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From Auntie Toru’s mosquito-bite-size bosom, an impossible amount of twine emerged, further deflating her thin frame. She passed it to Raela with a toothless grin. Raela took it between her thumb and index finger delicately, wondering at the fact that her aunties never changed.
“Okay.” Raela breathed out. “Let’s get weaving.”
Hours later, Raela tied the last bit of twine into the thatched roof. “Finally,” Raela muttered as she rubbed her chaffed hands. Other parts of the roof looked like they could use patching before winter, but they would have to wait for another day. The sun would soon set, and the roof was too large. The cottage was a comfortable size with four tiny bedrooms and one large central space downstairs. The first floor was the only place that Raela didn’t have to duck while walking.
“… then the willow whispered to the wisps, ‘The time has come, my sweets, to rest your weary spirit feet, so come and lay among my fronds, and sip from the rippling, sweet, deep ponds.’ So the wisps drew closer …” Auntie Toru was on her hundredth story and had, not surprisingly, stopped working an hour before. Though, Raela had to admit, the stories did help pass the time.
This was Auntie Toru’s way. Her mind was filled with every tale and story and wish and myth that she had ever heard. Her memory was not as good when it related to daily tasks—like remembering where she had put her cup or if she had rinsed the soap from her hair.
“Torulonmana’at! Raelametanashi! The time has come!”
Auntie Toru’s face crumpled as if she had forgotten again, but now, the weight of her grief newly struck her like a physical blow.
“Oh, Auntie.” Raela climbed down and clasped the small woman by the shoulders. “I miss her too.”
Tears dripped steadily down her auntie’s face as Raela led her through the front door. Auntie Mo had set the cake in the center of their table and placed the unlit memory candle beside it. She passed each of them the sprig of a bitter herb and a slice of sweet pear. Four plates were set.
“Raelametanashi, if you would, please, light the candle,” Auntie Mo said with a catch in her voice. Raela twisted her fingers against her thumb. A spark flitted to the wick. Auntie Toru whimpered.
Holding up her bitter sprig, Auntie Mo spoke, her voice low and rough, like rocks rubbing over bark. “Dear sister, Shourentameta’il. We bite this herb as a symbol of our bitter suffering and loss.” Auntie Toru sobbed as she placed the bitter herb on her tongue. Raela’s eyes filled with tears as she tasted the herb’s bitterness. Auntie Mo continued, “We ache for you. We cry out for you. We wait for you. As the morning waits for the sun. As the willow waits for the rain.” As she lifted her slice of pear, Auntie Mo cleared her throat. “And with this, the sweetest fruit of the season, we remember every joy you brought to our lives.” She chewed slowly, swallowing before adding, “I remember your ridiculous jokes.”
Auntie Toru nibbled on her pear. “I remember your hugs.”
“I remember your smile,” Raela whispered.
“You smile like she does,” Auntie Toru said as her knobby thumb brushed Raela’s cheek. “You smile with your whole heart. The forest lights up with your happiness. Like it did for her. You feel like she did.”
Auntie Mo glanced between them before she nodded slowly. “Our Raelametanashi is much like our Shourentameta’il. Let us speak her name.” They all spoke softly, with reverence, pausing between each word. “Shouren.Tam. Meta. ‘Il.May you be at peace, wherever you are. And may you soon find your way home to us.”
They always had cake on this day—the dark day when the youngest of the three sisters went out of the forest and never returned, the day Raela wished she could somehow change. It had always felt odd to have cake, but her aunties always hoped and made ready for their sister’s return.
They always saved a piece for her.
After the meal, Raela’s aunties regaled each other with story after story. She had heard them a thousand times but never tired to see their eyes glitter warmly as they remembered Auntie Shou. After one story, Auntie Mo looked suddenly at Raela.
“Today, you rushed in more agitated than a swarm of bees the ancient bear had asked for honey.”
Raela had almost forgotten her earlier encounter, caught up as she was in the evening, but at the reminder, her cheeks flushed, and her heart raced. She had no idea how her aunties would respond. “Oh. That. There was someone in the forest. A man.”
Auntie Toru blinked once, then burst into laughter, her knobby hand slapping her bulbous knee. “Someone in the forest? Why,youare a good storyteller!”
Frowning, Raela said, “I’m serious.”
Auntie Toru kept laughing. “And you say, a man? This has never been. The light would never. Ha!” She wiped mocking tears from her crow’s feet. “Oh, you sweet girl, I needed to laugh today.”
Auntie Mo’s lips were pinched, like she had eaten a berry too early. “Torulonmana’at. Stop.”
“But Momo, you know—”
“This shall never be spoken of again.” Auntie Mo’s voice snarled like a bear. “Even if there was a person in this forest, you”—her gaze pierced Raela’s—“are never ever to look at him or talk to him. You are to stay away, to never approach. It was a mistake. The light will not make it again.”
Raela’s lips popped open. “But the light sh—”
“Never again.”
Her aunties had many rules for her. Don’t eat the green berries of the Rushi tree. Never let the mushrooms form into fairy circles. Never go farther than one knuckle away from the house, certainly never go to the Spires … but nothing like this. Something like obstinance bloomed in her chest, and she crossed her arms. “I’m never to talk to him?”
“Never,” Auntie Mo answered. Her gaze drifted out the window, and Raela followed. The ancient elk stood just outside, staring at Auntie Mo. Auntie Mo nodded in acknowledgment of whatever the elk said to her and turned back to Raela. “If there was ever someone, you shall not speak of it. Do not even be downwind of anyone else.” Raela’s chest fluttered with frustration. The elk had been there! He should have confirmed her story! Why only talk to Auntie Mo?
