by Awert, Wolf
Brongard was much like his father. Tall, bulky, dark; convinced of his own importance. As the Reeve’s son he led the village children, determining what should be played in the little spare time they had, what should be talked about and, in particular, how things were to be done. On this summer afternoon they were to cross the village square. The disorderly jumble of children ran noisily after Brongard until he stopped abruptly. Right there, in the middle of the square, stood the truth-teller’s child.
“Get out of my way, witch-boy,” Brongard said, calmly, as he had learned from imitating his father.
“Why should I?”
Brongard burst out laughing, for this was really an amusing question, and the other children laughed all the louder because Brongard had laughed.
“Because we are many, and you are alone. Because I am older, bigger, stronger and much cleverer than you.” And, after a carefully chosen pause: “And because you are not one of us.”
Chigg flinched, but covered it quite well.
“What does it matter if I am alone or in the herd? The great hunters are all on their own,” he replied proudly.
Brongard began to enjoy the situation.
“And you are one of the great hunters? Take a look at our hunters, or at the wild beasts in the hills – if you can survive that. They are all large, strong and dark, like us. You? Look into a mirror, if you know what that is. You have probably only ever seen yourself through muddy puddles. You are no great hunter. You are small, you are pale, you are silent. You are a lost kid, at best.” Brongard gave a loud bleat, and the other children laughed again.
Chigg stayed quiet. What could he have said? Perhaps the smithy had a mirror, because he could polish metal? The Reeve must have had one, because the Reeve had everything. He had long noticed that he looked different to the others. His hair was colored like the sun, changing its sheen all through the day. His eyes were further apart than those of the other children. They were gray, not brown, and a short, straight nose sat between them, more like a blade than a mace. Small as he was, he was faster and had greater endurance, but he simply did not have the muscle or the oxen-like strength of Brongard.
Brongard used the silence in his favor and began to attack anew. “What I see before me is weak, filthy and stupid. Why don’t you just leave? You’ve no father, no mother. You’ve no past. You have nothing; you are nothing and will always be nothing. You’re barely human. You are... you’re a...”
Brongard groped for a word that could contain all that his ten harvests of experience allowed him to feel. This truth, or what he considered to be truth, formed in his body, condensed in his head and broke out of his open mouth forcefully as a triumphant shout.
“You are a Nill!”
You are a Nill. The words rang as a hollow echo in Chigg’s ears. To denounce a human’s humanity was the worst one could to him. Perhaps neither Brongard nor Chigg really knew what a Nill was. But the words had been spoken, their power too strong for Chigg not to understand them.
These four words smashed, hammer-like, everything he had lived into little pieces. In that moment, after barely eight harvests, Chigg’s childhood ended. Ended by a boy who wasn’t even evil, just older, larger, stronger and more ruthless than the others.
Chigg stood rooted to the spot, not even moving as the other children passed him, puffing and shoving. Brongard was already a few steps away when Chigg finally turned around and yelled: “I will take the name Nill, and the whole world will bow before it!” But the shout broke after the first few words in his throat and the rest was so quiet that none could hear it. But it was the first sentence of his new life. Chigg had been the child, Nill was the man. It had happened faster than lightning could split a tree. And it happened quietly, unnoticed.
Nill stood there for a few more moments, staring after the other children with empty eyes, until he ran home, disturbed and full of anger, sadness and defiance.
“Where have you been, Chigg?”
“I’m not called Chigg, my name is Nill!”
“That is not your name.”
“Now it is.”
For Esara, her boy lost his name on that day. She never called him Chigg again, because he did not respond to it, but she never spoke the word Nill.
The children’s argument had not gone unnoticed by the adults, and some of them saw another bad omen in it. Esara knew that the time had come to let her boy help with the work in the village. She would not make a truth-teller out of him, because real truth-tellers are born, not made.
He may have been tough enough to be a hunter, but he was too small and weak, so she simply asked him what he wanted to become.
“A blacksmith!” the answer rang out.
Esara shook her head. “A blacksmith needs a lot of strength. The tools are heavy. I do not think Ambross will teach you this profession.”
“We’ll see,” Nill answered stubbornly and went to Ambross, the local smith. After lurking around the workshop long enough for the smith no longer to be able to ignore him, Ambross stopped what he was working on and asked shortly: “Huh?”
“I want to become a blacksmith.”
Ambross hesitated. He looked twice and began to laugh heartily. “You tiny tot want to learn forging?”
Still laughing, he turned back to the blank and began to forge it into shape with heavy blows from his hammer. Occasionally he shook his head, but Nill could not tell whether because he was not yet pleased with the blank’s shape or because he was still wondering about the boy’s strange wish.
A long time later he lifted the red-glowing piece of metal from the anvil and cooled it, first in a plant brew, then in a water trough. This shall be part of a fine digging-stick, he thought and looked around for another blank to use.
“You’re still here.”
“Yes, I’d like to learn how to forge things.”
Ambross was no longer laughing, but scrutinizing Nill thoughtfully.
