“Hurry up, granddaughter, we wouldn’t want our guests to find us unprepared,” Aifa’s grandmother commented, more to assuage her own tension than anything else. Everything had been prepared, cleaned, shined to a blinding polish, planned to the last detail. “Today is a big day, you know, the time when the door between life and death is left ajar, so we can rejoice in our departed loved ones’ presence once again.”

“How would I know if they are here, doyenne?” Aifa asked, a little confused.

“Oh, you will know, child. When they arrive, without a doubt, you will know. Where are the sweets?” she asked, worried again, only to notice that the table had been properly set and everything was already on it.

“Knead joyfully, granddaughter, you don’t want that bread to be heavier than a rock,” grandmother teased.

All the Caretakers were gathered at their house to bake together for the Day of Abundance. They had started early in the morning and the aroma of fresh bread, right out of the oven, filled the whole house. Under their diligent hands, the first grains of harvest yielded their goodness, transformed into an elastic and malleable dough that was lighter than air.

Masterful fingers kneaded and shaped it into a million different shapes, crescents, wreaths, boules, baguettes, rolls, and, to the absolute delight of the children, little bread critters.

The middle of July brought with it an abundance of early harvest, but the Caretakers were so busy, they didn’t even notice the buoyant unfolding of life around them. They spent day after day, gathered around the Twins, listening to the wisdom the two poured forth, wisdom whose source nobody really understood, and which, they believed, could only come from on high.

“What about you, doyenne?” Aifa asked. “Haven’t you heard this before?”

“Oh, no, child. No two years’ teachings are ever the same. What would be the point of divine guidance if you could sum it up in one year. The wisdom has no end.”

For the second time that year, the community took their trip down the side of the mountain, down to the sea. It was the middle of June, and it seemed like the whole world was covered in flowers, especially the tall, bright yellow flowers of the meadow, which some still believed were faeries in disguise. There was talk that at night, on the eve of this feast, they could be seen dancing across the fields and meadows, as if stepping on air, ethereal like the breeze itself. When asked about it, people whispered about the terrible fate which befell those who dared spy upon the unearthly creatures during their private dance. For this celebration, however, they lent their flowers eagerly, to make crowns, garlands and wreaths.

“Are you nervous, granddaughter?” grandmother asked.

It was Aifa’s first public speaking assignment, one for which she had prepared the entire week, and she was, of course, all nerves.

“Don’t fret over it, you will do just fine.”

“What if I don’t?” Aifa asked, wretched.

“Then you won’t,” grandmother joked. “I’m sure they’ll let you live.”

“Don’t joke about it, doyenne!” Aifa chided.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” grandmother said, trying very hard to be serious but unable to suppress a smile.

The Great Hall was filled with light and flowers, there were so many flowers, so many candles, the whole floor was covered in them. It felt strange for Aifa to watch the Twins, who were dressed up in their simple white garments and had flowers woven in their elaborately braided hair, sit donning unearthly smiles on top of a mound of flowers, like living statues.

The Great Hall was filled with light and flowers, there were so many flowers, so many candles, the whole floor was covered in them. It felt strange for Aifa to watch the Twins, who were dressed up in their simple white garments and had flowers woven in their elaborately braided hair, sit donning unearthly smiles on top of a mound of flowers, like living statues.

“Aifa,” grandmother whispered, although nobody in the house was sleeping. “Are you ready, granddaughter? It is time to go to the Hearth.”

Aifa wrapped her garment a little tighter around her waist and washed her face with the rose water her mother had made, put on her shoes and walked in silence behind her grandmother, stepping purposefully on the old stone paving, under the eerie brightness of the full moon.

There was no wind in the air, there were no clouds in the sky, and the perfume of the lilacs filled Aifa’s lungs like the essence of an ancient mystery, as if its fragrant flowers wanted to partake in the holy time when the spirit itself came down from above.

Anyway, that afternoon Aifa and the Twins were out on the daffodil meadow, which Ama and Jal seemed to be particularly fond of, when all of the sudden the sky grew dark and shook with rumblings. Any other children would have run for the hills, screaming their lungs out, but not the Twins, who looked mesmerized towards the horizon, as if they have been waiting for this particular event their entire existence. Covering the horizon, gigantic and proud, their wingspan the width of a mountain, their feathers and scales the color of fire, their mighty cries a deafening rumble, the thunderbirds had returned.

Their first rumble, like a slow rolling thunder, had brought everybody out of the city, running to welcome the return of the glorious birds, which flew, majestically, over the city, like they did every year, to cheers of joy and waves of ribbons in every color of the rainbow. The thunderbirds had returned!

From the moment the Twins arrived, poor Aifa hadn’t experienced a moment’s rest. They were five years old now, constantly moving around and getting into everything, and last, but not least, they never stopped talking. They seemed to have reached that glorious age when everything aroused their curiosity and the Caretakers couldn’t stay abreast their endless lists of whys.

One question they seemed to be obsessed with was that of mortality in general, and their own mortality in particular. They couldn’t understand that they would show up again the next spring, no matter what, they were afraid of what might happen to them during the winter, and they kept pushing Aifa for answers. Aifa, who was a little more than a child herself, didn’t know what to tell them.