Drakon Book II: Uncarved

by C. A. Caskabel

  Da-Ren did not pray with us. He never ate at the long table and did not enter the holy shrine with the cross-shaped wooden roof. But through the work of his arms and legs, he earned his bread honorably. The same couldn’t be said for his soul.

  One night during Da-Ren’s first winter in Hieros, the sky clouds swirled like black tentacles and the sea’s dark belly boiled angrily. Sky and sea embraced and set out to drown anyone caught in the middle. The monk awakened me by pounding on my door. His face had the color of a rotten fish.

  “Come at once,” he said.

  I ran past the row of slow-moving monks who had come out of their cells nervously crossing themselves. One of them called out to me: “You brought the cursed demon to the house of the Lord. May God protect us.”

  I crossed the courtyard and, soaked to the bone, climbed the steps to the cells in the wall. As I was approaching his cell, I could hear Da-Ren’s screams whenever the thunder stopped. Baagh was already there with Da-Ren and was wiping his brow with a wet cloth. The gaze of the barbarian was traveling far away, as if the storm had awakened the wolves within him. He was mumbling in his native tongue, but I caught only a few words, which Baagh translated.

  “Remember what I say to you, Eusebius. If you repeat these words to him when he recovers, he might start talking to you.”

  Baagh was saying things I was hearing for the first time.

  “Ouna-Ma… she rides me naked… black clouds I fly… mud… under my body … bound… poles… leeches… suck… scorpions… warm in armpits… hot… they suck poison… Zeria… eyes… Ouna-Ma.”

  I remembered the words, but I wasn’t about to repeat most of them.

  “What did you give him to drink today? Wine?” asked Baagh.

  “No, only water.”

  “What did he eat?”

  “He had a feast. Ate a whole fish. We were all fasting and would have thrown it out. The fisherman—”

  “What do you mean whole?” asked Baagh. “The head too?”

  He searched the cell and smelled the leftovers in the wooden bowl thrown into the corner.

  “Snapper. Damn, Eusebius, the head of this devilfish brings hell’s nightmares. This man will suffer for days and nights. Water, much water only. And chamomile.”

  “What does Ouna-Ma mean, elder? He whispers it often when we are out walking and in the courtyard when he sees monks in their robes. What does he mean?”

  “They are witches. Of his tribe.”

  “You mean, women?”

  “Yes, women. Priestesses of a false and hemovorous faith. You will learn of them soon when he starts telling you his story. Remember to repeat these words to him when he recovers. That is how you will find the path to his mind.”

  “I remember all that he has said so far. Once he mentioned the accursed city of Varazam, elder.”

  “Yes.”

  “But Varazam is deep in the eastern deserts. That’s the other end of the world from the northern river where these barbarians dwell.”

  “That is where Varazam was. You’re correct.”

  Baagh’s lower jaw began to tremble when he uttered these words, and the weak flame of the candle sparkled the tears in his eyes. He quickly made to leave in an effort to hide his emotions.

  The massacre of Varazam. The most tragic chapter of the Apocalypse. Had either of them been there? Both?

  “Zeria…Zeria…Aneria…” Da-Ren continued mumbling with his eyes closed and his face sweating cold.

  So passed the first winter and spring. I did nothing else but read stories to him in our tongue, the one of God. Summer came again, marking a whole year from Da-Ren’s arrival.

  Baagh still hadn’t left to seek the powerful monks in the south and the east who would help Da-Ren save his wife and daughter. How they were supposed to accomplish that, I had no idea. Baagh had declared quite clearly that he would set out to find them only when Da-Ren had begun to tell his story. It seemed impossible to me that something like that would ever happen. He refused to say anything—still negotiating with Baagh.

  “Why do we continue to lie to him, Baagh? The Sorcerers he expects are not going to come, and there is no help that they can offer him,” I said one Sabbath. I had wasted time away from the Holy Liturgy while pleading with Da-Ren to start talking to me.

