Another month had passed, and Vurbag turned up at the training field one morning. All the others carried on with their usual tasks — except his generation. The youngest boys stood shoulder to shoulder in a line, while the chieftain and Gudrang took their position in front of them. The necklace was a little longer than before, he noticed in passing; there were several new human ears.
“Report!”
How many times had he made a mistake while training? How often had he been clumsy and sloppy? Ugh... A knot tightened in his gut.
“Most will make decent fighters. But this one.” Gudrang stepped up to one boy and booted him towards Vurbag. “And this one.” At those words, he started towards him. Panic gripped him and he started raising his hands for protection. To no avail. Gudrang grabbed him by the throat and shoulder, hoisted him as if he were a feather and flung him towards the chieftain. He landed on the ground beside the other boy. “Hopeless. Two left feet. No use at all.”
No use. Oh no! His heart pounded, and the knot grew tighter.
“Throw ‘em to the wargs, Vurbag!”
No no no!!! He’d try harder!!!
“Maybe I will, hahaha!” Vurbag started slowly pacing around the two of them. “I really could!” He cackled. “We don’t need useless scum!”
“No we doooon’t!”
No! I want to live!
Vurbag stopped in front of them. He kept looking at his own feet, head bowed. His heart pounded wildly. Hopefully no one could see him trembling.
“I’ll throw you to wargs... if you can’t learn anything at all! Let’s see if you’re good for anything else! Follow me!!!”
The chieftain turned and set off back towards the village, and it took him a few seconds to pull himself together. He’d live! They wouldn’t kill him!
He had to run to catch up, and it took two of his short strides to match Vurbag’s long one. It was slightly comforting to see he wasn’t the only one; although the other boy was almost a head taller and had longer legs, he also had to push himself to keep up.
What did Vurbag have in mind? Whatever it was, he would have to learn it, and learn it well. Because if he proved useless, there wouldn’t be another chance. Next time they’d grab him and shove him to the wargs’ enclosure. And then... He shuddered.
They stopped outside the smithy. The place appeared as cluttered as ever, crammed with crates of raw materials, tools, timber and coal, and both finished and half-finished goods. Even though it was chilly outside and the three of them wore thick tunics and trousers, the smith stood bare to the waist; he wore only trousers and a leather apron. He was hammering a heavy mallet down on whatever he was working on, and the muscles under his bare skin bulged like big spheres. The smithy rang with the blows.
“Kizat!”
More of the loud blows.
“Kizaaaat!!!”
At last the smith turned. His face was red and slick with sweat.
“Pick a pupil.”
Kizat wiped his brow with the back of his hand and spat on the floor.
"I don’t need one.”
“Pick!”
“I’m good.”
The chieftain stepped inside and stopped less than a foot from the smith. They stood sideways to him and he watched them without blinking. Each looked intimidating in his own way. The smith’s shoulders were broader even than Vurbag’s, almost twice the width of an average male. And Vurbag was impressive in his height, watching the smith from above with his hands on his hips. If they ever clashed... huh, the outcome would be really hard to guess. There’d be nuances in deciding the result.
“If anything happens to you the village will be without a smith and that mustn’t happen!”
The smith spat to the side once more.
“Nothing will happen to me.”
“You never know.”
The smith kept on scowling, and then finally turned from the chieftain and looked at the two of them. The broken nose that had set crooked might have been funny if it hadn’t been for the deadly glance, curling upper lip, bared teeth and a snarl.
Ugh, he didn’t want to be picked.
“This one.” Kizat’s hand pointed to the other boy. “Because this runt looks like he can’t even lift a spoon, let alone a hammer.”
Well, about time that his small size did him a favour rather than the other way around.
“All right,” the chieftain said curtly and looked at him. “Let’s go.”
On the other hand, what if the other thing — whatever Vurbag had in mind for him — turned out to be worse than the smith? He swallowed hard and hurried after the chieftain, who now cut down a side alley. Their destination was not far — only two huts away. The workshop before which the chieftain stopped was similar in size to the smithy, but it wasn’t opened on one side like it, but had the usual four walls like the other huts.
He looked around as they entered. Unlike the smithy, he’d never been here before and didn’t even know this place existed. Flat boards and pieces of wood of all shapes and sizes were stacked against one wall, some smaller and some larger than him. Against another wall stood quite a number of bows — at least twenty - apparently finished and ready to be used. Also scattered around were items that looked like parts waiting to be assembled into finished products, such as table legs and tabletops.
