\nAfter a month of indecision, Kamuil decided that a bracelet would be right. Something thin and slender, woven woodland sage around a base of wisteria. He imagined showing it to her, holding it gently so she could see the delicate flowers and how they still blossomed\u2014would bloom for seasons more. He imagined slipping it onto her wrist, and when he whispered one last thread of magic into the vines, he would hold her hand, upturned, her skin against his while the bracelet tightened to fit her perfectly. The flowers vibrant against her pale skin.\n<\/p>\n
\nThe problem was he would need his father\u2019s help. Kamuil had been practicing for a few years and knew he could collect the sage and wisteria, treat it, and braid it successfully. He could even easily infuse the magic to make it fit perfectly, but the leap from a woven bracelet to a living one required magic too advanced. It required too deep an understanding of the essence of life, and one mistake would leave him with nothing more than a shriveled, desiccated circle.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe spent another few days trying to think of something else, something he could accomplish on his own, but every other idea paled in comparison. He went to the academy, sat for his lessons, stared at the back of her head during the lectures on magical scripts, and again on the history of magic through the ages. How the sunlight cast her hair golden but the shadows turned it to autumn wheat. He imagined giving her the gift, and tried to think of something else. Flowers picked from the garden, but giving a girl flowers was so unoriginal he knew he could have no hope of impressing her. When he watched how she tucked her hair behind her elongated elvish ear, he imagined giving her a bracelet or necklace made from silver, but he knew that he couldn\u2019t afford anything elegant enough to match her. And in his mind the moment when he handed it over felt wrong. The silver would be set in a velvet case. She would take the case and that would be the end of it. It was too cold, both the metal and the gesture.\n<\/p>\n
\nAnd, after all, it was the elves long ago who had taught humans the magic for living crafts. Nothing else held the same weight in such a light gift.\n<\/p>\n
\nFinally, he knew he didn\u2019t have much more time. Summer was at its height, and the wisteria would not be in bloom for much longer. If he dallied, he would be left with only the sage without the subtler hints of wisteria. The day he decided to share his plan with his father, he stopped in the fields between the academy and his home and waded through tall grass and sage. He caressed the flowers, searching for clusters that were perfectly shaped, dense, and soft to the touch. When he found the perfect flowers, he whispered tender magic into his harvest knife. With the old chant, he could feel the life essence of the surrounding plants breathe into the air, rise up from the ground, and gather on the edge of his knife. When he sliced through the stems, he whispered the prayers his mother had taught him, both to apologize to the earth for taking his harvest and to comfort the plant in its moment of agony. So imbued with borrowed life from the others, they would survive the journey home and the time until he could weave them together.\n<\/p>\n
\nBy the time he made it back, the sky was streaked with fire and the clouds were heavy with deep shadows. He let himself in the through the gate and went around the house, through the garden bursting with flowers, bees, and vegetables, through the stone path between the fruit trees to his father\u2019s workshop. It was a small, squat building with four young trees for the corners, walls woven from shrubs while the roof was a tangle of flowering vines and curved branches. The air was cooler and the shade was full of the rich scent of tree exhalations. Inside, his father was hunched over his work table made from several old logs held together by living vines. His long hair merged into his beard, and his massive fingers seemed too large for the delicate work he was doing to a small, wilted sapling\u2019s roots.\n<\/p>\n
\nHis father looked up when Kamuil came in and cast a shadow over his work. \u201cYou\u2019re home,\u201d he said. When Kamuil stepped farther in, his father lifted his hand to block the setting sun. \u201cIs it so late already? Where have you been?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nA nervous tremble vibrated his heart and stretched all the way to his hands as he stepped forward and laid the sage on the edge of the table. \u201cWill you help me make something?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis father\u2019s smile emerged from his thick beard like an animal from its den after a long winter hibernation. Since his mother had died, Kamuil knew he did not speak to his father the same way, and often the silences between them could stretch for days. Not out of malice, but simply out of a weight between them that neither seemed to fully understand. In his father\u2019s grin, he saw some of that time before, when his father carried himself with a greater lightness through the days. Kamuil\u2019s stomach twisted, as he knew he was opening a door with his request, giving a chance for them to feel as they had before, and it seemed both impossible and offensive to do. But he also knew that this tiny opening of a door would be nothing compared to how exposed he would be when he offered his gift. If he couldn\u2019t do this one thing, he knew he had no chance of following through on his decision.