  “Because I need his story with every detail intact. And because revealing the truth to him will only bring death now, Eusebius. To us and to him. Time is our guardian angel. I adjure you to continue the lie for the safety of all of us. God will forgive you.”

  Days later, I deliberately fed him snapper that had gone bad, but nothing happened.

  “Do you have enough papyrus?” Da-Ren asked me.

  “Yes, whenever you want we can start.”

  “I am not ready to talk yet. Did Baagh invite the almighty Sorcerers? We are losing time, Eusebius. Zeria. Aneria. Death.”

  He was mumbling names that didn’t mean anything to me. One day, he talked as if he had to leave that afternoon to find his wife and daughter, and then he forgot them for a moon or more as if they had never even existed.

  I had plenty of papyrus to last until the next merchant ships came in the spring. I had new reed pens tied with linen cord just waiting for the task. I had ordered from the sailors of the merchant ships better pens, those that were soft and hollow, which I could fill with ink and squeeze to bring the ink to the nose of the pen. I had even found a seashell to use as a big bowl and had fivecleaned and shined it till it sparkled. It was filled with ink, made from iron salts and oak gall. The ink was waiting, and so was I.

  When almost a year of hospitality had passed without even one written word, I began thinking of using those supplies to copy once more the great Holy Book of God. More copies would always be needed. Otherwise, all the papyrus and the ink would go to waste.

  During one of my afternoon summer walks with Da-Ren, it started to drizzle. It brought an unexpected, welcome coolness as we were descending the northwestern slope. I suggested that we turn back, but Da-Ren pointed toward the southwestern side of the island that lay ahead of us, toward the settlement. There were about thirty huts, made of mud, clinging to rocks of the same color. In the summer, the villagers whitewashed their mud huts to relieve them of the relentless sun. A handful of refugees, poor and helpless, lived there with their families. They were protected by the Castlemonastery, and they worked hard for that protection.

  “First, we will go there,” Da-Ren said.

  “They have explicitly forbidden me from taking you there. The women—”

  “I have never touched any of their women.”

  “They have seen you, though. And what they have to say about it can cost you your life. Don’t ask for this. Not even the monks go there often. And I don’t know what the villagers will do if they see one like you in their homes.”

  “One like me—a barbarian, you mean. I am unarmed, Eusebius. And I am going, no matter what you say. Follow.”

  The first two mud huts we reached looked and sounded empty of peasants. Chickens were squawking, and a gray dog began to rub against Da-Ren’s legs as if it smelled its wolfen brother on him. Da-Ren stiffened for an instant. Even though the dog wagged its tail happily, Da-Ren sent it away.

  A horse whinnied, and Da-Ren jumped at the sound as if he had been resurrected from eternal death. He found the stable and ran toward it. I ran behind him. Tied in there was a flea-infested brown mare. It was one of the island’s few horses, used mostly as a mule unless it had to carry a bride to the church.

  Da-Ren embraced the horse at the neck with his arms and pressed his face to the side of the animal. He remained that way for a long time. He whispered words into the animal’s ear and stayed with it, neck to neck. I had never seen such peace on him before. The rain grew heavier, and it made me even more impatient to return to the monastery, away from the world of men.

  I asked Da-Ren to leave before the villagers saw us, but he looked at me with a wandering gaze. He was embracing the ani
mal, the two as one.

  After the rain had stopped, he let go of the horse and said, “Now, I am ready.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  “We’ll start my Story. Tomorrow. Rest well today. Pray.”

  “What happened?”

  “The horse. Its smell. It takes my mind back. We have to come here again, and often.”

  The sun was setting dark red, the color of the ink that had arrived for me days earlier. The next morning, I installed a sand-rubbed wooden table in his cell and prepared to write, as faithfully as my mind and conscience allowed, whatever he recited. He used simple words, those that he knew and a few more that he had learned with me. I would ask Baagh for help at the beginning of each afternoon, in an attempt to add some richness to his language. Each time his memories and strength ran out, Da-Ren would go to find the scent of the horse. After a while, he bought it from its fortunate owner. He paid a lot more than that horse was worth.

