by Chris Mawbey
“That’s so wrong,” said Mickey. “You shouldn’t be forced to marry just because of your age. You should be able to pick your husband and marry when you’re ready.”
Elena shrugged. “It is the way of the village. But then I am dead. I have no need of a husband.”
Mickey mulled over what he’d just learned.
“If you died two years ago why are you still here? Why haven’t you all gone on to your final destination?” He knew what had happened but not why. The villager’s reason for staying intrigued him. Could it be a way for him to prolong his time, albeit dead?
“We were given the choice,” said Elena. “The village elders could not cope with the reality of their sudden deaths. They said they were not ready to die – it was too soon. That was a joke. Most of the elders are ancient and would probably all have been dead by now anyway.”
“So what happened?” Mickey urged the girl to continue.
Elena blew a loose strand of hair from her face.
“As is their way, the elders called a meeting and had a vote. They were able to persuade most people to stay here. A few chose to leave – but most stayed.”
“Do you know if those who left reached their destinations?” stupid question Mickey realised. Too late though, it had been asked.
“I do not know,” said Elena. “We did not hear from them again.”
Mickey nodded. He remembered Pester’s explanation that once a journey had begun then the steps could never be retraced.
“I do not think that they would have got very far though,” Elena added.
“Why not?”
“Because they were alone,” Elena replied. “Because most of the village chose to stay here we lost our guide – even the ones who decided to leave.”
Mickey suddenly became curious. “Did you meet you guide?”
“Yes,” Elena replied. “His name was Pester. He was a strange man. He had different coloured eyes. He was creepy.”
Mickey smiled and looked over Elena’s shoulder. Pester made a mock show of looking hurt.
“What about you though?” Mickey changed the subject. “If you’re against the ways of the village, why did you vote to stay?”
“I did not,” Elena spat her reply. “I was not of age so I did not have a say and because I am female I would not have been allowed to vote anyway.”
“So you’ve accepted this as your fate then.” Mickey said this as a statement not a question but he suspected that this wasn’t the case at all. He thought that Elena’s reluctance about the next couple of days wasn’t just about being forced into a marriage that she didn’t want. He used the filthy cloth in his hand to dry another plate.
“No,” Elena said. “I will never accept that I have to stay here. To the minds of the elders I am of age now. I should be able to choose my own destiny.”
Mickey stifled a smile at Elena for wanting her cake and being able to eat it. A few minutes ago she claimed that she hadn’t aged. Now she wanted to exercise her full adult rights.
“What is the point though?” Elena sighed. “I would have no chance of completing my journey without a guide.” She cast Mickey a sidelong glance.
“Are things that bad?” said Mickey. “I mean, you’ve managed two years so far.”
“And how much longer would I have to go on before our food stocks ran out?” Elena’s anger was rising again, bringing a flush to her cheeks. She thrust a plate into Mickey’s hand. “You do not understand. Being made to marry someone is bad enough. Worse than that – I am dead. I have been dead for two years. I should be allowed to go on to my final destiny. It is my right.” Elena’s voice rose with the final sentence. She began to tremble and tears spilled from her eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Mickey. “I’ve upset you. I never meant to do that.” He had the urge again to fold her into his arms to comfort her. Instead he just patted her shoulder awkwardly. He could have been patting a pet dog.
“It is not your fault,” Elena sniffed, wiping her eyes. “I envy you. You can walk out of here right now and go on your way. After tomorrow you will. Your guide will tell you it is time to go. Is he near you now?”
“Yes he is,” Mickey answered. “Very near.”
“What is his name?” Elena asked.
Mickey laughed. He couldn’t help himself.
Elena looked puzzled, then realised.
“No?”
Mickey nodded.
“It is Pester?”
Mickey laughed again and nodded. Elena remembered what she’d said about the guide and she blushed profusely.
“Don’t worry,” Mickey said through his smile. “I think he took what you said about him quite well really.”