The male standing bent over one of the two central workbenches lifted his head as they came in, but even when he straightened himself, his upper back remained hunched forward and his shoulders rounded. In one hand he held a saw, and in the other a long piece of wood. On the benches and shelves lay more saws of different sizes, along with hammers and other tools whose purpose he couldn’t have named.
Wood. And tools. Lots could be made here — including new playthings! It wouldn’t be bad at all to be an assistant here!
“Buzgur, this is your new apprentice!”
The master put his tools down, walked around the bench and came closer, squinting at him. Looking at the carpenter, he was a little startled; not only had he never seen the place before, but he had never seen this male either! Because he’d surely have remembered that big belly spilling over the belt and the double chin. And he thought that he’d seen everyone who lived in the village at least once.
The carpenter nodded a few times, shaking his double chin in the process. Heheh, he looked like a chicken with wattles dangling from its beak! The few tufts of grey hair that remained on his head only enhanced the impression — they looked just like a chicken’s comb. He had to clamp his teeth to stop from sniggering.
“Good, good, we have lots of work, more kids all the time, more bows to make for them, can’t keep up, yes, we can hardly manage,” the fat master replied and wiped his brow with his broad forearm. He kept on nodding vigorously, with almost his entire upper body.
A hen with a double chin, pecking. It got harder to keep a straight face.
“I’ll come back in a month to see if there’s any progress.” The chieftain turned back from Buzgur and looked at him. “Or if he’s useless.”
At those words his sniggering died in his throat and he suddenly went stone-faced. And he had trouble swallowing.
Vurbag left, and Buzgur approached him, squinting as though to see better.
“You’ll see better what we can’t, young eyes, yes. We can’t see as well as we used to, and it’s getting harder.” The carpenter shook his head, and the wobble of the wattles, that is, the double chin, brought back to his face the smile that Vurbag’s words had wiped away.
The master sat him on a small three-legged stool without a back at the second bench and put in front of him a pile of unfinished arrows on one side and feathers on the other, explaining how to fix them. Then the master went back to his work, and he set to his task.
It was slow going; his fingers had no practice, and almost every arrow took more than one attempt to finish. But this place was really good; there was no shouting, no clashing of blades, and one didn’t need to watch out for blows. Both accidental and not so accidental ones. Apart from the sounds of saw and hammer, the room was filled with Buzgur’s voice; the carpenter muttered to himself occasionally. He grinned. It was almost fun here.
He had to succeed. He had to learn this and prove himself not useless. So that he could stay in this place that seemed all right, and more importantly — so that he would survive.
“Let’s see, it’s been exactly one hour, show us how many you’ve made, and how.” The fat master came to his bench and peered at the arrows. He looked at them for a few moments, then nodded. “Not bad for the first time, not bad. There’ll be something of you yet.”
Not bad? Yes! He was useful!
But wait, the other thing the old one said... “Exactly one hour? How do you know it’s been that long? Maybe it was more, or less?” He usually had a general sense of time passing, but to know the exact hour — how was that possible?!
“Haha, lad, you never seen a time-measurer?! Good grief! But come on, we’ll show you, come.”
He took a few steps after Buzgur, who picked up an object from a shelf and set it on the bench. He leaned in close and stared at it.
The thing... the time-measurer, as Buzgur called it... was made of glass. Cylindrical, just under a foot high, and barely two inches wide. It narrowed in the middle: there was a thin passage between the upper and lower part. And the whole lower half was full of... well, this was obviously some kind of fine black sand.
All right, it was interesting, but... “How does this thing measure time?”
“You never really saw one! Here!”
Buzgur turned the measurer over so it now rested on the other end. Up became down, and down was up. And the sand slowly began to trickle to the bottom.
“See— erm, what did you tell us your name was...?”
“Murtash,” he answered quietly, not looking at the fat carpenter but at the thin stream of sand.
“See, Murtash. When all the sand runs from one side to the other, that’s exactly one hour. Twenty-four of those, and that is one day for you.”
He gaped, eyes wide. So that’s how it’s done! That was how grown-ups measured time! Really simple now that he knew... but someone had to invent it. No, in the old hut he had never seen it; they didn’t have such things. Nor was there a measurer in the hut where he slept with the other boys.
“Who thought of it first? When did they start measuring time like that? What’s that black sand and where’s it from?”
