Luminous

27 - The Foreshock

Tarpaulin of all colors blanketed Hadrian's town square. From the castle's hill, it looked like an enormous patchwork cloak. May Fest was just over a week away. Merchants from all over the central west had hurried in to stake claim over the best spots and earn early-bird gold. Performers prowled every square entrance, pushing leaflets onto wide-eyed tykes as their harried mothers ushered them away.

By high noon, stomachs were growling. A queue snaked from the sausage tent to the lonely clobber's humble stall three plots away. Children crowded around a merchant as he made hand puppets spar with miniature licorice swords. Young lads cheered on a cockfighting ring. Maidens dithered over beaded shawls and embroidered headdresses. Old farmers pored over dice and cards. Merchants egged hesitant housewives to buy goods they would later realize they didn't need.

Meya sat on a roadside bench, her head swiveling like a well-oiled weathercock in a storm. She'd lived to see sixteen May Fests in Crosset; none came even close to this. Apart from the May Queen Pageant, where no one bothered to sign up because Marin would win anyway, and a May Dance, where the men would fight to dance with Marin around Freda's Fountain, May Fest in Crosset was just a week-long weekend bazaar.

It wasn't always like that. Misty-eyed adults would reminisce that before Alanna lost her Song, before the Famine polished off a third of Crosset's children, before Meya was born, Crosset's May Fest had once been just as grand as Hadrian's.

Nobody under twenty could prove that, but that didn't mean they'd let Meya get away with 'ruining' the May Fest they never knew. Meya's first and last experience of May Fest was being pelted with mud and running home crying. Meya would stay home and do the chores in Marin and Morel's place every Fest since.

Now, a decade later, far from home, under someone else's name, she could walk into May Fest like a normal person. Countless people passed by. None of them hissed vicious names at her or questioned the thickness of her skin. No pebbles or mudballs sailed her way.

It felt odd. Not that Meya minded the lack of attention, but the contrast was painful. A day of sweetness couldn't flavor sixteen years of bitterness. Or a year. Or twenty. Memories didn't work like food. Then again, even some food might be too much for honey to salvage.

Meya peered at the wooden bowl she was holding. The rich, brown drink inside rippled to tremors from the ground caused by dozens of thundering feet. A strange, sweet, milky aroma rose to her nose in wispy spirals of vapor.

She gingerly stretched out her tongue to touch the paste, then withdrew at the tart, sour taste. Yes, it smelled wonderful, but she still didn't get how the God-King of the Southern Island that Coris talked about managed to chug fifty mugs of this brown milk daily.

Coris emerged from the crowd, carrying a wooden plate of potato fritters. He answered Meya's grin and settled down beside her. Noticing the still-full cocoa bowl, he chuckled,

"Not to your taste?"

Meya shrugged with an apologetic grimace as she handed him the bowl,

"Needs more honey, I guess. A lot more."

"Or perhaps more time to ferment." Coris cocked his head, took the bowl back then offered her the potatoes, "Try this."

Meya blinked. Apart from the little black specks on top she reckoned were soot or pepper, they looked no different from the fried potatoes she'd eaten all her life.

"Thanks, I guess." Shrugging, she picked up one piece and popped it in whole without blowing; it was already lukewarm.

An earthy, oily smell gushed out, filling her nostrils from inside her mouth. Meya's eyes widened, then drooped close. A drowsy bliss coursed through her body. If the Heights had a taste, it would be this.