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOf course, my boy,\u201d he said. He gingerly set the sapling into a clay pot and smoothed soil around its base. He looked at the sage, picked up a stalk, and nodded in approval at the cut.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI want to make a living bracelet,\u201d Kamuil said.\n<\/p>\n
\nFather\u2019s eyebrows went up. He eyed Kamuil for a moment before returning his attention to the sage. \u201cYou\u2019ve picked good accents for that. What will you use for the base?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWisteria.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nFather nodded. \u201cGood. Seasonal. Slender but not brittle.\u201d He kept his eyes on the sage and busied his hands moving it about as he asked, \u201cAnd why do you want to make a living bracelet?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cFor a gift.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cA fine gift.\u201d He smoothed his beard, but Kamuil could see his small smile before he hid it. Making a great show of paying attention to the sage, he asked, \u201cAnd who is this gift for?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nKamuil took a wavering breath and said, \u201cMalikara.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis father nodded slowly. \u201cMalikara. A very pretty name. Elvish, yes?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYes.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
\nKamuil held his breath, preparing for the next question that would bring his feelings outside himself and make them subject to scrutiny. Like a dream, he feared whatever words he chose would lessen his true feelings, make himself misunderstood. If he could explain his emotions in words, he would compose poems. The only way he knew to completely explain himself was through the bracelet. His father was a kind man, and one who had always taken an interest in Kamuil\u2019s life. The silences between them were new, and he knew he was risking bringing his old, inquisitive father back.\n<\/p>\n
\nDespite that Kamuil knew his father meant well, he wanted to hold many things close to his heart. It was already enough to open the door to his emotions so blatantly, but to have to explain and defend his feelings, he feared he would mar their purity. His feelings toward Malikara should remain between them with his gift a representation of those feelings. It was almost too much to admit he could not create what he needed alone, but to then need to disrupt his feelings with explanation against inquiry, he felt he might collapse.\n<\/p>\n
\nTo his surprise, his father said, \u201cAnd when would you like to make this bracelet?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nKamuil\u2019s knees went hollow. His plan had been nebulous: idea only and far from reality. Now, with his father so plainly stating that he would help, that his plan would begin and therefore come to fruition, a type of fear he hadn\u2019t known before settled in him and he wasn\u2019t sure what he could do. Once the bracelet was made, there would be no turning back and he could feel through his entire being that what followed would be the thing that changed his entire life.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe had a brief, wild thought of simply retreating and pretending he had said nothing, but he forced himself to stay in place and say, \u201cTonight.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis father didn\u2019t try to hide his grin. \u201cShe must be very wonderful,\u201d he said. He looked out into the setting sun. \u201cWe should get started, then.\u201d He gestured toward the house. \u201cGo and put down your things. Then hurry back. We\u2019ll begin right away.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen Kamuil returned, his father had already cleared the workbench and arranged the sage in a neat row. He was pulling on his beard, thinking. \u201cFor elves, dark colors with a light accent is usually preferred. At least, that was always your mother\u2019s style. We should find a young sprout of wisteria. With only a few flowers. A vibrant color draws in the eye, but it is subtlety that lets it linger.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWithout saying more, he led Kamuil out into the garden. Crickets had begun their night harmonies and turquoise and cerulean will-o-wisps drifted about aimlessly. They went together to the gazebo his mother had formed out of the intertwined branches of three wisteria trees, where she would sit late at night and listen to the animals and plants and be utterly at peace. Now, it was a silent space that Kamuil and his father no longer wandered near that had taken on an aura of sacredness. They both stopped just beyond the threshold, staring into the darkness woven shadow deep enough that even spirits could linger there, and they stood listening as if an ethereal voice might call out to them. But there was only the whisper of the breeze through the wisteria, hanging down and ghostly in the dark, and the crickets busy with their music.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI think,\u201d his father said, slowly, \u201cthat she would gladly have offered a bit of her trees to you. She\u2019d be so happy this is what you decided.\u201d With that, he went to the east side of the gazebo, where the sun had encouraged new growth.\n<\/p>\n
