Saga of Menyoral: Hard Luck

by Ray, M. A.

  He froze, listening for sounds of movement from the dormitory, but after one minute, two minutes, nobody came to scold or thrash, so Stas pushed the door in a crack, wide enough to admit his narrow form into the windowless room. There, on the fifth bed from the door, far in the back, he could see the dimmest, guttering light that was Boris. He wanted to hurry, but he made himself step slowly down the tiny ward to that high bed. When he stood next to it, it came up to his chest.

  Boris, he thought. I’m here. It’s Stas, you’re not all by yourself, I’m with you. He reached up and put both hands on his only friend’s chest. I want to help you, I wish I could help you, I’d do anything, he thought, and the next heartbeat he doubled over, chewing down on a cry, forehead resting on the edge of the bed, fingers gripping it. A pain in his belly; he hoped he wasn’t going to get bad diarrhea like Olik died from. I can’t get caught here. Trying to control his breathing, he straightened—and jumped, nearly off his feet. There was a patch of darkness in his stomach, which felt stretched, like it did once a year at Longday for Naheel’s feast. As he watched, the light in his body drained back into the dark patch, and the pain subsided. And Boris—in Boris, the light shone a little brighter than before. Without a moment’s thought, Stas returned his hands to his friend’s heart.

  Nothing happened. Come on! Stas thought desperately, near tears, and the light in him drained into Boris. Either that or the dark in Boris drained into him. He couldn’t begin to sort out what was going on. All he knew was the pain, and watching the light, and when it started to feel good except for the too-full sensation, he pulled his hands away.

  Boris sat up. The light in him was as bright as if the cow had never touched him. Stas belched. Loudly. He slapped a hand over his mouth, lunged for the big washbowl on the stand by the bed, and threw up into it. It was difficult to keep the noise down, and it tasted metallic, so bad he couldn’t stop.

  “Stas?” Boris whispered, when he finished up, and Stas reached up and touched Boris’s hand, feeling the warmth in it, so happy, so very happy, he had to keep in a laugh. Boris, you’re okay, you’re not going to die! “What happened?” Boris asked, his voice still a whisper. “I felt so bad and now I—”

  Stas touched Boris’s mouth with his fingertips to hush him. They weren’t done yet. He knew he had to get rid of what was in the bowl and get back on his pallet. He tugged on Boris’s smock, and Boris slid off the bed and followed him out. They went slowly to the front door, Stas carrying the brimming bowl carefully, so carefully. He didn’t want it to spill. He couldn’t wash it out without waking everybody, and if there was a replacement, Stas didn’t know where it might be kept.

  Slowly, Boris worked on the front door. The latch that held it closed was oiled much better than the latch on the infirmary; when it opened, a shaft of moonlight fell across the floor. The two boys slipped out. It’s a good night for being sneaky, Stas thought. Oda, the Bright Lady’s enemy, cast pale light from His face all over the little yard, and it was easy to see the way across to the privy. “Stas,” Boris whispered. “What happened? That’s blood…”

  It was blood in the bowl; alarming, but Stas shook his head and hurried now, as fast as he could without spilling, to the privy. He dropped the whole mess down the hole and came back out, carefully wiping his mouth on the inside of his smock.

  “Please,” Boris said miserably, his face a play of deep shadows and Oda’s pale light.

  Stas lifted his hands into that light and signed, I am not sure what happened. The cow hurt you. You were dying. He almost didn’t dare sign this part: I think I fixed it.

  “But—”

  I do not know yet. I will try to figure it out, but you need to go back in the infirmary for tonight. Go pee right now. I will need to latch the door on you. Boris nodded and went into the privy. There were some peeing sounds.

  “I don’t want to go back in the infirmary by myself,” he whispered when he came out. “It’s dark in there.”

  I know, but you have to. The Brothers cannot know. They can never know I was there, understand? Do not tell them I was there, ever, or I will be in big trouble. No matter what, you did not see me tonight.

  Boris moaned a little—he hated to lie, even when Stas said it was necessary—but he said, “What’ll I tell them?”