Still looking horrified, Elena spun around. She whirled straight past Pester. To her the room only contained herself and Mickey. Finally she joined in Mickey’s laughter. It was a sound that hadn’t been heard in Koprno for a long time.
Chapter 10
Elena told Mickey that the contest for her hand was to take place at midday – a high noon showdown. The venue was a field on the newly created edge of the village. A field, for fuck’s sake, thought Mickey. How much more disrespectful could these people be towards the girl?
The walk from the Kovaks’ house to the venue was both informative and shocking for Mickey. Protocol, according to Janic, demanded that the bride-to-be was escorted by the honoured guest; with parents and siblings following five paces behind. After that, well wishers and onlookers could crowd in as they wished. This was how the procession left the square with the dolphin fountain in the late morning. An unseen guide, called Pester, walked along at Mickey’s shoulder.
Everyone was dressed in their everyday clothes except Elena. She wore a plain white dress with sleeves that came to her elbows and wore a crown of dried and faded flowers. Mickey thought the arrangement made Elena look virginal; which only enhanced her beauty.
The procession walked down a narrow cobbled street, flanked by more balconied homes. Unlike the buildings in the square where Janic and his neighbours lived these were in a poor state of repair. Many looked as if they hadn’t been occupied for some time. Mickey assumed that these were the homes of those who had moved on. Then it occurred to him that the owners of these homes might have been lucky and hadn’t been in the village on the day it died.
The road opened out onto the central square that Mickey had seen from his bedroom window. The chairs arranged by the bandstand were still occupied; much to Mickey’s surprise.
“I wouldn’t have thought that anyone would be out here today. Surely the village band isn’t going to play while this contest is going on.”
Elena kept her stare fixed firmly ahead.
“Look again,” she said. “But look closely.”
The party was keeping to the edge of the square, avoiding taking a diagonal that would shorten the journey. The route kept the bandstand between the procession and the absent band’s audience. Even so, Mickey was able to get a good look at the people sitting there. What he saw made him stumble. Elena put out a hand to steady him. Mickey took her hand and held on to it for a little longer than was perhaps strictly necessary – but not out of any ulterior motive.
“They’re dead,” he gasped. “All of them.”
Elena laughed a cold humourless laugh at Mickey’s slip. When he turned to her, Elena merely nodded, a sadness clouding her eyes.
“I don’t understand,” whispered Mickey. He shook his head as if the action would somehow clear his vision and dispel his disbelief.
“Has your friend, Pester, told you what happens to people who don’t complete their journeys?”
Mickey thought back to what Pester had told him. It went something along the lines of - a body could be killed but couldn’t die. So, if a body failed, wore out or got injured, then the spirit, soul, or whatever would linger on. Mickey also remembered the cairns of bones along the way where travellers had just given up and sat down to wait.
“These have reached the end
of their days,” Mickey said. “But why ...” he waved a hand towards the bandstand.
“When the villagers decided to stay, Pester told them what would happen to them,” Elena explained. “No-one wanted to be put underground when their time came. It was decided that we would be placed by the bandstand. That way we would be able to see the village square and listen to the band, for as long as it played.
“If I had the choice, I would be placed near the sea. I went there once. It was beautiful. I would have liked to have gone there again.”
The procession was now passing closest to the macabre audience. Mickey could see that many of the people were in an advanced state of decay. Some of the bodies were little more than skeletons. Others had clearly expired more recently; their decomposition only just beginning.
Looking up, Mickey noticed that two of the positions on the bandstand had been occupied. The uniformed corpses sat facing their deathly audience. Here was a recital that was going to last an eternity. As the party walked past the bandstand Mickey looked over his shoulder. Following the group was a crowd of twenty or thirty neighbours and hangers on. All had their eyes fixed straight ahead. No-one glanced to their right.
As horrific as the scene was, the knowledge that each of the empty chairs on the village square would one day be filled by all of these people chilled Mickey to the core.
