What's in a name

It was said a youth of the Wagon Peoples was taught the bow, the quiva and the lance before their parents would consent to give him a name, for names are precious among the Wagon Peoples, as among Goreans in general, and they are not to be wasted on someone who is likely to die, one who cannot well handle the weapons of the hunt and war. Until the youth has mastered the bow, the quiva and the lance he is simply known as the first, or the second, and so on, son of such and such a father.

I'd seen a great source of pride in the boy when he went off to the warrior's wagons to help hitch the teams. Pride that he was earning his first bosk with the honesty of hard work. There was no doubt that it was still there when he returned with fresh meat and the tales of having helped, though, watching the terse corner of his mouth and the glint in the dark eyes, I knew meant many things went through the young warrior's mind. While the meat roasted and the repairs were being made it took coaxing to get what bothered him to spill. It had been things he had heard, things he had been told when he was helping see to the teams, such as parentage, lineage ... names. My heart sunk a little.

I knew this was an extremely touchy subject for him. He wasn't fond of the descriptive name "Me Too", and no, it no longer fit him very well. He was growing into capabilities that were more evident each day. His pride had spat out more than once that he was First Son of all wagons and no wagon. Courage to stand in the face of those who met him and admit he had no father that he knew of had shown the boy's inner character. To me, to be reduced from First Son of any warrior even one that was not there to raise his heir, regardless of the reason, to be considered hundredth or last was insult. My teeth clinched together tightly in trying to contain my anger. Perhaps it is wrong of me to think this way but it is how I feel.

Would I coddle the child and offer soft spoken words that salved the soul and healed the heart? No. It was a harsh world he lived in and he would have to grow to live within in it ... a part of it. My own words left a thickening in my throat having to apply the same wisdom to myself. I asked him to tell me who he was on the inside. He thought for a time before he said, 'Strength,' tapping his chest arrogantly, 'in here'. I had to agree that it was what I saw as well. Then I asked him what he could see himself as in the future, not as clan but the man, the warrior, he would be. Orlu. That came without hesitation. Not an Oralu? Not Ubar? 'Perhaps', was his answer. He believed he could one day lead one hundred, of that he was certain. It was something he felt inside, something deeply rooted. He spoke with such confidence that he made me see him there as well. If the sky realized that he was the best suited among all of the other warriors to lead more, he would not refute her wisdom. Spoken like a true Tuchuk, I thought.

Until he had shown his skills with the bow, quiva and the lance he would not earn the name that he would live by, instead he would be known by a descriptive such as First Son or like some of the women's monikers to keep so many boys separate in conversations ... Tug, Wily or Sonny or it could be his goal for the future. For now, Hundred ... Jagun, was his, if he desired. Rusty had sat there listening and agreed though I could see the same tense lines along his brow and the narrowing at the corners of his eyes. Something was brewing deep in that head that would come to light later.

In the meantime, I went inside the flap of my wagon and drew out an elongated porcelain dish. It had been one of my prized possessions but it seemed fitting that it would find a new home. A portion of the roasted meat was lined along its bottom. With the dish, I gathered a basket full of eggs and began walking back up the lanes to give to the the singer's family. Deenyet and Sage kept me company and to make sure the offering wasn't misunderstood for anything other than recognition of their generosity.

I spent only a few moments talking to the warrior's mother and her youngest son as well. The young man had done well learning the kaiila and plans were made to continue teaching him as promised. I believe she knew I would not visit their circle again without reason. As always the woman was a gracious hostess, understanding the need to return back down the lanes. There was still much to do, to be able to pull back out on the trail again.