Most dear Zann,

The dark blue clouds of sleep mist were everywhere as I walked home from Blackfloors Square tonight. I had to step carefully and hold my breath a few times. I might have seen as many as ten people asleep in alleys and corners just in that one walk. I tried to pull one fellow out, but he was just too enfogged and I could feel it starting to affect me too. One more gift of the Great Nap. Before the laurans came, the clouds were either white or gray and foggy days were rare.

Usually the people caught in a dark blue mist wake safely in the morning, unbothered. After all, who’s going to get close enough to touch them? But “usually” isn’t “always”.

I made it to the roost, and when I opened the door, Wande and Jhusdhe were already sitting at the table. Jhus, drawing a picture, kicked her legs under her stool, and Wande grinned at me with happy anticipation. I kissed her and sat down.

“Should I guess?” I said.

“Blanun’s had a crate of snobals in early! He put aside four of them for us. We can do two tonight and two tomorrow,” Wande said.

“Sounds good.”

“Do you want some time to get ready? Do you need supper first?”

“I ate at the palace,” I said. “I knew supper would be over before I got here. But I should change out of this.” Wande had one of her favourite sagars on, and she had pinned it very formally.

I had changed from my Rosolla pajazuse before I left the palace, but my everyday clothes were all kind of shabby. I hadn’t needed them to be more than that, mostly; dock work and drinking in a tavern with my friends. I had always known, though, that someday I’d need to dress for a more formal event, so I had acquired a tight-weave pajazuse and kept it clean and neat. It was black, so it was appropriate for both official and celebratory formality, and also helped me blend in with other men. I put that on, raked my hair into place, gave myself a quick rinse of cold water, and returned to the main room.

“Jhus, are you sure you don’t want to help me cut? I can show you everything you need to know,” Wande was saying.

“Mother, there is no role for me in your earthy peasant rituals. I beg you remember my dignity and not seek to include me in traditions that fit me not.” And she went back to drawing her aspen tree. Wande shook her head.

I sat down, opposite Wande, and she produced two snobals. They looked a lot like rutabagas, as always, but were dark brown all over. She had scrubbed the dirt off them with a brush. There they sat, on a wide platter, while Wande opened her knife box and set out her tools. Her breath was catching.

“You’re all right?” I said.

“Great! Are you ready?”

“I’m ready.”

“Then sing.”

I was ready. I knew I knew the song. We all know the man’s song; we’ve been singing it probably for thousands of years, and we don’t even remember when we knew what the words meant. But I had bought a little songbook just in case I needed to freshen it in my mind. I began:

“Doska lobab askol barta
Holha rolha solal thraf
Dafla barta lobab marta
Palta palta ishin scraf,”

and so on. While I sang, Wande used the blackawl to trace invisible veins within the rind of the first snobal; I knew she could feel them deep in her fingertips more than see them. She smiled at me, and I winked back, and she began cutting along the lines she had made with the waterknife. As she did, I felt, or thought I felt, potential weighing on the air.

It took a long time to disassemble the husks of the snobals, and Wande didn’t rush. Nor should she have; it takes as long as it takes. I ended up singing the song through six times before the two snobals were arranged in segments on the platter, surrounded by scraps of rind. She set her knives down, and looked questioningly at me.

I nodded, stopped singing, and used the ceremonial spork to scoop up the nearest piece of snobal flesh. As I did, she began singing the woman’s song:

“Arti sohi fala
Pila pela pula
Sohi rusi sohi
Goha epra tula
Arti balo hala,”

and the rest of it. I put the spork in my mouth. The snobal felt right; the morsel was just the right size, neither warm nor cool. It tasted of noon and mandolins, of jumping and kisses, of fear and lightning. I could hear the taste in the backs of my eyes. And something, a shape, was beginning to form in my mind. I both wanted and dreaded it. I locked eyes with Wande, and I wanted and dreaded her too.

I took another bite and the sensations increased. Wande sang. I wasn’t sure how much time was passing. Hours? Seconds? Wande’s heart was racing; I could hear it, as fast as mine. I kept eating, not too fast, and the shape in my mind resolved itself into a kind of cone. It was terrible and compelling. I reached for it, with my thoughts, but it was too far away. Wande’s eyes widened and I knew she could see it too. I reached for another segment of snobal, but all I came back with was rind.

I had finished both snobals. Wande stopped singing. The air settled.

“Did you see it?” she said. “The circle?”

“It was a cone for me.”

“Oh! Strange. But it worked! We… I think we could have done it, if we had really tried!”

“Maybe,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to really try. Not these days.”

“No. But… that was the most I ever felt from cutting snobals. I heard some music once.”

“When I was little, I fell asleep most years,” I said. She laughed. Our eyes were still locked.

“What did it taste like?”

“Oh… not like anything really.” I smacked my lips. “In a way it reminds me of banana.”

“I never had banana. Too expensive.”

“A cluster of them fell out of a crate at the docks once,” I said. “We all had some. It wasn’t as juicy as snobal, but the taste isn’t too far off.”

“So how do you like it?”

“I’m still a little scared. But I’m glad I went through with it. We went through with it.”

“Did I tell you I tried some once?” she said.

“What?! No!”

“Yes. I sneaked a piece when I was little. Didn’t see what all the fuss was about.”

“By the gods. Your parents should have kept you in a cage.”

Wande laughed. “My mother said the same thing.” She turned to Jhusdhe, who had been ignoring us as hard as she could. “Jhus. Time for bed.”

Love,

Ybel