by Nik Korpon
I don’t remember saying that, but it sounds accurate. And also, hearing it repeated to me, it sounds tragic. What kind of parent tells their children not to make friends? Were you so paranoid about your every choice, Walleus, convinced that picking the wrong one once would send them careening down a path they’ll never recover from?
“We’re not in Eitan anymore so I’m telling you something different.”
Donael glances out the window. “How do we know their parents aren’t dangerous? That we’re not going to end up lashed to a pole and have our skin peeled off?”
“Donael, that’s an awful thing to say.”
“You’re the one who said it!”
I glance at Dyvik and Magnus, feeling an embarrassed flush spread over my face. It’s an odd sensation because it makes me feel like a normal parent. For their part, the men don’t react. I take a deep breath and tell myself that my graphic descriptions come from a place of love, of wanting them to stay safe.
“I know those two,” Dyvik says, gesturing to the kids outside. “Their parents own the restaurant up the street, next to Magnus’s bar. Good kids, but a little too much energy.”
“That boy is risky,” Magnus says. He looks up at Dyvik, who says something. “Shifty. Right. You must watch him in your house.”
I turn to Donael, say, “There you have it,” then nudge him along. “Now go. Don’t get arrested.”
Donael gives me an insolent look, squaring up for a face-off. I stand a little taller, trying to forestall an argument I don’t want to have right here. Magnus barks something at his kids before Donael can say anything. They respond with what sounds like acquiescence and come gather Donael, though he makes it known he’s only going because they’re going, not because I want him to.
“I told them to get their football,” Magnus tell me. “Many of the children in village play on the local youth team. Your boys do?”
“Donael does.” I pause. “Or he used to a lot. We played in the park back home. Cobb, well…” I shrug. They both nod. I tell myself football isn’t too bad, that it’s hard to indoctrinate for the revolution while slide-tackling each other. I push away the blooming images of our platoon at Hoeps matches back in Eitan during the Struggle. I cross my arms and return to the map. There has to be a way to do this. There is always a way.
“What about the people?” I say. “Is there popular support?”
“Most people support our cause,” Dyvik says. “They want to be free but they are either scared of Ødven and Ragjarøn or they don’t know where to turn. But the people of Brusandhåv have been exploited for many years, had their land seized in the name of Ragjarøn. They will support us once they know there is someone brave enough to stand up to the Äsyrs and Ragjarøn. They only need to see it.”
I guess we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way. I’d hoped that Nyväg’s technology was better than ours in Eitan and we could coordinate something remotely, compensate for our smaller numbers, the same way we used passion over arms during the Struggle, but I don’t know this country. And with the solstice approaching, we don’t have the time to spend a year laying the groundwork for a revolution.
“Let’s be real. We don’t have the numbers to take on Ragjarøn.” I pause. “And you can’t count on the public being inspired by watching you die heroically. So, if you’re going to do this, you need to be smart, you need to be quick, and you need to be precise.”
“What do you have in mind?” Dyvik says.
I exhale a long breath. The edge of the map flutters. “You should hit all of the camps at the same time.”
“At the exact same time?” Magnus says.
I nod.
“That’s nearly impossible,” Dyvik says. “We’ll have two, maybe three men per camp. We can’t take down a camp with so few.”
I hold out my hands. “Then you’ll get slaughtered. So we don’t do it.”
“But we must,” Magnus says. “Many of us are expected to commit our ändes this year and we will not be able to fight in that condition.”
“Then don’t commit. Isn’t that the definition of being a rebel?”
“The punishment for not committing is the same as rebelling,” Dyvik says. “We paint Evivårgen’s feet with our blood.”
“I think something’s getting lost in translation. You asked for my help, and as I see it, this is only way. Understand?”
They both stare at the map a long moment, then exchange a glance. I can’t quite tell what passes between them, but I also don’t exactly care. The odds are already stacked against the three of us in this situation.
Through the window, I see Donael pass the ball to Magnus’s oldest, Cobb trailing behind them, sucking wind. The way Ødven rules Brusandhåv is the way he will rule Eitan, and I cannot let that happen.
“Say we can do this,” Magnus says.
“Magnus, we can’t. It’s too dangerous. That’s not enough people.”
“You either do it all the way or don’t do it at all. You can’t have half a revolution,” I say again, getting more annoyed as the minutes slip by. “Is six fighters enough to take down a camp?”
“Yes, definitely,” Dyvik says.
Magnus cuts him off. “Then we leave half the camps untouched. They are alerted and they will kill us all when we attack.”
I cluck my tongue and point at Magnus.
“There you go.”
Magnus crosses his massive arms, considering everything I’ve said. His biceps are bigger than my goddamned thighs.
“Dyvik,” he says, then rattles off something in their tongue. Whatever it is, it doesn’t seem to inspire much confidence in Dyvik, who shouts back. They exchange a few contested points while I stand there like an awkward child caught between arguing parents.
I glance out the window and see the kids are no longer playing, but are standing in two lines facing each other, squared off. My skin tightens. Then the smaller boy, the shifty one according to Magnus, says something and Donael swings, catching the kid right in the nose. The kid stumbles back, cupping his hand against his face.
