by Jacky Gray
‘You never will get it right until you start believing in yourself. I meant follow his example by loving yourself the way he loves you. Unconditionally. No matter how badly you think you do.’
The expression on Geraint’s face must have shown how little faith he placed in her answer as she once again grew annoyed. ‘Why ask for help if you can’t be bothered to listen to my advice? Go, leave me. And do not ask again unless you’re prepared to listen to the answer.’
The memory terminated as the first pair stepped off the dais to the area just in front, ready to start the bout. Geraint felt a heavy sickness in his stomach and wished for some enchantment to help him through the rest of the day. The first sign came when his cheeks started glowing. The sick feeling in his stomach disappeared, replaced by a lightness. As he watched the two boys circling each other, a sense of their spirit came to him.
The larger of the two seemed confident he would win, but the smaller boy knew the prize knife belonged to him. They were evenly matched and got two falls each, so they took the full pause before the final round to swallow great gulps of water. When he sensed their feelings this time, the larger boy’s confidence had been shaken – not quite the pushover he’d imagined. The smaller boy became even more determined, already feeling the weight of the knife on his belt.
The outcome disappointed many in the crowd who had laid bets against the smaller lad, and a break in proceedings allowed these to be paid. The tallymen were pleased at scoring a good haul, but people were less reckless on the second pair. The odds were not as long because Pitivo’s boys were evenly matched.
Geraint tried sensing each boy, but could find nothing to choose between them. Both fairly slender and neither particularly bothered about victory, they were just keen to get it all over and done with. The lack of aggression and determination turned it into a very boring bout to watch. Both boys spent a lot of time circling round each other, reluctant to engage. When one of them did, he had no conviction, so the first four rounds went slowly.
Something curious happened in the pause before the fifth round: the dark haired lad’s face began to glow and his will to win became stronger. Scanning the crowd, Geraint saw a woman who could only be the lad’s mother focussing on him, her expression one of intense longing. It seemed her desire for him to win actually gave him confidence. Sure enough, his tactics changed completely, going in quickly with a short, sharp strike which caught the other boy by surprise, and he soon fell to the ground, the match over.
The message became clear to Geraint, and the conversation with Savannah flashed into his mind, her words making perfect sense. The boys who won both believed in themselves which is what made the difference. He heard the tallies calling the odds for his match with Manfrid. Everyone in the crowd expected only one outcome, but he had other ideas.
Closing his eyes, he tapped deep into the earth’s energy as Savannah instructed during meditation training. It had never worked so powerfully. He felt warmth filling his body from his feet all the way up to the top of his head. Opening his eyes, her strong presence drew his attention as her lips twitched and she inclined her head in a barely detectable movement. She appeared pleased he’d worked it out on his own.
Rattrick stood forward on the dais, his expression inscrutable. ‘And now, the final bout of the day, I am pleased to welcome Manfrid from Hereward’s clan, and our very own Geraint.’ A massive cheer went up at his opponent’s name, drowning out his name, but he climbed up on the dais, accepting the due applause.
‘Just in case anyone was asleep when I read the rules the last twice; there are up to five rounds with a short gap between each one. And a longer pause before the fifth round if it gets that far.’
Rattrick looked straight at him as he said this, no doubt unintentionally, but with the same effect as if he’d meant the hurt. The protective layer of energy Geraint had built around his body took a huge dent as he and Manfrid took their start positions.
‘I now hand you over to the only impartial chief: Your referee, Pitivo.’
Another round of applause sounded as the small man stepped forward and Geraint witnessed the exchange of glances between him and Hereward. He knew something underhanded had gone on, but no-one else was in the right place to see the interchange. An image flashed into his head of the two of them arranging a deal to fix the outcome of the match so they could win money from the tallies. Before he had any chance to do anything about it, he was on the ground staring up at the sky with all of the breath knocked out of him. Manfrid had grabbed hold of his hand almost before Pitivo lowered the white skin. Because he wasn’t ready, Geraint had no time to tense any muscles, so he bounced harmlessly on the grass with no pain from the impact.
Taking his time to get up, he heard two of Rattrick’s elders discussing the legality of the move because the skin had not fallen all the way down. Smiling at them, he tried to communicate his indifference in the hope they would not make a fuss. If the move were to be disallowed, he would only have to suffer an extra trouncing and he may not get off so lightly next time. Pitivo raised the skin again and Geraint was ready, skipping out of the other boy’s long reach at the instant it fell.
He sensed the boy had been overtraining for the past few days without a break to allow his body to recover. This left him at way less than his peak level of fitness. Geraint’s tactic involved tiring Manfrid by enticing him to make futile lunges as this would expend huge amounts of energy. The clever part was in making his opponent feel in charge of the play at every stage. The timing had to be so accurate Manfrid would think he’d got closer each time and would continue to make attempts to grab him.
The crowd shouted their displeasure.
‘Come on Manfrid, this isn’t a dance.’
‘Yeah, but it’s like watching one. The other lad’s such a scrap; he’s like a girl.’