Buzgur looked at him in shock, as if a second nose had sprouted in the middle of his face. “What a strange daft kid you are, no one ever asked us that, never ever! We don’t know all that and why should we? And now...” Buzgur’s thick — and heavy — hand came down faster than he’d expect from such a lump of fat and slapped the back of his head. Ouch!!! His head rang badly. He staggered and stepped sideways, out of reach. “Enough dawdling!!! We’ve more arrows to make, and they won’t make themselves! Get on with it!”
-x-x-x-
Evening. The hut full of boys. Noise and fun before bed. Some enjoyed running about the beds, shoving and shouting. Others, less so.
Shozrac’s shouting cut through all other voices. “Are you a male, Murtash? No, you don’t need to say anything, we know the answer! You’re not!!!”
“He’s not, he’s not!!! If he doesn’t learn sword-fighting like us he’s not a male!”
He sat on his bed and clenched his fists. True, besides the work with Buzgur, he still went to the training grounds. Not every day, and not as much time as the others. He’d even improved a bit, but not nearly as the other boys did.
“Then he’s a female!!!” shrieked Shozrac. “A girl! Murtasha! Hahaha, that’s your name now!!!”
He leapt to his feet and charged at Shozrac. The boy was waiting for him with a smug grin. Blows fell. He landed a few... but took many more.
If only he weren’t so small... Aaaarrghh!!! Cursed be this body of his!!!
“Murtasha!!! Hahahahaha!”
-x-x-x-
The carpenter’s workshop was great. True, new scratches marked his hands every day, and Buzgur’s occasional slaps left bruises, but he threw himself at every task with pleasure. And it was fascinating.
“How do you make bows?”, “How do you get the wood to be so springy?”, “How do you make it hard?”, “How do you get rounded edges?”, “How do you make it so smooth?”
There was so much to discover.
“See, you hold the board like that, and then—”
A draught cut through the workshop. “Buzgur!”
They both turned. Vurbag stood in the doorway. “You need to come to the main warehouse! A big shipment of logs has just arrived! You must sort them!”
“Aye chieftain, of course chieftain, we’ll come right away...” Buzgur kept on nodding and bowing exaggeratedly.
Vurbag’s gaze turned to him, and he froze in a second.
“Now that I’m here tell me! How’s the kid doing? Learnt anything these two months?”
Don’t tell him I’m useless, just don’t tell him that...
“Could be better, but he’s not entirely hopeless, no, no.”
Phew, it's alright. He sighed with relief.
“But we’ll work to make him better, chieftain, we’ll push him!” The fat carpenter turned to him. “You must work harder!!!” He flung his hand.
Smack! His cheek burned from the slap he didn’t manage to evade.
When will he finally grow up and stop being the kid who gets a beating for every little thing?!
“Good.” Vurbag grinned and left.
Buzgur slowly set down his tools and moved to the door. Where was he going? Ah, yes, the new timber. What? How? Where did it come from?
He set down what he’d been doing and stepped forward. “I’d like to see what’s come in, too.”
Buzgur waved him off. “Another time, kid, another time. Now you must finish this job.”
“Hmph.” He frowned. “But where is all this wood coming from?” he asked. Maybe he’d at least get to hear about it, if not see it with his own eyes.
“From the south and the west, big trees grow there, tall mountains with loads of forest. Far more than here. All sorts of trees. Then our slaves cut them down and they’re sent all over our land.”
South and west, he says. So, there too would be so much to discover. “How far are those mountains?”
“Some nearer and some farther, kid, not all the same distance. To some you’d walk two days, to others five, to some even more. We never been there, never seen them, except on a map, you know, we never left the village.”
What? He frowned. “What’s a map? And how big is our land really? How many miles of those? And what sort of trees you—”
“Another time, kid, we must go now, we won’t come back until evening, we’ll have a lot of work, yes, lots. And when we come back, you’d better have finished all the arrows, you hear me, kid?” In the end Buzgur growled and started raising his hand.
He took a step back, just in case. Fine, old guy, heard you, I’ll finish.
And once he finished these, he’d finish something else, too. As soon as Buzgur turned his back and left, he smiled.