  From dawn till dusk each day for a year, I had to listen, understand, find the words, and write them casually and simply. I repeated this ritual the second year, with some improvement, and more carefully the third, by rewriting every chapter. Three times, three years, we wrote his story, starting every year from the very first night of the Sieve. At night, he recounted his life. In the morning, we welcomed the sun’s light to capture his memories on papyrus.

  In the beginning, I had enough spare time to pray for both of us. As his story boiled, there was less time. I still tried to pray. I had to. My prayers fought with the waves, the ink, and the blood. Until they drowned, brave.

  XX.

  Born Only to Die

  Sixteenth spring. Uncarved—Mauler.

  “Thirty? Did he really say thirty?” asked Noki.

  “Yes, he did.”

  Thirty tents with Archer girls our age were training a few thousand paces to the south of us. Noki would not shut up about that and tried to persuade me to go with him to have a look. We hadn’t seen a female with two legs that wasn’t an Ouna-Ma for twenty-four moons. Even if the Ouna-Ma showed up one night with dog fangs and thick black hair on her back, no one would care. She was the only woman, a goddess and mother, the one full-moon night she’d come to us.

  I too was curious but didn’t have Noki’s desire. Not yet.

  I remember little from that third spring. Maybe because I hated the name we would carry from that point on: “Third of five times spring in training: You are not Starlings or Owls. You will be called Maulers.”

  Wretched animals, vomit of Darhul.

  We were twelve young maulers.

  We had started to ride the previous spring. Unlike the maulers, the horses were animals truly favored by the Goddess. That sixteenth spring, I became one with the horse, though it would be a while before I had my own. The Guides wanted us to learn to ride different horses.

  “Our Tribe, we are riders, right?” I asked Chaka, after the first moon I spent on horseback all day.

  “Yes, so it is,” he said.

  “But we don’t have many Stories about horses, almost none.”

  He squinted his eyes, as if my observation had taken him by surprise. He thought for a while and then told me: “What you said is true, Da-Ren. I have many Stories in my old age, but none about my horse. None about my legs, my balls, or my hair either. The horse is part of me. It has no Stories because it is in all of them. Never betrayed me. Never led me down the wrong path or harmed me. I have become one with the horse, its skin is my skin, its blood is my blood.”

  “I heard Stories about starving men who drank the blood of their horse to survive,” I said.

  “Even then, it is an honor for both. I just told you, the horse has no blood of its own. Its blood, your blood, it is one. Your horse is your life; even its death is your life.”

  Our boots and the skin on the saddle were made from horse hides. Craftsmen had glued my bow together by boiling horse bones and tendons. I usually had a piece of horsemeat that had dried for half a day underneath my saddle to eat at dusk. When we were thirsty, we would drink the stingy spirit we made from mare’s milk, and our heads would feel lighter. Before our first campaign, each of us had to be three as one: horse, bow, and man.

  The horse was life.

  Except if one proved a clumsy rider and then it was death.

  We lost three more children, whose dead names are not worth mentioning, leaving nine Uncarved Maulers. One busted his head falling from a fresh gelding. That was the boy’s solemn Story for the stars. The second one had just broken his arm in a fall, but that was a grim destiny in a tribe of warriors. Broken arms rarely healed. They carved him alive, but I never saw him again. The third was a strong boy until winter came and he started to spit blood from his lungs. They ordered him to a small tent near our hut, and he died there alone. We didn’t move him or lie him on a funeral pyre. The Guides burned the whole tent and sent him to the Unending Sky.

  For a ninestar, I continued invincible and grew taller each spring.

  When we didn’t ride, we fought with unsharpened blades, with sticks and with hands, man-to-man, until the afternoon. On the rare occasion when we finished with these fighting exercises early, we listened to Stories.

