The Day of the Blessings usually started early in Aifa’s household. Aifa and her siblings were already dressed up in their costumes by the time the sun was high up in the sky, and were crowding each other in the kitchen, where they were all gathered to stuff their goody baskets with filled pastries and other yummy treats.

They were lucky this year, the day was sunny and relatively warm for the beginning of March, it was really no fun having to wear a heavy coat over the costumes they had spent so much time and energy to create for themselves.

Towards the end of February winter started easing its grasp on the mountain springs, allowing them to come back to life, almost suddenly, in bubbling expressions of movement and sound. The tiny brooks searched for each other down the mountain, forming tiny pools and waterfalls, and when they could, they joined their forces in larger streams, with the playfulness of living things, and very young ones at that. From the window of her room, Aifa had a very good view of that side of the mountain, and the moment the water started shimmering between the distant peaks, she hurried down the stairs with great noise, to give the entire family the news that spring was near.

Ifyou were born in Cré at the beginning of February, you would be among the youngest people to enter the Hearth. It was the yearly tradition that new mothers should bring the babies who have been born over the course of the previous year to receive a blessing. Aifa was born in the summer, so she was a few months old when she first breathed the air of the Hearth, which was believed to be able to imbue people with health and vigor, and even, in some instances, restore health, but many of the babies that had been brought to the Hearth that year, bundled by their doting mothers in several warm blankets, were merely days old.

“Wake up, granddaughter,” Aifa’s grandmother shook her gently, so she wouldn’t be startled out of her deep sleep. “We need to go to the Hearth soon, we don’t want to keep people waiting.”

Aifa got up quickly, washed her face and hands and put on the clothes that she’d been setting aside the day before, hand made and never worn before, like tradition required. She knew they weren’t going to leave immediately, one had to sit and think, and write down what one perceived to be one’s shortcomings from the previous year, to be relinquished to the sacred fire.

Aifa had always asked herself, ever since she was a little child, why would a community decide to perform a ceremony that featured water during the time of year when it was almost guaranteed to be frozen. Of course if she asked her mother, she would have gotten hours of cross-referenced instruction about the significance of the holiday, complete with historical dates and the most important writings about it.

It had to do with the Twins, of course, everything in Cré had to do with the Twins, but as far as the particular time of year, she couldn’t remember a reason. To her family’s dismay, whose members were never satisfied with the level of interest Aifa showed to her doctrinal studies, she didn’t much care what the reason was, but that didn’t prevent this holiday from being one of her favorites, because it involved something very special indeed: a trip to the sea shore.

Itwas the week before the feast of the Birth of Life, a time when the city of Cré was usually bustling with activity. Everybody rushed to finish the preparations for the feast, get the gifts wrapped, and most importantly, get ready for the big social gathering that happened at the Hearth each year to mark this event.

Onthe longest night of the year, the women of Cré gather quietly, dressed in their festive garments, whiter than snow, to walk the gentle hill towards the Hearth of the Gemini, whose limestone walls glow ghostly in the distance. They have no lights to guide them, other than those of the stars and the moon, as they slowly join in long files, which in turn join larger streams, which in turn join the main procession to pass through the gate of the Hearth together, like confluences of rivulets and rivers finding their way to the sea.

Nobody utters a single sound, as it has been the tradition for thousands of years, and with each year passing, the significance of this silence amplifies and lends more decorum to the sacred ritual. It isn’t forbidden to talk, there is no mention in the law that everything has to happen in silence, but every woman and girl past the age of thirteen knows and abides by this unspoken rule, as a measure of respect and pride in their tradition.

“Taylor? Taylor Bradford?” a voice called from behind the counter, with non-dissimulated boredom. “I’ve got the reference materials you requested. Where do you want them?” Taylor pointed to the table in the middle of the reading room and one of the assistant librarians who were working in that section dropped the thick stack of books on it, went back behind his counter and adjusted his ear buds to disappear into his own musical world.

Taylor was at a loss as to where to go from here. How do you search for something as unthinkable as a door that doesn’t exist, especially when you can’t ask anybody about it? Logic kicked in, impeccably, and suggested that if there was any information to be found about such a thing, even folk tales or urban legends, the library would be a good place to start.