  Tell them you do not know. Tell them you woke up and felt better. If they keep asking, tell them it must be a— “Mmmmmiracle,” he said quietly, using his voice. He’d never dreamed he would need a sign for that word, but maybe it really was a miracle.

  “I guess that’ll be okay,” Boris said. “It must be a miracle anyways, don’t you think?”

  I guess so. I do not know, but I will thank Naheel in chapel that you are not dead.

  “Me too.” Then Boris hugged him hard. Stas was so short his head only came up to Boris’s chest, right over the most beautiful blue light he’d ever seen.

  Stas’s plan worked. It worked too well. Before the week was out, he found himself sitting next to Boris in the back of a wagon driven by Brother Marek, heading for the big city of Muscoda. They wanted Boris for the Order of Aurelius, and Boris put up such a fuss when Brother Marek tried to leave Stas behind that Brother Marek lifted him up by the smock, tossed him in the wagon, and brought him along too, regardless of Stas’s unexpressed, inexpressible horror. I am in so much trouble, he thought as the wagon bounced away.

  Blessed

  Dixon Forest

  Dingus woke up to firelight and fierce pain, a sore throat and throbbing fingers and arms. It was night. Vandis sat next to his bedroll, doing something agonizing with his hand. He groaned and covered his eyes with the hand Vandis didn’t have. Some of his fingers were already bound together with bandages and little splints, and his forearms were bandaged up too. He remembered what must’ve happened to them, not too clear, but clear enough to wish he didn’t. It was all jerky images and scorching heat inside his chest.

  He remembered how it felt: how his blood started to rush and how, even though he didn’t feel cold, his teeth chattered like crazy. He hadn’t been able to stop his teeth; he remembered that, and the flame ripping down his spine. At the time it had scared him, and then that bandit grabbed Kessa, and there was kind of a silence, except that his pulse roared in his ears like thunder, and—

  Nothing much mattered after that. Not what the bandits did, not what he was doing. It only mattered that they get death, and he was the one who needed to give it to them. After that, he didn’t remember so good, but he knew what he’d done and he knew he’d never felt that way in his life. What he did to Aust came close, but didn’t hardly touch the feeling of it, like he could do anything at all. He shuddered, half hoping he’d get a chance to loose it again and completely terrified he’d let it slip without meaning to.

  He didn’t remember getting in his bedroll, but here he was, and he didn’t have any clothes on. Under both his blankets, right next to the fire, he was warm enough, but…

  “Vandis, do I put these mushrooms in now?” Kessa was asking.

  “I’ll tell you when,” Vandis said. “Go away for a minute so Dingus can get dressed.”

  “I’ve seen him do worse,” she said, making him think of the time she’d caught him taking a squat, but she went just the same. If he had a sister, she’d be Kessa, no doubt about it. She knew all about him and liked him anyway, and for him it was the same. His throat tried to close when he thought about maybe hurting her. No, he decided. Doesn’t matter how good it feels. Never letting it happen again.

  “Come on now, Dingus,” Vandis said. “Get up for supper.”

  I’m so tired, he thought miserably, but he gave a silent sigh and pulled his legs out of the bedroll to get dressed in his spare clothes. It was hard with his hands stiff, splinted, and bandaged, but he managed to do it with his fingertips, all except his boots.

  Vandis took something out of his pocket and pinned it to Dingus’s jerkin. He called, “Kessa, you can come back now!”

  Dingus sat down hard
on his bedroll. He ran his fingertips over the cool enamel of his Squire’s badge, his eyes stinging. “You’re out of your tree.”

  “Sorry—what was that?”

  “If you still trust me with this, you’re insane!” He tried to rip the badge off. He didn’t deserve the honor of wearing it, but even if he could’ve made his fingers curl around it, he couldn’t have torn it away.

  Vandis folded his arms and scowled. “Did you think I’d change my mind?” he demanded as Kessa appeared over his shoulder.

  “Yes,” Dingus said. “Look what I did. One slip and look what I did, Vandis! I’m a murderer!” He put his head in his hands. Before he said it, he wasn’t even thinking the word, but now that it was hanging in the air he couldn’t stop. Murderer.

