Young Writers Society

For most of the year, the steep gray hills surrounding Sagala were bone dry, but in the spring they were dampened by an ephemeral dawn fog, from which grew a thin but bright layer of green shrubbery that, for a few glorious months, decorated the island’s acrid gravel slopes. I woke late that morning. The cool mist was evaporating fast. Pushing myself off my sleeping rug and mound of pillows, I stepped out onto the balcony. From my perch, I could see the white-washed stone walls and copper-roofed palaces of Sagala shimmering under the hungry sun. I blinked, letting my eyes adjust to dazzling light, as I listened to a distant bell ring out. I counted the chimes: four. I grimaced, remembering that I was supposed to meet Mosha for tea next bell.

I retreated into my room, letting my robe fall to the floor, as I turned to face the exposed rack that displayed my carefully curated wardrobe. I slipped on a green silk shendyt, then arranged a netlike headdress, so the fine-spun chains rested daintily on my thick black hair. I threw a half-finished scroll, a couple of books, a reed pen, and some ink into a bag, bounding down the dizzying staircase that led out into my apartment's foyer. The sound of my sandals on the glazed tiles echoed through the carnivorous space. I gestured to a servant who was waiting by the arched entryway, handing him my bag as I made my way out into the garden.

As we wound our way down through the city, the streets got thinner, fuller, dense with activity. There was a shape to them. Despite the different languages, smells, colors… that packed the lower town, the streets had a definite direction. Everyone was moving somewhere, tracing some sort of pattern. I liked getting dusty, weaving my way between sun and shade.

At Fifth-Bell exactly, I arrived at my favorite tea room, pushing back the fabric as I ducked through the door’s low wooden frame. I told my servant to fetch me a bowl of plain sweet-grass tea and continued out into the shop’s courtyard. It was one of my favorite places in the whole city: small and sheltered, nearly always empty, with high walls covered in flowering vines and a little unassuming fountain tucked away in the corner. Built off of one of the sidewalls, covering a wide stone bench was a pergola, under which was seated my friend Mosha.

~~~

“I’m bleeding.”

Mosha looked up from his book. “That’s called a paper cut.”

“No, a poem.” I leaned back, staring up at the blue sky through the vine-covered pergola, and grinned “Suffering under the spring sun, I saw myself bleed.”

We sat in silence for a while, sprawled out in a shaded courtyard drinking tea. I could not so much hear as feel the faint throb of voices emanating from beyond the courtyard walls. I preferred to find a quiet corner of the city where I could write, rather than cloistering myself in the palace or one of the university's stiff-aired libraries. There was both softness and urgency to hidden silence, imperfect silence.

“Look at you, lying there in your shendyt with that ridiculous thing on your head, staring up at the clouds. Not a care in the world.” Mosha groaned, tossing his book into my lap. I fiddled self-consciously with my headdress. “Two months, Nahama, two months until I go back to Hymar, to freezing mountains, religious fanatics, squabbling warlords and itchy clothes.” I glanced down at the pamphlet on my lap. It was titled The Ethics of Compromise. Mosha continued his lament. “I am not ready to exchange poetry for policy!”

I opened the pamphlet, reading the introductory quote. “‘War requires moral concessions, but peace causes us to compromise our ethics at their most intimate.' You have to admit that’s a pretty poetic policy.” I flipped through the book, “I would be happy to write your position papers for you.”

“You know very well there are no position papers in Hymar. To have a position you have to have options.”

I held up the book. “Can I borrow this?”

Mosha rolled his eyes. “Yes, and if I ever need an ethical justification for paying tribute to keep my people from being slaughtered I’ll make sure to send for you. Your uncle can surely spare a useless literary layabout.”

I smiled. “It’s been a good day for alliterations, but I’m a mathematical layabout as well.” I showed him the scroll I was scribbling on. It was full of triangles and intricate geometric relationships.

He threw his arms to the sky. “What the hell is that supposed to even mean?”

I lowered the book, resting it on my chest. “Does art have to have meaning?”

“We are going to need some more tea,” Mosha called out to one of the servants who was waiting nearby.

~~~

“I’m getting a little bored,” I complained, stretching my arms towards the sun. “And hungry. I wish tea houses were less fastidious about only serving tea.”

“I’ve wondered about that. Is it a cultural or economic practice?”

I smirked “Both. It’s a cultural tradition enforced because of its economic benefits. It creates more businesses and therefore more tax revenue. I know you admire our free-market economy, but we just have subtler ways than feudalism of ensuring that the aristocracy monopolizes industry.” I raised my eyebrows. “I cover all of this in my paper.”

“I am sorry, Nahama. I have just been so busy recently, I haven’t gotten around to reading it yet.”

