by Remi Michaud
Light-headed with anger, sick with betrayal, Jurel jumped to his feet, dumping the box to the ground. The sword clattered against the floor, ringing like death's bells, strangely harmonizing with the wretched ringing in his ears, and Jurel suppressed an urge to kick it as far away from him as he could like one might kick at a hissing viper.
“Learn to use it?” he shrieked. “Father, are you mad? I will not fight. I will not have a sword. I can't believe that you, of all people, would give me such a thing.” He panted great lungfuls of air that tasted bitter and he glared at his father with wild eyes. “How could you?”
Now it was Daved who jumped to his feet, fists clenched at his side and shaking with suppressed violence. “Fool boy! I thought you were a man. Perhaps I was mistaken. I have tried to be patient with you. I have tried to show you right from wrong, to stand up and defend yourself against bullies. As much as Valik is a vicious bully, at least he has spirit!
“Can you find no courage in you? No strength at all? No! You're nothing but a sniveling coward. You don't deserve this sword. You are not a man!”
He reached down and picked up the weapon and Jurel suddenly found himself staring at the gleaming, deadly point only inches from his eyes.
“This need not be the evil murderous demon you think boy,” Daved hissed through gritted teeth. “This is no more than a tool. It is the wielder who decides how it will be used. Like one of Jax's hammers. You think they wouldn't be deadly if he swung one at someone's head? Does he? How about an ax, boy? Eh? You think an ax wouldn't cut a man in half? Believe me, they can. I've seen it. Have you seen anyone on this farm use one that way? Until you learn to understand that, you are nothing but a fool child.”
With serpentine grace, the sword swung a tight arc and slammed home in its sheath.
“Do what you want with it, boy,” Daved spat and tossed the weapon onto their table, and spinning on his heel, he stormed from the cabin, slamming the door with such force that the entire structure trembled as though struck a mortal wound.
“I WILL NOT FIGHT!” Jurel screamed at the door.
Numbness wormed its way up his limbs as though he had been out in bitter cold for too long, until he felt he was a disembodied spirit, flickering in and out of existence like a guttering candle flame. A sob tore from his depths, wracking him painfully and he collapsed limply to his knees. His father knew what he had been through, knew what had happened. He had been there too. How could he say those things?
The room seemed to spin slowly about him, and from somewhere he thought he heard laughter. A boy's laughter. An image of a tavern that he had known at one time so long ago came to his mind but it was insubstantial, ethereal and he could make out no more than that it was a tavern: tables and a bar. People had died in that tavern. People he had loved as...as...family, as a child loves parents. It was long ago. He did not remember that day very well and what he did remember (blood blossomed like a poppy on the pristine white, sad eyes gazed at him. A form inert in the corner. Mama?) he tried to push away, to bury as deeply as tree roots lest it leave him cored like a rotten apple.
He did not want anyone to go through what he had been through. Was that such a terrible thing? His father should have been proud of him, should have been proud that he was not some fiend, some violent beast. But the truth was out; he respected Valik, that vile, petty lout more than his own son.
His eyes were drawn up as if on a string until he gazed at the offensive weapon on the table. Just a tool, his father had said. Just a tool, like a hammer, or an ax.
I'm sixteen damn you! I'm a man!
But a hammer was designed to build, to create. Not murder. And an ax provided firewood to keep warm in the winter, or lumber for shelter. What use did a sword have beyond killing? What else was it designed for?
As he knelt, an image of the barely remembered tavern floated across the tableau in his mind. An image of Daved with that cursed sword drawn. An image of his father standing in defense of a helpless child with blond hair and blue eyes (somehow the child was vaguely familiar though Jurel could not quite find a name) facing an unseen enemy. The sword flicked out quick as a serpent's tongue, and when it returned, it was red. It flicked out again, and then his father knelt beside the boy. He did not know if the image was real or just his imagination but it seemed real enough. The significance was not lost on him. His father was a good man. Hard, stern, often angry but good. He had used the sword. He had killed.
