Barid's Story

by J F Mehentee

  ‘You’ll keep fighting until your head discovers you’re dead, Iron Thread,’ the others had jibed Noor.

  He would moue, just as he had done when they were boys. But then a grin would stretch his lips and make his green eyes glisten.

  ‘Then I’ll turn a blind eye to my wounds and live forever,’ he would reply. ‘And when the sound of someone pissing on your grave wakes you, it’ll be me.’

  ‘Did you turn a blind eye, Noor?’ whispered Barid, the dawn’s freshness making him tighten the blanket he had wrapped around himself.

  He did not expect a reply, but he nevertheless waited, as he often did. He had seen other El’ Zamu standing over the graves of fallen comrades, talking to them, conversing with a soul that had moved on to its next incarnation, one part of them finding comfort in the act, the other hoping that their words might touch that soul, enrich it and preserve its warrior spirit in its next life. ‘Whether we’re alive or dead,’ Noor had once said, ‘our soul hears the words that our ears are deaf to.’

  Barid rose and stretched the stiffness from his limbs. Carefully, hoping to avoid waking Gaurang, he collected the two steel pails and the yoke beside the small cupboard behind the anvil. It was always best to leave at dawn and avoid the kot’s women, who rose at the same time but first had to light the breakfast fire and make tea with the last of their water.

  Halfway along the walk to the kot’s well, he stopped by a giant baobab whose broad branches bisected a field. Above him, a black kite traced circles, occasionally flapping its giant wings to catch the next thermal. Barid looked up at the bird and remembered how flocks of them would circle portentously over a battlefield. The lone kite was a comfort, a reminder that his life was mundane enough that such birds now only appeared in ones and twos.

  On his return, as he drew closer to the smithy, he saw that Gaurang was up. The monk waved at him from the forge. Barid returned the wave.

  ‘Good morning,’ Gaurang said as Barid entered the forge.

  ‘Good morning,’ Barid said, and returned one of the pails and the yoke to their places behind the anvil. Carrying the second pail toward the back of the smithy, he added, ‘I hope you slept well.’

  ‘Dragons don’t sleep.’ Gaurang followed him out of the forge. ‘Not very often.’

  There was no time for Barid to decide if his hospitality had been wasted on Gaurang, because, on reaching the pear tree, he saw a boy standing beside it. The boy stared up at the tree, scratching his bare, protruding belly.

  ‘Can I help you?’ Barid asked Jangid's youngest son.

  The boy scowled his father’s scowl. His eyes darted from Barid to Gaurang, then back to Barid, his hand resting on his belly all the while. He opened his mouth as if to say something but changed his mind. He turned and raced off toward the hill. A quarter of the way up, he began shouting, ‘The kothi has his tree. The kothi has his tree.’

  Gaurang watched the boy with amusement. ‘You never told me what kothi means.’

  Barid rubbed the back of his neck. ‘It’s what you call a man who loves another man…and is the woman in the relationship.’

  Gaurang frowned. ‘And you’re called that because…’

  ‘Because my refusal to marry Jangid’s daughter was an insult. Calling me kothi is his way of trading insults.’

  ‘Why did you refuse?’

  ‘Because I love Noor.’ There, he had said it. It was only the second time he had disclosed his feelings to another, the first being Widow Verma, and it had taken her months to wheedle the truth out of him.

  ‘And Jangid suspects this?’ Gaurang said.

  ‘No. Only Kanishka knows.’

  ‘Then why do you let him call you kothi?’

  Barid sighed. ‘Let’s go see this miracle of yours. Then, if you’re still here, I’ll answer your questions.’

  13

  Barid saw an oval tree above the wall of Jangid’s compound, its branches barely visible beneath the layer of white blossoms that smothered it.

  Widow Verma was the first to touch Gaurang’s feet when he entered. The rest of the women followed suit, their men nodding—albeit reluctantly—if Gaurang happened to smile or nod at them. No one spoke, their silence filling the compound with the solemnity of a temple.

