The King's Tribe

by Kai Widdeson

  The rest of the walk passes largely without incident. Cecilia gives me the usual suspicious scowl as she sweeps crumbs and dust out of the bakery doorway. Ruth is having her daily shouting match with Bennie for the morning as she forces him to clean up the puke-covered tavern wall, a result of his regular lack of evening discipline. From the dazed look in his eyes and his constantly wavering balance, she should consider herself lucky if he doesn’t add to the mess.

  Ten minutes later, I heave up the last bucket from the old well, water sloshing gently over the sides as I set it down. I have begun readying myself for the laborious trek back when horribly familiar voices sound behind me. Casually glancing over one shoulder I spot the pitiful group approaching, unfortunately, it would seem they have also already spotted me.

  “Morning, Spawn!” the fattest of the group bellows. Rhys is an unpleasant sight to behold, a fool suffering from an insatiable greed that has led to his immense size. His thin long straw-coloured hair is plastered over an expansive forehead almost reaching the first of several chins.

  Spawn was his own creation, a play on the belief that I am marked demon-spawn. An opinion shared by his mother Cecilia. The boy had grown up in the bakery and it would seem as though he had spent enough time around dough that he has begun to resemble it.

  His cronies snigger behind him, close as always. They are both morons. Landen is the taller of the two, only following Rhys as a means to his sadistic ends, whereas Harvey is with him more to avoid becoming a victim himself, for if I had not been born it would surely be him who would bear the brunt of Rhys’ torture.

  “Hi Rhys,” I reply, anxious to avoid any longer in the group’s company than is necessary.

  “Cursed anyone yet?”, another of his timeless favourites, apparently, he has already reached a level of boredom in such early hours that he needs my punishment as an escape. My pain never fails him as one of his favourite pastimes. The line is so old that I don’t even bother to respond, instead turning my back to pick up the full buckets.

  Definitely a mistake.

  “What? Think you’re too good for us humans? Hey prick, we’re talking to you!” he shoves me roughly in the back, putting little of his weight behind it but it’s enough. Stumbling, water sloshes down the front of my trousers and onto the ground below, turning the floor into mud. I twist to the side as the ground shifts beneath me, narrowly avoiding my chin on the pile of stones surrounding the well. My shoulder collides with it instead, knocking off a few of the less stable rocks.

  Furiously, I turned to the obnoxious lump behind me as I struggle to keep my footing over the now soft ground and loose stones. This of course only leads to further mockery and heat rises to my cheeks.

  “Ohhhh damn Rhys you’ve done it now!” Harvey yapps gleefully “He’s gonna get his little tree sprites on you!” They all guffaw at that.

  “Leave him alone Rhys,” a new voice commands. I bow my head, wondering if this morning could possibly get off to a worse start.

  Robyn strides towards us. She is a couple of inches shorter than myself, with unnaturally leafy green eyes and chestnut hair that cascades over slim shoulders.

  She is absolutely beautiful.

  I feel the colour in my cheeks evolve into an even deeper shade and my eyes dart to the floor in shame. Thankfully she seems to take no notice, choosing instead to focus on the pathetic batch in front of her. She glowers at the hulking boy with the ferocity of a lioness, he of course is first to drop his gaze, his lackies having immediately stopped in their support and backing off slightly.

  Rhys shifts from the new arrival and returns his attention to me, to my immense shame I note that this is because I am the easier target.

  “Need protecting much?” he smirks. “Next time, asshole.” I glare back at him as best I can, false defiance trying to regain at least some of my dignity. With one last look of contempt at the both of us he turns and waddles away, the other two dutifully at his heels.

  “I don’t need anyone to protect me,” I say, puncturing the long silence that had ensued as Robyn had helped me refill my buckets. We had been forced to steady each other on the now slippery surface.

  “I know,” she comments. I study her, trying to tell if she’s being sarcastic or just patronising.