In an odd flip-flop of emotion that could only be explained by the violent churning of his mind, his weeping stopped and he grew still, calm as a summer breeze. His eyes remained glued to the thing on the table. His father was a good man. No matter that he had used his sword, this sword, to kill, no matter that he had almost killed Jurel with mere words. He was a good man.
And then the intensity of his own self-hate rolled over him like an avalanche. If his father was a good man, then Jurel was a coward. He knew that already. He had not needed his father's confirmation. He knew. His father spoke of defense, of protection, of standing up for himself when no one else would.
Could it be? Even with a sword?
Slowly, he rose on shaky legs. Hesitantly, he reached out for the gift his father had thought would be important enough to risk jeopardizing his relationship with his timid son. His fingers grazed the hard leather of the sheath and he recoiled lest the weapon...
Lest the weapon what? Attack him? Chuckling darkly, softly, he gathered his nerve and picked up his sword. He was surprised by its heft, but though heavy, it was not unwieldy. He did not draw the blade. He simply raised the sheathed weapon before his eyes and stared fearfully, distastefully at it for a time.
As he stared, he came to a realization that surprised him with its clarity. His father loved him. He would not try to subvert him into something evil, press him to some malicious purpose. He had been trying to help his son in the only way he knew how. After all, his father was right: Jurel had thought to leave the farm at some time. Daved was doing no more than providing Jurel with the best chance to survive in the outside world. The strange incongruity struck him that his father would teach him how to kill out of love.
He dropped into his chair, letting out the breath he had not known he held in a great gust, and let the sword point fall to the ground. Holding the hilt loosely, he lay his head back and closed his eyes, mourning the heated words that had passed between father and son.
He owed Daved an apology, that much was certain. But, he decided—rather wisely, in his opinion—that he would wait for the man to cool off a bit. With a sense of purpose, he knew he would take his father's advice. He still wanted nothing to do with the sword—he certainly would not take lessons in its use, not yet anyway—but he would keep it for a time while he worked through the confusion of thoughts, ideas and emotions that threatened to unhinge him.
Up in the loft, he knelt beside his cot and carefully concealed the weapon under the flimsy mattress. It would keep there, he thought, and then made his way back to his seat to, for the second time that day, await his father's return.
I am sixteen and I am a man.
* * *
The candle he had replaced was nearly a third spent when his father stumped back into the cabin, his features still dark, and guarded in a way that Jurel had never before seen.
“Come on boy. Galbin wants you there too,” he grunted and waved Jurel up before turning to leave again.
Jurel surged to his feet. “Father,” he called before his father could get out the door. “I'm sorry, father. I think I may have...I think I understand. A little.”
Daved halted as though nails had suddenly sprouted from his feet into the floor and he stood with one hand on the door, expectant.
“I have been a fool, haven't I?” Jurel said but there was no response. “And a coward too. I-I thought that weapons were, well, evil. That fighting was evil. I still do. But then I saw something while you were out. An image of you with that sword drawn standing over a child. Was that re
al?” He paused, floundering for a conclusion that was as yet just outside his reach. “It doesn't matter. You're my father. You're a good man. Yet you fought and you...killed.”
This time, a slow tentative nod urged Jurel to forge on, and his thoughts raced as he tried to put the pieces together.
“Is it possible that it might be evil to just stand by and watch bad things happen when you know you can help? That by not standing up and stopping it, you allow more bad things to happen?”
Daved's head turned until Jurel could see him in profile, his one visible eye looking to the ground as if he himself were pondering Jurel's words and so quietly that Jurel had to strain to hear, he said, “Keep going.”
“Is it possible that-that an act even as horrible as killing can be...not evil? As long as its for the right reasons?” An image of a fat man in a pristine white apron. Red blooming from around a jutting sword hilt. “Like defending people?”