“Ah, shit,” I say, hurrying toward the front door, leaving them to argue behind me.
I rush outside and the cold hits me like a fist. In my hurry, I forgot to put on my damn jacket.
“Donael,” I call out, but he stands there with his chest heaving and ignores me. Cobb stands beside him, staring at the ground. Magnus’s boys stand behind him, their hands at their sides but their fists balled. “What the hell?”
The boy pulls his hand back to expose a red smear on his face and palm. His sister straightens up, as if she’s ready to throw in on hearing the word.
“Donael,” I say as I get up to them. “What happened?”
He points at the boy. “This amadan was saying shit about Cobb.”
“What did he say?”
Donael’s jaw throbs beneath his skin, the same way it did when he was young and would grind his teeth as he slept. “I couldn’t understand it, but I know it was bad.”
My body sinks. A couple days in town and my son is already beating up the locals. This will do well for us trying to keep a low profile. I look at Magnus’s boys. “What did he say?”
They exchange a glance and say something to each other, then shake their heads and look at me. “We can’t tell you,” the older one says.
“Can’t tell me?”
The younger says something to the older. “Can’t say it, he means. It’s not respectful.”
Then Magnus’s voice booms out behind us. All of the local kids startle, but mine stay motionless, Donael’s stare still boring a hole through the boy’s forehead. Good boys, them. Magnus asks his boys something and they respond.
“They said something about your boy?” he says to me.
“Yeah.” I think that’s the first time I’ve actively acknowledged Cobb as my boy, rather than just grouping him into Donael and Cobb or the boys. And it’s true, I’ve been warming to him in the last week. Funny what a civil war and b
eing ripped from your homeland will do to you. “But they said it’s disrespectful to say it.”
He asks his boys what it was, then pulls his head back when he hears their answer. He turns to the other two. “You are very lucky this is a compassionate man.” He speaks in English, for my benefit I assume, and points at me. “I do not want to offend him with violence. But if my children said something like that,” he draws in close, looming over the other kids. “I would make sure they would never say it again. Do you understand?”
The two kids nod. Magnus says something else to them and they turn around and head back to the store, the girl glancing over her shoulder with contempt raging on her face. At first I think it’s directed toward Magnus for dressing them down in front of their friends. But when I look closer, I see she’s actually staring at Donael.
“Are you OK?” I say to Cobb. He clicks a couple times, hollow and sullen, and I pull him in against me. I look at Donael, whose anger has subsided but is still there. “You?”
Without looking at me, he says, “Yeah. I’m fine.” I lay my other hand on his shoulder but he still stares daggers at the boy. He definitely has his father’s tendency to hold a grudge.
“You did well, Donael,” Magnus says. “It is necessary here to defend your family.”
Donael finally turns, his face lighting up when he sees Magnus’s giant paw extended. Donael shakes, his hand enveloped in the big man’s, and nods a couple times. “Thanks,” he says. “Thanks.”
And while I’m happy that Donael has stood up for his brother, I’m a little hurt that he turned to acknowledge Magnus, but not me.
“Come, boys,” Magnus says to his sons. They slap hands with Donael and Cobb like young boys do, then head back to the house. Magnus turns to me, offers me that big slab of meat. He pulls me in and slaps my back, a gesture that’s probably supposed to be nice but would be a little invasive in Eitan. “We will speak soon, bröder,” he says. “We have many good things ahead.”
He jogs to catch up to his boys, resting his arms on their shoulder, their silhouette like a miniature Jötun range.
“Let’s head home, boys,” I say, wrapping my arms around them in turn. Cobb nestles into me without any prompting. Donael doesn’t move away, but I swear I can still feel him pulling.
I stab the last bit of dinner with my fork and shove it in my mouth, chew it and swallow. Music plays throughout the house, lively guitars dancing and weaving through percussive clapping, music from the Zoreños in the far south that is drastically opposite the country we’re currently in but does something to soothe my jangled nerves. The boys’ plates are still full with smoked fish, boiled potatoes, cheese, and two pieces of thin crispbread with some kind of sweet jam on the side. And it’s not because the food isn’t good, although I had to walk over to Dyvik’s and ask him and Lyxzä what to do with all of this. The Eitan diet of park-meat and root vegetables prepared me to dress things up to cover their origins. Cooking with actual food is something I’m not familiar with.
No, the reason they haven’t eaten is because they keep talking about this afternoon. Cobb’s shock and embarrassment wore off pretty quickly after we got home, and since then they’ve done nothing but chatter and reenact the earlier events. They haven’t even complained about the music, which doesn’t do anything to make me feel better. If it was just Donael punching the kid in the face, I could handle it. But they keep talking about how Magnus banished the two kids to the other side of town and maybe they’ll have to leave Rën now because how could they even stay here?
“Boys,” I say, cutting off Cobb in the middle of one of his wild gesticulations. “Please eat up so I can do the dishes.”
