Greenstone Observance

“Families, tradesmen, and Council, welcome to this year’s Greenstone Observance,” Mistress Tunnigan began. “We also welcome any visitors to our humble valley with open arms. Our program tonight, following our tradition, includes a special dance performed by our young men and women who have reached the age of majority and are prepared to formally join our local community. Following that, we will hear an address from one of our Council members, and then of course, dinner will be served and the dance will be opened to all. We’d like to thank the Council and everyone involved in the planning, and our local orchestra for providing the music for the dancing. But before we begin with the presentation of this year’s youth, Blacksmith Ntoffel will now provide the benediction. Master Ntoffel.”

Master Ntoffel, sporting a deep red evening coat and silver hair, came forward to the lectern as Mistress Tunnigan took a few steps back. He raised his arms out wide, and looking at the audience, sang a prayer.

Let us remember these times, let us remember the chill
Of the air of the night, and the warmth of goodwill,
Let us recall in our minds, those to us who’ve been kind,
Let us all emulate, before it’s too late,
Those acts that resound, the charity found,
To spite not, as Nomord, to speak only kind words,
In our haven of green, of winters not lean,
We will share the stream, the water’s bright gleam,
We must always care, to help everywhere
We will treasure the moments of peace.

As the blacksmith brought his arms down, the orchestra began playing the introduction of an upbeat tune and Mistress Tunnigan stepped forward again. “Thank you, Ntoffel. Ladies and gentlemen , please welcome this year’s Greenstones . No doubt their parents are proud—some relieved, some sad, but all proud—to see their little ones grown up tonight.”

Allabva and Brelin, along with the other Greenstones on both sides of the town hall, brought their feet together and stood with erect posture, poised to file out onto the green. Allabva, forgetting the stress she had experienced from Brelin’s meddling while basking in the beauty of Master Ntoffel’s poetry, breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction and looked for her mother’s face among the small crowd. Finding it and observing a twinkle in her mother’s eyes, Allabva also caught Mellier’s gaze, which carried less significance in his boyish face, though it was just as friendly.

The music picked up, having passed the intro, and on cue the Greenstones danced out onto the green in step with the beat. Fears now distant, Allabva followed the girl in front of her and soon found herself across from Delgan Dlorovin. They smiled at each other as they danced, not only because they were supposed to as part of the occasion, nor simply because of the enjoyable atmosphere. Allabva had her own reasons to back up her smile. Delgan was considered good looking among the young ladies in the Cleft, after all. And he certainly wasn’t the worst dancer, either. Or the worst company.

“Somebody paid attention during our rehearsals to prepare for tonight,” Allabva complimented him as they danced together.

Delgan demurred. “Of course, I paid attention. Isn’t that the most basic thing you can do when you’re in a class?”

“Some people’s attention levels would argue otherwise,” Allabva joked. “But, yes, though I mean that you really got the steps down confidently and solidly.”

“Well, thank you. Takes one to know one,” he shot back.

“So, what’s next for you? Are you going to take over your father’s farm like a lot of the boys here?” Allabva remembered something. “Oh, wait. I forgot that your older brother is already farming half the land. What’s next for you?”

“I was thinking of taking up smithing.” Delgan twirled Allabva once and then continued. “Actually, I already talked to master Ntoffel, and he said he could use an apprentice. What’s next for you?”

Allabva opened her mouth to reply, but just then her position and the direction she faced gave her a view down the street and beyond the town to a nearby hillside, where she saw in the distance a stately Nomord. It looked like any other Nomord, but she knew it was Hronomon. His stance and focus made it obvious this was no Nomo-Nomo, but a Nomord with a specific purpose. Allabva missed a step in the dance and almost tripped.

“I’m sorry,” Delgan said. “I didn’t mean to ask anything intrusive. I hope it’s alright—”

“No, it’s fine,” Allabva tried to reassure him. “I thought I saw something weird.” She could still see Hronomon on the hillside, but she pretended he wasn’t there, not looking directly at him. “Just a Nomo-Nomo standing there and staring into space.”

Delgan glanced over his shoulder. Hronomon was now prancing off. “Oh, I see.”

