97819398444378 Hero Lost: Mysteries of Death and Life

The Silveringby Ellen Jacobson For the first time since childhood, a cool breeze caressed Caestu's right hand. Feeling the heavy, salty air on his skin, he shivered with pleasure. Pleasure that was tinged with fear. Fear of feeling something forbidden. Fear he would be discovered. Pointing his fishing boat towards the harbor, he glanced at his hand resting on the wooden tiller. He rubbed his thumb along the crescent-shaped scar on his index finger, tracing the raised flesh, overwhelmed by the unfamiliar sensation, but unable to stop. Caestu gripped the tiller tightly as the pleasure turned into pain. Again. It was happening again. He trembled as the muscles in his hand and arm tensed. The now familiar burn flowed from the center of his palm to his fingertips. His hand was silvering. A glove-like coating of molten silver crawled over his flesh, searing into the bones of his hand. Caestu struggled to catch his breath. As the pain intensified, he looked at his scar and recalled how his mother had bandaged the cut as a child. “This should help ease the pain,” she had said, as she applied salve onto his finger with a linen cloth. “Here, let me look at your hands. When did they get so big?” Her eyes had welled up with tears as she kissed his hands. “I can't believe this is the last time I'll see them.” Caestu closed his eyes tightly and muttered the Prayer of the Damned, trying to forget his mother's final touch before the gloving ceremony marking his tenth year. “Amani,” he said, ending the prayer. Pressing his left thumb to his lips as a gesture of reverence, he grimaced as he felt the leather of his glove brush against his face. He opened his eyes, squinted in the bright sunlight and groaned. Caestu wondered what his mother would do if she could see his right hand, ungloved and silvering. Would she stroke his hand until the silvering faded or would she push him away? She would choose the principles over him, he thought bitterly. Caestu cringed in pain as he pulled his glove onto his silvering hand and pushed each finger into the harsh leather. He tugged at the zipper on the wrist. Although the glove hid his silvered hand from sight, it seared and pulsed beneath the leather. The smell of burning flesh reminded him of that day two months ago when he broke with the principles and removed his glove for the first time. A voice called out, jolting him back to the present. “You were foolish to try your luck over by Remorse Bay!” Caestu's heart raced as his friend, Guwante, steered his boat alongside and chuckled. “You should have come with us to Widow's Bay. Look at all of the jarra we caught! Show him, Piristine,” Guwante said. He ruffled his son's hair while Piristine held up a reed basket full of the golden, spiny jarra that were a delicacy among the kanni caste. They didn't see anything, Caestu reassured himself as he squeezed his gloved hands together. He reached over and grabbed the side of Guwante's boat, leaning in to admire their catch. “Let me have a look. You're becoming quite the fisherman, aren't you, Piristine?” Guwante grinned. “No idle hands here. Let's have a look at your haul. Hmm, is that all you got? What happened? Nap on the beach again?” Caestu looked down at the baskets in his boat. They might not be filled with jarra, but the purple shelled mollusks he netted would fetch a few coins at market. Enough to settle some debts and buy enough flagons of green ale to help him forget the silvering, for a while at least. “Let's get our haul to market, Piristine.” Guwante pushed off from Caestu's boat and raised his sails. Caestu waved as their boat passed in front of his. “I'll see you at the Two Moons Tavern for evening meal,” he shouted. “They might not serve jarra, but the eel stew isn't too bad if you wash it down with some green ale.” “Last one back to the wharf buys evening meal and plenty of that ale you're so fond of,” Guwante taunted as his boat pulled ahead. “I'd be a fool to take that bet!” Caestu yelled back. He frowned as he looked at his boat's patchwork sails, fraying lines and the rotting wood along the side of the hull. An ever-present bucket of tar was at hand to keep the worst of the leaks at bay. If only he had Guwante's boat instead; sleek and shiny with crisp sails, quick to respond and with ample room in the hold for jarra and other prized delicacies. Watching the wake of Guwante's boat as it surged ahead, Caestu resigned himself to the fact that the race was already lost. At times, he wished he had Guwante's drive and ambition. Then maybe he would have a kindhearted wife at home. A wife wouldn't have let him stray from the principles. Caestu sighed. He'd already broken his vows. No woman would have him now if she knew what he had done. The silvering on his hand faded as Caestu filled the sails with the eastern winds and tacked his boat into the harbor. He bit his lip as he watched the orange and purple colors ripple on the water while the sun began to set on the horizon. The silvering on his right hand now happened more frequently and took longer to fade each time. Would there come a time when his hand remained permanently silvered? There was no way to know. No one to ask. Secrets were concealed beneath gloves. Caestu held the tiller, whispering the words of the Prayer of the Damned as the winds pushed his boat towards the harbor. * * * As he tied his boat up, Caestu heard the conch shells blowing, announcing the presence of the kanni. People scurried out of the way as they entered the market. Although they engaged in ordinary tasks, such as shopping at the fish market, the kanni were anything but ordinary. In the early days, when the Others first arrived, they established the kanni caste, setting apart those considered superior in intellect and breeding. Upon the departure of the Others, the kanni were placed under the care and protection of the guardians. They only left their compound in groups, interacting with commoners under the watchful eyes