  “I mean...just look at those!” Robyn explains, playfully grabbing my bicep. I wrench my arm away, trying to hide my grin despite myself.

  “Thanks though,” I mutter under my breath.

  No answer is necessary.

  Robyn walks with me the rest of the way back to the hut, making light conversation and happy to keep me company. Each of us take a bucket as we head towards my home. As it turns out she is to help her mother with the berry picking for the day, and after the morning’s ordeal and no other responsibilities to occupy my time, I feel it only right to offer a hand.

  The hours pass by and morning fades to afternoon as we crawl through brambles and bushes to fill our baskets in the mercy of the shade. Much of the day is spent laughing and talking about random things, old memories, people in the village, and a fair bit of slandering Rhys. We both end up trying to outdo each other with our choice words until Robyn’s mother peeks her head around the corner with a scowl at our vocabulary.

  By the time the sun tickles the treeline we have several filled baskets to show for our efforts and an impressive collection of thorns and splinters. Both of us now sports a tapestry of scratches and scrapes down our arms. The gentle smell of smoke fills the air, it is unusual that the fires would be lit already, often the light is saved until it is undeniably needed. Perhaps the winds are carrying the remnants of a bonfire.

  Nightfall comes quickly and we are still by each other’s side as the evening’s feast is prepared, we have long since rested into comfortable silence having exhausted our reservoirs of village gossip and brutal insults.

  As usual, Mother is inside helping to prepare the day’s haul from the hunters. Alice has been left temporarily in the care of Ida, as is common with the younger children. A hearty fire crackles lazily in the centre of the circle of logs that seat the villagers. Bennie is at it again, the loudest voice echoing through the open door of the tavern, he’s likely dancing on a table by now, judging from the cheers of encouragement followed by the occasional crash.

  The usual chorus from the various forest creatures can scarcely be heard over the excited chatter of Avlym’s inhabitants. Everyone always looks forward to the feast. The daily communal meal around the fire brings everyone together, Ida babbling and occasionally gifting the children in her care with peculiar quips, Manuel snoozing against a log enjoying his day off from the hunt, everyone all in one place.

  Arthur can be seen weaving in and out of the crowd getting information on the day’s happenings and ins and outs. He jots down notes and numbers in his tatty old book that keeps this place running as smoothly as possible.

  Arthur is the man that really holds the village together, widowed many years ago he had been left childless and so poured his heart and soul into Avlym. Though now I focus on him he does seem to be acting rather odd, glancing at the forest nervously every few minutes, he should have everything sorted by now but he’s still pacing restlessly. Several others are acting similarly, muttering in hushed anxious tones towards whatever oddity I appear to still be oblivious to.

  “Wha-” I began to Robyn, after scanning the group but not spotting any abnormalities, but the words catch in my throat. As if to answer my question a pair of the younger hunters split from the pack that have just emerged and rush towards the hut where my mother will be sorting the food. It has only just occurred to me that the hunters should have returned a couple of hours ago at the absolute latest, it was incredibly dangerous to risk staying out this far into the night.

  Closely behind Devin, Jack and Randall hold a limp body between them, hurrying towards the fire where we all sit in shock. All eyes turn as Arthur steps forward to meet them.

  He is just a boy. Looking only a little olde
r than myself, but tall, lean...and an absolute mess. He is covered head to toe in dirt, mud, dust, and most worryingly blood. Lots and lots of blood. It pools around him as he lay on the floor fussed over by the healers of the village, my mum included, as they try to patch up as many of the deep gashes as they can. His lips are cracked and his bare feet raw. Dark bruising covers almost every inch of the boy’s body and sweat beads his forehead.

  A dark shape sticks out by his temple, clinging to his skin and mostly hidden under the mess of hair. Perhaps it is merely a trick of the dim firelight or a clinging leaf or strand of hair, but something about it seems off. Too deliberate. I inch forward but the wind shifts and the tangled nest atop hid head repositions over the mark.