They both sigh and start picking at their food like I’ve suddenly become the household fascist, so instead of antagonizing them I pick up my dishes and take them into the kitchen. While I’m washing, I stare out the window, listening to a woman sing a pained melody that grates against the guitar. The edges of the houses seem fuzzy, unfocused, and I wonder if it’s condensation on the windows or if the constant light is finally getting to me. We’ll be going to bed in a few hours and the sky looks the same as it did when we ate lunch.
The world, though, the world looks a little different from this afternoon.
I rinse off my plate and set it in the drying rack then go back to the table. They’re still jabbering away, though I’m glad to see they ate most of their food in the meantime.
“So what do you make of everything?” I say to Donael.
He pauses a minute, fork wavering before his mouth, confused. “Everything what?”
“This.” I motion toward the windows, the house, every invisible thing that is inferred. “Nyväg. Their plans. Their goals.”
His eyes narrow slightly he cocks his head, as if he thinks I’m trying to set him up.
“I know you were listening this afternoon,” I say.
“No I wasn’t.” He shoves food in his mouth.
“Do you really think I could’ve survived this long without knowing what was happening behind me? I’m not stupid.” I knit my fingers together, set them before me. “Come on, Donael. Be real. Talk to me.”
He chews while considering me. Weighing his options, it seems. Finally he swallows and sets his fork down with a tink. Cobb regards us both hesitantly.
“I think they’re brave, doing what they’re doing. Especially after seeing what Ødven did to that guy in the city. I hope they don’t get caught.”
“I do, too.”
“I think they’re going to have to fight pretty hard. It won’t be easy. It’ll probably take a long time too.”
I nod that I agree. “But?”
“But what?”
“What they want to do. Their goals. Liberating the people,” I say. “All that.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I’m asking you.”
He sighs hard. “I think it’s wrong that Ødven can make their ändes into slaves and make them work for the rest of their lives. I mean, that’s messed up, right? Who does that?” He shifts in his seat, adjusting his position, and I can tell from his mannerisms – because Emeríann has pointed out that I do the same thing – he’s about to get going. “Who is Ødven to tell everyone what they should do, you know? If someone wants to, I don’t know, wash dishes or fold laundry or whatever, then OK, that’s cool. But what if they don’t want to? What if they want to, like, build things? Buildings and stuff. Why should they have to do all that dumb stuff when they could do something cool and better?”
“Who says they can’t build something?”
“Um, Dyvik?”
“He never said that.”
“Dad, I know what menial labor means. I’m not stupid,” he says, pretending to be me. He does a fair impression.
“So it’s understandable that they want to helm their own destiny, that it’s a basic human right to be able to dictate your own course in life?”
He glances down at his plate. “Um, yeah, I never really thought about it but I guess so. I mean, it just seems right, right? That you should decide for yourself what you do.”
“I agree.” I clear my throat. “But is it worth killing for?”
He looks up from his plate, his eyes meeting mine but, surprisingly, not turning away. He holds my look long enough that I’m not sure if he’s making some deep connection or if he’s daring me to look away. Where is the line between love and antagonism? Cobb sits beside us, in my periphery, and clicks twice. Hesitant, searching. It’s beginning to become awkward when Donael finally looks away.
“Why would you ask me that?” His voice is quiet.
“Because that’s what’s going to happen. You don’t love a revolution into happening. You don’t overthrow your oppressors by talking it out. You do it by killing. Revolutions are violent things done by violent men, and–”
“I know that, Dad. OK?” He almost shouts it. “You weren’t the only one who suffered during the fighting, you know. I lost both of my parents
in a day. And you were gone most of the time before that anyway. I saw Walleus dead on his floor and Lady Morrigan with half her head gone. I remember being little and watching you and Mom carry a body from your car into the garage so you could, I don’t know, do whatever it was you were going to do with it.” The vein on the side of his neck throbs. His voice wobbles. “I know what fighting looks like, from both sides. Really well.”
“Then you understand why I’m asking.” My voice remains measured, calm. I hate seeing him so upset, especially because that wasn’t my intention. After seeing his interest in Nyväg, I only want to make sure he really understands what revolution entails. Killing as an idea and killing as an action are two wholly different things, something you never understand until it’s too late.
I start to respond to him when the phone rings. It startles all of us, but I don’t look away from him. I don’t even know where the phone is.
“Are you going to answer that?” Donael says.
“It’s not for me. No one knows I’m here.”
“One person does.”
Without him saying it, I know he’s not talking about Magnus or Dyvik. I slowly go to the phone.
“Henraek,” Ødven says. “How are things?”
“Fine. We’re finishing dinner at the moment.”
“What do you have on Nyväg?”
He gets to the point quickly. I turn my back away from the boys, as if it would dampen my voice a bit. “Things are quiet. I haven’t heard anything.”
“That is not what you were sent out to do, is it?” His tone changes noticeably within those few words. “You were sent to restore order.”
“There’s not a whole lot of disorder that I have to contend with.” I keep my voice level, thinking anger will tip him off as misdirection. “This is a quiet town. These are quiet people.”
“If that is the case, then I have no use for you,” he says. “And neither does Brighid have use for Emeríann.”
“You leave her out of this.”