“You are tenacious, no doubt, but I can’t make a blacksmith out of you. You’re too weak.” The words were calm and matter of fact; there was no derision in them. “But if you’re really that keen on it, you may stay until you’ve realized that there is no point in it.” His face cracked into a wide grin, making his mouth seem like a well-placed ax wound. “It’ll probably cost me a good piece of metal or two. I will show you how to engrave, and later on maybe how to make rings or bracelets. Who knows, you might have a keener interest in jewelry than in tools and weapons. Here!” He tossed a broom to Nill.
From that moment Nill worked in Ambross’ workshop. He learned quickly, understood the delicacies of forging iron, bronze and brass and knew how to engrave fine patterns with a graver. He helped his teacher with the bellows until his arms went numb and he cleaned the workshop. Whenever he had nothing else to do he would sit on a wooden block in a dark corner, watching Ambross work. So the time passed, until Nill spoke to his master: “Master Ambross, I would like to make a weapon.”
Ambross thought for a while and said: “Alright, I’ll give you a blank. You can choose one. Once I’m done here you can do whatever you want with it. But one blank is all you’re getting from me.”
Nill nodded. “One blank is all I need,” he said confidently.
Ambross looked up at the ceiling, where he presumed the gods of silly ideas to reside, and shook his head again. The boy never spoke much, but Ambross rather enjoyed his company. They were similar in at least one way, the huge blacksmith and the small boy: a single sentence was usually enough for them, like a well-placed strike of a hammer.
The workshop was not roomy and rather dark, cluttered and dirty. The blanks lay, sorted by size and hardness, on different piles between hammers and pliers, torn bellows, broken tools and finished objects, and on everything in the room lay a sticky, foul-smelling residue of soot, iron dust, steam and sweat. How anyone could find anything in this mess was a mystery to all but Ambross and Nill, yet there was a hidden order to things in this dark, hot place.
Sti
ll, every order leaves room for the past and the future, for forgetting and wishing. Nill had found a blank in the darkest corner of the room that did not seem to fit in with the other blanks. One of his duties was to regularly clean the iron. This piece had remained hidden for a long time, and under the layer of grime it had a peculiar pattern that Nill did not recognize from any other blank. The metal itself did not seem to be solid; rather it was layered, as the leaves that fall in autumn become a single sheet upon the ground in winter. Judging by the filth on the blank it must have spent a long time in the workshop already. Nill did not know if it was valuable in any way, but as he held it he felt as if the iron were talking to him.
Nill waited until the day the council was held, where the village’s troubles and affairs were discussed. Nobody ever wanted to miss out on this, and so Nill had always been present in the past. The children never understood much of the discussions the adults were having, but they loved the feeling of being part of something special and enjoyed the break from their monotonous daily life.
So it was that Nill had the entire day to himself. Stopping in the middle of forging something and continuing later was possible, but not risk-free, as the metal would have to be re-heated. Nill only had this one blank and did not want to risk it. He chose a medium-sized hammer, because he lacked the strength to use the larger one. As nobody was there to help him, he also had to tread the bellows to heat the iron to the temperature he needed.
Nill beat the pointed end of the blank into a short, four-sided tapered tap and drew most of the metal to the other, wider side, flattening it to a wide blade. Nill knew what a good hunting knife looked like. The weight needed to be in the handle, not the blade, or the hand holding it would tire out quickly. The spine of the blade needed to be strong and solid so as not to break when the hunter cut hollow bones to reach the marrow. And the edge had to be robust of course, or it would quickly wear down.
He forged this knife against his better judgment. The taper was short and thin, the blade long and flat, the edge thin, and to be sharpened along half the back as well.
Ambross rarely made weapons, and when he did he answered all questions with an irritated growl or with silence. While working on the weapon he would mumble words Nill could not make out.
“Master Ambross, are you saying spells to strengthen the weapons?” Nill had asked once.
“I’m no sorcerer, I’m a blacksmith,” Ambross had answered gruffly, but then he had smiled his quiet smile and muttered: “Who knows, maybe some magic is left in the old blacksmithing tradition.” A bit louder he said to Nill: “I wished the blade good luck and told it that it had been born. We smiths believe that the hammer gives soul to the weapons, making them come to life.”
Nill had tried to do the same. Every strike from the hammer was accompanied by a thought he sent to the metal. The thought was always the same.
Burn!
In Nill’s inner eye an image blossomed: bright flames, cold white light, piercing bolts of lightning and all-encompassing might. But what could such a thought do, if it dissolved in these images like a thin wisp of smoke in a morning breeze?
Nill entered the workshop the next morning immediately after Master Ambross had opened it. He gave a small bow and focused on using polite words.
“Master, I finished my apprenticeship with you yesterday and would like to thank you for all the effort you have made to teach me.”
Ambross looked down on the boy quietly. Nothing about him showed the glowing pride and happiness he felt as he answered: “Well, Nill, you were never really my apprentice. You can’t really end something you didn’t really begin, can you? Now then, don’t you want to show me what you forged yesterday?”
Nill took out his blade.
Ambross’ feelings died like a fire in an icy wind.
“What it that?” he asked coldly.
“It’s a combat dagger!”