As if picking up on Mickey’s train of thought Elena said, “It is the empty seats that frighten me. One of those will be mine one day. I dread the thought of being the last one – taking my seat and sitting there, waiting for my end to arrive.”
Only it’s not the end, thought Mickey. Your body will rot but your mind will be there for all time – seeing everything around you, yet hearing only silence.
When they reached the field, Janic, Olga, Elena and Mickey, with Pester in tow, climbed up onto the back of a trailer and took seats that had been lined up facing the field. Mickey was introduced to the village elders who had preceded the party. This introduction caused an argument between Janic and one of the crusty old villagers. The exchange was in their native tongue so Mickey had no idea what was going on. Elena translated for him and Mickey’s anger bubbled up again. The village elder was a cantankerous old fool who was insisting that Mickey was the guest of the village and not the bride’s father. Janic’s argued the fact that he had met Mickey first, so he had the right to claim him as his own honoured guest.
I’m honoured again, thought Mickey, his anger simmered though that his host and the old fart were arguing about him as if he wasn’t there.
While they were waiting for the rest of the spectators to arrive, Janic explained to Mickey what would happen during the contest.
“When the two men arrive they will be presented to the elders and to my daughter. Then they will fight. The winner will claim the bride.”
Positively barbaric, thought Mickey.
“What kind of fight?” he asked. Janic didn’t understand so Mickey explained. “Fists, weapons, guns?”
Janic seemed to take exception to what Mickey had said.
“It is a matter of great honour.” Janic puffed out his chest in indignation. “This will not be a fist fight, like a fight in a bar room. There will be no guns. These men are not gangsters. This will be combat with traditional weapons.”
Mickey was shocked and sickened by the pride with which this statement was made. How could any kind of combat for a bride be a thing of honour?
A commotion amongst the crowd of villagers drew Mickey’s attention to the entrance to the field. A wooden cart was being wheeled past the bare hedgerow that bordered the field. It turned and passed through the gate. On the cart was what looked like a selection of farming tools.
“Ah, the weapons,” beamed Janic. The look of incomprehension on Mickey’s face prompted the man to clarify.
“We are farmers and workers of the land. It is tradition that our disputes are settled using the tools that we use every day. What did you expect, swords and spears?” Janic burst out laughing and clapped Mickey on the shoulder.
“Someone will get badly hurt from this then,” said Mickey. He had a sick feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the quality of the food he had eaten recently.
“No, no. Not today,” Janic replied. “We have two types of contest. One is boriti za podnošenje.” He had to rack his brain for the English equivalent. “A fight until a man is beaten. Until he submits. The other is boriti se do smrti. A fight to the death.” Janic had no trouble translating that particular term. “To settle claims for marriage we always have fight to the defeat. Then everyone goes home as friends.”
That’s too weird for me, thought Mickey. This is like a mating ritual between two stags - it could be on the Discovery Channel. He wondered what the young bucks would be like. Mickey didn’t have to wait too long to find out. A roar from the assembled crowd heralded the arrival of the gladiators. Mickey stifled a laugh. He could see straight away that a beautiful girl like Elena would never agree to marry one of these prize specimens.
The main claimant to Elena’s hand didn’t look much like a farmer. He had a build befitting someone used to manual work but most of it looked to be fat; all centred around his belly. Receding hair was plastered to his scalp and even from where Mickey was sitting it was obvious that the man was sweating profusely. Mickey got the impression that this man knew his days were numbered and desperately wanted a wife to keep him company in his final days and place his body by the bandstand when his time came. He also had a haunted, fearful look in his eyes. Looking at his opponent, Mickey could understand why.
The challenger looked to be ten to fifteen years younger than the fat man. He was a good six inches taller and had a physique that, though diminished by death, looked as if it had once been muscular and trim. This man could never be considered handsome and his countenance was made worse by the lustful stare that he fixed on Elena.
