WORDS • IDEAS: SARAH JANSEN
Spark by Sarah Jansen
They weren’t the last people in the street, but they were among the stragglers. They should have been early; all three of them were in the fire rite that marked this shortest night where the weft of the sun and stars turned in their weaving of the sky. Ally consoled herself knowing that Bren was there already, although at his age her brother had no official role. He loved all the rites and festivals. They were the only things that he enjoyed as he should. He loved anything that took him away from the house and Ally didn’t understand his wanting to get away, even though he was only two cycles younger. The sun was behind Far Mountain so there was still an hour or two of twilight settling. The air was warm and busy with the aromas of flowers, grain, hay, fruit, woodsmoke; and down the road from the square rolled the sounds of horns and laughter. Dallen scrabbled his hand into hers. He didn’t hold her hand very often anymore. This was his ninth midsummer. Ally’s memory blinked to his first midsummer fire. Dallen was a winter baby so he had been able to sit up on their mother’s lap for the whole fire rite, laughing at everything and making everyone smile, feeding from their mother now and again. Ally had been younger than he was now, she thought. Cal skipped before them, leggy and excited. She hadn’t held Ally’s hand for a long time. They neared the village square, leaving the smells of grain and hay behind while those of flowers and smoke surrounded them. The fires glowed upwards and outwards, pulling bronze from houses and faces. PAGE 63 | THE PURPOSEFUL MAYONNAISE
