Deleted Scene: Foraging and Folk Songs, June’s POV

3200 words, 12 minute read.

We stay up late talking and smoking, and unlike when I was in scouts, there aren’t any adults to shush us and tell us to go to sleep. We’re the adults now, which at twenty-four is still so weird to me. When we first met and I joked to Aeronwy that I was still a small child on the inside, it was true to how I feel much of the time. By the time midnight rolls by and we all settle into our beds, my head is filled with a kind of confused wonder at finding myself here. Or that could just be the joint Siobhan brought out, which everyone but Inyene had a few puffs of. He says weed just makes him anxious. Sometimes it does that to me, too, but tonight I want to have fun and feel like part of the group.

If I haven’t put roots down yet, at least I’m putting out feelers.

I sleep better than usual, getting up only once to use the bathroom, before waking for good with the sun. I lie in bed and roll around for a bit, remembering that I could never sleep in when camping as a kid, either. The cabin has grown stuffy overnight, so I open the window beside my bunk a crack to let the cool air in. The fresh scent of trees and the birds in their dawn chorus soothe me, even if it doesn’t lull me back to sleep.

It also lets in the sound of someone singing. I recognize Aeronwy’s smooth baritone without having to check that eir bed is empty across from me.

“When I stand on the mountain,
Never do I stand alone,
My love stands with me on the mountain,
Eternal as the ancient stone.

Warm are the hands which hold onto mine,
Hot are the lips which speaks my name,
Searing is the heart with which loves for all time.

My love stands with me on the mountain,
Never do I stand alone,
When I stand on the mountain,
Forever engulfed in flame.”

I lie wrapped up in my covers and listen, along with the birds, who I’d swear have quieted, too. It’s always interesting listening to someone without being able to see them. You notice more of the depth and detail, the little quirks of their voice that might not be audible in everyday speech. Aeronwy sings like someone who’s been classically trained, powerful but completely effortless. There’s a hint of an accent I think is from rural Caspora, somewhere in the mountains. In person, Aeronwy is so refined and elegant that I’d missed the folksy broadening of vowels and softening of consonants for what it is. I wouldn’t have guessed e’s from the country, which says more about the stereotypes I’ve bought into than anything.

I wait for more, but when e doesn’t begin a new song, I get up and quickly get dressed. Mairead and Inyene are still motionless in the top bunks, and I can hear Siobhan snoring through the closed door to the second room. I throw on a scarf and tiptoe outside.

Aeronwy is standing beside the fire pit, which to my disappointment is filled only with ashes and smoke. E hears me approaching and turns around with a small flinch of surprise.

“Good morning,” I say cheerfully. “I heard you singing and it was really lovely—what a great way to wake up, especially out here. I hope I’m not disturbing your peace.”

I gesture to the early morning sun streaming through the trees, the birds flitting from branch to branch, the pale blue sky overhead.

“You’re not. I’m just not used to anyone else being awake at this hour,” Aeronwy says. E nods toward the cabin. “The rest of them will sleep in closer to ten or eleven, so I typically have this time to myself.”

I glance back at the cabin as well. “I wish I could sleep like that. Unfortunately, I’m a bit of an insomniac. Are you sure you don’t mind me joining you? I was hoping to get the fire going for some tea, and I wanted to ask about that song, but I can always go back inside or do something else if you want to be alone,” I say.

“I was about to take a walk, actually. I would have left the fire going if I knew you were up, but I didn’t want to leave it unattended.” Aeronwy pauses and then says, “I could relight it for you, or you could come with me, if you want?”

A little frisson of excitement warms my chest. Out of the group, Aeronwy is the one I most want to get to know. Partly because we clearly have a lot in common, but also, there’s a feeling of inexplicable magnetism.

“Sure! Just let me get a few things, first.”

I duck into the cabin quickly to get my camera, guidebook, and gathering basket. We head into the woods surrounding the cabin, which are still in the shadow of the mountain. Everything is deeply green and wet with dew. The tap-tap-tap of a woodpecker adds percussion to the symphony of birdsong, and I peer around for the source, catching a glimpse of a red head as it disappears around the side of a dead tree. The air is cold, and I pull my sweater closer. Aeronwy is wearing a straw hat and a sleeveless, knee-length cotton dress a delicate floral pattern. I don’t know how e’s keeping warm. Maybe from sitting by the fire.

“The song you were singing,” I say, breaking the silence between us, “it sounded very traditional. Where is it from?”

Aeronwy tucks the one gray curl behind eir ear and says, “It’s a prayer song. I sing it every morning, and have since I was little. The song itself is centuries old.”

“That’s wonderful,” I say. “I love old traditional folk songs, but most of the ones I know are in Fenian. My family is full of thread witches who worked in the textile industry, and they’ve passed the music for it down to me.”

As I’m speaking, I see an interesting mushroom out of the corner of my eye and hurry over to examine it. On closer inspection, it’s got a slim, shaggy white cap with dark gills. The largest one is a good ten inches, with a cluster of smaller mushrooms scattered around.

