The Sowing of the Silver Teeth

Folklore

Now, listen close, child, and keep your hands still. You see this jar? These aren't just stones. These are the molars and incisors of the ones who walked the valley before we were a thought in the wind. We call them the silver teeth, not for the color, but for the way they pull the moonlight down into the dirt. When the first frost hits the Oakhaven grass, that is when we go to the north slope. You have to dig deep, past the soft loam and the crawling things, until you hit the clay. The soil there has a smell to it, a sharp, metallic tang that reminds you of old pennies or a bloody lip. That’s the hunger of the land. You press the tooth into the clay with your thumb, pushing it home until it’s snug. You don’t say a prayer; you just whisper the name of the one who owned the tooth. The earth likes names. It gives them a place to root. By the time the moon wanes and waxes thrice, the Memory Root will have broken the surface. It ain't a pretty thing. It’s a pale, translucent tuber, twisting like a finger in the dark. When you pull it from the ground, the smell changes. The copper scent vanishes, replaced by something heavy and sweet, like lilies left too long in a closed room. It's a scent that settles in the back of your throat and stays there. Now, here is the part that tests a person. You have to peel the skin back with a blunt knife and chew the core raw. It is bitter. It’s a bitterness that doesn't just hit the tongue, but crawls down the throat and settles in the belly, cold and heavy as a river stone. Your mouth will feel numb, and for a moment, you’ll think you’ve gone deaf. That is the Root clearing the way. Then, the voice comes. It isn't a ghost standing in the room, and it isn't a dream. It’s a vibration in your own marrow. You can ask one thing, or maybe two, if the tooth was healthy in life. You hear them clear, as if they were leaning right against your ear. You might hear a secret about where the boundary stones were moved, or a word of forgiveness you thought was lost to the grave. It’s a heavy thing, hearing the dead, and it leaves you feeling thin, like a piece of worn linen. By dawn, the Root fades, and the voice goes with it. You’ll wake up with the taste of ash in your mouth and a deep, aching tiredness in your bones. But you’ll have that one piece of truth. It’s a hard way to get a conversation, I reckon, but it's better than the silence that usually follows a funeral. It gives a person a chance to set their house in order before the winter truly sets in.