echoes of imeretian valleys.
imereti, georgia.
october 2020.
Julian was five years old, and he had not yet proven he was magical.
This was something that Livia, although young herself, was fully aware troubled her parents. After all, Livia herself had produced a rather explosive first instance of magic when she was barely three. Séamus and Natela had both been young for their first showing of magical capability, although not quite as young as their daughter. Everyone on Natela's side of the family, too, had shown prowess before the age of six, at least as far as anyone could recall.
Concern over Julian's lack of magical development had led the adults to bring him and his sister to Georgia during autumn. This was not very common; most often, they visited in summer. In fact, the discrepancy between the usually warm, sunny, bright green surroundings and the colour-changing trees and overcast weather of now meant Livia had not been able to feel comfortable in the place she thought she loved the most. Thus, she had spent most of the stay hidden away inside, only occasionally peering out the window before the weirdness of the weather needled her back to her studies. The few times she ventured outdoors were to accompany Julenka, for whom rain seemed a surprisingly amiable texture. She humoured him by racing him on some toy brooms their aunt and uncle had provided. Of course, she emerged victorious, a winning streak that ultimately resulted in tears from Julian and a scolding from their mother.
It stung.
Livia was not the type to outwardly express pain. She had learned enough of strategy to understand that visible pain was a weakness of the highest calibre. She had learned enough of pure-blood politics to understand that weakness, in any form, was not permissible. Thus, like usual, her mouth remained shut and her expression largely neutral. The resting blankness was something she had curated to appease other wealthy families, as well as her own, although, just like her victory over her beloved brother, it seemed her efforts could never procure positive recognition.
She did not speak to her mother for twenty-four hours, and this silence was like her armoured expression – created from curiosity and confusion, not necessarily malice. She would not have called it sulking, although her parents did. She did not deign to contradict them, instead sitting in silence while working on a small woodcarving. She had let her legs curl underneath her upon the couch; although it was unladylike, no one had yet told her to fix the manner in which she was seated.
— Ливушка, что ты вырезаешь?1 —
The deep, gravelly voice of her дедушка2 made her lift her head. Again, Livia did not smile – no, she had learned that smiling still resulted in scolding. Victory was never true, not when it was always soured by a different type of loss. But she still made eye contact with Levan, who held his hand out, as if asking to see the carving she was working on.
— Птица,3 — she replied, her voice level. Slowly, she offered her grandfather the carving.
He took it in his calloused hands, and the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes deepened as he smiled at her. Livia eyed him as he ran his thumb over one of the more obviously birdlike parts of the carving. He reached out towards her, and she remained still, hesitant, unsure. Then, he tucked some of her hair behind her ear, and that was all.
She did not mind it.
— Это же клюв, верно?4 — Levan rested his thumb underneath a section of the cedar that Livia had carved to be pointier. She nodded. — Очень хорошо, Ливушка.5
The praise warmed something deep inside her, and she could not halt her lips from curving upwards at the corners. It was as if a different woodcarver had decided to redesign her very features. Her face felt as if she had stood in the sun for too long, but she liked the sun, and she yearned for it often. She found herself leaning closer to her grandfather, the « Большое спасибо,6 » escaping her before she could stop it. The expression of gratitude was rushed and rasped, but indubitably honest. Raw.
Levan, too, was a carver. He was the individual from whom Livia had first learned the basics of technique. He primarily worked with wood, so that was the medium with which he had taught her, although they both knew she adored the look, feel and greater permanence of stone. One day, she'd told both of them, she would work with granite, with marble, with alabaster. For now, though, she would remain content with cypress and cedar, the woods grown in her family's orchards.
His praise, therefore, was special – it was surely earned, as he understood the art itself. Furthermore, he did not give praise lightly. It was rare, well-measured, unlike the kind words Livia's mother always imparted to her brother.
The reminder of Julian made the smile fade, a carving weathered and eroded by harsh wind and rain.
(It was wrong: Julenka was so often the shining sun Livia herself revolved around like a devoted moon.)
— В чем дело, Лисичка?7 —
Levan had sat next to her; Livia turned to face him as the cushion beneath her dipped. She blinked. He handed her the carving; carefully, she set both the mass of wood and the knife on the armrest of the couch. She tried – oh, she tried – to read whatever was in his deep brown eyes, so like her brother's, so like her mother's. She tilted her head, not unlike a bird herself, and pondered her response.
No, she could not read her grandfather's mind. But he was the only one who called her Ливушка8, the only one who called her Лисичка9. He was the only one who had ever asked her if something was wrong. His hands were calloused and large and safe. His words were gruff and never in English but always so very kind.
Visible pain was weakness. Weakness was not permissible. But with her grandfather, who had actually asked after her? Weakness was not permissible – that was true. Answering a question, though, and giving an honest response?
Well, she could hardly lie to her grandfather.
— Я не знаю,10 — she said finally. Her voice was soft, hesitant. — Мы с Жуленькой... мы мчались. Я победила.11 — She had to stop before her voice drew taut. It would not break. She would not break. She swallowed and coughed a little before making eye contact with her grandfather. — Я считала, что победа... что победа — хорошо.12
She did not know how to express the rest of it. That she'd won and had felt as if she'd lost. That she felt something she could not name towards her brother. That it had simmered and grown even more into that unnamable thing, but also anger, even rage, which she did understand. Cautiously, she added, — Возможно, я в ярости. Матушка сказала, что я веду себя недобрая. Но я... я сказала на Жуленке, что очень хорошо справился!13
It all came out like a tidal wave, and afterwards, Livia slouched against the cushion behind her, placing her hand to her mouth as if that would take back her outburst. She scrunched up her eyes so she would not cry. It made her mouth move, too. She had to focus on her breathing, but even that was ragged, so she crossed her arms and hugged herself. It's stupid, she thought. It was an overreaction, an aberration. She was not like this. She'd worked too hard not to be like this.
She had closed her eyes; thus, she did not notice when her grandfather pulled her close. She was not hugged often, and she only very occasionally initiated such contact herself. The gesture made her breath catch, and she was not sure where to put her hands. She blinked her eyes open and stared up at Levan, who just ran a hand through her hair and patted her head. Slowly, she wrapped her arms around her grandfather's sturdy frame, letting herself bury her face against his shoulder. The tears would not come – she would not let them – but for a moment, she thought it would not be so bad if she did.
He patted her head again, soothingly humming an old song underneath his breath. The rumbling of the melody made her relax, and soon, Livia was no longer heaving angry gasps but instead breathing slowly, almost as if asleep.
But she would not sleep. She would not let this moment go to waste. The hug was nice, and it was warm, and she felt quite secure. And it said more than words. It was a silent assurance that she was allowed to be angry, she was allowed to win, she was allowed to be loved – at least around him.
It was all of those things – nice, warm, secure, telling. But more than that, it was a lesson: take that which you love, and hold it tightly, as if you wish never to let it go.
translations.
1. Livushka, what are you carving?
2. grandfather
3. A bird.
4. This is the beak, no?
5. Very nice, Livushka.
6. Thank you (a lot).
7. What's wrong, little fox?
8. Affectionate/tender diminutive form for Livia.
9. Affectionate name, 'little fox', referring to cleverness.
10. I don't know.
11. Julenka and I... we were racing. I won.
12. I thought that winning... that winning was a good thing.
13. Maybe I'm furious. Mother said I wasn't being kind. But I... I said Julenka did very well!
[staff] jessamine lancaster | marina alacrán [inpc]