Maitimo

Makalaurë is curled up tightly beside me when I awake. His face is pressed against my shoulder, and I can feel his breath on my skin. His dark, silky hair is falling in a tangle over his face, and I brush it off gently and push him gingerly away from me. He whimpers softly and turns over, wrapping his arms about a lump of wayward blankets.

I slide carefully off the mattress. Picking up my clothes, I make my way silently across the floor and open the trapdoor, letting down the retractable ladder.

Findaráto is already awake, whispering words that I cannot make out. He looks up at me as I creep by and mouths a 'good morning'.

I nod and pull my clothes on and climb down the ladder, which creaks horribly, and make my way to the bathroom. Already the house is awake, and I can hear the clatter of dishes and Arafinwë's singing in the kitchen beneath me. The door to my left opens abruptly, nearly slamming into me, and I jump aside as Amarië walks out, leading Irissë and Artanis by the hands.

'I am sorry,' she says.

'It is all right,' I answer, nodding towards them. 'Good morning, Amarië, Irissë, Artanis.'

'Good morning,' the little girls chime together too hastily, as if they were having a completion as to who could answer me first.

'Good morning, Maitimo,' Amarië says afterwards, and, with a couple more bows, we part. The girls hurry down the steps, and I continue down the hall to the bathroom.

The door is shut, and the shower is running. But with twenty-three people in one house, I find that the two bathrooms are perpetually occupied. I knock on the door, for there is a good chance I will be let in anyways.

'Who is it?' Carnistir calls over the shower.

'Maitimo,' I answer.

I hear a click, as the lock is undone.

'Come in.'

I pull the door open and step in. The black tiles are wet and cold under my bare feet.

'Good morning, Maitimo,' says Tyelkormo, sticking his head, shampoo lathered in his hair, out from behind the curtain.

'Morning, Turko,' I grumble.

His head disappears. I hear him have a brief squabble with Carnistir about the conditioner, and, by the time I am washing my hands, Carnistir is stepping out from the shower and wrapping himself, shivering, in a towel.

'Do you know what we are having for breakfast?' he asks.

'No,' I answer, 'I just got up.'

He nods and pulls on his underpants.

There is a loud knock on the door just at the moment a small timer goes off. 'Your time is up. Turn the shower off,' my father calls through the door.

Tyelkormo groans as he complies. He steps out and roughly grabs the towel from Carnistir. Carnistir glares at him and jerks the rest of his clothes on and walks out, leaving the door ajar.

'Carnistir,' Tyelkormo growls after him, shutting the door hard. He turns to me. 'I don't know why I got stuck with him as a shower mate.'

I shrug. 'He's your brother, and he's close to your age.'

He sniffs as if he finds that inadequate reasoning for the torment that he has to endure, and begins to dress himself.

'It is an efficient system,' I continue, 'and it had to be done. There are too many people in this house for us all to take separate showers.'

He rolls his eyes when he thinks I am not looking and buttons his cardigan to his neck. He pulls on the same pair of ripped jeans that he seems to wear every day, and plaits his still wet hair into a tight braid. Frowning into the mirror, he rubs an invisible spot on his cheek before striding out the door. He nearly bumps into Findekáno, and they mutter quick and superficial apologies as they pass without touching.

Findekáno crosses to the sink and splashes cold water onto his face, shivering in his blue nightshirt. He draws the cold droplets down his neck and rubs his hands across his white cheeks until pink splotches creep onto his high cheekbones. Teeth chattering, he picks up a facecloth and blots his skin dry.

He notices me staring at him and turns to me. 'What is it, 'Timo?'

Silently, I turn the hot water on, run my fingers under the faucet, and reach up and touch his skin with my damp hand. He looks up at me and laughs lightly, shaking his head so that his hair falls over his face.

'It wakes me up,' he says, leaning back against the sink. 'It is self-torture, but it wakes me up.'

'Finde,' I say, cupping his face in my hand and tucking his long hair back behind his ears, as I often did when he was but a child, 'I worry about you.'

This only makes him laugh again, and he pulls away from me. 'I have to go dress,' he says.

)()()()()()()()()(

Ambarussa catch up with me at the bottom of the stairs, and leech on to me as tightly as they can.

'Father says that it is Thanksgiving tomorrow,' says one set of soft salmon lips as the other kisses my cheek a 'good morning.'

'That is the Americans harvest celebration,' says the one who kissed me.

'We were learning about it in school. They made us make turkeys from paper, and they were awful.'

