Finally, they all ended up in a rough circle around the hearth, seated.
“Will you say the incantation, Pilgrim?” asked the potter.
The Pilgrim stood up and raised his hands and began to chant:
“The Evening of the year has come,
And the joys of sun will fade to naught.
Now sleep in earth, our fathers dear,
Kept warm by our remembrance, tears.
We’ll give you joy again anon,
When the rising sun sees snow no more.”
The potter handed him a bowl filled with oil. The Pilgrim poured it over the fire. It was scented with lavender. Voran breathed in as long as he could, savoring the symphony of herb, cooked fowl, and sour mead.
Now, platters of food passed from one to the next around the circle, and everyone ate with their hands. A large horn full of mead was also shared by all. Voran’s head spun from all the constant movement, but his heart was warm and content.
Was he even still in Vasyllia? Nothing in the third reach compared to this simple joy in life. He had thought that the scholars and warriors of the seminary had preserved the mores and traditions of old Vasyllia. But there, everything was formalistic, strict, conventional to a fault. Repeated movements without inner content. Everything in the potter’s world was replete with significance.
“Thank you, my friends,” said the Pilgrim from his seat, “for celebrating the departed with me. It is fitting. I had thought no one kept the Evening anymore.”
He looked at Voran, his eyes probing. Voran felt the flush creep up his cheek.
“Tell me,” Voran whispered.
“The Evening, my falcon. It is the old festival of the dead. The remembrance of our departed parents. The send-off of the world into the sleep of winter.”
Two of the younger girls giggled at Voran’s stupidity. He was surprised to find himself smiling.
“I have never heard of this festival. How many others have I not heard of?”
“There’s the Day of Joy,” said a boy with a shock of white hair, probably no more than three or four. “Then the Presentation of the Bride, the Awakening of the Ground, the Cleansing of the Harvest, the Summoning of Fire…”
“That one I know,” said Voran, abashed at the child’s precocity.
“There is much that you third-reachers don’t notice, I’m afraid, Vohin Voran,” said the potter, laughing. “And even more that you’ve forgotten.”
Voran was mortified. The potter had named him, and he had no idea what the potter’s name was.
“Sudar, forgive my rudeness. What is your name?”
“I am called Siloán, Vohin Voran. You are welcome at my hearth.”
Again, Voran wondered at the purity of the potter’s accent. Priest-like, it was. As though speaking the language of Vasyllia had sacred meaning in and of itself.
The conversation weaved in and out of Voran’s hearing as he descended into brooding. Shame uncoiled itself inside him. There was so much he didn’t know about his own city. So much beauty wasted in the putrid alleyways of the crumbling first reach.
Siloán put a rough hand on Voran’s shoulder and looked him in the eye. It lifted the fog from Voran’s heart. They conversed. Easily, without constraint. Siloán spoke about things Voran never expected a potter to know—about ancient songs, about the ways of craft that Voran thought long lost, handiwork that required creativity of mind as well as skill of hand.
“You see, Voran…I am sorry, may I call you by your godsname?”
Voran hadn’t heard the term “godsname” since he was in school. It was an archaism, a term found more often in the Sayings than in daily conversation.
“Yes, of course, Siloán. It would be my honor.”
“I thank you. As I was saying, your bewilderment at the richness of our life here in the first reach is understandable. It is all connected with our general sickness as Vasylli. You must have noticed how the people of our great city prefer cheap, gaudy wares to the beauty of a craft well done.”
“Yes,” said Voran, thinking of the shattered Nebesti urn. “Things are not made with beauty in mind anymore.”
“Have you considered why this is?” The potter seemed eager to share his own theories, so Voran extended an open palm to him, encouraging him to speak on. “Creating something truly beautiful requires labor pains. Vivid as childbearing. Not many willingly choose such a path, especially if every craftsman is encouraged to churn out cheap trinkets by the dozen.”
“Yes, I see,” said Voran, warming to the topic. “Without the time of labor, there will be no pleasure from the fulfillment.”
“You both reason well,” said the Pilgrim. “But I want you to think it through to its end. Imagine if every person in the entire city-state avoided these labor pains, as you’ve called them. Not just craftsmen, but fathers and mothers, priests and elders, Dars and representatives.”
“It is like a disease,” said Voran, feeling the gaze of the Pilgrim like fire on his cheek. “A disease that would weaken Vasyllia. Not only as a nation. All would become weak in spirit. If not already dead.”
“And consider this,” said the Pilgrim, his every word carefully enunciated. “What if Vasyllia were faced with an enemy. Not any enemy, but one that lived for an ideal. That was ready to die for it. What if this enemy were a follower of a dark power, servants of another god?”
“We would not stand against them,” whispered Voran, his voice heavy. “Not for long.”
“Voran, that is what I fear as well,” said Siloán. “We are a trivial people if we only come to Temple services because Dar’s law closes trade on holy days. A people with dead hearts.”
“And so we must do everything we can to reawaken that flame in the heart,” said a new voice from the doorway.