“And what do you want to do with a combat dagger?”
“I want to become a great hero or a warrior.”
Ambross’ eyes became heavy all of a sudden. Bitter scenes from the past, memories of pain and desperation, buried deep for too long, came back to the surface. “Heroics, my boy, heroics don’t require a weapon, but heart. You wouldn’t understand yet. And when you do finally understand, it’ll be too late. You can be certain, my boy: nobody becomes a hero because he wants to.”
Ambross’ keen gaze inspected the weapon more closely. “Still, your blade is well crafted. If I’d known what you were going to do, I never would have let you choose the blank for yourself. How could I forget this piece?” Ambross seemed to look into the distance, at something that was not there. “But you chose well. The blade is hard and resilient. You made one mistake though: the weight isn’t evenly balanced. Your hand will tire quickly if you use this weapon.”
“Yes, Master Ambross, I know. That is why I would like to ask one more thing of you.”
Ambross’ left eyebrow wandered skywards.
“Give me a piece of lead, please.”
“What do you want lead for?”
“If I put a ball of lead in the handle, the handle becomes heavier, and the blade will be easier to use.”
“You’ve learned much, little one. Listen to what I’m about to tell you. Do not use wood for the handle, use bone instead. Make it thin and then wrap it tightly with wet leather. Leather bands will give you a better grip than wood or bone, and you can replace them if they wear out.”
Nill said his thanks with one last polite bow, and Ambross wished the boy good luck. He had said all that he could.
At home Esara did not ask what had happened when Nill told her that he was no longer going to the blacksmith’s. Neither did she ask when Nill stayed away for longer and longer, ranging through the hills around the village, talking with the hunters, the Ramsmen and sometimes with the animals, instead of going after regular work.
Nill learned a lot out there in the hills. After barely one harvest he knew that there were not just flowers and plants of all sorts, but also that every plant had friends, family, and foe, and that every plant adapted its characteristics to the earth and the sky, the sun, the moon, the light and the shade. He knew the right time to pick keriberries and knew why trrk-roots were the only root to be dug up in spring.
In the long evenings of the short season Nill liked to stay home and watch Esara’s attempts to catch a glimpse of the future. For her prophecies she did not just use the rune bones, twigs or knotted grass, but also a mixture of white ash and light sand which she spread out on a large, flat stone in a five-pointed wooden frame. She would sit in front of the white sand for a long while before she took the oracle twig and hastily drew a few signs in the dust.
Nill began to imitate her, and before long he too would draw unsteady pictures in the sand with a twig. He did not realize that Esara was not drawing at all, but rather that her spirit took control of her in those moments. During these silent moments of immersion Esara did not know what she was doing, and the meaning of the symbols that she drew was forgotten soon after. The strength of the symbols however was strong enough to make a connection between Esara and the stars above.
Nill took great care to make sure Esara did not notice what he did. Even though he had never been forbidden from doing anything, he felt that she would not be happy if she saw him using her precious ash sand. White sand was very expensive in Earthland, where the world was clad in brown and red. The earth had to be washed for a long time until it released what little sand it hid. After that, it took even longer for the red or brown sand to lose its color in the sour Kamander solution to finally show the white it needed for the runes to find an anchor.
There came a time when Nill dreamed. They were terrible dreams from which he woke screaming, and they were peaceful dreams which made him smile in his sleep. Every morning, when Esara had left Grovehall, Nill sat down before the Stone of Prophecy and drew his dreams. On one of those mornings he just could not get it right. He scratched l
ines into the sand, brushed them away again and began anew. Over and over again, for so long that he all but forgot the time.
“What are you doing?” Esara’s voice was quiet, but it came through the silence like a whip. Nill started so badly that part of the ash flew from the stone plate. “Do you not know that it is one of the worst possible crimes to draw pictures or symbols? The Reeve alone may do that, and even he only does it in secret. If you want to make pictures, carve them out of wood, like Cramas Clumpfoot does.” Esara’s voice had become so quiet that Nill could barely hear her.
“But you do it, I’ve seen you,” Nill whispered hoarsely.
“Yes, I do it. Or, more precisely, it happens to me. There once was a time when I was allowed to, and I still know how.”
Esara began to chuckle. It turned into a mad cackle and Nill started for a second time as he saw his care-mother’s face change. The eyes grew smaller, the mouth opened in a gape as if it wanted to say something. But as quickly as it had come it was gone, and Esara looked as she always had done.
“But I want to draw pictures! I have to. Do you understand? I have to draw this forest here,” Nill objected.
“You don’t know any forests. There are no forests in Earthland, only shrubs and bushes. How are you going to know a forest? Nobody can draw something they’ve never seen,” Esara said.
“I saw this forest in my dream. It’s the forest I dream of, but I can’t draw it.”
“Well, why not?” Esara asked.
“It has to be there. All of it.”
“You’ll never be able to draw all of it. Do the most important parts.”
“What’s the most important?”
“Whatever you can draw in the shortest time possible.”
Nill brushed his previous attempts away again and scratched into the sand a forest consisting entirely of vertical lines.