The music signaled for them to split apart. All the girls divided from all the boys during this part of the dance. It turned out that Brelin may have done her meddling not solely for Allabva’s benefit. As Allabva turned around, she saw Brelin with a huge smile on her face.

“Oh,” Allabva said to Brelin, “I see you caught yourself an Alvern.”

“Yes, I did,” Brelin replied with enthusiasm. “What are you trying to say about it?”

“Nothing, Brel. I think… I think that was genius.” Allabva shook her head in wonderment at her friend’s direct manner at spending a bit of time with Alvern.

“How is it going with Delgan? Anything official yet?” Brelin teased.

Allabva scoffed in disbelief and embarrassment. “No way.”

“Do you mean to be ungrateful? Do you not like this toy I gift wrapped for you?”

“Toy? Gift wrapped? He’s a person! He’s not mine.”

“Yet.”

“Hey. You can’t just yank strings—”

“But I did, and now you’re dancing with him. Take advantage. Make him yours by the end of the night.”

“I can’t just make him mine-”

“Sure, you can. Don’t you like him? Don’t you want to get married?”

“Well,” Allabva stammered, “Of course I want to get married, to somebody, sometime. But you can’t force things. Sometimes they’re not meant to be, and you could force something that could turn out not to be a good thing after all.”

“Whatever, Allie. Your loss. Alvern’s going to be mine by the end of this dance.”

Allabva nearly broke her composure with a laugh at that moment. The music rescued her, signaling for the girls and the boys to pair off again, and the two friends split apart from each other.

Allabva came back together with Delgan, her cheeks still red and her ears burning from the haphazard manner of Brelin’s courtship intentions. She shook it off and picked up the conversation again with Delgan.

“To answer your question, I’ll continue helping my mother in our orchard. With my father still gone, she needs my help. When the time comes to start a family—um, with somebody—we can probably build another small house next to the orchard. But who knows anything that far ahead, without knowing who my husband will be?”

“Makes sense, make sense,” Delgan nodded his head. “Well, I guess this year is the time to start thinking about that, isn’t it? I mean—you could, if you wanted to. I mean, you probably wouldn’t have any trouble finding one. A, a husband, I mean. If you wanted to.” He almost sounded as awkward as Allabva felt.

Allabva couldn’t help smiling. Was he complimenting her on purpose? Maybe Brelin was right. Delgan undeniably was right, that this was the year to start thinking about that. Was there anything wrong with Brelin wanting to jump right in on purpose? Technically, no…

“Thank you,” Allabva managed to say. “You probably wouldn’t have any more trouble than I would, finding one.” Allabva appreciated his coat for a moment, a black piece with silver and gold embroidery washing down from the shoulders and across the back and chest. “A wife, I mean,” she added belatedly, blinking, her eyes wide. “Especially with this coat. Where did you get that? Tailor Gundralsen doesn’t do embroidery like that, does he?”

“No, I don’t believe so. This actually came from the port downriver. But Tailor Gundralsen did alter it for me.” Delgan hesitated a moment as if unsure of himself. Allabva wondered why he did.

“It’s a nice coat,” Allabva repeated. “I like it. You look dignified, and that matches this dance very appropriately.”

“Thank you.” Another moment’s hesitation. “After the dance, would you like to come dine with us, with my family?” There it was.

“Thanks for the invitation; I’d love to. Just let me check with my mother first.”

The Greenstones’ Dance continued, young men and women weaving in and out in reels and lines. It was longer than the average dance, paying homage to the significance of the occasion in their lives. Eventually it ended with the young men and young women filing out in double files on opposite sides of the green, the young women passing behind mistress Tunnigan and the young men passing behind the orchestra. As they left the green, they scattered to reunite with their families. Mistress Tunnigan stood at her lectern, allowing most of the bustle to diminish before continuing with the ceremonies.

Allabva spoke briefly with her mother, who encouraged her to join Delgan’s family. “We’ll be here. Just don’t forget about us,” Mother said.

“I won’t forget!” Allabva promised as she left to join the Dlorovins at their table. On the way there, she felt again that she was being watched. She looked off into the hills at the side of the valley and spied Hronomon once more, seeming to stare at her. Trying to ignore him, she quickly looked away and found her way to Delgan’s table. She shared pleasantries with his parents and sat down as Mistress Tunnigan introduced the head of the farmers’ guild to deliver the evening’s speech.