\nAfter a long discussion, they decided on a slender vine with flowers so pale they were almost white. His father stood back as Kamuil whispered the magic into his harvesting knife and sliced through the vine. They took it back to the workshop, where his father whispered magic into stones that slowly accumulated moonlight and filled the workspace with soft light.\n<\/p>\n
\nUnder his father\u2019s watchful eye, Kamuil looped the wisteria and thinned the flowers to expose more of the vines and leave space for the sage. Then, he set about twisting the sage around the wisteria, large enough at this point that even his father\u2019s wrist would have fit through, ensuring that the flowers were visible and undamaged. That they flowed along, one to the next, as if they were a continuous stream of the delicate clusters of petals, the stems hidden on the inside of the bracelet and beneath the flowers of the previous. He was so focused that time vanished, his mind full of how to space the paler wisteria petals, where to allow a glimpse of the base vine to show through, and, the part that required the most dangerous imagining and could ruin everything: accounting for how the vine would coil around itself, securing its fit for only one wrist. It was the type of magic that would normally be woven with the wrist present, precise measurements taken, but in his heart he knew the genuineness of the gesture would be lessened if he went first and asked to measure her wrist.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen the bracelet was woven\u2014the flowers spaced just so and the stems tucked and hidden, ready to tighten together and bring the deeper violet next to the paler petals, with the barest of hints of wood at the sides where it would touch her skin\u2014his father took him behind the workshop to where the stone magic circle was barely visible in the grass. They placed the bracelet on the altar, and his father guided him through the first ritual.\n<\/p>\n
\nKamuil moved, cupping moonlight in his palms and casting it around the bracelet. He touched each of the stones and murmured prayers his mother had taught him, prayers calling on the ancientness of the stones and their longevity. The moonlight Kamuil wove passed over the stones, picked up their earthen might, and, his father\u2014speaking softly, reverently, from outside the stone circle\u2014instructed him on how to settle the combined magic into the hollow space within the bracelet. Then, draw out the magic from the wisteria, weave it together with the life of the sage, and carefully knit them together with the stone. The moonlight\u2019s magic softened the edges and provided space to work. Stones know much more than plants, even trees, of longevity, and it took his father\u2019s guidance to see that the two magics\u2014of stone and plant\u2014were, fundamentally, not incompatible as they often seemed. Their edges were complicated, but if he listened carefully to their whispers, he could find the ways that they hooked together.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen the ritual was done, the bracelet was intact, the flowers still fresh, the vines and stems healthy. Nothing had withered, the magic had not turned leaf to stone, and Kamuil lifted his gift off the altar gingerly, unable to believe that it was complete.\n<\/p>\n
\n
\nHe had wrapped the bracelet in soft cloth, and the longer Kamuil held it, the more he feared that the sweat from his palms would soak all the way through and seep into the wisteria\u2019s wood. He had to constantly remind himself to carry it lightly, because every time the full realization of what he was about to do occurred to him, his fingers wanted to clench together, and he didn\u2019t want to displace even a single leaf. So he carried the bundle like one might carry a newly born baby chick, with just enough pressure to keep it from escaping but with a gentleness that only fear of crushing can instill.\n<\/p>\n