True, Buzgur always had plenty for him to do, but he’d built a routine and got faster, so he had a bit of time for other things. In fact, it wasn’t particularly hard to do what he wanted. Every late afternoon Buzgur withdrew to his own little room; the master didn’t sleep in the huts with the other males, but one room in the workshop had been turned into his private dwellings. Once Buzgur retired there, he didn’t come out, and every evening, one female — sometimes even two — brought him food. Lots of food. A great deal of food. And then at some hour, through the closed door one could hear his grunting, laughter and sighs. The fucking, yes. All right, let them go ahead with it, let them do it as long as possible. Because that meant he was alone in the workshop and could do what he wanted. As an extra precaution, he always put a few items on the bench to conceal what he was doing.
Because if anyone found out... ugh! What would the punishment be this time?
-x-x-x-
There! Done!!!
He jumped and clapped to himself, with a grin stretching from ear to ear. Yes, now it was perfect. Well, not quite as perfect as it would be if Buzgur had made it, but the best that he could manage.
He set off with huge strides towards his old home. He had to get there as fast as possible!
As always, Uldut and Mazoga dashed to meet him the moment he came in. They were still the only family he had; Ugda had given birth once more, but that last child had also been born dead, about a month ago. Watching them body-squeezing, Ugda shot them what-the-fuck’s-got-into-you look, and the others in the hut watched them as though a third arm had sprouted out of them each.
My brother’s dear to me. That’s what’s got into us.
He turned to Uldut. “Let’s go now. You know where.”
“Let’s goooo!!!”
They were off.
“I wanna come and pway too!” Mazoga chirped and scurried after them as they reached the doorway.
“No, you can’t. It’s just us!”
“Nooooo!!!”
She burst into tears, and her wailing echoed through the hut. Then she ran to their mother, maybe expecting support, but Ugda didn’t budge. While Mazoga was tugging at her arm to get her attention, he seized the moment. He shoved Uldut through the door, and then he got out too.
She was too little, barely four. She wouldn’t understand. Maybe she’d tell on them. He couldn’t trust her.
Come to think of it, Uldut had been about the same age — just over four — when he had first shown him the playthings. But a brother was one thing. A male, like him. A sister — a chatty girl — was something else entirely.
And it was a matter of survival that their secret remained a secret.
When they arrived at their spot in the grove, he reached under his tunic and took out what he’d been working on all those evenings lately.
His earlier wooden animals, made over the past two years, had been no more than broken and bent twigs tied together and with clumsily joined pieces. And they could easily fall apart — which they sometimes did. So he had to make them again. And they looked... Well, although back then they seemed fine to him, especially because he’d made them himself and they were the only ones he had, he now knew that their true description would be — rubbish. Rubbish compared with these.
Now he had good material and proper tools, and he gained some skill.
The two wooden horses he had made were just like the ones Melyth had: carved from a single piece of wood, shaped first with a saw, then filed. Of course, his work could not compare to Buzgur’s; everything the old carpenter made was flawlessly smooth and nicely shaped. His horses still had a few rough spots, and they weren’t as neat or symmetrical as real animals. A slightly longer leg here, a bit too much cut off there, a funny-looking snout on one of them... But none of that mattered.
“Murty!!!!! Amaaaaaaziiing!!!!!”
Being bowled over by the force of a flying jump, being body-squeezed so tightly he could hardly breathe, with his little brother’s widest grin... the best feeling in the world.
-x-x-x-
The work was finished. What else could he do before the evening meal? There was plenty of time; now that the summer had arrived, the days had stretched out properly and the evening meal came later than usual. Well... he could go down to the stream. He hadn’t been there for ages, and paddling in the shallows and splashing about was mighty fun. And he could take Uldut and show him that!
However, Uldut wasn’t in the hut; he had probably also gone off to make the most of the long day for playing with the other kids, somewhere in the open. Well fine, he’d go by himself.
At the riverbank closest to the village were several females and girls; they were washing clothes. He didn’t feel like passing close to them, so he headed north-west — toward the slopes and the grove. That way wasn’t long either; only a few minutes walk. It was pleasantly warm, but not yet as hot as it would soon become.
The river was no more than twenty paces across. Still, whenever he was there, he never went more than a couple of paces into the shallows. The fords, where the water barely reached knee-height along the whole width, were further downstream, by the human cage, and here the middle of the stream ran deep. Step out too far and it might pull him in, the water closing over his head, and he wouldn't be able to breathe... He shuddered. Uh. Yes, he’d be careful.
