by Remi Michaud
“You know you're awfully muddy Frieza,” Jurel informed her as if it were somehow news. “Your mother's gonna whip you good.”
Now it was Frieza's turn to look indignant, and Darren guffawed.
“No problem there Jurry,” Darren laughed. “All Frieza has to do is stand in front of the pig sty and her mother'll never even see her.”
A general laugh passed through the group and Frieza stomped her foot.
“You be quiet, you—you big oaf,” cried Frieza and this made everyone laugh all the harder until Trig stepped in.
“Ok, ok, leave Frieza alone.”
As their unspoken leader, he often took it upon himself to protect them.
“Besides,” he added with a mischievous smirk, “she'll get it soon enough when her mother sees her carrying half the farm on her skirt.”
“And what about my hole?” Wag asked, dismissing Frieza, who was not important. After all, he was a whole year older than her. “I bet it's a frog's hole.”
Jurel finally saw the hole in question. It was a tiny thing surrounded by short grass with a bit of mud that looked like a welcome mat, and disappeared into the ground. Even the sun could not find the bottom of it.
“It can't be a frog's hole,” Erin sniffed.
Of course she would know. She knew everything. Grudgingly, Jurel had to admit that Erin was not really a bad sort. She was just so insufferably smug.
“Yeah,” Frieza piped up, “it can't be a frog's hole.”
“Well, why not?” Wag demanded.
“Because it's too small to be a frog's hole, silly,” Erin explained in the same tone a parent used on a child who was being willfully dense.
“It's not too small,” retorted Wag. “It's still cool out so he's got his front door closed.”
Jurel watched as his friends argued and smiled. This day was starting off very well. Very well indeed.
* * *
The sun climbed higher in the sky and grew warmer as they played several rousing games of Catch-Me-If-You-Can, running through the grasses, turned mostly green by the weeks of warming weather, with only patches of ecru like the footsteps of a dancing giant, whooping with delight. Frieza, being the smallest of them, was most often the chaser but everyone, even Wag, let her catch them once in a while. Despite her pesky tendency to emulate Erin's self-importance, everyone liked her well enough and they wanted to include her in their play. They also did not want to have to endure one of her tantrums. Ugly business those.
When the sun had reached its zenith and hung there, hesitating as if it did not want such a beautiful day to end either, they threw themselves to the ground at the top of the rise, still laughing, and watched the puffs of clouds that had wandered over into their part of the world while they were playing.
“That one looks like a cow, doesn't it?” Darren asked of no one in particular.
“Naw, it looks like a horse,” Wag declared. “A knight's trusty steed, armored and prepared for a grand battle against the dragon that kidnapped the princess.”
A sense of unease passed through Jurel, fleeting memories crawling up his spine like spiders.
“It's too fat to be a horse, Wag,” Erin sniffed.
He tried to hide his discomfort as they argued over whether it was a cow grazing in a field or a horse trotting to battle. His friends did not know what he knew. They still believed that battle was like the stories: all honor and glory and valor. They imagined it was no more than some grand game that men played, like Catch-Me-If-You-Can or Hide-and-Seek but in armor and with swords. But Jurel had witnessed a battle of his own. A real battle. A battle where men roared and screamed and hacked at each other with sharpened steel that had vicious serrated edges. He remembered blood and fear, the smell of bitter smoke, all that remained of homes, of families, and the sickly sweet stench of death, meat, and manure mingled into one nauseating bouquet. And he remembered loss. Above all, there was loss. It was like a gaping hole with edges as ragged as a torn sack. A hole filled with empty pain.
A lump filled his throat and his eyes burned with unshed tears as chill spider's fingers continued their relentless journey up his spine. With momentous effort he pushed away the unwanted memories and surreptitiously wiped the moisture from his eyes. He had never told his friends about that day. In truth, all he wanted was to forget it had ever happened, that his life, though short, had been tipped upside down like a jug of fresh spring water into desert sands. Until he was empty.
