"Zamora - 1 - The Box Supper" by Ashley R. Wynn

Word Count: 1435

Box Supper

“The quickest way into a man's heart is through his belly." Ceruva turned to smile down at the girl carrying in two buckets of water. "We only needed one bucket for now, sweeting."

"Yes, Nana, but it's easier to carry two," Zamora said as she set the wooden buckets down. "Besides, we will need more later for washing."

"There is much wisdom in children." The old woman smiled thoughtfully for a moment before continuing. "Do you know why, child, old women say such things over and over?"

"So that we will remember the words of our elders?" Zamora gave her best guess.

"Well, yes, but also because they hold great truths, even though we often say such things without even thinking of their true meanings."

"Oh." Zamora used a step stool to reach a high shelf of herbs and spices. Though Zamora was nearly fully grown, she was still shorter than her tall grandmother. "Nana, did you teach my father these things?"

"No, child, I didn't. Your father's education was up to your grandfather. I am certain, however, that your mother's mother taught her the things I'm teaching you." The old woman sighed and separated fresh herbs from a basket. "Gods rest all their souls."

"Oh, no, Nana. There's no more garlic." Zamora stumbled from the stool, her face flushed. "How can we make it with no garlic?"

Her grandmother laughed. "In the crawlspace under the stairs child. Where the potatoes are. Might as well bring up a few of those too."

The girl bolted for the cellar door, and Nana's laughter was lost in the thump of small feet on wooden floorboards. The silver haired woman moved a heavy mortar and pestle to their work area. Though she was more than sixty turns old, Nana almost always felt as energetic as Zamora. The girl returned with the garlic and clean-scrubbed red potatoes. She had scrubbed the dirt from a few bushels at harvest time. Her grandmother always had something for her to do to keep busy, body and mind.

"Nana," Zamora asked as she smashing the garlic with the flat edge of a chopping knife. "Are there any red peppers? They have protective juju[1], too, don't they?"

"Yes, sweeting, there is a jar of dried ones on the shelf. I'll get it down; you just keep peeling. We need six cloves. Four for the yard-bird and two for the potatoes." Nana retrieved the jar with ease; her husband had built the shelves at the perfect height for his tall wife.

"Nana, did you go to box suppers when you were my age?" Zamora had never been to a box supper. She had been too young before this one. She had reached her fourteenth turn about six moons ago, at the very beginning of winter.

"No, child, I did not. I grew up in Merdain, a village very far from here. I had never heard of the ritual until I moved here with your grandfather. We did not have the tradition, but I am sure the young people of Merdain would have enjoyed it as much as the ones here do.  We were also always ready for a sociable gathering when we were as young as you."

"And it helps our neighbors, doesn't it, Nana? I mean, that is the point, isn't it? To help the families who lost everything in the fire?" Zamora pushed a strand of dark hair out of her small face with the back of her wrist, being careful not to get the sticky garlic on her face.

Her grandmother paused while scooping the yard bird's innards out and let out a short laugh. She had forgotten why the young men were bidding on the dinners in the first place, other than the chance to dine with the young lady who had prepared the mystery dinner packages. Nana resumed gutting the fresh kill. "I suppose you're right, sweeting. I'd forgotten the box dinners had a dual purpose."

"Box supper, Nana, dinner is at noontime," Zamora automatically corrected, adding garlic to the mortar before crushing it with the pestle.

Unhearing, the old lady tied the yard bird's legs together, a pensive look on her face. She did not point out, however, that the supper was serving three purposes. Almost all of the young men would be leaving the next morning, conscripted for the Emperor’s war. The box supper would be one last memory of their homes and friends; they could carry it with them through the terrible times ahead.

Hours later, Zamora hurried down the stairs, freshly scrubbed and clutching her favorite hair ribbon to her chest.

"Nana, did you set the iron on the stove?" Her face was flushed with anticipation. It was almost time to go to the fairgrounds.

"Yes, sweeting.  I did not forget." Zamora's grandmother was sealing the last bit of brown paper around the box with candle wax and a silver coin. The Emperor's father stared gravely from the wax, his stern mouth set in a line. "You should have pressed it yesterday, when we pressed your dress."

"But I wanted to wear it, Nana." Zamora spread the ribbon out on her grandmother's small ironing board. Picking up the iron with a thick-quilted potholder, Zamora began to press the long ribbon she often braided into her hair. Once it was free of wrinkles, she wrapped it around the box Nana had wrapped while Zamora changed into her green party dress.

Nana put a helpful finger on the knot as her granddaughter tied the shiny blue ribbon into a perky bow.  As she made her careful knots, Zamora mumbled rhymes her grandmother had taught her.  Zamora felt tightness in her belly and light-headedness, as if she was not getting enough air into her lungs.

One of the Gartson boys had given the ribbon to her some time ago. Nana could not recall if it had been Klee or his older brother Karn. Only a few turns older than Zamora, both had been her playmates since she had come to live with her grandparents eight turns ago. Their grandmother, the local healer, had been the first in the village to extend her friendship to Nana when she had settled down with Zamora's grandfather. Others were not so welcoming of strangers, but the majority of her new neighbors had warmed up to her over time.

"Do I look okay, Nana?" Zamora did a turn in her long green dress. Completely emancipated from her normal braids and ribbon, her dark hair fell to her exposed elbows. Her wide eyes sparkled with excitement.

"You look beautiful, sweeting. No worries." Although Nana would never reveal her elbows so daringly, even in a party dress, she had seen some of the other girls' dresses, and knew them to be of a similar fashion.  Her dead husband’s tiny hometown only boasted one dressmaker.

"Alright, I'm ready then. I'll see you after the supper!" Zamora gave her grandmother a kiss on the cheek and carefully picked up the warm box. She could smell the meal, and savored its herbal goodness. She had put it all together with only the minimal help of her grandmother's expert supervision. That was part of the rules, of course.

Each young lady had to prepare a meal and put it in an unmarked package. This part of the rules was a little lenient, because they could decorate the package as much as they wanted, as long as there was nothing written on it. Zamora's friend Jally was going to tie a rose onto hers so that her sweetheart, Evan, would be able to spot it and know whose supper he was bidding on. Others were different shapes and sizes, with a multitude of ribbons and bows, all to entice the bids of the village's young men. The suppers were auctioned off to the highest bidder, and all the proceeds went to the needy families. If someone outbid Evan, then Jally would have to dine with the winner. Some young men bid randomly, others knew whose boxes they bid on, and still others bid for what sort of dinner they thought they could smell in the package. Though the suppers were not held often, they were usually a great success.

Zamora hurried down the dirt road, catching up with a few other girls carrying their own suppers. They would arrive earlier than the young men, so that the anonymity of the packages would be further preserved.  Zamora tried to breathe deeply, and calm down.  She made herself smile and gossip with the others as they hurried towards the fairground.