“Greetings, Meljin!” Timn’s cousin hailed him with the false name as they entered the grove of sickle grass.
Timn answered, speaking loudly though Cran was now close beside him. “Hello, Ronalin.”
Timn glanced to the side as the tall grasses swished aside. Sitting there among the green plants was a wrinkled monkey, its head turning to watch them pass. Timn caught his cousin’s eye and gestured at the creature with his head. Both turned and bowed briefly from the neck toward the animal.
“We greet you, Old Man,” they both said together. The monkey nodded back before disappearing among the grasses.
Timn released his breath and took the small, ceremonial knife from the sheath at his belt. “Let’s get this over with.”
Cran drew out his own blade as they moved quickly into the heart of the grass grove without talking. If they didn’t talk, they wouldn’t slip and say the wrong thing within hearing of the old monkey. There, where the grass blades rose twice their height, the two cousins searched for the most perfect blades to harvest.
Timn’s thoughts strayed to the lovely Piria and the hut they had built together, the hut they would move into that night. She was beautiful, with her long, dark hair and her skin the color of rich soil. He longed to run his hands over that skin, to feel her hands on his own rough skin. But she was more than beautiful. All the women sang praises of her skill in the village gardens, of the perfect matri tubers her hands could find and the sweet ulorn fruit that grew from her carefully-tended seeds. Never did her plants produce the bitter fruits that others did, and so never would Timn have to eat such bitterness. He looked ahead to a life of delicious sweetness, whether seated on the mats of their hut to eat or lying in their hammock at night.
Cran interrupted his thoughts. “How much do you have?”
Timn shook himself and looked at his small pile of grass. It was less than Cran held out to add to it. He’d been too distracted.
“Nowhere near enough. We’ll have to keep at it for awhile.”
“Fine,” Cran said as he gave Timn a smile and a wink. “Try to keep your mind on the task, cousin.”
Timn felt the blood run to his face, and all he could do was nod quickly and turn away.
He determined to keep focused on harvesting the important grass, the sacred, magical grass that promised a perfect marriage. A rustle in the grasses might have been the monkey moving to observe Timn from a new angle, but he didn’t try to find the creature.
While he cut the grass, he looked closely at the plants, marveling at their strangeness. The blades themselves curved around, giving the grass its name–sickle grass. As he cut through the thick bases, the plants released a heavy smell, strong and masculine, like the smell of a hunter after he returned from many days of hunting. And yet, not unpleasant. The musk filled the air briefly with each cut, but quickly dissipated.
The grass was brown this time of year, dried by the sun and perfect for harvesting. But even dry, it was soft and supple and easy to weave. That was why marriages began in this season, just before the rains began.
And what did he bring to this marriage that attracted such a woman as Piria? Sometimes Timn could only wonder. He was a decent hunter, but no master. He did not hunt the mighty lions of the plains or the great monsters of the jungles nearby. In a good hunt he could bring back a gazelle or several smaller animals, but nothing so impressive as some of the other hunters.
And yet Piria had chosen him, and he had chosen her, and tonight they would wed with the magical blades of sickle grass woven through the ropes of their hammock. Woven so into the hammock, the grass was said to promise a long marriage and many children to care for them in their dotage. Timn fingered the strange blades and imagined such a life.
Finally Timn was satisfied that they had enough of a pile, and all of it the most perfect the grove had to offer. He gathered it up and turned to Cran.
“Shall we go, Ronalin?”
“Yes,” Cran answered loudly, “let’s return, Meljin.” Both cousins looked over their shoulders but saw no sign of the wrinkled monkey.
At the edge of the grove they paused as they heard a sound from the direction of the village. Timn’s frown quickly became a smile as he recognized the figure running toward them. How beautiful her body was as she ran, her long legs that he would soon caress…
“Oh, I’ve just heard the most wonderful news, Timn!”
As soon as she said his name, her hands flew to her mouth, and the expression on her face matched the horror on Timn’s.
“Quickly!” Cran pulled at Timn as he stepped away from the grove. “Maybe it didn’t hear.” But when Timn tried to follow, he couldn’t step beyond the last line of grass.
Before he could say anything to Piria, his love, his…wife, he wanted to say, but would never be able to, the old monkey bounded from the center of the grove and grabbed him, pulled him back with a strength Timn had no hope of resisting. He tried. He pulled at the sharp grass, cutting his hands open. But the monkey knew his name and wouldn’t let go.
His last view of Piria was of her kneeling down beside the grove weeping, with Cran standing quietly beside her.
He cried out what he knew might be his last words as a human: “I love you, Taralai!” Then he seated himself on the ground among the grass while the monkey whispered over and over in his ear words he could not understand.