“Hey you slackers! What're you doin?”
It was a rare occasion indeed that Jurel was glad to hear Valik's voice. This was one of them. Sitting up, he turned his head to look down the hill toward the farm. Trig and Darren did likewise and the three watched the approach of the eldest of them.
There was not much nice to be said of Valik. He was a mean-spirited boy who enjoyed pranks that went too far, and nasty, hurtful words. He always laughed hardest when he provoked tears in another. Jurel did not like him and he was pretty sure the sentiment was shared by anyone who knew him. It was a sentiment that was probably felt by anyone as soon as they saw his pinched features and beady, rat-like eyes. He reveled in his role as eldest of the lot. He loved reminding them that he was nearly a man grown, though his thirteenth birthday had passed but two months ago and he would not truly be considered a man for three more years—a lifetime away. He paraded himself around like he were superior to them, strutting like a peacock whenever he was around them. He was also Galbin's only son and heir to the farm—a fact he gleefully reminded them of constantly. Life with Valik around was generally a challenge.
Valik's late arrival meant his father had probably ordered him to work in the fields that morning. He hated getting his hands dirty, preferring instead to let others do the work for him. Everyone knew that he would be in an especially foul mood, and when he was in a foul mood his words stung all the harder and his pranks hurt more.
There was a bright side however. As he got older, his father placed more and more responsibilities on his shoulders in preparation of the day when he would inherit the farm. It meant that he was around less and less to torment the others.
“I said, what are you slackers doin?” he asked as he reached the top of the hill and stood with fists planted on his hips like an angry father and glared down at them. “What's a man got to do to get an answer around here?”
Well at least it had been a good morning.
“We're not doing anything, Valik,” Trig said in a placating tone. “Did your father have a lot for you to do today?”
“Well of course he did you idiot. There's a lot to know about ownin a farm you know.”
Maliciously, he peered at them, and sneered. “But then, the likes of you wouldn't know, would you? All the hired help needs to know is how to follow orders.”
“Not if I can help it,” Darren muttered and Jurel suppressed a grin.
“All you need to know is how to use my plows,” continued Valik, oblivious to Darren's comment.
With a self-satisfied smirk, Valik looked upon them as though they were his subjects and his eyes lit on Frieza.
“Frieza, look at you! Your mother's gonna have a fit when she sees what you done to your skirt. Why don't you run off like a good little girl and get washed up, eh? Besides, I don't need children gettin under my feet for the rest of the day.”
“But mama said I could stay out and play today,” she said and her lower lip trembled slightly. “She said I could play.”
“I don't need no little girls and their dollies boring me to tears,” he said as gruffly as a thirteen year old can manage (and never mind that there were no dollies to be seen). “Go on. Off with you.” He waved his hand, dismissing her.
“Come on Valik,” Trig said, coming to the girl's defense. “Leave her be. She won't be in the way.”
The hopeful look in Frieza's eyes, so bright and excited, nearly broke Jurel's heart. Valik hesitated with his mouth partway open and his eyes slitted angrily when he saw the same plea mirrored by
everyone. Then he sighed a martyr's sigh and threw his hands in the air.
“Fine. You can stay.” He jabbed a finger at Trig then, like it was a dagger. “But you had best make sure she don't bug me.”
With that warning—which was almost immediately forgotten by Trig—he rose and trotted off. Knowing he expected them to follow, they all rose and shuffled along behind him, like a line of chicks following a harping mother hen.
Jurel did not understand how Valik could be so unpleasant. His father, Galbin, was a good man. He was the kind of man who still believed in the old rules. Anyone, no matter how ragged, could approach the farm and beg a night's stay and Galbin would not only provide lodgings, even if it might only be a blanket in a hayloft, he would provide a meal. He was a hard working soul too; never would he ask anyone to do anything he himself had not done a thousand times over. Jurel's father reminded him time and again that this man, as soft and portly as he seemed, deserved all the respect he had, every lick of it. Coming from his father, that was high praise indeed.