'But the teacher liked them and hung them up on the wall, and ours were the best.'

'But she did not say so. She tries to be so impartial, but she really likes us and thinks that we are…'

'Cute,' they conclude together, wrinkling their noses in half-hearted irritation.

'That is nice, Ambarussa,' I say, simply because I cannot remember half of what they said, they talked so fast.

I step into the kitchen, the twins still latched onto my sides, and seize a couple of warm lemon muffins from where they are left, steaming, on the counter.

'Have you eaten?' I ask them, and they shake their heads, so I pick up four more muffins, drop them all onto a plate, and drag the twins out of the crowded room before they get in someone's way.

I bring them into the living room. The sunlight is peeping in gently through the partly opened curtains, and it shines brightly on the dark floorboards and falls in splotches over the sofa where Amarië and Findaráto are sitting, entwined in each other's arms. They break their kiss when I enter, and I give them an apparent frown of disapproval that I find somehow becomes a grin.

'When are you getting married?' I ask, settling down on the floor with my breakfast.

'Oh, I don't know,' says Findaráto, 'Father says that we are still too young.' He holds Amarië's hand in his lovingly and kisses it. She turns to him and draws him close again for a kiss so slow and tender that I have to turn my face away. They smile at one another, and Findaráto slides his arm around her waist, his other hand twisting through her hair. 'What do you think?'

'You certainly do not act too young,' I answer, 'but I think that you should listen to your father. He certainly knows more about marriage than I do.'

Findaráto nods almost sadly, and they begin to whisper together plans for the future.

I turn back to my breakfast, breaking the warm muffin slowly between my fingers.

'Maitimo,' says my father from behind me. His voice sounds grave and, when I turn to face him, I can see that he looks upset. 'I have to talk to you.'

I take my muffins with me out to the backyard and eat them as my father paces anxiously on the frosty grass. I know innately that I should not speak, so I remain silent and watch him. His body is tense with suppressed emotions; his shirt sleeves are rolled up to his shoulder, and I can see that the muscles on his arms are taut. His fists are clenched. He turns suddenly on me, reaching me in two strides, and tilts my face down.

'Do you know where Curvo is?' he asks.

I shake my head. 'I have not seen him since last night.'

'He is always running off somewhere,' my father says. 'And I do not know where he goes. He makes nothing of it.' He draws a breath of the cold air in sharply and lets it out slowly through gritted teeth.

'Do you want me to look for him?' I ask, taking his hands in mine.

His fingers are tight with worry and are so hot that they feel as if they could melt my skin. I look into his eyes, grey and deep, which flash with an inner fire that I often see in my own, so bright it frightens me. But his fire is more brilliant than mine; the light of the morning sun seems dim in comparison to the light in his eyes. 'Thank-you,' he says. 'I do not know what has gotten into him.'

I do not tell him that Curufinwë's problem is that he has been spoiled all his life and scarcely knows how to take 'no' for an answer. My father will not want to hear that. I just shake my head and head inside to get my coat.

I encounter Findekáno in the hallway.

'What troubles you?' he asks, reading my face in an instant. He places his hand on my shoulder.

'Curufinwë is missing again,' I tell him. 'I am going out to look for him.' I lift my coat off its hook and pull it on, not bothering to button it.

'I am coming with you,' he says, grabbing his coat and hurrying after me.

Even as we step out the door, I spot Curufinwë walking nonchalantly into the driveway, his arms folded and his head high in the November wind. His hair is streaming behind him, flashing black madly.

I rush towards him. 'Curufinwë,' I snap, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him inside. 'Where have you been? Father was worried.' I touch his cheek. 'Why are you not wearing your coat?'

He shrugs my hand off and frowns at me. 'What does it matter to you?' he asks haughtily.

'Curvo!' My father exclaims half in joy and half in anger as he hurries into the hall and gathers his favourite son into his arms.

Curufinwë presses himself against Father and kisses his cheek. 'I love you,' he whispers into his ear.

My father frowns now. 'Do you? Well then, you are going to tell me exactly where you went and what you did. Do you understand?' Curufinwë looks down disappointedly as Father carries him away for interrogation, but I know even now that Curufinwë will tell him little, if anything at all. He has his secrets.

Findekáno takes my hand and squeezes it. 'It is not your fault,' he whispers, for it is only Findekáno who would have known the secret blame that I lay on myself for all my brother's failings. It is useless to tell him that I know that, so I just lay my cheek against his hair and let him comfort me with a song.