What Was Under the Cloth

Marta Vels uncovered the third pile this morning. Kupala Night is tomorrow. She has kept that pile covered every time I have watched her sort, since Seedmonth’s end. Today the cloth came off before I asked. I did not ask. The day required it, not me.

Under the cloth: chamomile heads gone brown, and beneath them small bundles of grey-green leaf, tied with red thread, no bigger than a thumb. She calls the bundles nothing. She hands them out. One went to Oleg, tucked into his boot bench without a second look. One went into an apron pocket at the well. One went to a boy I did not know, who ran the length of Ulev Street holding it flat in both palms.

She kept four for her own door.

That is not the whole answer, and I do not have it. I have: chamomile, wreath stems, and a third pile that turns out to be carried, not worn. That is enough to write down.

The season argues against her. No rain since Seedmonth. The Karvel shows mud that hasn’t shown in two summers. Kupala wants dew gathered before dawn, and there may not be enough dew this year to gather. Marta ties her bundles the same as always. Whether the grass gives up water tomorrow is not something her hands can fix, and she has stopped expecting them to.

The Archive noted this week that three of the new offices — Temple, Guild, Divan — have written nothing in eleven days. I do not find that strange. Marta said nothing about her third pile for longer than that. Then her hand opened.

On Mulov Street, chalk marks appeared on a shared wall two days ago. Someone is measuring something. The Divan hears it Fifthday. The wall does not know this. It has held up two roofs longer than anyone arguing about it has been alive.