The guild leader said at the lectern and addressed the crowd with a soothing, slightly gravely voice.

“Good evening, everybody. I am Tunralger Faetlan. I don’t know why they’re letting an old man like me out in public, but for some odd reason, they’re even going so far as to put me in front to talk to you all tonight.” Gentle laughter from the townspeople acknowledged his self-deprecating humor.

“I’d like to welcome any visitors we happen to have here with us today. I’m glad you’re with us, but I question your judgment when you come willingly to such a backwards place as our little town. Well, now that you’re here, I supposed I’d better let you in on some traditions we hold around here. For you younger children, listen up, just in case your parents forgot to tell you all this.

“We live in the Valley of the Five Moons, though if I can’t remember them, I’m sure that nobody can remember with certainty why it’s called that. We all have our individual theories. Some say it’s the five creeks that flow into the valley from the various canyons roundabout, pooling together into the Night River at the bottom of the valley, and flowing slowly out toward the southern sea. But anyone who lives here also knows from childhood, scampering around the valley, that there are dozens of smaller streams that join those five creeks, and some of those streams are not that much smaller than the creeks. Where exactly is the distinction between a creek and a stream? Why not say four creeks, or six? Eight?

“Some here will tell you that our valley gets its name from the five grains that we grow in the lower lands of the valley, but to be honest, we can never agree on which five grains those are. There is wheat, of course, and rice. Maize. Then it starts to get murky with chia, quinoa, and amaranth. Those, we all grow in significant amounts, but we argue whether they are all actually grains. Then there are the lesser crops of barley, oats, rye, and others, so I personally believe that the grains can’t be the valley’s namesake unless things were different, generations ago.

“Some say it’s the five months of productive growing season. Others argued it’s the five months of cold when we can’t properly grow much. But these two factions argue about which five out of the eleven months of the year really count in one season or the other.

“Every now and then, you’ll even hear that the Valley of the Five Moons was given its name by the Shrongelin himself, named for his five fingers holding his great sword that he dragged behind himself one day, digging the Cleft out of the stone. I hold little credence to the Shrongelin being so large that his sword could carve the valley, nor to the idea that he named it, seeing as he lived four thousand years ago. But I still think it’s worth mentioning because I want to invoke the sentiment of old traditions.

“You’d think we don’t have enough people here in the Cleft to get all political like this, but we do, all the same. In the end, the rationale behind the name is long lost in time. The truth is that it doesn’t really matter.

“Now, I’d like to take a moment to appreciate the symbolism of what we witnessed here a few minutes ago, our youth celebrating a time when they are leaving their childhood behind, but keeping with them everything they learned along the way. As their adulthood commences, they will choose their path and find the way, hopefully not only to see how they can contribute to the community, but also to find their own happiness and contentment as the season changes. And, I know some of you think it’s still winter, but I say now it’s spring. As I said, as the season changes, so change the seasons in our lives. Some might think it more appropriate if our youth graduated from childhood at the dawn of summer, as spring is more analogous to childhood than winter is. And I don’t disagree with that. Right now, as spring is setting in, now is when we plant. And I wish well to all my fellow farmers this season. May you plough, plant, cultivate, and harvest a bumper crop this season. May you listen to the wisdom of the ages and all the farmers who have gone before you in order to achieve success.

“Of course, I’ll be here ready and willing to help out in any way I can, as long as you sign my dozens of pages of disclaimers, and an all-inclusive waiver of liability in case your crop doesn’t perform as hoped.” This time, the old man laughed at his own joke.

“As I was saying, I think it is fitting to hold this Observance in the spring, because these young adults are now in their planting season. What they do during this time will have a great and lasting impact on the rest of their lives, in ways we can’t expect and they can’t even imagine at this time, no matter how clever they may be. Greenstones, thank you for the lovely presentation. It was executed immaculately, and I wish you all the best in your endeavors. Have a good planting season!”

The old farmer was interrupted by shouts all around, and fervent applause. When it died down, he finished his remarks very simply. “Well, I think it sounds like they all support you as well. Now is it just me, or does that food smell delicious? Let’s eat!”