Ghost Festival
By Laura Schiller
Based on: The Matched Trilogy
Copyright: Ally Condie
Xander's face is very grave as he comes into the kitchen.
"What are you doing?" he asks.
It must look strange to him, me folding paper boats out of the letters that came from Cassia, Ky and Xander's family and friends; the letters that Ky flew out to our village just this morning. The candles are already laid out, and the small plastic tube sits right next to the papers, but I avoid looking at it. I stop my hands and look up. This may not have been a good idea.
"I'm sorry," I say. "If you want to keep them … "
"No, that's not it." He sits down opposite me and picks up one of the little boats, turning it over with strong, gentle fingers. "You know I've got a photographic memory. I just wondered … "
Of course. He doesn't know this custom, does he? Since we came to Endstone, I've often been reminded of how very differently we were raised. I saw it when our neighbors invited themselves in for tea with no regard for privacy laws (at least they knocked on the door!); when he was exhausted after his first day planting crops; when he was so adorably awestruck by the bread I baked for us. This is one of those moments. I blush, knowing how Society would see something like this as backward and superstitious. Still, for both of us, I really should explain.
"The village where I was born," I begin, "Was made up of people whose ancestors came from a country across the ocean, back before the Society closed its borders. They were declared Anomalies because they refused to give up their language and their culture; they were herded together in a territory barely enough to feed them, with an Army base to keep them under control."
Even though this happened before I was born, it's enough to make me angry, especially when I remember the way the soldiers laughed and leered at me as I served their food. They used to pull their eyes back with their fingers to imitate the shape of mine.
Vick used to snap at his friends to make them stop. Later, when we were alone by the river, he said I had the most beautiful eyes he'd ever seen.
I crumple the paper in my shaking hands, then smooth it out.
"But they didn't give up," I continue. "This is one of the traditions that my parents passed down to me. They taught me that when our loved ones die, we owe it to them to send their souls on to the next life. You know what a soul is, don't you?"
Xander nods, his blue eyes bright with sympathy.
"The boats with the candles are to light their way." I hold up my finished boat and place a candle inside. "I haven't done it for years, not since … "
Not since the Pilot came to take me away. Not since Father and Mother practically pushed me onto his airship, not letting me pack my clothes, my books, or even the lucky fishing lure Vick had made for me. Not since I watched from the copilot's seat as a ship just like the Pilot's flew down to fire on my village, the screams and explosions too distant for me to hear. All I saw was fire, red and golden, like the outfits we wore on New Year's Day to pray for health and good fortune. Look where all those prayers have gotten us, I thought.
Every year since then, the spirits of my parents and my husband have been left in the dark.
To this day, I don't know whether it was an Enemy ship or one of the Society's. All I know is that General Roberts – my father-in-law, damn him – didn't make a single move to defend us.
Xander already knows this. The moment I pick up the tube with its neat, clinical abel – VICK ROBERTS, CAMAS – he nods his understanding.
"Can you show me how to make these?" he asks, and those words I hear everything he doesn't need to say.
"In a minute," I choke out, no longer able to hold back my tears.
He stands up, lifts me to my feet, and lets me cry into his shoulder, once again keeping me from drowning.
/
On the appointed day, the fifteenth day of the seventh lunar month, we go down to the river about half a mile away from the village. It's a warm summer evening, the red sunset flashing brightly in the running water. I can hear the distant laughter of the children playing hide-and-seek, the chirping of crickets, and the swish of the long grass against our legs. We carry a covered basket between us, neither saying a word.
Xander helps me set up our little fleet of boats. Inside each of them, we place a candle to light the way, a paper cutout of clothes for warmth, and a fresh biscuit for nourishment. They look so fragile, like something a child would make. Hardly enough to cross the border between life and death. I hope the spirits won't still be hungry – especially Vick, who could have tucked away ten of those biscuits when he was alive.
That thought strikes me as so alien – to this place, to the man with me, to the Official I used to be – that I feel embarrassed all over again.
"You don't believe in this, do you?" I ask Xander.
That comes out more accusatory than it should, and for a moment, Xander looks hurt. But when he takes the box of matches out of his pocket and lights the first one, his eyes are soft wit reassurance.
"I believe that death is still the greatest mystery," he says, "And I believe you need this."
He's right. I do.
We light the candles one by one, Xander making an effort to repeat the ancient prayers along with me. Then, as we send off the boats, we each say goodbye in our own words.
In my village, we had a more elaborate ceremony than this, but then we had more to spare. I trust my family won't hold it against me.
Xander's first boat is for Oker, the ninety-year-old scientist who helped him find a cure for the Plague: "You were the most arrogant, the most sarcastic … the most brilliant man I've ever known. I'm proud of having worked with you, even for a short while."
His second boat is for Abran Reyes, the father of the girl who was once his best friend and Match: "You were a good man, and a good father. Thank you for helping to raise two wonderful children … I wish we could have found the cure in time. I'm sorry."
My first two boats are for my parents, and I hold my breath as they float away, praying that they won't be tossed under by the waves. I speak to them in my native language, sounds I haven't spoken or heard in almost four years. It feels strange on my tongue, like a foreign spice. Will they still recognize my voice?
"Mother … Father. I'm so sorry I neglected you for all this time. It's not that I don't love you or honor you … you have to believe that. It's just that it hurt too much to remember.
"But I'm happier now. I know you'd like Xander, even if he is a Society man. You could have played mah-jongg with him, Father. He's great with games. And Mother, he likes my cooking. You must have taught me the right things after all.
"Goodbye, Mother. Goodbye, Father. I hope you can forgive me."
The last boat is for Vick. I place the tissue sample inside with caution, blowing a kiss as I send it off. I try to picture his windswept sandy-blond hair, his mischievous blue eyes, the commanding set of his broad shoulders, but the memories are vague. Four years ago, this would have devastated me, but today I keep calm. It doesn't matter if I remember the details, as long as I remember him.
"I wasn't there to save you," I whisper to him in Society Standard. "And you weren't there to save me from the Plague, but that wasn't our fault. I know you'd want me to move on and be happy, and I am … but whenever I see a fish jumping in the water, I'll think of you.
"Goodbye, my love."
I know Xander is thinking of Cassia Reyes, his own first love. Even though she's not dead, she's as lost to him as Vick is to me. Still, I am not jealous. When Xander asked me once whether I only came with him because he reminded me of Vick, I told him no. They may have the same coloring and the same confident demeanor, but they are completely different people: one a soldier, the other a healer. One who protected me, one who shares my pain and makes me stronger. That is the way he feels about Cassia and me – he loves us both, because we are both unique.
We watch the five tiny lights flickering in the water, golden against the deep reflected blue of the evening sky. The moon is rising, and the air is getting cool. Xander puts his arm around me and I lean into him, grateful for the warmth.
"Let's go home," he says.