of the guardians. Caestu grabbed his baskets of mollusks and made his way down the creaking docks to the fish market. The fishmongers called out their wares. “Get your eels here! Cleaned and ready for the pot!” “Fresh and juicy jarra!” “You won't find a better price on crayfish anywhere else!” Caestu elbowed his way through the crowd and plopped his baskets down next to an old man shucking mollusks. Holding a knife in his thick rubber gloves, the old man pried open each purple shell and cut out the glistening meat. “What do you have for me today, Caestu?” he asked setting aside his knife and pulling off his rubber gloves, revealing a second pair of gloves made from canvas. “I've got some mollusks. I reckon they're a lot fresher and sweeter than those ones you're shucking there.” Rising from his stool, the old man eyed the baskets. “Hmm. Nothing special, but I guess they'll suffice,” he said as he put a few coins in Caestu's outstretched hand. Caestu continued to hold his hand out, staring at the old man until he dropped another into his palm. As he was closing the fingers of his red leather glove around the coins, Caestu felt his right hand tingle. It didn't feel like the burning sensation that preceded a silvering. More like the feeling of his mother tickling the palm of his hand when he was a child. He put the coins in his pocket. His eyes narrowed as he stared down at his glove and the tingling intensified. The old man interrupted his thoughts. “Caestu, are you listening? You've been so absent-minded lately. I was asking if you've seen Guwante lately?” “Sorry.” Caestu looked up as he tried to ignore the sensation in his hand. “I saw Guwante out on the water today with his son, Piristine. They caught lots of jarra.” “You'd do well to follow Guwante's example. Focus more on your fishing and less on your daydreams.” The old man emptied Caestu's baskets into a large wooden tub. “His boy should be coming of age and wearing gloves soon.” “Yes, he will be.” Caestu hesitated for a moment. “Did you ever wonder what it would be like not to wear gloves?” The old man sat on his stool and shook his head. “Not wear gloves? You really are dreaming foolish things these days. Off with you now. I've got work to do here,” he said as he put his rubber gloves back on. Caestu collected his baskets and walked back through the market. The tingling in his hand was growing stronger. His skin started to feel clammy. He struggled to breathe. He had the strange sensation that his hand was pulling him to someplace or someone. He looked at the townspeople bargaining with the fishmongers, the guardians standing at attention with their conch shells held between their hands gloved in silk, the city wardens milling through the crowds, nudging people out of their way with their metal staffs, and the ungloved children playing and feeding scraps to the stray cats. Then he saw her, inspecting the fresh jarra piled upon makeshift stands along the seawall. Her black robes fluttered in the eastern winds as she picked up the plump jarras with her delicate gloved hands and placed them in her basket. He broke out into a cold sweat as his hand pulsated. Was this who his hand was drawing him to? A dark blue, silk sash cinched her robes, marking her as kanni. It was forbidden to speak to her without permission. Even approaching her involved risk, but he had to know who she was. The stares of the guardians burned into him as he walked towards the stands. He bent over the piles of jarra on display, inspecting them, as though searching for the freshest ones. She edged towards him and placed her right hand on his arm. A burning heat came through her black glove, seeping through the dense felt of his jacket. Not daring to meet her eyes, he studied the dark blue triangles embroidered on her glove instead. He felt faint as she drew nearer and the heat grew stronger. “I know what you are,” she whispered as she tightened her grip on his arm. “I know what you've done.” The conch shells sounded. She removed her gloved hand from his arm. He looked up and found her staring at him with piercing green eyes, eyes the color of the seas. He averted his gaze while she turned to join the procession of kanni making their way from the fish market back onto the main thoroughfare. * * * “How old are you now, Piristine?” asked Caestu as he grabbed his flagon of green ale. “I'll be of age next month,” he answered, plucking a piece of eel from his stew and licking the grease off his bare hands. “Now mind your manners, son,” said Guwante. “Don't be picking food out of your bowl like that. You're going to be gloved soon. It's time you stopped acting like a child.” Guwante turned to Caestu. “You'll be expected at the gloving ceremony and celebration.” Piristine tugged at Caestu's arm. “There'll be cakes and sherbets and my mother is even going to make some of those almond pastries. You have to come!” “Of course I'll be there. You know I have a weakness for your mother's almond pastries.” Caestu winked. “I wouldn't miss those for anything.” Caestu pulled his bowl towards him and speared a piece of eel with a heavy, bronze fork. “Enjoy your freedom while you can, Piristine. Once you don your gloves, you'll never feel things like that piece of eel you're holding in your hands again.” “Freedom?” Guwante scoffed as he tore off a chunk of dark bread and shook his head. “Bare hands aren't freedom. They're a mark of childhood. Of immaturity. Of weakness. When the Others came, they taught us the principles. They taught us to cover our hands.” His voice grew more strident as he pointed at Caestu's gloves. “These remind us that some things aren't meant for us. We don't defile things with our hands. We don't take pleasure in feeling things with our hands.” Piristine looked at his father for a few moments and then blurted out, “I heard mother say there are some villages across the seas where people don't wear gloves. They touch things with their bare hands!” He pulled back when he saw the look on his father's face.