The Admonishments of Kherishdar
M.C.A. Hogarth

CRADLE

atse [ ah TSEH ], (noun) — emotional outlets; anything that allows a person to relieve emotional stress in a safe, healthy and socially acceptable way.

      "Drink," my mother had said, interrupting my packing for my trip to the capital, where I was to undertake my first assignment for the family business.
      Wide-eyed, I accepted the cup from my eldest sister. "But this is until-a-better-time...!"
      "In case you hadn't noticed," my aunt said, "You'll be in town for the Tryst."
      "You can't possibly mean me to... but... the capital!"
      "For your first time?" my sister said, laughing. "Oh you must! What a story to tell!"
      I drank the contraceptive while they packed a costume. The following day, nervous and excited, I was off.
      The eve of the Winter Tryst fell midway through my visit and found me skirting the edges of one of the largest parks in the city... and there I remained, breathless in the cold, shocked at the sheer size of the gathering. So many Ai-Naidar in one place, so many masks, such rich and varied costumes... I was but a country girl from two worlds out and this was too much for me. I could not turn away, but neither could I find the courage to join the dancers.
      "Waiting for someone?"
      The words brushed the back of my neck, the voice male, low, vital. I shuddered. "I... no. Just... watching."
      "The Tryst is not for watching," he said, and then I saw him, enigmatic, masked, his grace sensual. "Come," he said, taking my hands, his touch confident.
      We danced and to the question he did not ask at the end of the set, I whispered, "Yes."
      He took me to the trees, then, bore me back against one of them and kissed the innocence from my lips. I feared—who doesn't?—but where his fingers went the blood seemed to lift to my skin and I muffled my cries against his shoulder. When at last he was with me it was like being a child again, rocked in a cradle: entirely embraced, safe, a new joy evoking an old.
      "Sssh," he whispered, when I would have told him he was my first. I quieted, obedient, meeting his eyes through our masks. "Shemena," he whispered—maiden, goddess—"promise me only one thing."
      "Anything," I breathed.
      He gathered me up and as I cried out again he whispered against my temple, "Never ever sin."
      He gave me to the dance afterwards; there were others that night, but none like him.
      I was spending my last hours in the capital at a cafe when a sudden hush fell on the tables next to me. I looked up and—oh, I didn't know his face, but the way he moved—it was him, it was him!
      "Shame," the females beside me murmured amongst themselves. I almost dropped my cup.
      So many years since that first Tryst, and I have made many small errors of judgement, suitable only for the attention of my elders, my family, my peers.
      But I... I have never sinned. For who could Correct me if I fell in love with Shame?


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© 2007, M. C. A. Hogarth