\nExhausted from the night of work and on an empty stomach, his entire body vibrated and the world seemed sharper than ever before. Birdsong shimmered along the morning light. The whisper between grass and leaves and wind wandered out of the fields and forests. The entire world seemed to bend toward him.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe waited at the academy gate, leaning against the metal cooled from the night, as the sky faded from fire to water, and watched as the other students hurried to their lessons. He barely saw them; they were only passing phantoms while he waited, watching down the street to the corner where he knew she would appear.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen Malikara did round the corner, everyone else had already gone inside. The street, courtyard, and even the stairs leading up to the academy were empty, and Kamuil didn\u2019t realize how glad he was until he saw her and realized there was no one else around to see. It was a curious relief, because he was not ashamed of his feelings as he thought he might when he\u2019d first asked his father for help, nor did he fear the usual jeers from his peers. But something in him knew that this moment should be between the two of them. Private and sacred and secret, at least for the moment. Until the bracelet coiled about her wrist and the flowers brushed her skin and then wherever she went, she would remember him and it would be time for others to see.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe smiled as she came down the path. \u201cWhat has you waiting out here still?\u201d she called out.\n<\/p>\n
\nEvery word Kamuil could say suddenly felt as heavy as lead on his tongue while hers floated in musical perfection. He couldn\u2019t even look at her. Her hair was too resplendent in the rising sun, the arc of her ears too perfect. He cleared his throat, and by the time she was just in front of him, he managed, \u201cYou.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cMe?\u201d She stopped. \u201cDo you need something?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cNo.\u201d He drew a breath that made his chest shudder so much he thought he might break. \u201cI wanted to give you something.\u201d He held out the cloth.\n<\/p>\n
\nMalikara looked down at the carefully folded cloth and then up at Kamuil. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nWith a shaking hand, he pulled back the cloth and revealed the living bracelet. He focused all his attention on his hand, trying to keep it steady while she stared at it. The silence between them stretched out.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cOh, Kamuil,\u201d she said, and took a step back. \u201cYou know what it means, right? To elves, to receive a living bracelet?\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI know,\u201d Kamuil said.\n<\/p>\n
\nShe looked at the bracelet and then straight into his eyes. She frowned a little and shook her head. \u201cIt\u2019s very lovely,\u201d she said. \u201cBut I can\u2019t accept that.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nFor a moment, Kamuil couldn\u2019t move. All his strength dropped out through the soles of his feet and there was nothing but air inside him. \u201cBut it\u2019s yours,\u201d he said, sounding far away to his own ears.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cI\u2019m so sorry,\u201d she said. \u201cIt\u2019s really kind. But I can\u2019t.\u201d She took another step away, and when he didn\u2019t say anything more, she turned away and walked through the gate.\n<\/p>\n
\nKamuil stood in the same spot, staring down at the bracelet, the only sound his blood in his ears. He stood there for a long time, until the metal on the gate grew too hot from the shining sun. He turned and walked home, the bracelet limp in his fingers, a hum in his head stealing all sound. He saw the sage bending in the wind, but they moved silently. Birds swooped about in the field, but they were only dark, song-less shapes blotting the light.\n<\/p>\n
\nHis feet remembered the way and took him through the gate. Inside the house, the only thing that made him stop was that his father was there, sitting hunched over at the kitchen table, snoring into a cup of tea. It was a scene that was old, his father waiting for Mother to come in from the garden, but he had not seen Father sitting there in so long. He was always working when Kamuil returned home, and was to be found outside if he was not asleep.\n<\/p>\n
\nWhen the door shut, his father jerked awake, and he looked at Kamuil between heavy blinks.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cYou\u2019re home!\u201d he said, wiping his beard and rubbing his eyes and squinting in the bright light coming in the windows. \u201cWell? How\u2019d it go?\u201d Then his eyes found the bracelet still in Kamuil\u2019s hand.\n<\/p>\n
\nKamuil didn\u2019t wait for his father to say anymore. He went to the back of the house to his room. Golden sunlight streamed in and warmed the air. He tossed the bracelet onto his desk and flopped down onto the bed and covered his face with his pillow.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe stayed there for a long time and didn\u2019t move when his father\u2019s heavy footsteps came down the hall and paused in his doorway. Kamuil remained like a hidden animal, waiting and dreading for his father to ask him what had happened. He was not ready to tell that story.\n<\/p>\n