“Shaggy mane,” Aeronwy says before I can even get out my guidebook. “The younger ones are edible, before they turn to black slime. I was hoping to find some things to add to breakfast. Last year there were morels.”

“Are they the same as inky caps? Do you know a lot about mushrooms?” I ask, pushing aside the leaf and needle litter to better expose our find.

“I know some things,” says Aeronwy, “and yes, these are in that same family.”

“I want to make ink,” I explain. “Opal has been teaching me so many new things about natural materials, now I can’t go anywhere without looking at everything and going, what can I make with this? Can it be a dye? An ink? Paper? I learned a bit in school, but it’s a whole new level now that I don’t have to worry about lightfastness.”

“The magic of Illumination keeps natural materials from fading?” Aeronwy asks, sounding interested.

“Yes! It—” I bite my lip. “I can’t explain why, but yes, it does.”

Though you don’t have to become a nun anymore to be an Illuminator, the technique that binds it all together and makes the art possible is still a secret to the uninitiated. I can’t tell Aeronwy that the Illuminator creates an etheric cord, a spiritual tie, between them and the book spirit, which is then twined with the physical thread used to stitch the spine. The process of creating as much of the materials by hand as possible serves to draw the Illuminator and the book close to one another, so when it comes time to create that tie, the connection is really already there.

“Don’t worry, I understand there are things you can’t discuss,” Aeronwy says, though e sounds disappointed.

“One day, though,” I say. “Opal is retiring when e’s done training me. That means there’ll be an open spot in the Bindery, and you’ll probably be done with school by then, right? Either Rose or Fiona will take an apprentice to fill the vacancy, and that could be you! Then we can talk about it all we want.”

Aeronwy, who has started picking mushrooms and putting them gently in the basket, eyes me sideways. There’s amusement in eir voice. “Is that something you should be telling me?”

I feel myself flush. “Maybe not, but no one said it was a secret,” I say.

“Then, thank you,” Aeronwy says gently, hearing my defensiveness. “That’s wonderful to know. I don’t want to move again, not even for this work. I would wait decades if I have to, to get a job in the Eternal Library’s Bindery, but I’ll be happy if it’s sooner.”

We finish picking the shaggy cap mushrooms, leaving plenty behind, and continue wandering down the path. I’m happy that Aeronwy sets a leisurely pace, taking the time to look all around us instead of just get from one place to the next. Our hike to the lake yesterday had been quick and full of chatter. This feels more my style. Even while we talk, it’s soft enough I can hear the stream gurgling in the background.

“When I was in school, everyone asked me if I couldn’t just get an Illumination job in Fenia,” I say, “but I didn’t want to. I didn’t really fit in there. I…well, I wasn’t very happy, and I couldn’t be myself, or I had to keep explaining who and what I was. I knew I had to come back to Caspora City. All the same, it’s not easy, uprooting like that.”

Usually, I would keep the conversation surface level with someone I don’t know very well. Maybe it’s leftover thoughts from last night spilling over, or maybe it’s the attentive way Aeronwy listens, encouraging me to open up. I pause to take a picture of a huge banana slug just off the side of the trail, a yellow and brown spotted creature longer than my foot. I pull out my guidebook to see how big they can really get, if this might be some sort of record.

“I know. I may not have come here from another country, but I was raised in a different culture. An isolated one. Coming here was quite a shock. I was lucky to find friends to help me as quickly as I did,” Aeronwy says. E tilts eir head at me. “What are you frowning for?”

“This book says not to lick banana slugs. Why would anyone lick a banana slug?” I say, pointing at the guidebook page incredulously. The last sentence in the short entry below the picture reads, Caution: please do not lick the slugs, with absolutely no context whatsoever. I have to reread it to make sure that’s really what it says.

“It makes your tongue numb,” Aeronwy explains, as if this were common knowledge.

I raise my eyebrows. “And how do you know this?”

Aeronwy gives me a sly grin. “Ah, firsthand, unfortunately. Can’t say I recommend it. I doubt it makes the slug very happy.”

We laugh and move on. There’s so much here to explore; flora, fauna, fungi, philosophy. Aeronwy shows me a mushroom called artist conk, whose white underside can be drawn on with a stick as if it were pencil and paper. We find the last of the season’s wild blueberries, which we add to the basket along with wild garlic, sorrel, and handfuls of acorn caps, the last thing being for ink rather than for breakfast. I’ve promised to show Aeronwy how to make it. E seems at home in the woods, and is wearing a very practical pair of boots under the pretty dress, which e doesn’t seem to mind getting muddy.

The temperature rises as the sun does, and I’m able to take my sweater off and tie it around my waist. My hair is at an awkward length, always getting in my eyes, even after Aeronwy lends me an extra elastic tie. For years I’ve kept it short to appear more ‘androgynous’ in Fenian terms, but now that I’m here, I can grow it out without being gendered. The idea makes me nervous and excited all at once. Hair length is an easier change to embrace than unabashed nudity.

On our way back to the cabin, Aeronwy says, “Earlier you mentioned you know a fair number of traditional folk songs for your threadcraft. Could I hear some of them sometime?”