Something, or someone, directed Geraint’s moves like an actor on a stage. As when Savannah gave him the potion, he finally understood the manoeuvres his father and others had tried to teach him in training. His invisible orchestrator observed the crowd were getting restless with the lack of action, and suggested he should take another fall as though wounded by the nasty comment. So this time, he allowed the bigger boy to catch him and actively assisted his fall to the ground so Manfrid would seem more powerful than he actually was. He disguised his leap, and controlled the landing so it would do the least damage.
As the huge cheer went up from Hereward’s tribe, he spotted sympathetic expressions on the same two elders and Geraint struggled to stop himself from giving them a reassuring wink. Drina and Vadoma were near the front, and he heard them complaining loudly about “the insult which sapped the boy’s will.” They were obviously not used to these tactics. Getting to his feet, he staggered, and the crowd’s reaction said most people thought the match all but over. Shouts of encouragement poured in, not just from his tribe, but many of the women in the other tribes who seemed to have a soft spot for the underdog. His plan worked well, as this additional support created a flow of loving energy which poured into his body, giving him the confidence and will to succeed. All he had to do was win the next two rounds in such a way his opponent, and those who would attempt to fix the match, would not realise what was happening. Nothing trivial, then.
The third round was an almost exact copy of the second with a lot of circling and unsuccessful lunges which took their toll on Manfrid’s energy. Certain voices in the crowd began to show their impatience with unflattering remarks, aimed mostly at the larger boy. Again, the external power directing him gave a mental nudge that the timing and circumstances were right to repeat the winning move he’d made on Darrack. It was cleverly done, in such a way it looked accidental, but the result spoke for itself with Manfrid sprawled on the ground and Geraint living to fight another round. A huge cheer went up, led by Drina and Vadoma who were beside themselves with glee, doing a victory dance on the spot.
Nobody seemed to notice the longer pause to allow Manfrid tim
e to recover the breath which had been completely knocked out of him. Geraint appeared to be as shocked as anyone, solicitously offering a helping hand. He read in his adversary’s eyes the question whether the contest would be won if he pulled the smaller boy to the ground now. Smiling, Geraint’s thoughts challenged him to try it, knowing full well even a dishonest referee could not cover up the fact the white skin had not been raised, so the match would be forfeit.
Caution won out and Manfrid gripped the outstretched hand, taking the opportunity to squeeze it as hard as he could. He also tried to twist his opponent’s wrist at the point where it bore the maximum weight, but Geraint was prepared and turned his arm in the same direction so Manfrid’s arm ended up twisted. The larger boy knew better than to yelp in pain and released his punishing grip, a scowl darkening his face.
As Pitivo raised the skin, the calls were almost equal for both boys, and Geraint appealed to his benefactor for advice on how to play this round. He knew it was too soon to go in for the quick kill as he would lose the vital encouragement of the crowd. Also, there was every chance Hereward might attempt to get the move disallowed and Pitivo would support him. Much better to save fancy moves for the final round. Sensing his opponent had more nasty tricks to play, he was wary of extending this round for too long. Sure enough, at the start signal, Manfrid gave a blood-curdling howl designed to freeze his challenger in terror while he found a last reserve of strength for a charge.
Geraint had no choice but to reveal his superior speed as he sidestepped out of the way, leaving Manfrid nowhere to go but into the crowd lining the ring. They absorbed his energy and pushed him straight back out towards his opponent, once more to be greeted by an empty space. This time, Manfrid’s wail spoke of pure frustration but it raised his energy enough to give him one more charge. This time, Geraint waited until the last instant before sidestepping, but to an onlooker it would seem as though he didn’t quite make it. His leg got left behind, entangling with the larger boy who once more ended on the ground.
Raising his hand to the referee to appeal for the move to be disallowed, Manfrid seemed certain it would be called in his favour. But Pitivo seemed to have a change of heart, and the perfectly legitimate move was allowed. Looking at the man’s face, Geraint saw flushed cheeks and realised something was causing him to call fair decisions. A glance at Savannah confirmed his theory and he smiled his gratitude. Without actually cheating, she’d managed to counteract the threat of deception.
He sensed a marked change in the support now, many more people seemed to be shouting Geraint’s name than Manfrid’s and his two biggest fans were leading several chants with lots of clapping, all of which ended with his name being shouted like a hero’s. His opponent took much longer to get to his feet this time, and when he did, the long green stain on his tunic showed where he’d slid along the ground for several paces before stopping.
Although he had every right to feel aggrieved at the subterfuge which had been attempted against him, Geraint felt sorry for the boy when everyone started to laugh at him.
But pity was the last thing Manfrid needed. The look he turned on Geraint scorched with the power of his hatred which glowed behind his eyes with the same intensity as fear in a cornered animal.
The final round must have been a complete anti-climax for those in the audience hoping for another drawn-out battle of sheer strength against smart tactics. Geraint’s inner voice decreed it was time for his superior ability to be given an airing. As the white skin dropped for the last time, he became the aggressor, dodging Manfrid’s initial power-driven lunge and using the lad’s momentum against him in a repeat of the classic move he’d used to best Darrack. The crowd were obviously not expecting anything so fast and ruthless and it took them a moment or two to respond. The cheers of the crowd paled into insignificance as the shock on Rattrick’s face confirmed the worst – his father had lost money because of his victory.