  Barid had witnessed similar miracles at the sultan’s palace, but they were only entertainment for the sultan and his generals—work fit for a clever conjurer, not a magus. There was something too casual about Gaurang to make him a magus, and nothing he did was too elaborate to suggest conjuring.

  What he knew about the Dragonfolk he had learned at the Tabaqa, and it was only of a military nature. There was no mention of a magus or astrologer to advise their generals, let alone a monk. He did know that a Human imbued with a Dragon’s strength was formidable in battle, the military equivalent of thirty of the Emperor’s fearsome Imperial Guard. It was their military might that made them supernatural in the eyes of his teachers, a force to be spied upon and to be grudgingly respectful of. But, interestingly, and just before he had fled Tun Do, sultanate spies had brought news that, along with the Empire, the power of the Dragonfolk was on the wane.

  Nevertheless, it was difficult to deny the miracle. The pear tree at the centre of the compound dwarfed Noor’s, its white blossoms dotted by red anthers, made glorious by the morning sunlight.

  So, why did he feel that Gaurang did not deserve the villagers’ veneration? To him, it felt misplaced, wrong. Their behaviour toward Gaurang robbed them of their dignity.

  ‘My grandmother says I owe you an apology,’ Jangid announced.

  As one, the villagers, including Barid, faced the entrance of the hut at the end of the compound. Jangid stood in its shadowed doorway, his arms folded across his chest, a cheerless expression on his face.

  ‘You’re your own man,’ Gaurang said. He wound his way around the villagers until he stood beneath the tree’s bough. ‘And the kot needs a head capable of making good decisions.’

  Jangid uncrossed his arms and sauntered toward the tree. Barid was sure that, beneath his bushy moustache, Jangid’s upper lip had stretched slightly.

  Barid cast a sideways glance over at Widow Verma. He smiled when he saw her roll her eyes. Like him, she knew that her grandson was being played. After just two meetings, how was it that Gaurang knew what Jangid wanted to hear?

  ‘So, you’ve proved yourself, monk,’ Jangid said. ‘How will you go about blessing our fields?’

  ‘I’ll come back at noon,’ Gaurang said. ‘Your land is already tilled, so I suggest that everyone prepares what they’ll need for sowing their fields.’ Gaurang turned and addressed the villagers. ‘Once I’ve blessed the land, you must plant your crops before it rains this evening.’

  Barid felt his insides twist when the villagers cheered their delight. Jangid grinned. When he looked over at Widow Verma, he saw that she, along with others, had her arms upraised and was appealing to the Heavens for rain.

  Barid shook his head, turned and left the compound.

  Standing at the top of the hill, he cast his eye westward. Sure enough, blotchy rain clouds squatted above the mountaintops. But they were no different from the ones he had seen yesterday and the day before. There was nothing about them to suggest that tonight would be anything but dry.

  He shook his head again, this time not at the villagers’ gullibility but at his own scepticism. What if that pear tree in the compound was a miracle? And why wasn’t he prepared to accept that it was? That last question pushed him down the path and toward the smithy.

  Seeing that the coals needed relighting, Barid groaned. He set to work sweeping the ash into a bucket. Eager to get a fire going, he shovelled all the remaining pieces of coal into it too, including those that could be reused. In his haste to reclaim them, he dropped the bucket, a cloud of grey ash erupting around his feet.

  Barid sat on the anvil and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes.

  He had lost hope. It hurt to admit it. The rational side of h
im knew that Noor was dead and that there was no reason to stay. And that knowledge had snuffed out the hope that had at first sustained him. Now, instead, he endured. He remained in Kot Pulta because that was what he deserved. To leave would be like turning his back on Noor’s sacrifice. It would be a selfish thing to do.

  ‘Would you like some help?’

  He looked up from his hands. It took a while before his vision cleared and he recognised Gaurang standing beside the forge.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The ash,’ Gaurang said. ‘The mess all over your floor. Would you like some help with it?’

  ‘Oh,’ Barid said, getting up. ‘No, I can do it.’

  Gaurang’s forehead furrowed. ‘Are you sure? You look upset.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ He reached for the broom that leaned against the post behind him.

