1: “The Finder of Names”: an onion grown in red soil. —The Dictionary (Last Ůtōrō Edition.) 2: “The Finder of Names”: identified in The Old Lands as an onion grown in red soil, characterized by the significance of such a plant on the First Naming Day of a child, or the consumption of such a god-plant’s bulb by the leader of a scientific, military, or colonial expedition. In contemporary use, the term commonly refers to a priest-historian, especially one of Ůt’ōé lineage; most Ůt’ōé live in the northern coastal lands and have been peacefully assimilated into the city-cultures of Elül and Ii. The title, Finder of Names serves to colloquially-identify any Elül or Ii dwelling priest-historians, though any priest historian may carry the title. —The Dictionary (Harthan Lay Version, Eighth Edition, revised.) * * * “I don’t know my name any more,” he said, quietly and as if at some great and incomprehensible distance. “Your name is Hej,” I said, thinking he’d decided to challenge me with a riddle. He shook his head. “No. Hej is a man who never took another Human life. I have killed a man, and so I am not Hej.” Though I claim to understand my adopted people, there are times when their logic confounds me. I tried to find the reason in his thoughts, some pattern in his gaze. I saw only the greenish brown color of his eyes, the expression of withered defeat masking his features, his hair, unbraided and tousled by the softest of desert breezes. It was hot. Sweat beaded on his forehead like salty gems. I touched his hand, the strong, delicate fingers of a desertman who can braid leather or husk the smallest and most delicate of onions without the aid of a knife…the hand I saw—once—beside a vessel in which to make Šáia…the hand of my brother/husband who never used hard words tinged with cruelty, or clumsy words in the presence of the wives we share, the wives he dotes over, spoiling with gifts and with compliments and with songs plucked from the strings of a lyre: dragon songs and comedic songs, and complicated songs of wit and candor. Those are his own inventions, plucked from his grandmother’s lyre by fingers as gentle and deft as they are strong. I saw him catch an invader fly in our house with the hand I touched; he’d simply snatched it from the air and threw it (buzzing and undoubtedly confused) from the window with a yellow rush mat beneath his naked feet and hair like spun gold in sunlight spilled through that same window. “I must find a priest,” he said quietly. “A finder?” I asked. I knew of such men; old, eccentric priests steeped in their worship of onions in faraway lands. Hej nodded. “If I have a name now, they will know it.” I nodded, clenching his fingers. I watched him close his eyes as wind played through his hair. “I know such men,” I told him. “I know good ones.” “You will take me to them?” I heard fear in his voice, and I thought—perhaps—it was fear of Elül itself. It was, after all, a strange and bewildering city to him. I nodded. “I will take you,” I said. * * * I’m sure there’s more to this story, and I’m sure that in time, I may find new ways to photograph the husks of new onions. I took this particular photo on Corey’s balcony, with the aid of a flashlight. The onion has since been eaten. In a salad, but I am happy for one good capture. I suspect that Hej might find his lost name within it. As always, thank you for viewing, reading, and commenting, and I hope you’re all having a great weekend.