Spring, fourteenth year of the Pererhôdo Generation

They said marriage made a bride and groom divine: for if all spirits are brides and grooms, all brides and grooms are like the spirits.

If that was the case, Ledjemobo, daughter of the Heron Clan, and Inennabhara, son of a son of Turtle Clan, became divine on a crisp spring morning. As the morning progressed, the pair sat on their marriage stools, carved in ebony by master craftsmen from the southern city of Amadahai, and stole giddy glances of each other. It was the first time for both of them: their Ibosso Hadân had yet to be exchanged.

It was a solid match, and all the mothers in the council had considered it suitable. Ledjemobo was healthy, vital, skilled and wise beyond her years; Inennabhara was strong and ambitious but of temperate disposition and respectful of his elders. Both descended from the old lineages of the Lannarhana, the famous clans of Kamabarha: Ledjemobo provided the wealth of Heron while Inennabhara, who had the blood but not the name, would receive a new home, and a new position of respect.

"Do you wish for some Crabapple wine..." The boy paused and smirked. "... wife?"

"I would be delighted..." The girl moved her copper cup closer to the caraffe. "... husband."

They were happy, there was no denying that. Marrying made them divine, of course, but it also gave them opportunities to act like older people, to be given responsibilities, to be considered adults in a world of mothers and fathers. Both of them were very attractive, too, which certainly helped.

The boy looked at the girl. Her hair was long and shiny, braided by a Kabaima in her employ: the flowers of early spring had been carefully positioned in the folds of each braid. On her forehead, she sported the pererhôdo, the triple stalk of rôdo, a symbol of fertility and the namesake of their generation. She smiled at him. The tiny, adorable gap between her front teeth was uncovered and covered once again as she brought the cup to her lips. A droplet trickled down, tracing the contour of her mouth. Later that day, he would kiss those very lips – he could scarcely wait.

The girl looked at the boy. His hair fell in a single plait over his right shoulder, tied with blue ribbons. The first sunny days of spring had turned his skin to a deep, pleasant copper, and his body was toned by the sports and pleasure hunts that all the mele melên, the sons of sons, took part in during their days of leisure. On his forehead was the symbol of the herder and the symbol of the husband, superimposed. Herder and husband, as the wisdoms said, should be one and the same: a protector, respectful and caring of the treasure they were bequeathed. He smiled and took a sip of his own. She would cling to him later, feeling the strength of his arms.

The ceremony came before either of them could realise it. The stood up, walking to their ibosso, their personal treasures.

The man spoke first:"I give you my Ibosso, Ledjemobo, lannazjarha of Heron Clan. With this exchange I join your clan, I join your hearth, I join your bed. With this exchange, I give my love."

His vase was cearly the work of a Kemesasan master: the celadon glowed as if it were pure jade and its handles were shaped in the form of bison heads. Within the vase were a few small disks of copper, brass and silver, the precious, multicoloured feathers of rare birds, a folded shawl of cattail wool, embroidered with the symbols of Turtle clan. Above those precious goods, were other, smaller things: little scrolls of birchbark paper. "Two oxen from the herd of Turtle Clan", "One stone brazier from the personal holdings of Nonohorhorho, father of Inennabhara", "One fine tunic of dyed indigo from the personal holdings of Nonohorhorho, father of Inennabhara", and so on.

Ledjemobo accepted the heavy vase and put it by her side. It was her turn to make a gift.

"I give you my Ibosso, Inennabhara, mele melên of Turtle Clan. With this exchange you join my clan, you join my hearth, you join my bed. With this exchange, I give my love."

Her Ibosso was smaller, but finely decorated on all sides. She had made it herself, as was the tradition for young girls of breeding, when she first became a woman. The glyphs painted on the round surface of the vase were added as she grew older, acquiring experience, wisdom and friendships. She wrote, on the upper rim of the vase, the names of her elder sisters and the mothers of her clan. On the bottom, the name of her two kabaima and of Ibhonoiro, her favourite and best friend. In the middle were the proverbs that guided her life: the symbol of the persimmon tree, the symbol of the jar of ointment, the symbol of the maple leaf and the weed.