  The pain that kid endured running through the forest must have been unimaginable, it’s incredible that he survived the creatures of the night long enough for the hunters to find him. It’s a miracle the forest gods hadn’t claimed him, them or something else more sinister. If not for the hunters, it’s unlikely the boy would have seen another sunrise.

  As the boy is tended to, Randall enlightens Arthur. Thankfully we are close enough to hear everything quite clearly. Not that it matters much, the whole village is straining to overhear the conversation.

  Randall reveals that they had come across the boy’s trail hoping for some large prey and instead found him on the brink of death, barely clinging to consciousness in the middle of nowhere.

  The forest at night is a perilous place, the hunters rarely even venture out after the sun has set. Even if the predators don’t get you, it’s far too easy to get lost among the identical trees and never be able to find your way back home again.

  Crushed herb pastes and soaked leaves have been spread over the worst of his injuries, and as he drifts in and out of consciousness a little water has been passed through his lips at least. Ida and my mum, amongst others, are doing their best to slowly revive him and it seems as though his breathing is perhaps evening out a little. Ida has stopped babbling and is now in a state of complete focus, putting her many years of knowledge to good use.

  The cheerful laughter is already a distant memory, even the tavern has silenced now as word of the event has reached its ears and the occupants have come to see for themselves.

  In such a quiet community where little ever manages to puncture the monotony of each day, everyone will be keen to witness the action. All noise in Avlym has been replaced by nervous whispers and the occasional pain-fuelled groans, neither of which die out all evening.

  The boy hasn’t been awake enough to tell them anything and nobody has any idea where he could have possibly come from. He isn’t one of our own and is far too underdressed to be from the colony, having only an odd necklace on a bare chest and an old battered looking pair of roughly cut shorts. He of course could be from one of the neighbouring villages, but that wouldn’t explain the state the hunters had found him in and not a single trader had admitted to knowing him.

  Perhaps he has been banished? Either way, despite his state, I am thankful for the hunters keeping a constant eye over him. The commotion had awakened Manuel, how could it not, and although he still dozed, he is never too far from the frail boy. It is possible that he’s acting under Randall’s instructions, just in case.

  I can’t remember ever hearing as many rumours as I do that night. Tales of the boy being a forest god sent to test us, if not an exiled babe who has survived nature’s worst, or perhaps a spy from the colony sent to gain our trust and infiltrate. I’m not sure I could say which theory was more far-fetched. I should hardly be surprised, in a village whose only notable news was how long Bennie had lasted the night before, a bloodied stranger clinging to life certainly deserves some talk.

  Curiously, it is decreed that the boy will spend the night at ours so that my mother can continue to care for him. He is to be guarded at all times by an insistent Randall and Arthur has promised to check in on him come first light.

  I lay still for a long time that night before sleep presents itself to me, the struggling boy fighting for his life barely a foot away. Ida and my mother have given him a chance, but his rasping breaths are still worryingly quick and unsteady.

  As it turns out, I was right to question the marks by the boy’s temple. I took the opportunity to sneak a look as soon as it presented itself and what I found certainly raised some more questions. The marks are in fact green and form several long swirling tendrils that emerge from his unkempt hair to flick against his brow. A similar slash of green curves underneath his ear, giving the impression that the hidden part of the design outlines it.

  I have only met one other individual who has decorated his skin in a similar way. A trader who had bragged about discovering a shaman capable of the art in some distant lands during his travels. His had been black, not green, and a crudely drawn spiral on his shoulder. He had used it to attract customers, strutting around in a shirt with torn off sleeves, eagerly displaying the mark in hope for his next deal. When they asked what it was, he would launch into some wild story about an old hag in a cave many moons away, a tale that was quickly passed around before being ridiculed later that night in the tavern. A tattoo he had called it, as far as I know nobody in the village had seen anything like it. Even Ida looked perplexed, forcing the traveller to remain seated as she traced the swirl repeatedly.

