by Oisin McGann
‘So are the men who come to Altima to kill people … are they just nuts?’ Sillian asked.
‘A few of them are, I suppose,’ Mrs Archaw tilted her head, ‘but most of them start out as normal people and the things that happen to them make them so frustrated that they become fanatics. Most people become fanatical for a reason.
Some claim that they are avenging a history of oppression, torture … the kinds of crimes every conquering country carries out as a matter of course in the race for power. But I can tell you as a history teacher, that most people don’t care about history unless they can relate what happened in the past to what is happening now. If people suffered in the past, but their descendants are content with their lives now, the descendants aren’t likely to go out and kill in the name of history. But if people are suffering the same harsh treatment now that their parents and grandparents and great-grandparents went through, then you have generations of discontentment coming to the boil.
‘Yes, I think what it comes down to in the end is a lack of contentment.’
The students looked at one another with expressions of puzzlement and scorn. ‘Lack of contentment’ didn’t make someone into a terrorist. Chamus remembered the day at the hangar, when his class died, and when he returned later to see the bodies being pulled out. Hate coursed through him every time he thought about it and he wanted to hurt the people who had carried it out, except the only one he knew about was dead. He would wake up in the morning and the whispering would come to him in the last quiet moments of sleep, reminding him of what had happened, and he would find his hands clawing the sheets and his teeth grinding with the hate. That was the kind of thing that made a person into a killer. Lack of contentment was going around with a bad haircut.
‘I think you’re wrong, Miss,’ he pronounced, in a flat tone.
Mrs Archaw regarded him for a moment, and then gazed around her as if admiring the architecture.
‘Has anybody heard of a man named Olam Waymath?’
Nobody answered; the name meant nothing to them. Which was a sure sign they were in for a lecture.
‘I think you’ll recognise him when I tell you his story. Olam Waymath was born in Bartokhrin, in a region called Gefinlan,’ the teacher began, and the class listened resignedly in expectation of another list of dates and places. But Mrs Archaw did not start reciting historical data. ‘Olam was the son of a fisherman, and grew up in a relatively peaceful village. He was much the same as any of you, without the benefits of your exceptional education, of course.
‘That was until he turned thirteen. On his thirteenth birthday, the local councillor came to the village and told the people there that their river was to be blessed with the protection of a hydroelectric dam, which was to be built upstream. Olam and all the other boys watched over the months that followed as the rich men of Bartokhrin brought in Altiman engineers and construction teams to put up this huge dam that formed a new horizon above their village. The rich men were buying up plots of land along the valley, and Olam’s father sold some land near his house for an excellent price and got ready to welcome some wealthy neighbours.
‘But the dam did not turn out to be the blessing the councillors had claimed. Pylons were erected on the newly bought plots of land, making the area look like a massive power station. The construction ruined a large section of the valley and when the dam became operational, the river flowing through the village dried up. Fish eggs didn’t hatch and rice didn’t grow, because the flood plains didn’t get flooded. Olam and his family went hungry – along with most of their friends and neighbours. With no fish or rice, half the people in the village lost their livelihood. To add insult to injury, it turned out the village was to get none of the electricity that was to come from the dam. It went over their heads through the pylons and on to the rich towns in Nathelem and Altima, and the councillors who were supposed to look after the area had been bribed into submission long ago.
‘Olam watched his family descend into poverty and starvation over the next three years; he watched his two sisters die of diseases the family couldn’t afford to treat and saw his family thrown out of their home as debtors seized their land. Olam had joined in the protests when this had all started. He had helped sabotage pylons and power substations when protesting failed. Because of the sabotage, Bartokhrin sent in Altiman-trained troops to provide security for the pylons. That was like a red rag to a bull as far as the villagers were concerned and their operations went from sabotage to all-out guerrilla warfare. Olam was one of these fighters, dedicated and deadly, and he ended up being persuaded by the leaders of this resistance to take on a terrifying mission, one he carried out with spectacular success, but at the cost of his own life.
‘The people of Gefinlan are still living their lives surrounded by soldiers who hate and abuse them. They are held in contempt all over Bartokhrin, and their valley has become a burned and ruined landscape as both sides continue to ravage each other. The pylons have long stopped providing any electricity. The whole conflict started because of the greed of a few people on either side, but now both sides hate each other so much, the fighting has become its own justification. And the people sing songs about killers like Olam.’
‘But that’s not lack of contentment, Miss,’ Chamus spoke up. ‘That’s somebody walking all over you and then demanding you lick your blood off their shoes. The villagers couldn’t just sit there and take it.’
‘And they didn’t,’ their teacher said, ‘but the government found itself dealing with terrorists and answered force with force by sending in the army. But now what’s the answer? Bartokhrin cannot give in to murderers and terrorists, because that would be saying that anyone who wants to commit enough murder will eventually get their own way, which would lead to much more violence in the long run. But the “freedom fighters” won’t stop killing because it is the only way they can see of getting an occupying army out of their valley. So you have a situation where neither side can back down. And even if they stopped fighting and the villagers were allowed to go back to their way of life, would that guarantee peace?’
