SALAZĀ'S JOURNAL
"I'm Salazā and don't you forget it."
I've probably said this to every kid in Amari. But I remember when these two boys wandering the streets heard me say it and laughed at me.
"Who cares what your name is?" the blond one asked.
"I do," I declared.
The black-haired one chuckled.
"There is nothing in a name. We'd know. We're nameless."
"Oh!" I lit up. "Then can I tell you the story about the two boys with no names?"
"There's a story like that?" the black-haired one asked.
"Of course."
"Oh, I heard that one," the blond-haired boy boasted. "But I guess you could tell it again."
I offered an arch smile and said, "I guess I could, but it will take three pieces…each."
"Three pieces!" they exclaimed.
The blond-haired boy took the black-haired boy's arm.
"Forget it, I can tell the story way better."
"Is that so?" I smirked. "There is another way to hear the story…"
The black-haired boy spun around instantly.
"What is it?"
"First, he," I pointed to the smug one. "Will have to admit that he doesn't know the story."
"But I do," he huffed his chest.
"If you say so," I turned around, fluffing some garments.
"I do know the story!"
"Then you tell it," I grinned.
His face reddened, and I could see he was about to fume. The black-haired boy kept tapping his arm, whispering, "Just admit you don't know it."
"But I do."
"Say it anyway, please. I want to hear the story."
But the blond-haired boy kept his mouth sealed. So, I leaned to the other boy and pretended to whisper, "It's alright. I'll tell you the story in his absence."
The boy smiled.
"You will?"
"Yes, but only if you promise you won't tell him after."
Both their faces dropped.
"I don't want to lie to you, Sala-sala-sa—"
"Salazā."
"Sala-zay-Sala-z—"
"It's alright. Call me Sala."
"I don't want to lie to you, Sala, I'll probably tell him after…so I don't deserve to hear it."
With that, I pulled up two other chairs.
"That is unfortunate. And I do think both of you will really love this story. The boys are just like you, without any names. And then suddenly—"
Their heads perked.
"Well, I guess you'll never know."
Their heads dropped.
"Very well," the blond-haired boy admitted, rolling his eyes. "I don't know the story."
With that, I gestured to the chairs, and instantly, that's where they sat. Then I told the story of the boys.
The elder blond-haired boy with fair skin and deep hazel eyes. And the younger black-haired boy with dark skin and deep amber eyes.
Both ragged with tattered clothes, but with a world full of spirit in their hearts. And of course, without any names.
Through wandering many lands, meeting mentors, riding dragons, and finding their treasure, they finally found their names.
"Well, what was it?" asked the blond-haired boy.
"Was what?"
"Their names?"
I looked at Mother's display, then the creeping sunset.
"I'd love to tell you, but I need to put mothers' clothes back before sundown."
"We'll help!" they said, to no surprise.
The smell of simmering butternut soup and warm bread swept over us. Their stomachs growled, but they said nothing of it.
"Your names—I mean their names," I said, looking to the blond-haired boy. "Are Silio." Then, to the black-haired boy. "And Shaka."
The boys looked at each other and smiled.
"Then I am Shaka," said Shaka.
"And I am Silio," said Silio.
They pumped their chests out and smiled.
"Thank you," Shaka ran over and hugged me, making me jump back a little.
Unbidden touches always shook me, but since I felt no ill intentions in his innocent spirit, I hugged him back. Silio stayed put, but said, "Thank you, Salazā."
They headed for the door. Just then, mother entered with gloves, holding an iron pot.
"Who do we have here?" she smiled.
"I'm Shaka," Shaka chirped.
The other kept quiet for a while, then mumbled, "I'm Silio."
"Pleased to meet you. The young ones just call me Mother."
They greeted her and walked on.
"Are you leaving?" I asked, frowning.
"Of course, they aren't," mother sat down. "We have all this food, and I'm sure they won't be as unkind as to leave us to finish it on our own."
The hairs on their head jumped up as they spun around, giving a nod to each other.
They carefully watched how we ate, warily observing how sloppy they were in turn.
Mother and I exchanged smiles and made no fuss of it. Throughout, they never mentioned where they came from, but that didn't matter.
From the slips of memories they laughed about, we picked up that they were sold in different lands to the same retired warlord.
But soon the owner found that they had a penchant for causing trouble, costing the owner more than he paid to keep them, as they were unrelentingly mischievous.
No number of beatings, no matter how cruel, could wear them down. It seemed it went exactly as they planned, for eventually their owner left them for dead, not too far from this land.
They chuckled about how they survived by challenging each other, saying the first one to run to a stranger's door and ask for food was the winner. Then the first one to find drinkable water was the winner.
And so, on they went and seemed to still be going.
Once the bitter aftertaste of their stories sank in, they greeted each other again and made their way to the door.
"There are enough pillows, but you'll have to sleep on the carpet for now. The pallet on it is Salazā's, but the blanket's long enough to keep all of you warm."
The boys couldn't stop looking at mother, then each other, and cried out, "Thank you," many times.
By the time I returned from Mother's room, dressed in sleep clothes, they were still saying it. But I heard Mother whisper to them, "If you hurt her, you leave."
"I'd never hurt her," they both said.
"Let's hope so."
I laid in the middle on my pallet, with Shaka tucked close on the left and Silio warily distanced on the right.
Both tumbled, violently frightened in their sleep. And despite my preference to keep to myself, I let my hands hold theirs, pouring my essence until they no longer stirred.
This is how we slept for many nights.
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