The Naming Frost

Fiction

Scrub the basin harder, girl. The blood dries fast in this draft, and I will not have the rust pitting the steel. Stop shaking; it is a waste of energy. You are worried about the silence in the other room, I know. You are wondering why we leave the guest without a name. It is a simple matter of accounting. A child born under the black sun is born with a vacancy. There is a hole where the identity should be, a gap in the weave of the world. Now, consider the possibility that something exists specifically to fill such gaps. Suppose there is a thing that wanders the hedgerows, something with no shape of its own, only a hunger for a place to reside. If we name the guest now, we are essentially ringing a bell in the dark. We are telling that thing, 'Here is a vessel, and here is the handle by which you may carry it.' I have seen it happen in the lower valley. A mother, overcome by the softness of the cheek, whispers a name into the ear of an eclipse-born. By the time the tallow has burned down to the wick, the child is not a child anymore. It is a husk. The thing has moved in, and it has locked the door from the inside. We wait for the frost. Not the morning dew, but the true white rime that crystallizes on the glass. That cold is a seal. It hardens the air; it closes the gaps. Once the frost settles on the windowpane, the window of opportunity for the wanderer is shut. Only then, when the world is frozen and the boundaries are rigid, can we safely carve a name into the child's life. Until then, do not speak of sons or daughters. Do not think of lineages. There is only the guest. Now, fetch the vinegar. These shears are still cloudy.