‘No,’ said Chamus, ‘because they’d still hate all the people who caused their problems. And they’d still be living in a country that hated them.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Archaw nodded. ‘Perhaps if everyone concerned managed to tolerate each other for a few generations, when people had got over the bad feelings, they might forgive and forget. But only if there no other problems that they could blame on each other. Only if they were content.’
‘I still don’t know who Olam Waymath was,’ Sillian spoke up, feeling they were getting off the point.
‘He was known here under the name he adopted when he came to Victovia,’ Mrs Archaw told them. ‘Here, his name was Jered Wyman.’
Everyone looked reflexively at Chamus. He stared straight ahead and avoided their eyes, a bitter expression on his face.
Jered Wyman was the name of the madman who had killed his class.
The class was quiet as they strolled along the road to their school. Mrs Archaw looked at her watch.
‘I see you’re going to be on time for Mr Morthrom’s class …that’s of course unless you have more questions. In which case, I think we could stretch our little walk out a bit longer, do another lap around the block. So, any more questions?’
A dozen hands shot into the air. She clasped her hands together.
‘It’s amazing how a bit of fresh air can stimulate one’s brain.’
Riadni’s father had never shown her how to use a gun. Girls did not use guns, after all. Up until now, she had had no idea there were so many things that could go wrong.
‘You have to tamp the powder right down,’ Benyan was saying, ‘and then the ball must fit tightly up against it. Any space between it and the powder will allow gases to expand inside the barrel and it could explode on you. Don’t let the barrel drop towards the ground as you aim, and if it doesn’t fire when you pull the trigger, point it in a safe direction for a
minute in case the powder is burning slowly. It might still fire.’
They were on the firing range and Benyan was instructing her in the use of a flintlock pistol. There was so much to remember: clean the barrel constantly, keep the powder dry, how to load and how to avoid a misfire … She noticed that the more senior members of the order carried revolvers and bolt-action rifles – modern weapons captured from Altimans and coveted by the veteran fighters. But all the young recruits learned on the older weapons.
‘Now,’ Benyan continued, ‘hold it at arm’s length, crook your elbow a little to take the shock … that’s it. It’ll kick when it fires. Look down the barrel, line up the sights and squeeze slowly …’
His hand held her arm as he guided her movements and she wondered if he was aware of what he was doing. Lakrem Elbeth watched from behind them and she knew he must be noting this forbidden contact. He seemed to be taking a personal interest in her introduction to their training.
She squeezed off a shot and her arm jolted with the shock. The sound nearly deafened her. She looked through the smoke at the circular target. She was wide of the mark, but at least she had hit the board.
‘Nice shot,’ Benyan nodded. ‘You could be good at this, you know.’
There was a warmth in his voice and he kept looking at her and then averting his gaze. Riadni smiled and self-consciously adjusted her wig. Her arm hurt from the recoil of the gun, but she didn’t care, she was having the time of her life. They had started with horsemanship and she had managed to match the boys move for move. Elbeth had been impressed and suggested that she try some shooting. He had partnered her with Benyan and soon she had completely lost track of time. While he taught her, the boy had talked to her about his parents and why he had joined the Hadram Cassal. Listening to his story, she imagined what she would have done if someone had killed her parents – probably exactly as he had done.
Handling the hot barrel carefully, she started the process of reloading the pistol. Elbeth approached them and with a motion with his hand dismissed Benyan, who bowed and stood back.
‘We can continue your lesson another time,’ Elbeth told her, ‘but it is getting late and your father will be starting to worry. I think it would be best if you didn’t tell him you were here. He wouldn’t take it well.’
Riadni nodded and put the pistol down on the table beside her. Looking up at the evening sky, she realised how late she was. Her parents would be furious. She had missed supper.
‘You are welcome to come back,’ said Elbeth, ‘but next time, don’t be afraid to just ask to see me. I will always have time for the daughter of such a good friend. And such a fine rider too! I think Bartokhrin could use more girls like you.’
Riadni thanked him and turned away quickly to hide her flushed face. It was rare that adults showed any kind of appreciation of her. She turned back to bow briefly and say goodbye and then rushed to her horse, which was corralled with the others in a cave. She led Rumbler out, swung up into the saddle and nudged him into a canter. Benyan and Elbeth waved to her as she passed and then she was riding on past the herd of mountain cattle and into the grassland that stretched out over her route home. Rumbler was tired from the afternoon’s training, but he kept up a steady pace across the flat grass and it wasn’t long before her house came into sight. Two of her brothers were laying tobacco leaves out to dry in the yard and they looked up as she rode in.
‘Papa wants to see you,’ Barra told her. ‘He’s not happy. You were out at the camp, weren’t you?’
Riadni said nothing. She unsaddled Rumbler and led him into the corral at the end of the yard, before making her way into the house. Her parents were in the kitchen, sitting at the table with cups of tea. Her mother did not say anything, leaving her father to stand up and face her. That was always a bad sign.
‘Where were you?’ he asked, his voice trembling slightly.
‘Just out for a ride,’ she answered. ‘I went up by Prospectors’ Pass to look for howler tracks …’
Her father slapped her hard across the head. She put her hand to the side of her face in shock. He had never hit her that hard before.
