Festival of Remembrance

Harlan left through the eastern gate and walked into the plains and fields beyond. Behind him loomed the ancient walls of Astora, standing sentinel over mankind’s largest stronghold. As Harlan walked away, the din of the city slowly faded, its excited, anticipatory sounds falling behind. It was the twenty-first of Artum, which made today the Festival of Remembrance.

North and east of here the elves supposedly had an entire magical temple dedicated to remembrance, but in Astora things were done differently. In the city proper, people were preparing for the day. Already the smell of baked sweets and treats would fill the air, soon booths would be set out with a variety of delicacies to tempt the passerby, and when night fell the gentle glow of thousands of lanterns would fill the sky like an enormous sparkle of fireflies. Raised heads and soft voices would sing in remembrance of those lost, here at the close of the year, a celebration of those worth celebrating, and a final farewell before the next year dawned. It was a time of camaraderie and bittersweet support, but it didn’t feel right to Harlan. It wasn’t the right place to remember her.

Simple pack slung over one shoulder he made his way east, across the Great Plain that surrounded the city. He was young and healthy, and as he walked past farms devoid of workers in preparation for the festival he made good pace, soon seeing his destination ahead. A large boulder, having made its way here from who knows where eons past, leaned against a nearby tree, a large oak, the two silent companions that watched the rotation of the stars overhead here in this great open expanse.

Here beneath the tree’s slowly stretching shadow he laid down his pack, here where the marigolds bloomed. He carefully removed the pack’s contents and placed them with great thought on the boulder next to it, sheets of rice paper with a mold he had designed the previous day, and glue to keep it all together, formed a semi-circle whose other half was formed of his simple supper, water skin, and flint. Lastly, center of it all, he placed a small painted portrait, facing west to the city. Mother always loved to watch the festival from here, and tonight she would get to celebrate it with him once more.

While there was still light to work he began the process of assembling his lantern, each strip of paper wrapped and glued and tautly stretched end to end as the lantern was assembled. Last time he had done this was many years ago and he was pleased to see he still remembered the process. Memories flowed as his hands continued their work, here where he had spent so much time before they had moved to the city proper. *

It’s another cold day, years ago, and Harlan is but a boy wrapped in layers of shirts and a thick coat to ward off winter’s chill. His mother is teaching him, and he does his best to listen because she seems sad today. She hides it well but Harlan knows and so he does his best to be good and make her happy.

"You wrap each one like so, see?” She says, demonstrating for her son. “Then you pull it gently but firmly to the other side, and do it again. As you build it, each piece, each panel represents a memory, ok? Think about Nan, because today is a special day and if we think about her and honor her, she will hear us in the next life and join us tonight.”

Harlan doesn’t really understand this. Nan had passed away months ago and didn’t seem to be coming back, but his Mother was very smart and very sad, so he kept his thoughts quiet and helped glue the paper and hold the pieces for her.

The memories came faster now that he had started, one after another. Climbing the tree while Mother worked in the nearby fields, tumbling through the grass with a friendly stray dog that had visited for some time, his Mother firmly insisting they couldn’t keep it but nevertheless tossing leftovers out for it every night. Harlan took a break to eat the small meal he had packed, and reaching into his pack pulled out one more item, a thick jacket to ward off the deepening chill. A fire would be nice but its glow would rob their sight later tonight when the show would begin, and Harlan wanted his Mother to have one more good view of her favorite place. He turned to place the last few strips of paper, lost in memory once more.

"See these, Harlan? These flowers here.”

Once more they gathered at her favorite place, the tree now filled with leaves, sunlight streaming through in filtered rays. Harlan is older now, an adolescent with a distracted mind; they had just learned their farm was being sold to another Lord, and with no need for extra workers they would soon set out to the city to try their luck there. His mother watched with knowing eyes as he slowly turned his attention back to where she pointed, and she smiled softly as she gestured down again.

"See? These are marigolds. These little flowers have been my favorite since I was your age.”

She stooped and pulled a few, stem and all, from the ground. Absentmindedly she rubbed away the clinging dirt and lifted the flowers for an appreciative sniff, passing them to her son who did the same to humor her. He handed them back and she stowed them in the pack they had brought along.

"These flowers are more than just beautiful, mind you. Use them right and they can cure a fever, cleanse a wound, heal a cut, or erase a bruise. They come back on their own with little help each year, so long as you leave a few behind to take care of themselves.” She gestured to the ground where she had left many flowers intact before she continued. “This old tree is good for them, sheltering them from the worst of the wind and the harsh summer sun. Each year we should come back for more.”

She turned away, looking around the field they would soon leave behind. Harlan plucked another of the flowers on a whim, and tucked it behind his Mother’s ear, having to angle upward only slightly to reach. She turned back, laughing at the gesture, and giving him a sidelong hug they turned and walked to the waiting wagon and whatever awaited in Astora.

The lantern complete, Harlan glanced around the old tree with the last bit of light. Soon the twin moons would rise in the east and darkness would fall save their faint light, but with the last of the humble winter sun’s help he spotted dried, scattered marigolds still lying here beneath the tree, dormant until spring revitalized them again. He pulled up a few, unsure if they would have any healing properties left in their largely decayed state, but placed them in the pack all the same. He stretched out along the ground, staring up at the sky as the first of the stars began to pop into view. Many nights had been spent like this as well; mother pointing out various constellations and telling fantastic tales of how each had come to being. Lost in memory, time slipped away, and before he knew it he glanced west and saw the festival had begun.

Just appearing over the walls, that seemed so small at this distance, rose small paper lanterns by the thousands, the cool winter air accelerating their rise as they all slowly wove their way up and away. They danced and twirled as they sought to rise higher, to create their own new constellations amongst the heavens. Harlan gently grasped his own, and with a bit of flint and tinder he produced a small flame to light the candle inside, quickly extinguishing the small tinder to prevent it from robbing his sight. Candle lit, he waited a brief moment and gently let the lantern go.

The lantern began to float away, picking up speed until it seemed to soar. He watched it fly ever higher and further west, seeming eager to join the other lanterns in the sky, and it seemed to Harlan that it did, reaching and intermingling with the other lanterns. When the lantern joined the others he swore he heard the gentle voices of the city singing in harmony on this night, and he offered his own voice in return. As the last refrain finished he turned and retrieved his mother’s portrait, cheeks damp from tears but smiling. The moons had risen significantly, and their light proved enough to show the way home. His now empty pack was slung once more over his shoulder, and few scant belongings in hand he began his return to Astora. The festivities would be winding down at this point, likely coming to a close long before he made it back, but if he was lucky he would be able to find a pie to eat. He walked alone in body but not in spirit, for today was the Festival of Remembrance. Today his mother had watched as he built a lantern filled with thoughts of her, sending it into the sky to join so many others, from their very own favorite spot. Today she could walk with him one more time, and with that thought in mind he returned home.