“If there is no other choice, perhaps,” Daved said and his words were clear though still not much more than a whisper.
“Then I am a coward,” he muttered miserably falling back into his chair. “All these years, Valik has been cruel, has been bullying not just me but Trig and Darren, Wag and the girls. If I had stood up to him, things would have been different.”
Three drunk boys sitting beside a pond, their pond. Jurel would not help his friends defend their turf. Another act of cowardice. Even the fugue that his father told him he was in was not justification enough. After all, the fugue had been caused by his utter lack of courage.
Daved turned then, and took a step forward but still he offered no other words.
Jurel stared at the floor as he continued miserably, “But I don't like fighting. My mother...my father...”
A tear streaked its lonely way down Jurel's cheek.
“No matter how hard we try,” his father said gently, the softness somehow making the words all the more unbearable, “sometimes bad things happen. That does not mean we shouldn't try.”
That cold numbness came over him again as he stared woodenly into his hands. His mind had halted on one thought: he was a coward. A sob escaped, then another. A memory so old that it was more an impression came to him: his mother had laughed like a trilling bird when he had pounced on his dozing father's girth, had laughed harder when father and son fell to the floor in a mock wrestling match. The impression was replaced by his father scolding him when he had managed to get himself up into the chandelier by jumping from the nearby stairs. His face crumpled into a grimace of agony and sorrow so long repressed.
“I miss them father,” he wailed, forlorn, empty. “I miss them!”
He was engulfed in powerful arms, the scent of fresh soil and sweat, scents he had come to associate with home, and his father's soothing voice, “I know lad. I know. We all lost loved ones that day. Your parents,” his voice broke and he cleared his throat. “Your parents were good people. I counted them amongst my closest friends.”
He chuckled, a sound that carried love and sadness. “Your father used to push tankard after tankard at me long after closing time while he regaled me with stories of your latest escapades. Whatever possessed you to poke a strange horse in the rump with that stick, by the way? Damn near hoofed you for it too, Gram said.
“When I tried to pay the tab on those nights, he always told me that listening to a father's stories was payment enough.”
He pushed Jurel out to arms length and looked him in the eye. “They were so proud of you Jurel,” he said with a solemn, unblinking gaze. “They believed that you were meant for greatness, that some day your name would blaze across the stars. I believe that, were they here, they would rather see the man you were meant to become and not the man you currently are.”
Stifling an involuntary surge of resentment, for he knew his father only spoke the truth, he nodded. He knew now that he could not go on living his life as he had been. Not unless he wanted to find one of those secluded temples where priests swore vows of silence and celibacy, who stayed confined behind the walls of their self-imposed prisons. He had to grow up.
He tried to smile but even without seeing it, he knew it was a tremulous, pathetic thing. “I will try father. I will make them—and you—proud of me.”
“I am proud of you son. I told you, you're a good lad. You just need to put the past behind you and find your future, find yourself.”
Chuckling, Daved rose up and eyed Jurel with what could only be described as mischief. “Shall I teach you a little something about your sword then?”
“No,” he said, far too quickly, far too vehemently, darkening his father's expression. “Not yet,” he added hurriedly. “Please give me a little time to think on all of it.”
The hawk's eyes glared for a moment before Daved nodded.
“I can live with that. Do yourself a favor though. Try to learn a little before you go off on your own.” He smirked, “If nothing else, I can teach you to keep from tripping over it at every second step.”
Jurel could not help the bark of laughter that escaped him. “Yes sir.”
“Well, time's a-wasting. We should get going soon. I'll give you a little time to compose yourself and you might consider washing your face. You look terrible.”
In truth, Jurel felt terrible, like a wet rag that had been wrung out to within an inch of its life but his father was right: chances were, everyone would be waiting for them to arrive before the feast could begin. The thought of food made him a little queasy but he did not want to be the reason that the party was ruined. So he pushed himself up and hurried to do as his father bade.
