean and devout was their life.

Yet, the people of our town would always tell many curious things about the Nassaryotts. They had a bunch of weird traits, bad habits and weaknesses that we supposedly didn’t have. First and foremost, was their wealth. We couldn’t see it, but they were rich. They’d make their fortunes by collecting every last demi, while we’d carelessly toss ours away. And they’d portray them in general as people dishonest and incompetent. They were worthless and dirty, despite taking more baths in a week than many Nassaryotts took in a month. They made fun of them and called them Nassarshits.

Most would never do that to their face. If some poor Nassaryott dared venture outside their district however, beyond the Long Bridge, and the kids noticed him, they’d start follow him and laugh and sing on top of their voice:

“Hey shit! You Nassarshit!

How many roosters did you steal?”

All these were, in truth, very stupid. Lies told by adults and parroted by kids. Made up by people who knew nothing of what they were talking about. Because the Nassaryotts we had in our town would never steal, most of all they’d never steal roosters. To them they were sacred, never to be touched.

But since everyone already believed Nassaryotts were doing all sorts of weird things, it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility they were also stealing roosters. In the end, it became such a common myth, even Nassaryotts themselves believed it was true. They accepted it, and began joking with each other, calling themselves Nassarshits.

They’d also talk about them all kinds of dirty little stories they’d always heard from somewhere else. Yet they would present them so vividly, as if they’d really happened. Here, in our town. By our Nassaryotts. And each one would be so well-crafted, and fit in so beautifully with the others, at some point it became common, once again, to hear the Nassaryotts themselves narrating and laughing with them. They found them so well put together.

Mothers would tell their kids not to be late at night because, aside from the “waters”, the spirits coming down the river and driving them mad, the Nassaryotts would also roam the streets at night. When their blessings were over, they’d wander the town, looking for children to abduct and pierce them with needles, to take their blood and make with it their ruzes -those little red candles they all had.

Once again, lies. No child had ever been abducted by the Nassaryotts. Everyone knew it. And during their holidays, the festival of Ereva, the Equal Days -the two days each year when day and night last exactly the same, the “Week of Tears” -when the Nassaryotts mourned the victims of their two routings, and all the others, the Riviellotts living in the Nassaryottics would gladly accept the almond biscuits and the ruzes their neighbours would bring them as gifts. None of them feared they were made with the blood of children.

During our festivals of Dolvet, or Riviel, or the “Landing”, the Riviellotts would repay the favour, and would also send them oranges and flowers wrapped in the green cloth.

In short, things were somewhat complicated in our town when it came to the Nassaryotts.

No matter how much people looked down on them, everyone in our town had some kind of relation with their community. They’d make good deals with them, buy various things from their shops, and would even lend and borrow money from the most wealthy and respectable among them. Between the various groups, there were connections. The rich were brought together by interest. The poor by their misery. Such things transcended religions and dogmas. And despite all the terrible things they said about them, no Riviellott was ever said to have caused harm to a Nassaryott, just because they were a Nassaryott. Not even us, the Scribes and the Dekanons of the Faith. Despite being immune from prosecution. Despite them mocking our Gods. We’d never hurt them.

No, the Nassaryotts had nothing to fear from us, and they knew it.

Yet, none of them, rich or poor, educated or illiterate, would ever dare to completely cut ties with the community. Completely leave the Nassaryottics. None would ever go any further, and get separated from the others.

“The hen is here. The chicks should be here.” Setha Kabi would always tell them.

And everyone found his hen analogy to be wise and true. Why go to the other side? Why become a foreigner among foreigners? And no one would ever even suggest leaving the hen and move somewhere else. Not even as a joke.

Every night, they’d quickly go and hide inside the Communal, the hen, as if an old fear had awakened inside them. In the moonlight, the old castle’s shadow would fall quietly upon their empty streets, and rest upon their houses. After the blessings, they’d go home, lock the doors and stay in with their families. They’d all sleep together in one room, to stay warm. And they had big families. In that aspect, they were similar to the mountaineers and the porkers.

There were some winter nights however, when the wild western wind would come down from the mountains, and unleash all its might upon the Nassaryottics. One could hear it screaming between the dark alleys, and balconies, and wretched roofs full of scared dreams. During the calmer nights, one could hear the lowest maple branches touching the running waters of Riviel. A slow, subtle rhythm, endlessly drowning.

A melodic weep for their wasted life. And from the very beginning of spring, with the new year and up until the end of summer, the endless croaking of the frogs would gently surround the district. A district full of dreams and fears and fresh green mud.