No one’s ever asked me something like that. My friends in Fenia liked it when I sang pop songs or musical theater numbers with them, but they weren’t interested if it wasn’t contemporary. There was a sense that traditional folkways were boring or even cringe-worthy, and that they ought to be left behind as we progressed into the future.

“I don’t see why not,” I say, an idea occurring to me, “if you’ll sing Cináedite songs for me in return.”

“You drive a hard bargain, but, I accept,” Aeronwy says. “A song for a song.”

Feeling adventurous and buoyed by our beautiful surroundings, I sing, in Fenian,

“The fields all bloom with poppy flowers,
Red and black, red and black,
The fields all bloom with yarrow flowers,
White and green, white and green.

Before these fields lay barren, barren,
And I on my blankets alone,
Found my bed to be barren, barren,
Waiting for you to come home.

The fields all bloom with poppy flowers,
Red and black, red and black,
The fields all boom with yarrow flowers,
White and green, white and green.

I send my love to you over the mountain, mountain,
On the wings of the littlest wren,
To the houses of healing by the ocean, ocean,
So you may come home again.”

As I finish, the cabin comes into view, with Mairead, Siobhan, and Inyene seated around the fire pit. Just in time; my courage falters, and I hope they haven’t heard me singing. They probably did, in which case I just have to hope they don’t want to talk about it. I’m not very good at receiving compliments or being in the spotlight.

I realize I’ve stopped walking when Aeronwy appears beside me, smiling. It’s a smile with real warmth in it, heat I can mysteriously feel against my skin where we’re closest. It’s strange. I may be intensely clairaudient, but I’ve never had much luck with clairsentience, the psychic sense of feeling rather than hearing. I don’t know what else it would be.

“What was that one called?” e asks. E’s standing half in and half out of a patch of sun, one eye catching the light like a gilded letter on parchment. “It gave me images of a meadow filled with flowers, and a sunlit hospital, an old one with large windows looking out on the sea, and great billowing white curtains.”

I blink. “The translation actually would be, ‘The House of Healing.’ It’s traditionally sung while weaving gauze for bandages, although these days it’s used whenever there are sick people or to honor healthcare workers. Sometimes people sing it at memorial services, to encourage the living.”

“I like that,” Aeronwy muses. “If it’s not too much trouble, I’d enjoy hearing a translation of the lyrics so I’ll know what I’m singing if I ever sing it myself.”

I remember how e sang my Ren’s song in the Library after hearing it just once. “Of course. But, can I ask? How did you know what it was about when you don’t speak Fenian, and how do you learn so quickly? Is it a psychic thing?” I ask. “If so, I mean, you really are on the right path, planning to be an Illuminator. Can you…do you hear the books at all, when you’re at work?”

Aeronwy surveys me for a long minute, gaze more intense than usual. Without a mask on eir emotions, e doesn’t look like an oil painting anymore. E looks alive.

“I don’t Hear them so much as See,” e says, putting emphasis on certain words to indicate their psychic use. “I often receive images in my mind as messages, definitely from the books, but also from people around me, whatever language they’re speaking. When it comes to learning the songs, though—”

Mairead’s voice cuts through the air: “Aeronwy! What are you doing over there? Get your ass over here and get the fire started so we can make breakfast!”

“Don’t you mean lunch?” I hear Siobhan say with a chuckle.

“They can’t start it by themselves? I guess we shouldn’t keep them waiting,” I say, starting to walk again, but Aeronwy stops me.

“No, they can, but they know that I’ll do it faster, and that I like doing it,” e says, “because…I’m not just a Cináedite, I’m a Flamekeeper. That’s how I learn the songs so quickly. It’s part of my gift from the goddex.”

I stare at em blankly, processing this. The person who performed the cremation ceremony for Hazel, the people who came to the city to help take care of the dead after the earthquake, were Flamekeepers. A million questions bubble up from my lungs, and I open and close my mouth, unable to decide which one to ask first, or which ones might be offensive, or too personal.

Aeronwy says, “Please don’t tell anyone. Those three,” e nods toward the cabin, “already know, but no one else.”

Now the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, “Why?”

“I’m in hiding,” e says, sounding deeply unhappy, “and perhaps, one could say, in exile.”

I swallow a reflexive urge to say I’m sorry, which hardly ever helps to hear, and instead say, “Thank you, for trusting enough to tell me. I know we only just met, but I feel like, well, I feel like, we’re going to be good friends. I mean, I want to be. And I’ll keep your secret.”

Aeronwy visibly relaxes, like e’s just been released from a full-body bind. I realize e’s been holding this tension the entire time we’ve been on the trip, and maybe even the other times we’ve seen each other before this. A weary smile lights up eir face.

“I’m glad to hear it. And if you’re up early again tomorrow, I’d enjoy another walk,” e says. “It’s nice to have someone else around who isn’t so—”

“Aeronwy!”

“June!”

“What are you two doing over there? We are starving to death!”

The other three shout all at once, their voices and dramatic groans of hunger carrying through the trees. Aeronwy and I look at each other and break into a fit of laughter.

“—loud?” I finish for em.

“Something like that,” e says, and we start off again down the path.