“That’s fine. It’s quite dry, not nearly as stimulating as ‘The Ethics of Compromise.’”

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Simlin says it’s revolutionary. He was worried you went too far this time.”

I shrugged. “Uncle is not going to be happy.”

Mosha looked worried. “You don’t think he would do anything, do you?”

“What do you want to eat?” Mosha glanced at my feet, then up at my eyes. He could see me fidgeting.

“Those little pastries stuffed with caramelized flower petals that you can buy off of street stalls all over the city? I still don’t understand how you keep the flower petals from burning.” Mosha frowned, his accent thickening. “And I can never remember what the ridiculous things are called. But I might as well make the most of your extravagances while I still can.”

“Machalalm! Yes, that sounds perfect. I am in the mood for something sweet.”

We walked back out through the tea shop. The owner bowed before rushing off to collect our bowls. I looked around the dim room. It was pungent. Though not unpleasant, the smell was so strong that it was almost medicinal, like it was meant to shock the system, to provide a moment’s relief from life’s restless monotony. A tea room was a place where reality could be distilled and discarded. It was the quiet, throbbing heart of society.

Even though I was only briefly in the shade of the room, the sun’s glare seemed extra loud as I stepped out into the street. It bounced off the white walls of the buildings towering on either side of the road. We cut through a few allies, eventually joining up with one of the city's major thruways. Here, vendors sold everything from shoe-leather to shellfish. There was a rhythm, a ritual, to their hawking. They engaged in an elaborate courtship with their customers. They invented songs, bragged ostentatiously, and subtly gesticulated their eagerness and their distrust. They danced with the rules, turning their game into art.

We found a stall selling Machalalm. The flaky golden pastries were painted with vivid symbols that denoted which flowers were inside. In folk tradition, each filling had a different property. Tema Blossoms, small, white, delicately perfumed flowers, provided tranquility. The sour red petals of the Miris plant symbolized vitality and were also supposedly a cure for impotence... In the spring, the island of Sagala was full of flowers. They were one of the only things that grew well in the dry rocky soil.

I chose a pastry with a blue symbol I had never seen. The filling must have been imported. Or maybe I wasn’t as versed in folk glyphs as I liked to believe. Either way, the pastry was lovely, earthy and sweet.

Mosha took a dainty bite of his Machalalm. He had bought a one with a Miris filling, unaware of the stigma. “I don’t know why I like this.”

I chuckled. “Maybe you need it.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” I walked over to a stand selling scarves. “This is nice. I like the texture.” I held up a deep blue one made from gauzy silk embroidered with thick red string. “What do you think?”

“What do you use it for?”

“It’s a chance to exercise your creativity.” I wrapped the scarf around my head, then my waist, then my neck, “Agh, I hate having things around my throat,” I exclaimed, transferring the scarf to my wrist instead.

“What? Next are you going to wrap it around your dick?”

“We could try that tonight.” Mosha blushed. I smiled at the vendor. “How much?”

He bowed low. “No charge, Adala.”

Once again, the bell rang out, marking the time. “Yin!” I swore. “It’s Tenth Bell. We’re late for Thémé’s reading.” I left a couple of intricately painted promissory notes with the merchant before starting in the direction of the upper town. As we trudged up the hill, the colorless glare of the blinding spring sunlight began to fade into a gentle gold and the smell of citrus trees replaced the peppery clamour of the busy streets below.

We crept into a small round room, brightly tiled in purple, blue, and green. We took seats at the back where we could slump against the wall while we listened to bad poetry. Halfway through the recital, servants ladled out bowls of tea, and rosewater. The drink was too garish for my tastes, stewed with all sorts of berries, barks, and flowers, and saturated with honey. But, hot and sweaty from the climb, I frantically splashed myself with the rose water that I was offered.

Refreshed, I tuned in to Thémé’s next poem. It seemed better than the previous ones. The rhythm was interesting, wild. Our language, with its strict rules of vowel harmony and complicated method of organizing syllables, lent itself well to poetic forms. It was easy to play with the musicality of our words. But our literary culture was also full of rhythmic cliches. As an artist, a provocateur, I loved rules; I loved breaking them in subtle clever ways.

I could feel myself swaying gently to Thémé’s stanzas: “When the moon is ripe, she falls from the sky. Suddenly somatic, I grab her soul and squeeze.” Mosha was blushing again. You would think that after more than two years on our island, he would be used to our matter-a-fact sensuality. In a humanistic culture like ours, bodies were central, celebrated. And we worshiped their creations, including pleasure.

I leaned towards Mosha, whispering in his ear. “What do you think?”

“Be quiet! We can talk after.” I leaned back against the wall, and shut my eyes, letting the rhythm of the poetry drown out its meaning.