Zhekiza

Zhekiza

Giorgi picked a large lemon from the basket and rinsed it in the basin filled with cool water in the kitchen. It was lemon season. They were falling from the trees, punctuating the gray-green stones of the atrium with dots of yellow. It was a warm day. A beautiful day. The sun was rising over the azure sea. A beautiful day, if only he could forget what lay ahead.

He caught a small quick movement down the stone steps, heading to the lemon grove. He leaned forward, squinting out the window -- who was out so early?

It was Hesti, his youngest, thoughtfully examining each branch, and gently selecting one lemon at a time, carefully placing each one into her favorite basket. A basket nearly as large as she was. She moved through the grove with silent determination, as if each lemon was the most important choice she could ever make.

She must have been woken early by one of her dark dreams. She never spoke of them, but instead would move through the day as if there were a heavy weight on her shoulders. Too much for a small child, but she bore it well.

She had moved onto the almond grove, standing on her tiny toes to reach the ripest, and she tottered a bit. Giorgi resisted the urge to call out. When she was this focused, she would not hear him anyway. Who was he to interrupt such a sacred act? Dates were next. She wiped sticky fingers on her tunic, her unruly curls falling into eyes gray as the winter sea. A lump rose in his throat. He looked away.

He went back to his task. Soup– egg lemon soup with shore-herbs, adding a peppery bass note. Mauran would rise soon, and this was her favorite. Today was going to be an impossible day, it was the least he could do for her. Everything else just seemed meaningless now. He loved her and she loved this soup. Sometimes the simple answer was the best answer.

He heard soft footfalls on the stairs from the loft and he looked away, focusing on the wall in the reading room – covered in commendations for Mauran’s exceptional skill and bravery, guiding the fleet to new lands, defending the harbors. He heard her sit, heard her softly breathing in the scent of the soup. “Thank you” she said. Giorgi looked out the window and nodded silently. She took a few spoonfuls, blowing on the broth with a whistle– something he always found endearing—then laid her spoon down. A deep intake of breath. Then, “You may speak now, Giorgi.”

She knew what he had done. But they had not spoken of it, yet. Tradition granted Mauran silence, and he had given it to her. Had been glad of it, in a way. What could he say, after all? What excuse could he give?

He began, haltingly. “I just never felt I could create a life you deserved, Mauran. The proper school for Hesti, training at the temple for Safi, a more dignified home--”

“We created a life together, husband. A beautiful life. We have astonishing and wise daughters. What more could one want?”

Giorgi took in a deep breath and whispered what he had never said aloud, what woke him in the darkest hours of the night: “I was afraid you would change your mind about me, my dearest one. Always so afraid.”

Silence.

Tears glittered on her cheeks. Then, “Well. You were wrong”.

###

The outdoor gallery of the Moot was completely filled: rings and rings of stone benches rising along the hillside, so old that much of the stone had been eroded by rains, covered in soft moss. Giorgi had never seen it from this perspective, standing at the base of the amphitheatre. It was daunting to look up and see all those people. And it would only get worse.

In front of him stood Arbiter of Justice, Louisa, in full regalia, holding the scales in her hand, wrapped in white and in red cloth. Mauran was in her captain’s finest, her cap covered in embroidered seashells rendering her taller than ever. Her gray-streaked hair coiled at the nape of her neck, held by the silver starfish hairpin he had given her on their wedding day. Sofi wore her temple attire: a simple ivory tunic, bare feet to sense what the earth could teach, bare arms to listen to the air, a silver goblet of water to symbolize the sea. And little Hesti, her tunic still dusty from the morning’s work, her dark curls framing her face like thunderclouds.

Louisa raised her hand. The crowd fell silent.

“We are here today for the determination of the council to be read regarding the allegations against Giorgi Likos, Arbiter of Taxes.”

She thrust forth the scales. “On one side, we have his long service to this city, his contributions to the education of the training of apprentice auditors. His family’s role in protecting this city--” she nodded toward Mauran--- “and sustaining the highest intellectual and ethical order--” nodding toward Safi and little Hesti-- “must also factor.”

To the white-wrapped side of the scales she added a handful of stones, tipping the balance.

“On the other side, we have a confession of wrongdoing, a betrayal of the public trust for personal gain.” She held out another handful of stones– did he sense a hesitation?– then placed them upon the red-wrapped side of the scales.

Time seemed to slow. It was as though all the air had been sucked from the amphitheatre … but the scales tipped as he knew they would.

Toward red.

The fire was lit.

Louisa’s assistants stepped purposefully toward him and gently removed his white sash – his lineage – all the stories from Yiayi, Popi, the aunties, his wife, his children – his life! He felt the loss of its weight in every way. They laid the cloth across his open hands, then led him to the pyre.

He knew the words he must now say. He hated them.

Using the ritual knife, he tore the embroidery from his sash. With each cut he stated, loudly so all could hear “I am not worthy of this story! I am not worthy of this name! I am not worthy of my ancestors!” Then he cast the threads into the flames. His stories. His life. Each burnt to ash. To nothing.

And that was not the worst of it.

Mauran, Safi, and Hesti stepped forward, to slice his name off their own sashes. He closed his eyes, as each in turn cast his name into the flames. But he could not block their words: “You are no longer part of us!”

Mauran backed stoically to her position. Hesti had to guide her weeping older sister as they-- and all the other witnesses-- turned their backs upon him.

“You are hereby CAST OUT!” Louisa called. “You shall be Nameless henceforth, and carry the stain of your crimes. That is your name, and you have no other!”

He stared at the black sash they had left at his feet. Finally, he bent and picked it up, but still he could not bear to read it. He stood, as dictated, waiting until the entire amphitheatre emptied. The last to leave was Hesti. She turned to him, something in her gray eyes – a message? But he did not understand it.

He finally looked at the black sash. It read, simply, THIEF.

#

Three paths led from the ampitheatre.

He could walk to the rocky cliffs overlooking the sea. That was where many threw themselves into the waters, hoping for a blessing from the Goddess of the Calm Sea, or perhaps as the air rushed by, a touch from the God of the Blue Sky. Absolution.

He could climb to the limestone caves carved into the cliffs below. He could live there, among the other Nameless, eeking out a wretched existence, too fearful to die, yet not brave enough to live.

Or, he could walk the high grassy cliffs overlooking the sea. He could embrace the unknown.

Giorgi considered his choices. He breathed. Then he took a step, along the cliffside trail, toward the unknown.

It was then that he saw it, perched upon a rock covered in moss and surrounded by his favorite blue starflowers:

A basket. A basket filled with perfectly chosen lemons and dates and almonds. A basket almost bigger than his daughter Hesti.

With hope in his heart he grabbed the basket and walked forward.