The Birthstone

The invitation arrived in Hermes's mouth when he came back from holiday. He had the face of a man who had spent three days resting well.

When I opened the envelope, a single flake of wheat chaff fell out. It meant the letter had been written in the fields. I left it where it lay.

My sister's invitation was impeccably formal. The date and the hour were set down with care, in a hand unchanged from her girlhood. And at the very bottom, in another hand, there was one more line.

A child who takes the lantern-keeper's lantern and makes a sentence of it. Sending her that book had been worth it.

I could not go empty-handed. I would have to bring a gift, at least.

I went to see the Poet first. In life the whole world had recited his songs, and not even death had managed to stop the man's hunger to create. Even dead he had not ceased writing, there at the far end of the West Field, and of everything he wrote afterward not a single line existed in the world of the living.

"Give me one of the ones you wrote after you died. The one you treasure most. There's someone on the surface who'll read it."

At the word ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠surface, the Poet set down his brush. He did not ask who. He only asked what kind of story they liked, so I told him a story with the sea in it. He went to the back of the room and chose a book. On the first page he wrote his name, and beneath it a single line, right then and there. There was no hesitation in the hand. I decided to leave that line for the child to read herself.

Next was the treasury.

In the Underworld Treasury, it is not grain that accumulates but stone. Everything that comes from beneath the earth belongs to this kingdom, so gold or silver or gem — the raw stones, still uncut, vein and all — are mine.

When I opened the treasury door, the inside was bright without a lantern. It was the light the stones made among themselves, and the ground glowed softly underfoot with every step.

I already knew which stone I was looking for.

Her first-birthday feast had fallen at the start of spring. I was the one who had set the table, so I could not have forgotten the date if I tried — nor the way she had left everything on it that day and reached for my hem first. The start of spring is March. In a life before this one I had heard that each month has a stone one is born to, and the March stone was a clear stone that held the color of the sea.

I described the color to the treasury-keeper's soul, and within half a day he had brought me three raw stones. One was pale in its light. One had a hairline crack inside. The last held the deepest water-color, so I had that one shaped to the size of a palm — only the sharp edges ground down, so it would sit well in a hand. No ring, no necklace, no metalwork. A stone should be given as a stone, or the reason for choosing it dies.

Once the book and the stone were ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠packed, it was time to leave.

The wheat fields had grown a deeper gold than last time. The color of a field near harvest. Whenever the wind passed, the whole field lay down in one direction and rose again. The smell of ripe grain rolled all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the way to the entrance.

Kore was waiting there as she had last time, but this time my sister was with her. Kore lifted her hand halfway, then, conscious of her mother, let it fall. I saw the lowered hand close tight on her skirt. That they had come all the way to the entrance to meet me was enough to tell me what kind of welcome today would be.

"Brother. Thank you for making the long journey."

"Thank you for the invitation. The fields look well."

The table had been set in the middle of the field, in the sunniest spot. Kore was quieter than usual today, but I saw her steps keep quickening, so I matched my pace to hers. When I did, she walked faster still.

I stopped when I saw what sat on the plate at the center of the table.

Six round loaves that looked hard on the outside. Salt sat white along their crusts.

"That's the bread. The kind the Poet ate after the storm."

Kore's face lit up at once.

"I knew you'd recognize it. I prepared a soaked one too. Just as it was in the book. The salt is real sea salt. I asked Hermes to get some from the western sea."

Beside the bread sat a bowl of barley and beans simmered slowly over the hearth, last time's greens, and new dishes besides.

"She lived in front of the hearth for three days putting this table together."

"Mother."

"For three days straight she talked about nothing but bread dough. And she told me not to say any of this when you came, Brother — which her mother is now saying in full."

"Mother!"

And still my sister was beaming.

I sat where I was invited and picked up a loaf first. One bite and it was hard. The salt was sharp. If this was what sailors ate, the bread must have been a worse trial than the storm.

"How is it?"

"Hard and salty. Just as I read in the book."

"Right? But strangely, I keep reaching for more."

"You do. That's the second one already."

Kore's face said she had been counting, and that she was trying not to laugh. I held off on a third. A man has his dignity.

Instead I tried a bite of the soaked one. Soft, and bland. I understood why the Poet had eaten it only after a storm.

When the table was about half empty, I brought out the question I had prepared. It was my turn to ask, this time.