Chapter 16
“Well there they are!” Galbin roared jovially from his place at the head of the main table when Daved and Jurel pushed their way through the door. “I was beginning to wonder if you two were going to turn this into a midnight feast!”
Laughter erupted from the crowded tables and Daved looked sheepishly at his best friend. Only Jurel was close enough to see the amusement in his eyes.
“I apologize, dear master, for our tardiness. It seems I've gained some weight and it has slowed me down.” He patted the lean, solid muscle of his belly and more laughs erupted at this obvious dig aimed at his very hefty friend.
“Why you insubordinate wretch,” Galbin growled though with a broad smile and twinkling eyes. “Hurry your fat ass up here and sit down! I'm hungry!”
“Of course you are,” someone in the crowd hooted. “You've only eaten half a turkey tonight!” And Galbin joined in the uproarious laughter, patting his rotundity.
Scanning the room, Jurel was impressed by the extent of the decorations. The two-level cots that usually filled the room were gone. Garlands painted red, orange and black hung from the rafters so the room seemed engulfed in some otherworld mist. Wooden cutouts, vaguely man-shaped and painted all black hung on the walls and seemed to float, shadows in the night, waiting for unfortunate souls to stumble across an unseen border and into their waiting grasps.
When he finally laid eyes on his seat, his heart sank, for though it was between Darren and Erin, it was also directly across from Valik.
“Looks like your place is over there, Jurel,” Daved said. And then more quietly, “Don't worry about him. I don't imagine even he would try something stupid with a room full of people.”
Daved strode ahead toward his own place beside Galbin but turned when an afterthought seemed to strike him. “Try not to get too drunk, young man,” he said for the benefit of listening ears and he winked before he turned away again.
Jurel approached, muttering apologies when he nudged a chair, or jostled an elbow and when he got to his vacant seat he exchanged greetings with Trig, Darren and the girls. He pointedly ignored Valik but a surreptitious glance showed a sour moue of distaste. There was something else in the young man's expression too, but Jurel could not quite put his finger on it. Shrugging inwardly, he sat, pleasantly surprised by the tankard of ale, still foaming, that rested before him.
&nbs
p; He had it to his lips ready to taste his first swallow when a snicker from Valik caught his attention. He glanced over the froth to see Valik glaring at him with thinly veiled anticipation.
“Go on coward boy. Drink. Not afraid of a little ale are you?” he growled and his two new best friends, Shenk and Merlit, farm hands that had been the first men Galbin had let him hire on his own, smirked.
He would not let them get to him. He would enjoy his evening. His day had been unpleasant enough; surely he deserved some reprieve. He took a large mouthful and swallowed, frowning at the strangely sour taste. Frowning more deeply when the three men across from him broke out into gales of laughter.
“So what do you think of the ale boy?” Valik crowed.
Jurel began to get a nasty suspicion when Shenk spoke up.
“I always heard warm beer tastes like piss,” he laughed and the other two roared in response. “But cold beer too?”
“Aye, Valik's own special reserve,” Merlit said between guffaws.
Horrified, Jurel looked at his half-full tankard then up to Valik, realization dawning on him.
Trig and Darren shot up from their seats, glowering at Valik, but it was Erin who spoke first.
“You are a pig, Valik,” she hissed contemptuously. “A dirty pig, do you know that?”
“That goes too far,” Trig said.
Still chuckling, well impressed with his own cleverness, Valik waved them off.
“It was just a prank. No harm done,” he said then shot a threatening look at Jurel. “Right coward boy?”
When the urge struck to leap over the table and beat Valik to a bloody mess while screaming nasty names into that oily swine's face, Jurel could not have been more surprised. Perhaps the discussion with his father earlier had some effect, but he did not relish the idea of ruining everyone's evening. Not for that little pissant. He contented himself with a stare filled with malice and daggers at his life-long foe.