  “So am I,” Vandis said quietly. “You’ll have to look long and hard before you find a Knight who hasn’t killed.”

  He jerked his head up. “It’s different! I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t control it. What if I can’t control it? What then? Kill you? Kessa? Lose my mind at the Moot?”

  “You won’t.”

  “How do you know?”

  Vandis regarded him calmly. “Because I know you, Dingus, and I know I can trust you.”

  “I don’t know if I can trust me!”

  “Well, then, you’ll have to trust me, won’t you? Trust me when I say I see a little bit of the man you’ll be.” Vandis sighed. “It doesn’t help a lot right now, but remember: nobody gets to choose. Not one person gets to decide what they have to work with. It’s your hard luck you ended up with more than most.”

  Dingus had to fight down a scream. “More? You’re fucking crazy!”

  “More,” Vandis said, folding his arms. “Do you think everyone’s as smart as you are? As fast and strong? Do you think everyone can shoot like you do, or tell a story like you do?”

  Kessa said quietly, “Do you think everyone’s as kind as you? Because they’re not, and I’d know.”

  Vandis nodded and went on. “Now on top of all that—a lot to begin with, mind you—you have this other gift—”

  Dingus stood. “Don’t call that a gift. That’s not a gift, it’s a fucking nightmare!” By the time he finished he was shouting, hot from the inside. He focused tightly on his breathing and took a few steps back.

  “Suit yourself,” Vandis said. “If it hadn’t been for that, we’d all be dead, and if it’s a nightmare, well, everybody pays for what they get…whether they want it or not.”

  “Haven’t I paid enough?” he asked, real soft now. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t enough he went through life with a bright red target painted on him? that he didn’t fit anywhere and never would?

  “Dingus, if it were up to me—” Vandis stopped and shook his head, looking away. “Kessa, put those mushrooms in.”

  “Yes, Vandis,” she said, and Dingus and Vandis watched her dump sliced mushrooms into the porridge and stir it together.

  “Five minutes and that’ll be ready. You’ll feel better with some food in you.” Vandis pressed Dingus’s arm. “All right?”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “I want you to eat,” Vandis said, in his Argue-and-Die voice, and Dingus shrugged. Pretty soon they all had their dishes filled and Vandis had put a sprinkle of salt on each one. It didn’t help Dingus very much. He’d told the truth; he wasn’t even a little hungry. There was a pit at the bottom of his stomach that he knew he should want to fill with food, but it didn’t appeal. He poked at the porridge, forced down a spoonful or two, and wanted to set it aside. When Vandis collected the bowls and spoons to wash them, he looked into Dingus’s and scowled. “I told you to eat.”

  “I don’t feel good,” Dingus said matter-of-factly. Vandis didn’t say anything more, only shook his head and walked off toward the stream Dingus could hear in the distance.

  “You want to play Ox-and-Manger?” Kessa asked hopefully, holding up a loop of twine. “I could start.”

  “My hands, Kess,” he said, glad to have the excuse.

  “How about Spin?” She pulled a deck of cards out of her pocket.

  “Rather not.”

  “Well, what do you want to play, then?”

  “Let’s play the Quiet Game,” he said tiredly. He almost always played some kind of kid game with her for a while at night, but tonight, he couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less.

  “What’s the Quiet Game?”

  “We see who can be quiet the longest. Whoever talks first loses.”

  “That doesn’t sound very fun.”

  “I don’t really want to have fun right now.” He rubbed his face. The bandages were already getting in the way.

  “Okay, we’ll play the Quiet Game. One, two, three, go.”

  He wanted to let out a sigh of relief, but then he’d have to deal with her saying he’d lost, so he silently swung himself around and laid his bones out on his bedroll. The next thing he knew, Kessa was telling Vandis, “Sh, we’re playing the Quiet Game.”

  “I think you just lost,” Vandis said.

  “Shit!”

  There was a clatter from Vandis putting the dishes away. “Is he sleeping?”

  “I think so.”

  “I’m awake,” Dingus said, but he didn’t open his eyes.

  Vandis said, “It’s been a long day. I’ll do the story tonight—unless one of you wants to contribute.”