"Then let me ask one. What will you set on the next table?"

Kore stopped her spoon and looked at me. She seemed pleased to have been asked, and she let the answer wait a moment.

"It's a secret. But I'll give you a hint. It's in the next book."

"The next book?"

"The book you'll send me next, Mister. I'll set the table with whatever appears in that book. So when you choose it, you have to pick one with something delicious in it."

It was a move that dumped half the table-setting onto me, the one choosing the book. That I did not feel as if I had lost told me it was a well-laid one. Choosing the next book had suddenly become a serious matter. I briefly considered asking the dead sailors which books had something good to eat in them.

As the meal was winding down, Kore brought out the question she had been putting off.

"The thing I asked in the letter last time. What you end up making when you're alone for a long time. I still haven't gotten an answer."

"You do end up making things. This and that."

"What's this and that?"

"A method for organizing the registers. The spacing between lanterns. The order of walking the colonnades. Things like that. You start with what's useful, and after that you start making useless things too. Because there's time left over."

"Do you still use all the things you made?"

"I haven't thrown ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠any of them away. There's no one to throw them away."

"What useless things did you make?"

"Ask me that next time. If I tell you everything today, the next table will be dull."

Kore pouted, but her eyes were smiling.

Once the table was cleared, I brought out what I had packed.

"A return gift. Two of them."

I held out the book first. Kore opened the first page, read the Poet's name, and her eyes went wide.

"This is that old poet. The one Mother used to go around reciting when she was a girl."

"He lives in our land now that he's dead. He kept writing after he died, too. This is the one he treasures most of everything he wrote afterward. A book that doesn't exist in the world of the living."

"Then this book's story is something only you and I can talk about, Mister."

"I suppose it is."

"It is."

Kore gathered the book to her chest with both arms. She read the dedication on the first page aloud, and for a while she could not take her eyes from that line.

"The first reader. That's me."

"That's you."

"The first reader of a book that doesn't exist in the world."

The voice that said it rose and fell as if it were singing.

"I'm going to put this book in the box. In the best compartment."

"Put it in after you've read it."

"I'll read it, put it in, take it out, and read it again."

"The second."

I took out the stone and set it on Kore's palm.

The clear stone, washed in the color of water, took the field's sunlight and lit all the way through. I saw Kore stop breathing.

"Is this a real stone? It's glowing."

"It's a real stone. I just had it shaped a little."

She couldn't take her eyes off it, so I went on.

"Your first-birthday feast was at the start of spring."

"You remember?"

"I set the table. How could I forget. That day you left everything on it and grabbed my hem first."

"I've heard that story from Mother a hundred times. But this is the first time I've heard it from your mouth, Mister."

"Once they pried you off, that's when you grabbed the gold coin."

"I was trying to have both. I still am."

"And this is the stone of the month you were born. The March stone."

"There's a stone for the month I was born?"

"So they say. Don't ask where I heard it. Look at the color."

Kore lifted the stone to eye level. The water-light that passed through it flickered across her face. Water-color overlaid on golden eyes, and it was as if a new color had come into being.

"Sea-color. Was the sea the Poet saw this color too?"

"On a bright day, it would have been close. I chose it because it was the color of the sea you read about."

Kore was silent for a long time. She brought the hand that held the stone to her chest and bowed her head. Still looking down, she said thank you twice.

My sister watched the scene for a good while, then rose first with a smiling face, saying she would clear the table. Few people wear their tact so openly.

Before she stood, my sister asked if the start of winter would do for the next table, and I said it would. That there would be a next time was a good thing. I did not ask what would be served at the winter table. If I asked, I suspected my book-homework would grow by one more assignment.

When it was time to go and I stood, Kore opened the hand that held the stone and asked.

"Mister. Where did this stone grow?"

"In our veins. Deep underground."

"Then someday I want to go see the place where this stone grew."

The place where the stone grew. I am not so dull as to miss what those words meant. The child would have known it too, when she threw them.

"That isn't a place the living are meant to walk."

"I know. That's why I said someday."

Having said that, Kore closed her hand around the stone again. Neither of us asked when someday would be.

The farewell went as far as the field's entrance. Kore had the book in one arm and the stone in the other hand, so she could not wave. Instead she lifted the two of them in turn. Each thing she held up caught the sun and shone, once.