In a way, Galbin had adopted Jurel as something of a surrogate nephew since they had arrived some four years before, and Jurel loved him for it. He always had a smile and a jest for Jurel. Whenever his father was asked to dine at the main house—usually to discuss business—Jurel was always invited. None of it seemed to have any effect on Valik though. On the contrary, Galbin's son seemed to take particular pleasure in watching him squirm like the flies he pulled the wings from.
“Hey new kid,” Valik barked. Four years and that nickname still seemed to delight him. “Go and fetch my ball and maybe I'll let you play this time.”
“I'll go Jurel,” Trig offered.
“No no. It's fine. I'll go,” he replied for Valik's sake. And, quietly, for Trig, he added, “I don't mind getting away from King Farmboy for a bit.”
As the rest of them ran down to the field already caught up in a game, Jurel angled away and made his way back to the farm. Over the fence he went, and back the way he had come earlier until, rounding the corner of the big main barn, Galbin's house came into view.
It was a large house and Jurel was always impressed by it. Certainly, not even the grandest palaces could be any more splendid than this great two story structure at the end of a cobbled path, that gleamed snow white with its new coat of paint. Windows marched in two rows, six in all and, with their shutters thrown wide open, reflected the sun so it seemed the light came from within. The tall roof was lined with red clay tiles all the way to its peak, matching exactly the color of the shutters. Two stone chimneys—one at each end of the house—rose up and appeared to Jurel like squat watch towers. He skirted around the side and to the front where he reached the veranda that spread nearly the entire length of the house and he stepped through the front door which, as was usual when the weather warmed, stood invitingly open.
He ran into a brick wall of noise. Pots and pans clattered from ahead, through the kitchen doors, women laughed and chattered and called across the kitchen to each other as they saw to their tasks, and he saw a flurry of activity.
And the smell! The most wonderful aromas were coming from those doors: seasoned chicken roasting over the cook fire vied with fresh baked bread until he almost drooled and his belly grumbled, reminding him that he had not eaten since breakfast. As if he was a fish caught on a line, he veered from the wide staircase that rose to the second floor and Valik's room, and followed his nose down the long hall, his feet silent on the polished hardwood and one hand trailing idly along the white plaster of the wall.
As soon as he crossed the arched doorway, the cacophony peaked. What was a brick wall of noise before, turned into an avalanche and he watched as women bustled about almost chaotically. Knives struck wood in quick succession, thockthockthock, as vegetables were chopped and potatoes were peeled. Water sluiced as some women wiped dishes that were handed to them and piled them clattering on precarious stacks in the cupboards, while others filed in and out carrying buckets of well water. Over it all, voices melded creating an alto roar that was intermittently speckled with laughter and with the odd shouted command.
He sidled along the edge of the counter that ran around the room, trying desperately to keep himself from being sucked into the maelstrom, certain he would never emerge in one piece, and spotted old Marta kneading dough at the farthest counter across the room. Hesitating, he decided to take a risk. Licking his lips nervously, he tried to gauge the comings and goings of the women in front of him, quickly realizing there was no pattern. It was a bee hive of activity in the kitchen and women came and went as need dictated.
As soon as a tiny gap opened, he steeled himself and dove through, praying fervently that he would survive the stampede, and managed to arrive at her side, surprised there had been only two shouted reprimands at him to watch where he was going.
“Well, hello young Jurel,” she said mildly without even bothering to look up from her task of mauling and pummeling perfectly innocent dough with gnarled fingers that looked like knotty oak. “What brings you to the kitchen at this hour?”
“Um, well I wondered if I might have a little bite to eat?” he asked. More mumbled, really.
“Jurel Histane!” she said, rounding on him and planting her fists on her hips, giving the abused dough a much needed reprieve. “It will soon be time to sit for dinner. What will your father say when he finds I have ruined your appetite, hmmm?”