  ‘Were you about to start a new fire?’ Gaurang said.

  Barid nodded.

  ‘You clean up, and I’ll get it started.’ He glanced around him. ‘Where’s the coal?’

  ‘There’s coal in that box over there. And there’s kindling beside it.’

  Having swept up all the ash and shovelled it back into the bucket, he saw, to his surprise, that the coals in the forge were already glowing, their edges having turned white.

  ‘How did you do that?’ Barid said.

  ‘Energy in the form of heat is easy for me to control.’

  Still clutching the broom, Barid stepped closer to the forge and placed an open hand over the coals. The heat felt comforting, a chance to replace the hollow ache with a sharp and searing distraction.

  Barid.

  He experienced rather than heard his name. He saw the pride in his mother’s eyes when she had learned that he was to join the Tabaqa; it was the sound of a night around a campfire with the other El’ Zamu; it was how he felt when Master Nibras held up the first sword he had made and smiled his approval.

  Sit.

  Barid found himself sitting on the anvil, a bowl of tea in his hand.

  ‘Drink,’ Gaurang said. He sat on the floor, his saffron robes arranged around him. ‘Now tell me about Noor.’

  Barid drank the hot, minty tisane and felt its aromatic warmth spread through him. When he had emptied the bowl, he looked up at Gaurang.

  Start at the beginning.

  Again, he felt rather than heard the words, the monk’s lips not having moved.

  Barid studied his bowl. He was still wary of Gaurang. There was nothing he had said since his arrival in Kot Pulta that suggested a lie. But neither had he been direct about his intentions. Regardless of the pear tree and his effortless lighting of the coals, Barid suspected that he was holding something back. And like the sultan’s magi, he had the power to influence others, which made him dangerous.

  ‘Who are you, really?’ Barid said. He got off the anvil and sat on the floor so that he faced Gaurang.

  Gaurang smiled. ‘Remember your promise, Barid. You’ve seen the pear tree, the miracle, so now it’s your turn. Start at the beginning. Tell me about Noor.’

  ‘And then you’ll answer my questions?’

  ‘Of course,’ Gaurang said. ‘I’ll answer them, but you won’t trust me any more than you do now.’

  Barid put down his bowl and gently spun it on the uneven floor. When the bowl wobbled to a halt, he began.

  14

  Throughout my first day and night at the Tabaqa, I was scared. If it were not for Noor, I would have been terrified and most likely have fled. The elder boys, three summers our seniors, were under orders to bully, beat and belittle the new intake as best they could, just as they had been three years earlier. It was the Tabaqa’s first test of our character and the start of a bonding process that would transform us from a group of individuals into a unit. A special bond was formed that day, which remains unbroken.

  I was smaller than most for my ten summers. ‘Don’t worry Barid-jer,’ my mother would try to assure me. ‘Though you were too young to know him before he died in battle, your father was very tall, and he had the broad shoulders of an El’ Zamu. One day, you will too.’

  Such assurance was of little help as I blubbered in the corner of the dormitory, watched through tears as the older boys scattered my few belongings across the floor and upturned my cot.

  It was then, cowering in that corner, I met Noor.

  Already wearing his aspirant’s tunic and sandals, he held out his hand and said, ‘Come with me.’

  He was only a little taller than me, and his stick-like limbs looked as if they would more likely snap than protect either of us. If it were not for the self-assured look in his eyes, I would not have taken his hand. His grip, however, was firm and his arm strong. Before I knew what was happening, I was on my feet and running.

  Noor pulled me through an ill-lit corridor with a vaulted ceiling, then through an opening on our right and into a room with two rows of empty troughs. The washroom smelled faintly of cinnamon and wet clay. How I miss the feel of the fine clay laced with cassia oil that we used to wash away the day’s sweat and dirt.

  ‘You can wait here,’ Noor told me. ‘It’ll be over soon.’

  Not wanting to be left alone and scared that I wouldn’t know my way back to the dormitory, I asked him where he was going.

  ‘To make sure no one breaks my things,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t leave.’

  ‘You’ll be safe here. No one’ll find you.’

