In a split second decision, I throw my sword out the window behind me, grab hold of that damn board off of my bed, and use it to catch the brunt of the force brought by the pitchfork so that, as I back up one step after the next, all I have to do is let go of the wood as I too dive out of my window overlooking the water hundreds of feet below and hope I can either learn how to fly as I pass the ravens and gulls or hit the water in such a way that I feel no pain as I meet my death, and, second after second gone by, I quickly embrace the darkness under my eyelids as I shut them, and the breath escaping from my body until, in an instant, I feel what can only be described as a slap from a giant's hand.
Fjord
I had prayed as I fell that, if I did not meet a quick death, at least let me live, and, as my senses come back to me in living or in death, it's hard to tell which of my requests was answered. I feel like death, if nothing else, and that's for the many reasons that cover my entire being. My eyes sting, and, every time I try to open them, all I see is black still, as another wave of pain scratches against them. And, at the same time, my lungs burn too and feel filled to the top with smoke or water, too hard to tell if I've lived or been sent somewhere else. So, for some time, I keep most of my body still besides the fingers that I dig through the ground, or whatever is in my palm. Like wet paper, something is solid, cut into strips, but slimy and soaked, but the rest of what I feel is hot, and broken into more pieces than any man or entire city could count.
After I grab a handful in both hands, I squeeze it to death while I use what little strength I have to turn my head to the right enough, that, through the pain, my one eye opens into the thinnest slit and tells me all I need to know. Sand, sand for miles, seaweed, so thick that it is like there are flat bushes strewn about, sunlight, bright enough to scorch my back though my shirt as the fine particles of sand cut at my chest, all accompany the sounds as the rest of the senses in my body come to. A tide touching my toes and freezing them every few seconds as the water comes and goes, the gulls above trying to decide if I'm dead or not and casting shadows wherever they go, and, before I can roll over and appreciate that I am alive somehow, on a beach of all places, the sound of heavy steps in the sand and a voice from a hoarse throat do both for me.
"You're lucky to be alive, friend."
With a single hand, this man grabs enough of my wet hair to lift me up to see him, but not enough to rid my forehead of the hair that he didn't grab, and the sunlight makes it harder to make him out until, after I've squinted for a few seconds, I get an image of a malnourished egg with a black eye and a crooked smile. This man is bald, balder than any man I've ever seen, and, if it weren't for the sweat dripping down his red forehead, I would have guessed he just went for a dip in the sea at my feet to shine his skull, only for all of that to be less noticeable than the right eye, with a cut down it and the surrounding flesh that leaves the whole eyeball black, and a smile that is bent, missing teeth, yellower than the sun that burns both of us to death.
As if he can tell that I'm staring at flaws he does not like, the man lets go of my hair, dropping me back into the sand where I'm more than happy to rest with how much my body aches, and yells out to a man whose name makes me think he's stronger than ten men combined.
"We've got a live one, Gorm!"
And, after a brief pause, I hear the same man respond in a voice that seems permanently angry.
"Good! Tend to him and don't scare him off just yet."
I'd normally run through every possibility in my mind as to what the second bit of what he said could mean, but, faster than any of that can happen, the man with the black eye shifts in the sand and starts to lift me up faster than I could run back into the ocean if I even tried. So, with both of his arms around my ribs gripping my entire torso, he lifts me off of the sand enough that, without any force, water starts pouring out of my mouth for so long he seems to hope I'll take the initiative and hold myself off of the ground with my arms, but any attempt on my part leaves my entire frame shaking and this man still holding me up as I clear my lungs, and hear him say something quiet enough that only the two of us can hear it.
"My name is Abraham, but the men like to call me Ham, because of my looks. What is yours?"
I can only assume the name Ham comes from his sunburnt head, or maybe the marks from cutting it so close like the skin on the meat his name comes from, and because of how the ball that sits in his eye socket looks burnt, yet, despite the friendliness he is showing, I do not wish to share my name, because of fear that is easy to explain. I know of two men already, and likely many more with what Abraham has said, so I do not feel safe sharing the name of a son of a dead king while I still do not know how far away I am from my home, if these men side with another kingdom, or if they are aligned with the men who almost ended my life. So, once the salt water has stopped flowing from my throat, I make up a lie that is easy to believe, followed by a few truths that I have kept to myself until now.
"I... I do not know. Whe-Where am I? The other people. The-The servants and guards... Innocent men and women."
Those words alone are enough for him to let go of me, not because of some negative feeling but because I have proven in some way that I have come to my senses enough to form thoughts just as my body has found enough strength to hold itself up, so the second he stands up tall beside me, he then goes to grab my arm and throw it over his shoulder to pick me up and get me to limp closer to wherever he addressed the other man, just as he whispers something in my ear that gives me hope.