  “Go ahead,” Kessa said. Dingus didn’t say anything. He listened to Vandis and Kessa getting settled in for story time: the rustling of bedrolls and blankets, Vandis’s grunt as he bent his knees.

  “Now hear this,” Vandis said, and Dingus inwardly groaned.

  There were three ways a story could start, and how it started depended on what kind of story it was going to be. There was the tall-tale kind, where the teller started with, “No shit, there I was,” or something like that, and the regular kind, where the teller would say, “Once upon a time.” Then there were stories about the gods, and whoever told one of those started, “Now hear this.” Dingus did not particularly want to hear a god story. He’d almost rather play Spin, which he hated. What he really wished was that Vandis would start, “No shit, there I was,” and tell a funny story, but no. It was, “Now hear this,” and he knew which god Vandis was going to tell about. Dingus really didn’t want to think about Her right now. Vandis always said She held Her people close until they were ready and then let them fly free, but he felt like She’d dropped him off a cliff and he didn’t even have any wings.

  But: “Now hear this. A long, long time ago when Rothganar was very young, before the People taught men to live in cities, before the Bearded Ones sold Men the secret of steel, there lived a woman like any other. She ground the wheat between two stones, and made it into bread. She tanned the hides, tended the garden, and dressed the meat for her husband Tag. She didn’t mind the work, but Tag was a cruel man, and he beat her when he grew bored, so that they might have had children, but didn’t.

  “One day Tag found a small stone in his bread. He bit down on it by accident and broke his tooth, and when he spat out the stone and the tooth his wrath was terrible. He beat the woman until she couldn’t walk, until she could hardly see, and threw her out of his hut. She lay there all through the night and part of the next day, and Tag didn’t bring her back in. He didn’t even bring her a drink of water, no matter how she begged. Finally, in the heat of the afternoon, she decided to leave the huts of Tag’s clan and never return.

  “She got to her feet and found that she could move, however slowly. It hardly mattered to her that she had to limp. It only mattered that she could go far from that place and be free; and she did, making her slow, careful way into the forest, deeper than she had ever been before. She was sure at any moment she would drop dead, but night came, and then morning, night and morning again, and still she limped on and on. No animal bothered her; no hunter stopped her. The woman was so exhausted, in such agony, that she went along like a drunk, deeper and deeper into the forest. She was
so exhausted she didn’t think about rest, or about anything at all. She could only keep going, until at last she chanced to trip at the feet of a white oak.

  “At first she assumed it was a root that caught her foot, but when she looked, she saw that it was a stick, and not just any stick: a treasure of a stick, a beautiful polished oak walking-staff, carved with leaves and swirled with branches. Here and there it was set with tiny blue gems the color of a summer sky.

  “She picked it up and used it to lever herself to her feet again. A golden road rolled out before her, on into forever, glinting in the light that filtered through the leaves above. She stepped onto it and never looked back, and as far as we know, she’s still walking, holding the gift of the white oak in her hands.”

  He stopped. When it looked like the story had ended for sure, Kessa said, “I don’t get it. Did the Lady give her the stick?”

  Vandis grinned in a satisfied way, like he’d given them a really great lesson. “Kessa,” he said, “she is the Lady.” Dingus had rolled to his side to watch Vandis tell the story. Now he went onto his back again. He didn’t like how long it had taken him to realize that Tag’s poor wife was the Lady; he’d kept waiting for Her to show up and fix things, and when he realized, right at the end, it seemed like kind of a gyp.

  He scowled. “You forgot the lesson.”

  “Tell me what you took away from it,” Vandis said.

  “Tag was an asshole.”

  “That’s fair. What else?”

  “If you don’t like how your life’s going,” Dingus muttered, “run away and never look back.”

  “No,” Vandis said, frustrated. “If you don’t like your situation and see a chance to change it, grab it with both hands. That’s what it means.”

  How is that not what I said? “I already did that, and look how it turned out.” With that, he turned over on his bedroll, facing the dark woods.

  “You—” Vandis stopped. “Have it your way, Dingus. Just don’t expect me to coddle you anymore.”