  The more I look at the boy, the more questions come to the tip of my tongue. Nothing this big has happened in the village since that night many years ago, that night that the young me could only faintly remember but which had been retold to me countless times, the night that had claimed my father.

  He was attacked, they had all told me, but when I asked by whom no one seemed to have a response. Devin swore that it had been the forest spirits, at first the other hunters seemed to agree with his story, but as time continued and the story of that hunt was retold, the details grew hazier until no one could remember what really happened. All anyone knew was that he had been hit by a spear covered in odd runes and been brought back bloody by his team. Randall was fretting and Mum had broken down. I had been old enough to understand the seriousness of my father’s condition, but too young to be told what was going on. As a result, I had simply sat by his side in tears, unable to comprehend why or how anything was able to harm my father.

  The spear had been removed, the wound dressed, and yet my father had gotten worse and worse, appearing feverish, it was only until later that they had discovered the poison coating the execution weapon. He hadn’t stood a chance, and that evening he had left us. I ponder for the millionth time how differently life would have been if my father had never gone out that day. I could only remember my mother with a deep and tremendous sadness behind those eyes, as much as she may try to hide it from us. She refuses to talk about that day, and Alice, poor Alice, my little sister. She would never know my father and likewise he had never even known she was on her way.

  Randall sits slumped against the wall in the shadows, close enough that he can get between myself and the boy in time should he need to, eyelids slowly descending until he jolts awake and the process starts again. At this moment he is a guard, desperately trying not to fall asleep at his post. He has been the closest thing to a fatherly figure in our lives, and whilst I know he loves us dearly, there is always a sense that he is there for us out of a sense of duty. A commitment born from guilt at the passing of his childhood friend.

  I stare at the straw ceiling above me for what seems like hours. My mind is an unrelenting blur of activity, and yet, despite having nothing but a dying boy and the fantasies of a life without a departed parent to keep me company, I slowly drift into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A couple of days later the boy seems to be holding steady, the various ointments from my mum and Ida appear to have worked their magic. The bruises are fading slowly and the deep cuts already looking several weeks old, though serious scarring may be inevitable. He has continued to live at our hut and whilst he is more tha
n welcome to our floorspace, the lack of trust from the village people has resulted in constant surveillance.

  He is never allowed to be alone, just to be safe, and so our hut has turned into a sort of inn, a host to a slightly different party as each evening passes. The continued precautions are largely a result of the boy’s uninterrupted silence. Despite having visits from Arthur daily, he hasn’t uttered a single word and so of course we haven’t been provided with any explanation or reasons to trust him.

  I am wary of the boy. Too often have I caught sly glances in my direction as he studies the marks on my face. I appreciate their oddness and am all too familiar with such treatment, but the boy’s consistent and regular looks are beginning to border on obsession.

  He understands us easy enough, with no clear language barrier he never causes any hassle and does whatever is instructed of him. Except speak. Even my mother is unable to get anything out of him, the woman who had brought him back from the brink of death and whom he appropriately treats with a kind of reverence. He has spent his time helping her out with the little things whenever he spots anything, an attitude that has led to several remarks about my often less helpful demeanour.

  Robyn has barely left our home since his arrival. She is fascinated by him, even if he could talk, I would be surprised if he could fit a word in edgewise. She is constantly trying to get anything out of him, and her theories of his origins grow wilder with each hour. She has even named him, seeing as he is either unwilling or unable to provide one himself.

  “How about Guy?” She grins one particularly eventless afternoon. Whilst her idea of a joke, and a particularly terrible one at that, the name nevertheless stuck and was soon passed around Avlym’s inhabitants.

  It has all become too much for my poor mum. With the busyness of her already small home mixed with the caring for the boy and my ever-demanding little sister, it’s a wonder she managed to hold out as long as she did. It therefore comes as no surprise when she ambushes Arthur outside of the hut after his most recent visit.