8 My Son, the Warrior Prince
The feasting at the end of the trials was talked about for many moons afterwards. In fact, it seemed as though certain people’s over-indulgence took that long to recover. Ale and wine flowed, food of every type imaginable was consumed, songs were sung and dances danced until well into the small hours of the following day as befits a great celebration. But Geraint was barely aware of it all at the start, still smarting from his imagined snub. Somehow, he maintained a façade of gracious pleasure throughout the prize giving, accepting his knife with a shy humility which made many of the mothers in the audience wish they’d raised such a sweet, modest boy. They may not have been as impressed if they could have seen the dark shadow across his heart as his father congratulated him on such a hard fought victory.
Unexpected is the word you’re searching for. Or astonishing, or maybe bewildering. The evil little thoughts raced around his mind behind the artificial smile which did not reach his eyes.
His father’s eyes, however, were noticeably blurred, probably at the thought of all the money he’d just thrown away betting on Manfrid. Turning away, Geraint set his face into a protective mask which he wore for the rest of the time on the dais while the losing boys were presented with their gifts. The formalities over, he stepped down into the crowd and received the congratulations, handshakes and hugs from everyone in his tribe and many in the other tribes. The overwhelming love from so many people was more than enough to soften even the hardest heart and, when Thanet took both of his hands and capered around in a mad victory dance, he could not help but join in.
‘That’s better. I worried for a few minutes you’d forgotten how to smile.’ Savannah’s husky voice startled him out of the madness, and he made his excuses to the younger lad as she bade him walk with her.
‘You knew about the deal with Pitivo. You stopped him from calling a foul.’
‘I did?’ Despite her attempts to look stern, a twinkle in her eye gave it away. ‘We must hope no-one else knew anything about it.’
‘But if Hereward was trying to cheat …’
‘What makes you think he was involved?’ Anger flashed in her eyes with frightening intensity. She saw his fear and her expression softened. ‘It doesn’t matter. The important thing is you must never tell anyone about anything you think happened.’
‘Not even …’
‘Nothing. Ever. As far as you’re concerned, it was a fair contest from start to finish and the better man won.’
‘Man?’
‘Boy. Pedant. It’s an expression, as you well know.’
‘So you didn’t help me at all?’
‘Are you trying to make me angry? Did I not make myself perfectly clear? I told you, I will not sanction cheating of any kind.’ Her voice held no anger, merely bored patience.
‘What about the mother who sent her son encouragement which inspired him to win?’
‘Or the boy who was sent encouragement by all the mothers in the audience so he finally believed in himself and realised he could win? I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘But you just said …’
‘Irony, my dear boy. I was being ironic. Look, in any contest, the person who wins is not always the best or the most skilful, it is usually the one who wants it the most.’
‘Yes. I saw that with the first pair.’
‘But the support of the audience can make all the difference when two people or teams are evenly matched, or in some cases, even if they are not.’
‘So the person telling me exactly when to move and which direction he would be coming from next …’
‘Your own intuition. When you know exactly what to do, but your body doesn’t seem to be listening, tune into your instincts. They will take over and direct your body to do the right thing.’
‘So you mean anyone can become an expert fighter if they listen to their mind?’
‘Not anyone. You have to know the basic principles and have trained in whatever sport it is, so your body has the right level of fitness and your muscles know what to do.’
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br /> ‘I knew there was a reason for all that boring training.’
‘Exactly. If that is all in place, then listening to your intuitions will always improve your performance. Especially if you’ve learnt how to meditate properly and can tap into the universal energy as you did.’
‘You know I did that? But how?’
‘I can’t explain in a few minutes techniques which take many decades of study and practice to perfect. You’ve done well, and now you should celebrate properly. But you can’t do that while you hold such a grudge against your father.’
Geraint didn’t bother to act surprised that she knew what annoyed him.
She shook her head. ‘If you want to know how much money he bet on Manfrid, go and ask him. But make sure you know how to handle the answer; it may not be the one you’re expecting.’
Shrugging his shoulders, Geraint looked over to where his father stood, surrounded by many of the elders who shared in his celebration. It looked for all the world as though he’d won the match himself. In fact, they all looked as though the tribe had won a huge victory. A golden glow surrounded the group, making them stand out more than the huddles from the other tribes. Blinking his eyes, sure they were simply misted with emotion, Geraint looked again. The glow was definitely there and his eyes were completely dry. He turned away, directing his gaze to the trees where Ciria lay with the other dogs, thinking he could slip away and spend the rest of the day with her. But it was not to be.
‘Here he is; the man of the moment.’ He jolted as a huge paw clapped him on the back. ‘Come on, dozy. You father’s got half the camp out looking for you. We can’t start eating without the guest of honour.’ Darrack propelled him over to the large feasting table that had been made just for the occasion.
Jumping to his feet, Rattrick clapped his hands as they approached, and everyone else at the table followed suit. ‘At last. My son, the warrior prince. Come and take your place amongst the champions so we can all eat.’
