Every Glistening Night

Chapter Four

The sun's brightness is a less than welcome sight the next morning. I squint at the horizon, no longer pink with the dawn. I must've slept in. It happens with moderate frequency whenever I'm up late, quelling suspicions. But every time it happens, it still racks me with guilt.

Audrel rounds the corner to the cave just as I sling the bag of flowers I collected yesterday over my shoulder. She smiles, cheerful at the sun and seemingly oblivious to my late rise.

"Good morning," she chirps. My lips lift at the corners, the only acknowledgement I can muster.

I fall into step beside her as we descend the mountain path leading to the fractured cliff. Women gather in circles, sitting with the family and friends they share meals with. My stomach growls, and I remember that I missed my first meal. Based on where the light hangs in the sky, I have a long time to go before I'll get to eat.

It's no worse than what Mother endures.

One woman hands me two wooden bowls, one filled with water, the other for collecting the dyes. I settle into the nook I always sit in and begin to pick out the fairygold flowers from my bag, dropping each into the water until the blue surface has turned a rich shade of yellow. My fingers form a rhythm with the conversation buzzing in the air. Despite the random lulls and spikes in the drone, a melody still emerges. I catch snippets of words — news on the latest baby that's been born, chastisement for a child's rushed herb sorting, plans for stocking our winter supplies. It's late summer, and before we know it, snow will kill the vegetation we take for granted in the warmer months, sending animals into hibernation in the process.

The red in my bag gradually outnumbers the gold, until only a few stray petals remain amongst the crimson pine flowers. I swish my hands through the water, ensuring that the water hydrates every flower. Then, I lift one and pinch each tiny petal between my fingertips. Several drops fall into the wooden bowl. I place the wilted flower to the side before moving on to the next one. I wish I could've begun this process yesterday afternoon. Instead, after leaving Mother, I pretended to gather more flowers since I "didn't get enough in the morning."

Once I get the movement down, I lift two flowers at a time, wringing every last drop from them. A ring of gold collects in the wooden bowl, then a puddle, then a small lake. The sun rises higher behind me, beating against my tanned arms and back. I wear my hair short, just like the others used to. It falls slightly above my shoulders, exposing my back to the elements. It's nice in the summer, when it's hot, though I wish for more warmth in the winter. To compensate, I weave clothes that cover my neck for the colder months.

"Geanna."

The word catches in my mind just before it fades to the air. My head snaps up in time to see the glances cast in my direction. The fairygold slackens between my fingers.

There it is. My mother's name, spoken like a curse on their lips. And if they're talking about her, surely they speak of me by association. I'm her daughter, brought into this world by a woman who betrayed the tribe, or attempted to anyway. They talk about her as if she were exiled from the tribe last week, opposed to eleven years ago. The news should be old by now, but scandals never die. They age like cured meat, growing into more of a delicacy with time. I shrivel, my shoulders wishing to fold into themselves. I press harder on the flowers, harder and harder, until I feel like my bones will shatter.

In a flurry, I grab more, moving my fingers back and forth to wring out every last drop of pigment. Wilted fairygolds drop to the ground, ready to be whisked away by the wind.

Emotions reel through me, fueling me to work faster. By the time the sun shines directly overhead, I've ground the last traces of golden liquid from the flowers. Only then do I feel the soreness on my fingers. A vague concern stirs in my mind: pain may inhibit my ability to work in the coming days. I suppress it, focusing instead on delivering the wooden bowls to the matriarch weaver, Jeayma m'ke.