\nInstead, peeking out from under the pillow, he saw his father walk over to the desk and look down at the bracelet. He brushed a large finger against the flowers and sage, picked it up, and carrying it gently in both hands he came and sat on the edge of the bed, his back to Kamuil, and slowly turned the bracelet about in his hands.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cJust burn it,\u201d Kamuil muttered.\n<\/p>\n
\nHis father\u2019s hands slowed and his thumb caressed one of the sage. \u201cNo matter what,\u201d he said, \u201cit\u2019s still a fine piece. Very fine. Especially for your first attempt.\u201d He smiled. \u201cBetter than the first one I made. And I even had your mother helping me. Bless her, I don\u2019t know how she ever taught me to do anything more than just snap twigs and tip over pots.\u201d He cleared his throat. \u201cIt would be a shame to waste something so wonderful.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cBut it was for nothing,\u201d Kamuil said. \u201cIt is a waste. Of everything.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis father was quiet for a long time. A wren warbled outside, paused, and then went on warbling.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cWe cannot control what others do with our love,\u201d his father said slowly, like picking his way through a briar patch. \u201cOften, we barely control who and what we love ourselves. But what we do with that love, that\u2019s entirely ours.\n<\/p>\n
\n\u201cIf you let it, rejected love can be poisonous, and that poison will sour into hate. The same with lost love.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHe set the bracelet gingerly on the bed next to Kamuil. \u201cBut pouring our love into creation. Well. That\u2019s never wasted. It becomes something beautiful. Creating something is never a waste. It will heal your soul, if you let it.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nHis father rose, the floor creaking under his bulk. \u201cTry to get some rest,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019ll be in the workshop, if you need me.\u201d\n<\/p>\n
\nKamuil pulled the pillow off his face and looked where the bracelet lay. He looked at it for a long time while the world slowly came back. Outside, a second wren joined the first in warbling. Wind whispered through the wisteria. He picked up the bracelet and turned it around. He looked at where he had woven in the sage and a few places where they were not as secure as they should be. A place where he\u2019d crushed a leaf by pinning it into the weaving. Each imperfection infused with magic so that it would live far longer than the plants themselves could manage. And he had bound them to stone. There was no magic to undo what he\u2019d done, to put the sage back into the ground and have it continue to grow; to reattach the wisteria to the vine and let it flourish.\n<\/p>\n
\nHe worked his hand through the opening and whispered the last magic word, the one to close the bracelet. The wisteria gave a gentle creaking as it twisted together, closing in around his wrist, leaving just enough space to fit his hand back through. There were more empty spaces than he\u2019d intended, with the bracelet settling into a larger circumference, but there was a certain elegance, he could see now, in the emptiness.\n<\/p>\n
Michael Kellichner is a writer and poet originally from Pennsylvania, but has been calling South Korea home for quite a while. While not teaching ESL to young children, he’s kept busy by his daughter and trying to find time to write. Other short fiction of his has appeared in online journals such as Three Crows Magazine, Aurealis, Toronto Journal, and various anthologies from Black Hare Press. More work is forthcoming in Kaleidotrope.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
After a month of indecision, Kamuil decided that a bracelet would be right. Something thin and slender, woven woodland sage around a base of wisteria. He imagined showing it to her, holding it gently so she could see the delicate flowers and how they still blossomed\u2014would bloom for seasons more. He imagined slipping it onto …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":107934,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[3,20129],"tags":[20130],"class_list":["post-140273","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-fiction","category-tcl-48-summer-2023","tag-the-colored-lens-48-summer-2023","entry entry-center"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140273","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/107934"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=140273"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140273\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":140274,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/posts\/140273\/revisions\/140274"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=140273"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcategories&post=140273"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/thecoloredlens.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Ftags&post=140273"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}