“I'm sorry ma'am. It's just...I haven't eaten since breakfast, you see, and-”
Clicking her teeth, she rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh you children. Silly geese the whole lot of you!”
The twinkle in her eye belied the scolding tone and Jurel's hopes raised a notch.
“Stay here,” she commanded and disappeared into the storm of activity leaving Jurel to look around and try to make sense of the chaos.
Bits of conversation reached him like errant raindrops and he tried to make out the various voices. “Oh yes he did! And then he said...” one of the wash girls was saying to another and, “No no! Not like that. First, you need to...” That sounded like Valik's mother, Ingirt, waspish as ever. “You hear about Rorik? He was at...” He did not even know who that voice belonged to. Then Marta reappeared somehow unscathed and handed him a cloth bundle.
“Here you are, you young scamp. Now be off with you. This kitchen is no place for boys who haven't the sense to eat lunch at a sensible hour,” she said and shooed him away.
He managed to dodge his way back to the door without incident, clutching his prize to his chest like gold and with Marta's voice trailing after him like wind, “And don't be going announcing to all your friends that old Marta hands out freebies else you'll never gull a favor from me again.”
He stood for a moment, a little out of breath, a little dazed, before gingerly spreading the waxed cloth and staring at the treasure buried within. A slab of golden chicken, still hissing faintly, as thick as his finger dripped grease into a warm roll as soft as a cloud and slathered with fresh yellow butter. He almost moaned with delight when the first hint of steam reached his nose. He did moan softly when he took his first bite and it took two more bites before he remembered why he was here in the first place.
Stuffing the rest into his mouth—which made him look like a gathering squirrel—he pounded his way up the stairs to the second floor and went directly to the room he knew was Valik's. He scanned the floor littered with clothing, polished rocks, a long branch with whittle marks, and a thousand other useless bits and pieces, until he saw his prize peeking out from under a soiled work shirt. He was about to grab it up when he remembered his fingers were coated in grease and butter and a day's worth of dirt.
It was an extremely rare occasion when Jurel did something that might be considered unkind. He rarely joined Trig in playing his largely harmless pranks—though he sometimes watched the outcome. He most certainly never joined Valik. But on that day, at that moment, a malicious smile, the most malicious grin he had ever worn, worked its way acro
ss his lips. He found, hanging from a rod in Valik's closet, a snow-white shirt. Valik's best shirt. Childish rationale butted its way into Jurel's thoughts. His hands were filthy after all. He had to wipe them clean before picking up Valik's most prized possession, right? Right.
Very carefully, he cleaned his hands on the spotless garment, ensuring that he got all the grease from between his fingers, under his nails, and anywhere else grease might hide. Stepping back, he scrutinized his work like a painter, eying this brush stroke and that, ensuring that every one was just so, and when he was satisfied, he plucked the ball from the ground and bolted from the scene of the crime.
Under the sun once again and on his way back to the field on the other side of the fence, he felt vaguely uneasy, like eyes were watching him in disapproval. Perhaps his prank had not been the best way to get back at Valik after all. He did not like Valik but he had set him up for a good thrashing when the greasy shirt was discovered. But Jurel was nothing if not pragmatic, and he figured what was done, was done.
“Hey new kid, what took you so long?” Valik called when he spotted Jurel rounding the main barn. “Did you forget your way?”
Even at that distance, Jurel could hear the cruel edge to Valik's laughter; he found himself a little less regretful.
“No Valik. It just took me time to find it in all your stuff.”
The girls went off on their own—which is to say, Erin did not want to play and Frieza did another admirable job of emulating the older girl.
“Women don't play with balls,” Erin sniffed and her expression was the one most people use when someone passes wind at the dinner table.
“Yeah! Women don't play with balls!” Frieza echoed.
Jurel found that to be something of a relief, if a little confusing; was it not just last week that Erin had muddied her yellow skirts, getting just as filthy as the boys? He liked them well enough he supposed but they were, after all, girls.