The matriarchs took the vases, completing their procession to the treasury of the palace, while the bride and groom were escorted to their marriage bed. They walked the great corridors, flanked by Kabaima, hand in hand.

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Autumn, Third year of the Adjadanôrho Generation

The leaves were of a spectacular red that morning, as the families took their place under a wide canopy by the lake. It was the first day of the harvest feast, and the rôdo that year had been abundant enough to fill the granaries of Kamābarha and be sent off in large crates to the smaller city that lived under its protection.

Ledjemobo had found her self on another stool, that day, flanked by a different man, ready to be wed. It was not a true wedding, but the ceremony that bound the two officiants of the harvest festival – they had to be a man and a woman, and they had to be ritually wed for the six days of celebrations.

Ledjemobo had been chosen because earlier that year she had given birth to twins – a boy and a girl. Their birth had been a cause of great excitement in the palace, and the council of matriarchs was suddenly more ready to hear her opinion and counsel.

The man beside him, Cezjedjeihe had been chosen for his military prowess. The second son of one of the great mothers, he had distinguished himself in the battle that quelled the rebel servants of Konosomo. He had the scar on his left cheek to prove it.

"Some wine, nodorhoi Ledjemobo?" He said, caraffe in hand. "Or should I call you wife, these days?"

She smirked. "Not until the ceremony is done, Cezjedjeihe." She took the cup. "Thank you."

Her eyes darted across the long table of the attendants to her husband – her true husband. Their eyes met and they shared a timid smile.

"I wanted to offer you my sincerest congratulations on your birth. They say you had twins?"

"I'm surprised you should ask, Cezjedjeihe. I thought everyone knew."

He chuckled. "Oh, indeed, the most famous mother in all Arha. More famous, they say, than our elder nodorhoi."

"Well, I hear you are getting quite famous yourself, valiant warrior." She touched her cheek, and shot him an eloquent look.

"This?" He said, pointing to his scar. "Oh, it's nothing – nothing compared to what the Kabaiha that did it received in return." He had covered the vertical scar with a glyph and had drawn the same symbol on the other cheek, symmetrically. They were rather appealing drawings – then again, he was a rather appealing man.

His oiled hair sat on a small cape that draped his shoulders. His eyes were wide, brown and kind – but a hint of malicious hilarity sat at the bottom of his pupils at all times. She smiled.

The man moved closer. "You know, nodorhoi Ledjemobo, I have been wanting to marry you for some time."

She blushed. "Well, a week is all you will get, I'm afraid."

"That is enough for me. The spirits are allowing me to marry the most famous and beautiful of all the nodorhoi. I am lucky enough as it is. Shall we begin the ceremony?"

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Spring, Fourth year of the Adjadanôrho Generation

"Winter and the end of a marriage: something dies, some things are born again."

When Inennabhara said those words, a few months before, mother Ledjemobo had felt a pang of regret. Now, as the bride and her former husband stood alone in an empty stool room, that proverb swirled around Ledjemobo's head again.

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you, Inennabhara."

"But not as beautiful as you were on our wedding day."

An embrace and an tense silence followed that attempt at a compliment. She truly was beautiful. Motherhood had turned Ledjemobo into a different woman: stronger, wiser, surer of herself. She wore a long marriage tunic, a copper plate hung around her neck over he breast, a jade headdress covered her brow.

"You know, coni," The woman said, affectionate. "I truly have given my love to you."

"I know. I have too." The man was calm, as temperate as he had always been, but the woman couldn't help but notice the bitterness in his voice. "Now we're taking it back, just like our ibosso."

At the divorce ceremony, only one month before, they had exchanged the vases once again. A few pieces of paper in Ledjemobo's vase had been moved to Inennabhara's: just like that, their marriage had ended.

"You will find someone too, Inennabhara."

"I know."

"I have recommended you to the mothers. You have enough now to find a woman, found a clan, make your own name –"

He interrupted her. "The name of the Heron was enough for me... Only I was not enough for you."

Dark eyes stared at dark eyes. He kissed her one last time.

"I hope you and Cezjedjeihe will be happy. He's the luckiest of men."

Inennabhara walked away, their hands separated forever.

The ceremony was about to begin.