  We were never sent to pile horse dung for the fires. Such petty and dishonorable tasks were handled by the other children, the ragged and the stupid, four times carved. But they were necessary, too. They sat from morning till night stirring horn, glue, and wood to make the snake-curved bows of the warriors. We were the Uncarved, with all the glory, fear, and ill fate that would bring.

  The beatings in the camp of the Uncarved had lessened. Younger and smaller recruits had come, and, like any fresh meat, they needed a good pounding. We would make fun of them during their Starling spring.

  “Go to the Reghen’s tents and bring the pails of horse piss.”

  “Go to the Guides and help them boil the glue.”

  I couldn’t see it back then but that spring would be the last carefree time of my whole life. As if afraid we would turn soft, the Guides started taking us out for trials with all the other youths, the thousands of Archers in training, the hundreds of same-aged Blades. The carved warriors-to-be. The beatings became worse. When the other boys would get close, all they wanted was to see if they could take one of us. I made up for the carving that I was missing with bruises everywhere. I could take on two or maybe even three of them, but there were always more. And there were only nine of us left. They were five times a hundred times a dozen. They were uncountable. Someday, by Enaka’s will, one of us would command all of them and they’d bow. But not yet.

  Their carvings—usually three, rarely two or one—had swelled with the winters and had become wavy scars, deep and hairless. They crossed the entire arm, parallel to one another. No one confused them. They weren’t elaborate carvings. They were straight blade cuts, as if the poisoned talons of Darhul had dug deep into the skin. With time, the scars on their arms took on a rosy color, shameful, and visible from a distance. The boys’ eyes would bulge wide and red and then gleam yellow when they pointlessly searched our left arms.

  “What are you looking at, Rabbit? No scar here.”

  We always called them Rabbits, to remind them of the fateful last day of the Sieve. They would stare silently. We exposed our left arms naked no matter the cold when we were riding around Sirol.

  One very hot day of summer, we had a grueling competition with the bows. Three thousand Archers in training, but none who could compete with us in all the arts of combat. But, from the thousands, they managed to pick out a handful of shooters who were better than we were. And they beat us. Barely.

  Noki had seen the long-haired Archer girls for the first time, and he pointed them to us. They were more than fifty of them, tall and strong on horseback, screaming, aiming, and laughing wildly. Despite all the noise, their moves had grim seriousness and discipline. Their hair was tied back with red ribbons and so was their horses’ tails. Their wild battle cries drippe
d like liquid fire into my ears and down my heart and to my groin.

  Noki tried to get closer to the girls, but the young Archer men cut him off.

  “If I see you looking at them again, I will chop you to bits,” said one of them. He had another thirty with him, and there were only five of us.

  That same night, Malan and I followed Noki in his exploration. To wash off the defeat, we said. But ever since I had seen the girls, my mind ached for nothing else but to see them again. We took our horses at twilight and left our camp unnoticed. We kept the horses at a slow pace and left them to graze far from the Archers’ camp. We tiptoed carefully along an endless expanse of tents after darkness fell. They didn’t have wooden huts like ours, all their tents looked the same. “Archers we need in the thousands,” said the Stories. Noki tried to sniff out where the female Archers could be.

  “They’re probably stashed away in a corner of the camp,” I told him.

  “Nah, I’m sure they have them right in the center,” he answered.

  He had better instinct on all things women.

  It made sense. Everyone could admire them, watch them in the middle of the hundreds of tents. Nobody would be farther or closer.

  We reached deep into the belly of the camp and heard a woman’s screams. The three of us crept closer to the tents from where the sound had come and hid behind some hay bushels. In the middle of a fenced ring, bathed by the early moonlight, stood many girls, three times the fingers of my hand, sitting around the fire. Not an ugly one among them. Not a beautiful one either.

  One of the girls, close to my age, stood up and sang some words that I couldn’t make out. She then slipped off the short, sleeveless tunic that she wore over her trousers. She was half-naked, fresh, and strong. An older woman approached her, not an Ouna-Ma. From the clothes she wore, she must have been an Archer or their Guide. Her blade was warming unsheathed near the fire.