The Admonishments of Kherishdar
M.C.A. Hogarth

CUTTING

emeth [ eh MEHTH ], (noun) — perspective; the ability to see oneself in the context of everything else. The cultivation of perspective is considered a necessary requirement for contentment, empathy and healthy, normal behaviors, and many soul-sicknesses are said to be the result of a failure of perspective.

      "I know it's wrong." For once my hands were at rest in my lap. "But I cannot stop."
      "Do you know why it's wrong?" Shame asked.
      I could see only his white face and throat; it seemed strange to be having this conversation in a temple courtyard, with night-blooming flowers perfuming the evening.
      "I know it is selfish," I say. "But I don't know." I swallowed. "Please, Shame. Teach my heart."
      He stretched my arm, twisting it so we could both see the rents I had torn in my skin. I am given to understand that aunera have nails; we have little pointed claws. When they tear flesh, it is... oh, it is good.
      "We begin," Shame said, and showed me a roll of bandages. He bound my arms from palm to shoulder, than both legs, from ankle to thigh. His fingers splayed on my midriff. "Here also?"
      I looked away. He nodded and began anew.
      "This is to keep me from hurting myself?" I asked.
      "No," he said. "This is to teach you not to hurt others." And then he beckoned and from the gloaming came my winter-sister. He gave her a brush and turned my arm wrist-upward. "Scribe here."
      Unshed tears gleamed in her eyes as she met mine. Then she wrote her name on the cloth.
      All of my family came, one by one, to write their names. And then my caste-peers. My friends. Even the merchants I frequented. Lastly the Noble charged with my district and the Regal who governed the province, smelling of incense.
      And then there was silence, and the night was very deep indeed. Shame set my hands back in my lap. "Now you may mark yourself if you wish." And there he left me.
      At first, I resisted. But soon the loathing came again and my fingers stretched toward my arm. When my claw-tips encountered resistance, I glanced at my skin...
      ...and saw the name of my brother. The memory of him writing near the inside of my elbow consumed me and I shuddered. He had found me once. I remembered his frantic worry and made a fist of my hand.
      The next time I reached, I landed on the name of a friend who had begged permission to hold me to keep the cruelty at bay. I had denied him.
      Then it was my father and the guilt in his eyes, wondering how he had failed me.
      ...the tea-girl, who had turned her face from me to hide her tears. The Noble who had tried to Correct me. Everywhere I tried to turn my own hand, I found someone's name, someone's face, the memory of someone's grief.
      When Shame arrived with the dawn, he found me unmarred. Settling across from me, he said, "Well?"
      I whispered, "Will the pain ever go away?"
      "Maybe," he said. "Maybe not. But neither will theirs."
      I covered my face. I could not wish this misery on anyone I loved, no, nor any stranger. "Where will I find the strength?"
      Gently he drew my hands away and showed me the inside of my arms, dense with names. Then he looked at me.
      "Oh," I whispered. "Oh."
      And then I hugged him. He had written his name in something less tangible than ink, but I saw it all the same.


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© 2007, M. C. A. Hogarth