‘If you want to be a boy so much,’ he barked, ‘then I’ll treat you like a boy! You were out at Elbeth’s camp, weren’t you?’
Riadni stared at her father through watering eyes. She didn’t say anything, knowing her voice would crack and then she would definitely cry. She hung her head. Glancing at her mother, she saw a fearful expression on her face and turning her gaze back to her father, saw the same fear behind the anger in his eyes. They were afraid for her.
‘Answer me, girl,’ he growled. ‘I can smell gun smoke on your clothes, by Shanna! What, have they been letting you use a pistol, letting you join in their games? Are they adding little girls to their ranks now?’
‘I’m not a little girl!’ she snapped.
He hit her again, harder, and this time she did start crying.
‘Go out to the yard and help your brothers. Convince me you can do something useful,’ Sostas hissed. ‘You’re not fit to marry. No man will have you. So, Shanna forgive me, we’ll just have to make a servant out of you.’
‘Sostas!’ his wife protested. ‘Don’t talk to her like that …’
‘Don’t take her side!’ he roared. ‘We’ve been too soft on her and this is what we get! Get outside, girl, and get to work before I have to take my belt to you!’
Riadni stood where she was, her body wracked with sobs. He had never treated her like this before. She could only stand and cry. Her father stood in front of her for a while, then shook his head and left the kitchen. Her mother looked forlornly at her, but she would not go against her husband. After sitting there lost for words for a few minutes, she left too and Riadni hung her head back and cried at the ceiling.
Benyan was too wound up to sleep. Instead, he tried to read the Parrelam, the second book of Shanna, but he could not keep his mind on it. The passage was about the appreciation of beauty and the evidence of the existence of the she-god wherever beauty was to be seen. The appreciation of beauty was a gift given only to man, of all Shanna’s creations. No animal could see the world as man saw it, for it was only man who had been created in the image of Shanna. The beauty of women was the ultimate example of this, and so women were to be protected and kept pure of sin. It was a passage whose poetry was cherished by all who read it, but Benyan could not keep his mind off Riadni Mocranen.
He put the book down and stared out of a gap in the door of the tent he shared with another novice. The words of Lakrem Elbeth came to him; he must focus his mind on what was important, he must think of the cause at all times. Everything he did, from his training and his chores, to his nightly prayers, must be for the good of the cause. It was hard to see where Riadni fit in, but Master Elbeth seemed to think she had a part to play. Benyan wondered if she would join the struggle and the thought of it gave him a flush of excitement. There was a scratch of fingernails on the door of the tent.
‘Benyan? Are you there?’ a soft voice called into the tent.
He leaned his head out and saw his tent-mate, Cosca, standing there.
‘Master Elbeth wants to see you. He’s got all the elders in there too,’ the older boy told him. He hesitated, then added, ‘They said to bring all your stuff.’
Benyan shared a look with his friend and nodded. They had heard that order given before and knew it could only mean one thing. His hands shook as he pulled on his boots and packed his few personal belongings into his bag. He scrambled out of the tent and stood up, straightened his tunic, put his hat on his head and raised his eyebrows expectantly at Cosca.
‘You look fine,’ the other boy said. ‘Go on, they’re waiting!’
Cosca took his hand and clasped it tightly before pushing him towards the caves.
There were five elders, including the leader, sitting in a semicircle with Lakrem Elbeth in the middle. Benyan was taken aback to find he was the only other one to arrive in the cave. He looked back
self-consciously, but Elbeth waved to him.
‘There will be no one else joining us, Benyan,’ he said. ‘Please sit down.’
There was a low seat in front of him, like those that the elders sat upon. He sat down carefully. This was a new honour and he wondered what he had done to deserve it … or what he would have to do.
‘You have come a long way since you joined us, Benyan,’ Elbeth began. ‘You have grown, climbed the treacherous steps between boyhood and maturity. We think it is time you took your place among our soldiers.’
Benyan could not keep the smile from his face. His breathing shuddered with pride and happiness. It was the moment he had been waiting for, for nearly a year.
‘I am your servant, Master Elbeth.’
‘There is one final test. This is the final step to becoming a man, Benyan. An act of cunning, determination and strength. Success will carve your place among the Hadram Cassal.’
Benyan nodded. He was ready. Whatever they asked. He was ready.
‘You will go to the city of Victovia,’ Elbeth told him as the other elders watched him impassively, ‘where you will kill two men and a boy.’
He held out a photograph, crumpled and with peeling edges. It was a picture of two men, one quite old, and a boy who might be around his age. They were standing in front of an aeroplane, a fighter with a huge engine in its nose and machine guns mounted on its single set of wings.
‘They are three generations of the same family,’ said Elbeth. ‘The old man is the most important target; his son and grandson share his home and must die with him. The old man is an engineer who has built a number of the aircraft and weapons that are used to kill our people. His son also practises his accursed trade. The boy must pay for the sins of his father and grandfather. You will be given the Blessing of the Martyrs for this task; they shall lend their guidance and power.’