"Do not worry. You could not have ended up in a better place, my friend, where so many men have lost even more friends, never known their parents long enough to know their own name, or do not wish that their name or their past be shared, now that they have joined us and shed the weight of who they once were. We are free men, you see, on a journey that requires no names, no past, no feelings besides the desire to die a hero. So, before you meet our leader, let us agree that, from this moment forth, your name is Fjord, the boy who came from the sea, if you could."
If anything, boy is a better title than child, so, before I open my eyes to see what waits ahead of us, I force my crying lungs to agree.
"Alright... Ham."
Calling him that name so quick must be the only reason he laughs, or maybe he thinks how I struggle to speak is funny, but, once I take in the sight in front of my eyes, nothing matters except for the size of the camp and the number of men I can count in a single look.
Up the beach a hundred yards, on the land where grass rises but trees have not grown yet, dozens of tents larger than the trees in the distance stand tall and cast shadows large enough for ten men to hide in their shade, which still is nowhere enough for all of the men I can see. Some stand by the tents, some in them surely, some sharpen weapons, swords, axes, spears, even blades that are entirely curved, and others tend to other needs. Butchering, tanning, cooking, testing bows and arrows or trebuchets taller than the walls of my family's castle on the distant treeline all make my first thought to be of war. These men are on a warpath, moving closer and closer to wherever they must lay siege at the request of a king, or any other noble, while being paid in the honor they will earn in victory or defeat, or simply gold. But, as I make Abraham stop so I can take the time to look and not strain the rest of my body under the guise that I need a short break, there is something about the camp that wipes away any worry of wars and introduces a worry of another sort.
These men fly no banner, no Lord's standard, no family crest, and no mark for any mercenary band that I have ever known, for they carry none of those at all, no sign of who they are or why they are here, and that is what worries me more than anything else, and reminds me of another part of me that I fear lost until I use the arm that is not over Ham's shoulder to scratch at my neck until I feel the cord I feared lost. These men may have nothing to stand under or stand for until I know more about them, but, in my hands, I find hope in the sun my necklace bears, something Abraham asks about as I hold it
and stare into the non-existent flames.
"What is that, friend?"
And, though I have already told him I cannot remember my name in a single lie, I can give him an answer to his question that is vague but still the truth.
"All that I have left of my past."
He then makes a remark, just as I find the strength to let go of him and spot something off to our left, almost lost on the beach when I need it now the most.
"I ain't never seen anything like that, so I can only hope there's a story to it you can still remember."
And, now that I am a few feet away from him and bending down to put my knee into the sand before we reach the massive camp, I say all I have left as I go to grip my sword, now missing the sheath it has always called home too.
"Hope is better than nothing at all."
The two of us then walk together silently, but sharing more knowledge between us than I have yet to with any of the other men I will surely meet, and Ham says nothing yet smiles as I build myself up enough to rest the flat side of my blade, almost as wide as a plank of wood, on my left shoulder with one hand holding it up. The sounds of the camp then grow louder and louder, food sizzling, hammers banging, swords meeting, yet I'm still able to make out some of what is said, something about being ready for the fight. And, faster than I can figure out what that fight is or who is to be fought, my eyes turn from the tents approaching on our left and right to the shadow with a voice that now stands over both Abraham and I, with a beard and braided locks that are half as tall, or long, as my whole body is.
"Welcome, brother."
This tree of a man, whose voice I recognize as Gorm, is quick to take my sword from my hand, examine it, and then stab it into the ground as he grabs my right arm behind the elbow, pulls me close for an embrace, and speaks to me loud enough to be heard over everyone else around us at the edge of the camp.
"Young and you look at least half ready to fight, so we're off to a good start already."
The smile that he offers, half hidden by his brown beard, is inviting enough that I worry less and less if these men will put my head on a block if they find out who I am, or was, but he has more to say before I can think if that feeling is wrong.
"I'll have someone put together a shirt, some more leather, and a new tool for you to make sure you are ready to go should the time come sooner than we think, but, in the meantime, let me offer a few thoughts."
He then lifts my sword easier than I could and hands it to Abraham, who stands quietly and attentive as more words are shared, and all I can do is stare at what I'm assuming is the tool he refers to, a piece of leather that covers the skin on one arm from the fingers to the base of the elbow and has a long, wooden box attached to the length of the forearm, that I now notice on both of these men's left arms despite having felt the material already.
"There will be many introductions today, I'm sure, and you are lucky to have met Ham so soon when he is the kindest of us all during the day, at least. So, let me be the next to say hello. My name is Gorm, and, somehow, every piece of shit around here looks up to me when decisions need to be made. A few of us will be going on a trek soon to get some practice in, and, if you are to stick around, I demand that you come along and learn what you need to survive. But, first, I'll have Ham get you some soap and water and show you where to bathe, because enough of these fools reek like sweat and dirt already."
To my right, Ham nods, and, as soon as he starts walking off, I have no choice but to follow him, once I look back to where Gorm was and see that he is gone in an instant. So, in no time at all, my only escape from the sounds of the other men shouting and the smell of sweat around us as we pass between one tent after the next that have all been patched together with different furs, cloths, and leather in varying states of decay is the strange statement Abraham makes to me as I trail behind.
