PART II. ADAGIO

…Barely getting to my feet.

I stand, feeling the wooden floor with my bare feet. I rest my back against something as firm, supportive, and homey as the trunk of Bayleaf—that huge tree that grows in our valley by the river. I even seem to feel Bayleaf’s cracked bark against my shoulder blades.

…as I pray not to fall.

Suddenly, a gentle push comes from the false Bayleaf, removing my only support. Taking a tiny step, I stop, swaying and struggling to stay on my wobbly feet.

“Come on, Kasamarchi! Don’t be afraid!” a distant voice calls, as tender as the lapping of the Lizard—our river on whose bank the time-darkened Bayleaf stands.

Once, it had stood at the water’s edge. My mother and father had loved to sit on its black roots, washing their feet in the rapid stream. But shortly before I was born, the rock upstream from the other bank cracked, sending a large block of stone into the Lizard and changing its course. Receding from our bank, the river revealed a narrow strip of land next to the tree. In a year, this bald spot was covered with the first timid grass.

…Leaving my Lizard mother’s body, I saw my Bayleaf father and became that narrow strip of land between them. In a year, my bald head was covered with its first timid hair.

I look at the ground that has slipped from beneath my feet so many times before, always hitting me painfully on the elbows, shoulders, and hips— or rising like a wall to smack my forehead.

Father is silent behind me.

It’s a long way to reach Mother.

For the two of them, it’s a distance they can bridge with their arms, stretching them out to touch each other’s fingertips. For me, it’s a long journey.

But I can do it. I will make these few steps from Bayleaf to Lizard. Naked and helpless as I am, I’m still ready to do it.

I hear Mother’s voice, “You can do it, son! I will catch you.”

Losing my balance again, I take another step to prevent falling, but it’s not enough. I stagger on, again and again, to keep the floor below me, and not let it stand like a wall blocking my way.

Again.

And again.

How many more…?

I look up and see Mother’s hands. They are so close.

“Come, come, come,” my Lizard sings ahead, her voice filling me with strength.

“Good! Good boy!” Bayleaf’s voice booms from behind me.

So far, far behind…

But I could feel his firm body only a moment earlier!

Stopping, I look back. No, not really that far. My father’s large hands are only two paces behind me.

I smile, losing my balance and collapsing to the side.

But I couldn’t care less. Falling, I laugh, looking at Father.

Mother’s hands catch me at the last moment and fly me up to the ceiling.

“Good boy.” Her warm breath touches the top of my head, sending a hot wave of bliss through my body. “My little sparrow.”

I did it. I walked those few steps—on my own!

…The images and sensations from someone else’s childhood are flashing around me.

I know it’s a dream.

Dream, dream, dream. This word echoes through my hazy mind as if repeated by someone trying to wake me.

…but the sweet smell of Penetration Grass keeps me in this dream where I live Kasamarchi’s early memories.

Weapons.

I always had them whenever I went.

The rough hilt of a wooden sword in my hand is one of the earliest memories.

My first steps. Mother’s caressing hands. Father’s pungent smell.

The foundation. Too strong for the waves of nonexistence to destroy. They only crash against it.

My later memories build on this foundation like layers of brick, fitting together and forming a strong wall, faster and faster.

Our small house on the hillside.

Mother’s soft voice.

The smell of her hair.

Father’s large, warm hands.

I’m waiting for him to come back from hunting.

…Father takes a wooden sword, just like mine, in hand. He sits down on the floor.

We spar.

I get my first bruises and scratches.

…Now we are wrestling.

Ducking under his big arm, I take a firm stance and push him as hard as I can.

Father collapses on his back. I win! Though with great effort.

…Another layer of brick added.

The spade of Reminiscence is scooping another portion of the feelings-and-sensations mixture from the bottomless pit of the Past, smearing it over the wall and adding a new brick, starting another layer.

…Playtime again.

Or not innocent play this time?

Putting the wooden sword aside, Father picks up a dagger. He lets me feel the blade. Ouch! So sharp compared to the wood of my sword.

We spar again, but this time with steel in Father’s hand. And steel in his eyes.

It no longer feels like play. I taste metal in my mouth. Focusing and concentrating, I circle him.

The sharp tip of his dagger pricks my skin.

“Pay attention, son.”

Father pricks me again.

I don’t know why he is doing this. My animal instinct tells me things are serious now.

I trust Father. He wouldn’t hurt me without a reason.

Taking a firmer grip on my wooden sword, I attack him.

…My first hunt.

My first killed squirrel—a dull-eyed ball of dead flesh. I realize no power in the world can make these eyes gleam again.

A hare shot in the air.

A doe collapsing ahead.

I feel no joy. No pity. It’s just a daily routine.

…Dressing animal bodies.

Blood. Fur. Entrails. Tendons.

…Brick after brick. Layer after layer. Faster and faster. No need to wake, as long as I remember it’s just a dream.

…My seventh birthday.

Father comes home in the morning, after a few days’ absence. He wasn’t hunting. I can tell by his smell; it’s different. He smells of dust, of the road, and something else…something strange.

That’s probably because of my gift. My birthday gift.

Today I will get my first real Weapon. My Whistle.

Up until today, it was nothing more than a good luck charm dangling from my neck—the carved figure of an angel blowing a short, wide trumpet. I’ve had it as long as I can remember, using the angel’s trumpet as a whistle to scare small forest animals. Its wood was dark, polished by my fingers. This toy had long ago become a part of me.

Several days ago, Father took it away with him. Never having parted with my angel before, I suffered beyond expectation. It felt like my heart had been removed from my chest, not a wooden trinket from my neck.

But now, Father is back.

“Happy birthday, son,” he says, putting the leather strip with the Whistle around my neck.

As the charm takes its place on my chest, I finger its smooth wood, curious about how it has changed.

No different to the touch.

“Today you go to the mountains, Kasamarchi,” Father says, looking straight into my eyes.

We’ve discussed it before, so I just nod. I know I will have to spend next month alone, traveling to the Peak of Spirits and, if possible, obtaining a vulture’s feather.

Not an easy task. And no way to survive up there alone and unarmed. That’s why we have our Passage at seven—the age we get our first Weapon.

You need a Weapon up there to stand a chance at survival, but there’s still no guarantee.

If I reach the Peak, obtain the feather, and come back, I will become an Asper. Like Mother and Father.

Asper. The word I’ve heard since my earliest years. My parents would only say it in a whisper, their faces becoming withdrawn as if their minds were wandering far away.

…We say our goodbyes.

A barely visible path reaches into the distance, disappearing in the shadows cast by steep rocks ahead.

In one month, my parents will come to this very spot to wait for me. If I don’t show up within three days, they will have to leave—and forget they ever had me.

I grew up as their only child, but I never dared to ask if they had other children before me.

“Goodbye, Son.” Squatting in front of me, Father cups my face in his hands and presses his forehead to mine.

Mother comes forward next. Bending down, she buries her nose in my hair as she always does. “My little sparrow,” she whispers into the top of my head, sending a warm, blessed wave through my body.

My heart is bursting with the sweet feeling of confidence. I can do it. I will cross the Highlands just like I’ve crossed that distance from Bayleaf to Lizard.

I back up a few steps, taking in my

parents’ faces to remember them. Turning around, I duck into the cold dampness of the Gorge.

…Another tile clicks into its place in the mosaic of memories.