Mickey felt a deep bite of jealousy and hoped that the lard belly would have some untold skill that would floor the ugly bastard that was challenging him.
“What happens now?” Mickey asked Janic.
“The two men will be introduced and then each will state his intention,” Janic replied. “Ivan, the older one, will speak first as he made the first claim. Marek will then make his challenge. Ivan will accept the challenge and will choose boriti za podnošenje. That has already been agreed. Then they will fight.”
“What happens when the fight is over though?” said Mickey.
Janic could barely contain his enthusiasm. “When the victor is declared, it is permitted for one man to challenge the winner. If no-one comes forward then the betrothal will be sealed and the marriage will take place tomorrow.”
“Is a challenge likely?” asked Mickey. “I mean, are there any men who fancy ... their chances?”
Janic found the idea very funny. “I do not think so. There are many who would take on Ivan. Marek will win though. He has already, how shall I say, persuaded the others not to challenge him when he does win.”
Mickey looked across to where Marek was standing. His dislike for the ugly challenger grew considerably. Come on Ivan, you fat bastard, he thought, flatten him. He didn’t think that either man was a suitable husband for Elena; but at least Ivan looked as if he might care for her.
The leader of the village elders stood up and the crowd fell silent. The ceremonials were as Janic had described them. Claim and counter claim were made and the combat method declared. Both men then made their way to the hand cart where their weapons were waiting. Two skinny stewards, dressed in long brown smocks, stood by the cart and inspected the weapons that the two combatants chose.
Marek had trotted to the cart and had already selected a short handled scythe. The blade had been wrapped in cloth to prevent it from slicing into flesh; but Mickey suspected that it would still be capable of inflicting severe bruising and cracked ribs if handled properly.
Ivan walked to where the weapons were waiting but still appe
ared to be labouring for breath. He chose a pitch fork which he promptly dropped – much to the amusement of the crowd. The tines of the fork were capped with pieces of cork, so that Ivan would effectively be using the tool as a staff.
The two fighters moved away from the cart and waited for a signal from one of the stewards. The steward raised an arm, glanced from one competitor to the other then dropped his hand.
Ivan appeared to have decided that the best form of defence was attack. Holding the stoppered pitch fork out in front of him, he charged. His attack was slow and lumbering. Marek easily side stepped the approach and delivered a slap to the side of Ivan’s head with the flat of the scythe’s blade. He didn’t press his advantage though, choosing to circle around his opponent and bide his time. Ivan continued to hold the pitchfork out in front of him, jabbing at the air if Marek showed any sign of closing in on him.
Mickey understood Ivan’s choice of weapon. Being too slow to be able to compete in close combat, Ivan’s best chance was to keep Marek at bay. If he could then tire his opponent out or force a mistake that would give him the chance to mount an attack of his own.
Marek feigned a lunge. Ivan jabbed forward and Marek skipped around the thrust. He landed another blow from the flat of his blade, this time in Ivan’s kidneys.
Stop playing with him you bastard, thought Mickey. You’re just a bully, picking on the fat kid. His dislike for Marek intensified and was fuelled further when the crowd roared their approval of the taunting they were witnessing. Even Janic was applauding and cheering. It seemed apparent who he favoured for a son-in-law. Elena however, looked disgusted at the rising blood lust.
Marek was now landing regular blows all over Ivan’s body. The older man was gasping and unsteady on his feet whilst the younger assailant lapped up the encouragement of his audience. He was putting on a show and humiliating his opponent. Marek stepped in for another attack but Ivan seemed to have anticipated the move. He mimicked Marek’s sidestep evasive move and swung the pitchfork double handed. The shaft landed square across the bridge of Marek’s nose. Even from where he sat, Mickey heard the crunch of Marek’s nose breaking. The younger man let out a roar of pain and dropped to his knees. Ivan could have closed in and finished Marek off. Instead he bent forward, hands on his knees, getting his breath back. It was a fatal mistake.