"Do not believe Gorm when he says I am a good man, my friend."
And, as it seems to be the standard around here, we arrive at our destination right after he has spoken, like he chose specifically when to speak, so that I could not question him once he disappears into the dark tent in front of us and quickly walks back out with a single bar of soap, white and fresh. How the men around here get their hands on soap, or who has the skill to make anything of the sort, is something I can think about if I want as soon as I'm inside, for, after the bar has touched my hand, Ham puts the same fingers on my bare shoulder, both to wipe his flesh clean and say everything while saying nothing.
I watch him for a couple of moments until he fades around the corner of another tent while thinking about what I am supposed to do next, and, now that I am alone, I somehow feel more comfortable walking into the dark tent alone than I do standing outside among men I do not know. So, with the desire to rid my body of the smell and residue that the sea has left on me, I compel myself inside of the tent, where there is nothing to worry about after all.
A couple of benches, large tubs of water that I can only hope are clean, thick cloths, and a few more bars of soap are all that sit inside, and all I could hope for in here once I let the flap keeping this square tent open down into the dirt. To bathe among other men is something I am used to, so I only fear the arrival of others now because of the unknown, what little I know about these people despite how kind they have been so far, and that fear remains untouched as I get my shirt, leather boots, and pants off for the first time in a while and put them beside me on the same bench I sit on, finding more seaweed and crud that needs to be washed away as I do. The process that then comes takes some time.
The tubs of water are large, but not large enough to fit any adult, so I have to go from body part to body part and wet the soap and my skin again and again each time. And, once I have washed every other part of my body, every bit of funk in every spot from the cracks between my toes to under my arms, I start to wash my hair and face, what I should have done first as dirty as the rest of my body was, and that is when I am finally joined by someone else and the ocean breeze as they leave open the fabric that leads into the tent, just as so many suds cover my face that I cannot open my eyes. Thankfully, he says something to give me an idea of where he is before I am able to get the last bits of soap off of my skin and hair.
"Do not mind me, brother."
His voice is as deep as the ones Abraham and Gorm carry from their throats, but an accent sits under it that I have never heard before. And, as I do everything I can with my towel to cover my lower body and wipe the soap from the corners of my eyes to give me a chance to look at who I am about to speak to, this man speaks again faster than I realize it would be easier if I just dunked my head into the tub.
"Why do you look at me like this? Is it the soap in your eyes or because you have never seen a man as dark as I?"
Those words make me pause, still with soap stuck in one eye that makes me squint as the anger in his tone catches me off guard, but all seems well once he starts to laugh at my silent stare, telling me he wasn't serious at all in a way, and giving me the confidence to respond simply.
"Both."
That too makes him laugh, as I secure the towel at my waist, make sure my clothes stay on the bench, and lift my bucket of water up to the plank of wood as this man has much else to say.
"Most of the men around here are either pale or tan, but there are a few of us around like me who are so dark that the sun can harm us no more."
That he says with a big smile on his face, stuck to a head as bald as Abraham's skull, which I am only able to see in a single glance once I dip my hair into the tub to wash it out, and, with how I am occupied, he seems more than happy to keep the conversation going.
"It is something to be proud of, we think, but I am Yemi, born in the deserts far away from here. What is your name, friend, and from where do you come?"
He says his name like the word yummy, but with an e, and, as I get closer and closer to being done with my bath, I spout out what Ham has told me to call myself.
"I am Fjord, fro
m the sea."
Yemi then nods and purses his lips in a way that says the name graces his ears, and, while I casually move myself behind the tub and remove my towel as the wet grass under me becomes muddier, and prepare to put back on what clothes I do have once he continues.
"We are like opposites then, you and I? I come from the desert, and you come from the sea. It could only get better if you were born in the snow."
That makes us both laugh, for different reasons, but, standing naked, I take the time to dunk my clothes into the tub while I say more about myself than I probably should.
"Actually, my family sends those who have died down a river that leads to the sea, and then the next line of children are born atop a mountain that gets snow several times a year."
All that I have is clean by the time I close my mouth, so, as I refuse to sit down and try putting my pants and boots back on standing up, Yemi says something that makes me stop before my boots are on my feet.
"A strange tradition that is, Fjord, but you will find many men around here who wish to be buried following the traditions of cultures from every corner of the world. So, do not be surprised, for we all have wishes after death. I like to say 'bury me in the dirt and leave me to the grubs'. What of you?"
What of you is an odd way to ask how I want to be buried, but the time it takes to get my boots on, and then my soaked shirt, is enough for me to put together an honest answer.
"I don't know, honestly. Have never truly thought about my own death until recently."
Yemi has just finished washing his entire body, but, in case it's rude for me to leave so fast, I let him keep talking as I move the hair on the top of my head to the side, where the length of brown hair is much shorter.
No Name for the Free Page 2
