“It’s so fucking fake.”

  “They’re just trying—”

  “They’re trying to pretend they didn’t send him away and force him to be alone.”

  Mother, HoPa, and LoPa were talking in hushed voices. My brothers and I were pretending not to listen. It was night. Cold outside, dark inside.

  “He was still part of the clan,” HoPa said. “He belonged—”

  “If he belonged then he’d have been with his family, married, with a couple of children.” Mother’s whispers were fierce, almost shouts. “We all pretend the clan is one big happy group of people, but you know it’s shit. You know better than anyone, Kalna.”

  Sighing. I think it was HoPa because his voice followed it, “They’re allowed their grief, whether you agree with it or not.”

  Mother laughed through her nose, “A hollow grief. Grief as performance. That’s what Vandu’s best at. She acts the mild leader. The compassionate Mother who must break her children. At least my mother had the tits to put a knife in your neck. This shunning—this slow Death she gives to the Edgers is obscene.”

  LoPa’s melodious voice entered, “We’re Edgers. We’re not—”

  “Shut up, Dain.”

  Akmuo and Medis held hands and drew figures in the dirt. The conversation lowered to indistinct murmurs, though it was clear my mother controlled the conversation. I joined them in the drawing. They didn’t hold my hands. They drew meaningless lines and I did too. Swirls and long curves that flowed out from the center. My brothers were speaking without words. I could tell. The tendons in their boyish arms undulated, like they were changing the pressure of their grip. They didn’t make eye contact though. But a head onto one shoulder, a change in pressure, in grip—this is how they spoke. They shared a heart and a face and a language none would ever know but them.

  “It’s not that simple, Dain,” my mother’s voice. “Kalna, no, shut up. You will both listen to me. Neither of you watched what was happening because you’re not warriors. You’ve never had to watch someone so close. Study their movements. Listen to their words and what they mean. There were at least five factions at that funeral. Vandu—”

  “Please, call her First Mother.” HoPa’s voice.

  A pause. Then a loud exhale. “First Mother is one faction. Everyone obeys her and she’s tied closely to the Flower Families. They love her because she came from their circle. The rest of the inner circle and even some of those living beside her in the sacred Yurts don’t much care for her.” The sound of scratching, like she was drawing in the dirt. Making a diagram. “First Mother stood at MotherTree, of course. Around her were the most loyal of the innermost circle. Just to their left were the Flowers, clumped together. To her right were the other Yurters and the entire inner circle. The shaman, of course. When First Mother began singing, they immediately drowned her out. Maybe you two thought they were being charitable to poor Lapas, giving extra volume to his Death. But that wasn’t the intention, and First Mother felt it. She didn’t stop singing but her face filled with rage that she tried to cover with her mask of affected sorrow. It was there, like a gouge in her bark. Those are the two main factions of the clan, and everything else spills out from there. Beside the Flower Families were Saule, Morka, Kmyna, Bulve, Arbat, and all their people. These are the Growers. Most of the food consumed in the village is grown by them and their families and friends. But they want more. They’re close to The Flowers, but they also want status above them. You can see it in their every interaction. They’ve always complained about the status of the Flower Families and how that was meant to be a rotating honor, just like the Yurters. They want to enforce that tradition, because then it puts them on top. They produce the food. They hold all the power. Still following? Beside the Yurters were the warriors. They don’t want status and they don’t much care for the Yurters at all. What they want is the honor they deserve. They want battle and glory and for First Mother to quit hiding her tail in her cunt. Now, the fifth group can be broken down into various other factions, but it consists of the rest of the clan. Those without special status, who must live by the rules, regardless of what they want. What they can grow is restricted and determined by the Growers, who put pressure on First Mother to enforce this, and she threatens families with these soft long-term punishments. The Edge. Now, the rest of the clan, they just want what’s best for their families. They don’t care about glory or honor or status. Well, some of them do. It’s a diverse group there. Some want to rise. They want to be the Growers or Flowers or move into the Yurt or even be picked as the next First Mother, but most of them just want to live.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  “But see, this is the clan. We’re all meant to be like the stories. Together forever. Equal. ‘We shall sing as one stream for we’re all Her dream.’ But that’s not how it works. When First Mother dies, the next could bring us back to yours or my old home, but do you think that likely?” She slapped the ground, a dull thud. “Of course not. It’s easier to keep us out here. We had position, Kalna, and now other people occupy that space. They won’t give it up—and they shouldn’t have to—but they also don’t want to open paths for us to be brought back in. They don’t want the wolfwitch and her wildlings to grow up with the rest of them. What if Luna was allowed to be a warrior or hunter and then First Mother some day? What if some darling girls fell in love with our boys and brought them into the inner circle or even the Yurts?

  “It’s easier for everyone with status to keep the rest of us without it. Dain may be the greatest singer this fucking place has ever heard, but did you even notice how those around us shouted over him?”

  The whisper was lost halfway through what she said and transitioned into a yell. Her breathing was audible. Her rage bubbling through the air of our home. She slowed it down. Her breath getting quiet and then even.

  LoPa’s voice was quiet, “The kids heard everything.”

  HoPa appeared and sat with us, a smile stuck to his mouth, but his eyes were glassy. “What’re you drawing?”

  He spoke to us and made conversation to shroud the words LoPa and my mother shared. I heard some of them. LoPa was making the point that the stories should be respected, even if they weren’t true. He thought it would be harder for us—my brothers and me—if we accepted that the clan hated us or if we believed we were no longer part of the clan or if we believed that the clan hated itself. He always waited for my mother to stop speaking and was usually spoken over. Mother never shouted and much of what they said was too hard to make out with HoPa’s chattering.

  It was like a game we were all playing. HoPa was pretending there was no argument to be heard and we were pretending that we couldn’t hear it. We kept up conversation with HoPa. I don’t know why. I think LoPa was right, maybe. That we wanted to be part of the clan, even if it only caused us pain.

  But back then, I was thinking of Lapas. How the clan and First Mother had killed him. How only I had shown him kindness. Made him feel whole and welcome.