Why Numair Hates Midwinter
A sob story
"Numair!" Daine called. "Where are you?"
"In my workroom, magelet," he replied from the highest room in the tower. "Come on up!"
Daine raced up the stairs and into the workroom, where Numair was sitting on a high stool and taking notes on a bubbling pot. "It's snowing!" she said, dancing around the small space.
Numair grinned, looking out the window. "This is more than just snow, it's a blizzard!"
"How perfect," Daine said with a sigh. "A blizzard on midwinter."
Numair stiffened. "That's right," he said tensely, "tomorrow is the first day of midwinter. I'd forgotten."
Daine was confused. "Forgotten? But how could you forget? 'Midwinter comes but once a year' and all that…"
"I don't usually celebrate it when I'm not at the palace," Numair interrupted, turning abruptly back to his work.
"Whyever not?" Daine asked. "I mean, everybody celebrates Midwinter, it's the best holiday all year and it's so pretty when there's snow and people are singing midwinter tunes and everyone puts blue cloths over their door…wait, you've never done that."
"That's right," Numair said coldly. "I told you, I don't like to celebrate midwinter."
Daine wondered how her teacher's demeanor could have gone from so warm to so edgy in such a short time. She cautiously circled around until she could see his face; his brow was furrowed, his dark eyes inscrutable, and she could see his hands trembling. Startled, she took a few nervous steps forward and carefully placed her small hands over his own large ones. He looked up at her and softened his expression somewhat.
"Daine," he said quietly, "I'm sorry. I've been very insensitive. You live here too, now, and if you'd like to celebrate midwinter, we can, blue cloth and all."
Daine shook her head. "I don't care about midwinter," she said. "I just want to know why you don't like it." Numair closed his eyes and shook his head. Daine squeezed his hands and whispered, "please!"
He opened his eyes, and she could see that they were filled with pain and sorrow. He pulled up a stool for her and she sat. "You know I can't deny you anything. But this isn't a story you really need to hear. It's not a story anyone needs to hear."
Daine tucked her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. "I do."
My mother's family used to be nobility, before Carthak conquered their kingdom. My mother's parents fled Ekallatum and settled in Tyra—my grandmother was pregnant with my mother at the time. Although my mother never had anything growing up, my grandmother used to tell her that some day, she would arrange a marriage for her with a rich man. My grandmother chose my father: he was very young, only about seventeen, but already had his own fairly successful merchant business. My mother never expected much, but was, of course, happy when the business continued to grow and she could provide a comfortable life for her family.
Of course, a merchant has to work very hard, especially when he's just starting out, and father was away from home a lot—working, my mother always told us. I remember when I was maybe five years old, I would wake up in the middle of the night to hear him tiptoe in the door. Mother would always stay up until he came home, sitting at the kitchen table with a book and a candle. Some nights I would sit up with her and she would teach me to read the language that her mother taught her, the one used back in Ekallatum. No, I don't remember any of it, but I can still read it because of a course I took at the University—archaeology, I think it was, or provincial cultures.
Anyway, if I were sitting with my mother when my father came home, he would just glare and go straight to their room. She would send me to bed and then follow him. But some nights, I would be awake in my room, and I would hear them argue. They always did it very quietly, but you could tell that they wished they would shout. Mother would accuse him of all kinds of things—drinking and gambling and stealing and sleeping with other women. Who knows if she was right? He never admitted it and never denied it.
They were still carrying on like this years later, when I was nine and went off to the University. It was so nice not to have to worry about them anymore, and I almost forgot about their fights. But then I came home for midwinter.
My brothers and sister were older by then, and they had noticed the same tensions between our parents that I had. The fourth morning of midwinter, my mother cooked breakfast for everyone as usual. When she set my father's plate down in front of him, she announced that since it was the solstice and a holiday, there was no need for him to go to work and he could finally stay home with the family. "I have to go," he said, and she wouldn't let him.
He got up to leave, and she barred the door. So he—he slapped her in the face, so hard that it left a red mark the shape of his hand on her cheek. Tears started running down her face but she didn't move, so he hit her again, and again, and again.
You see, my father was raised in Sarain where they regard a wife as a man's property. He yelled at her, and said that she was a whore, and that she was acting out of her place. "I'm the man of this house," he shouted, over and over again. When she was unconscious he stormed out.
My brother and I took her to a healer, who agreed to care for her and told us to come check on her the next day. When we came back, she was gone—maybe she ran away from the healer, or said that she'd go home on her own, or maybe she died from internal injuries. It doesn't matter—we never saw her again, and no one spoke of her for the rest of the midwinter holiday. I went back to the University after that and I haven't seen my home since. Well, of course I have. This tower is my home, the palace is my home, and even Carthak was my home. You're probably one of the few people that understands that.
I've never told that to anyone. In a way, it made me feel better. Do you know where I could find some blue cloth?