  ‘Please.’ I began to cry again.

  He stayed with me all that morning, no doubt concerned for his belongings, but more concerned for me. We sat together, our backs against the washroom wall, his arm across my shoulders, my hand in his. He said nothing, and I felt no shame as I cried.

  I followed him around the Tabaqa for the rest of that first week. I sat next to him in classes and at mealtimes. On the third day, I’d managed to bribe one of the other boys to swap cots so that I could have the one next to Noor’s.

  It took a whole week of hero worship before Noor’s patience finally ran out.

  ‘Stop following me, Barid,’ he shouted at me.

  Holding my bowl of scrambled eggs, I was about to sit next to him at breakfast. The morning hubbub in the refectory vanished. The heavy silence settled on my shoulders. I knew I was being watched by all thirty of the intake’s boys and most definitely others. I was suddenly self-conscious, and Noor might as well have shoved a spear into my heart: my hero had rejected me in front of everyone.

  My legs started to tremble, and I thought I was about to choke. I blinked repeatedly to hold back my tears. I knew then—a boy of ten summers, remember—that what I’d do next would define my character in the eyes of my peers and the older boys.

  So, I flung my bowl of eggs at Noor, and—and I really don’t know why I decided to do this—I followed up with a punch to the side of his head, to his ear.

  My clumsy blow sent him falling backwards and off the bench he sat on. He must have grabbed the tunic of the boy next to him because they both ended up on the floor. I’m not sure who looked more surprised, me or Noor.

  The other boys started to yell and shout, some standing on their benches, waving their hands above their heads. And before the masters arrived, they’d begun to chant, ‘Sticks, sticks, sticks.’ The sound made my ears ring.

  By now, Noor was on his feet, along with the other boy, who was brushing my eggs off his tunic. That I had answered Noor’s rejection with violence hadn’t harmed my reputation with the other boys. But from the look on Noor’s face, I knew I’d managed to hurt the first boy in the Tabaqa to show me kindness.

  The turbaned masters appeared from nowhere. Before I could say anything, apologise to Noor, one of them—a man whose skin was as dark as ebony, a Morana—grabbed me by the scruff and led me out of the refectory at arm’s length. We passed silently down a long corridor, shafts of morning light surging through windows high above. Finally, the Morana pushed open a door that led into a wide yard filled with men. Some wore mail shirts an
d others were bare-chested. All of them held a weapon: a mace, a scimitar or an axe. They watched as I was guided toward a patch of sand and a rope circle. One of the men winked at me and another nodded.

  At the far end of the ring, the Morana turned me so that I faced the yard and the two-storey annex of the Tabaqa. Accompanied by another turbaned master, Noor strode toward me. The entire intake followed close behind.

  When Noor reached the edge of the rope circle, the master behind him threw something to the Morana.

  ‘Here,’ he said, handing me a stick made of dense wood that was coated with a clear lacquer, some of which had turned opaque where the surface had been dented or chipped. ‘Hold on to it,’ the Morana instructed, ‘and do not drop it.’

  I was shaking again. The Morana must have noticed, because he rested a hand on my shoulder. I could feel his callused palm through my cotton tunic.

  ‘The El’ Zamu are great warriors,’ the Morana said, addressing everyone in the yard, his voice rich and deep. ‘Their values are respect, diligence, honesty, service and brotherhood. These values are the reason they are the Undefeated. An El’ Zamu holds these values as dear as he might hold his own child to his breast. An El’ Zamu does not violate these values.

  ‘Only here, in this training yard, may a brother raise a hand against his brother. It is a place to develop his warrior skills, and it is the place to which he brings his disputes. The El’ Zamu fight only for peace, and such peace cannot be won without there first being peace between brothers.’ The Morana squeezed my shoulder. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

  ‘Barid, sir,’ I squeaked.

  ‘This aspirant, Barid, and aspirant Noor were caught fighting,’ the Morana continued. ‘You have violated the value of brotherhood. Settle your dispute now, and be brothers again. The first to have the stick knocked from his hand will receive punishment for both of you.’