He stepped into the water without taking his clothes off; the thin shorts and tunic would dry quickly in the warm evening air anyway. Then he paddled about in the shallows back-forth and left-right, cupped water and flung it up, watched the drops fall, jumped and flopped on his belly. Such fun!
Poor grown-ups. They had no idea what they were missing. Splashing, building mud towers, chucking pebbles in the water... To them, the river was only for fishing. And to the females, for washing clothes. Boring. Nevertheless, whenever he’d been here before, he hadn’t seen much of other children either. Did no one else think to come and play here? Besides, here you could cool off nicely on hot days.
Sitting in the shallows, he scooped water into his hands. He frowned. How odd. The thing in his hands was clear, the same as it was around him; he could see the pebbles on the bottom. But when he looked across, at the whole stream, it was grey.
Why?!
And where did it come from? Where did it go? To what far-off places? His heart raced. How big was their land? How large was the whole world?
He’d have to ask Buzgur again about those maps, as the old one called them. As far as he understood, those were items to show the shape of the world, and he’d love to have a good look. One day... maybe he’d even go off to other places. He nodded to himself, lips pressed tight.
Then he stood up and picked his way downstream, looking at the water. It flowed slowly and calmly, and its colour was only a bit darker than the clouds above him. He lifted his head. Nearer the village, where several females and girls had been earlier, there was now only one small black-haired figure. She was crouching on the bank, her head bent over what she was scrubbing. He stopped, and she turned to him swiftly, obviously having heard his footsteps. Oh! He knew her. Yes, the little one with one shorter leg who spoke funny.
“Y-y-you’re t-the boy with the ap-p-apple,” she said, looking at him.
“I am. And you’re the girl who talks funny,” he answered, closed the gap between them and sat on the ground a step from her. What was her name again, uhm...?
Her lips trembled a bit and she dropped her head.
“Ev-v-eryone laughs at me b-because of t-that.” She sounded as if she might cry.
Well, he hadn’t laughed, had he? He only mentioned it. To let her know he’d recognised her. Just like she’d called him “boy with the apple”.
Although, those descriptions were a bit long, especially in her case. For him there were four words, and for her the whole description would be “the girl with a shorter leg who speaks funny”. Definitely — far too long. It could be simpler.
"My name is Murtash.”
A brief pause and a wary look, and then she spoke. "My name is Birta.”
Oh yes! Right. Hopefully he wouldn’t forget it again.
“And how o-old are you?” she asked.
“Nine. You?”
“Eight and a half.”
“How come you remained here on your own?”
“Mother t-told me I must do more and g-ave me a lot more to wash.”
She continued rubbing the tunic in her hands, and he nodded. He knew a thing or two about punishments.
“H-hope this w-will do,” said Birta after a while, inspecting her work. She wrung the water out and placed the tunic on the heap of washed clothes beside her, then stood up. “I don’t like the r-river,” she added, scowling and watching the water that trickled by.
He looked at her. “Why?”
“Every t-time I come here I gotta do lots o’ w-work.”
Well, that ought to have been reason enough. If he had to wash clothes, he’d probably feel the same. Still...
“But the river can be fun, you know?” He giggled a bit.
She looked at him sceptically. “H-how?”
“You can throw pebbles, you can jump in the water, splash around...”
She blinked at him several times, wordlessly. It seemed as if she didn’t believe him.
He waded in, cupped handfuls of water and sent sprays of it flying in every direction. And then at her. “Loooook!!!”
“Oh!” She jumped when the little rain splashed down on her. Dressed in a wide tunic down to her knees, she was also barefoot. Without a moment of hesitation she dashed into the water, not bothering to take the tunic off. “I’ll splosh you too!”
For a few moments only their giggles and splash-splash-splash echoed around them as they grabbed water and splashed one another. Though the water only reached his knees he was soon soaked as if he’d jumped all the way in, as was she. At last he stopped, clutching his belly from laughing.
“Yes, it’s fun!” Birta said, rubbing her face with her hands. Hands that were, of course, also wet. She pursed her lips and stared pensively into the distance. “N-no one ever showed me you can play in the water.”
He stepped out of the river, so she did the same. Then he filled his hands with as many pebbles as he could grab.
“You can do this too!”
Her eyes widened and shone with delight when the stones skittered and made a host of tiny water-jets, with plop-plop sounds on the water. She immediately tried it herself.
“Yessss, this is great!” she squealed and clapped at herself, hopping merrily several times. But then she glanced at the pile of washed clothes at her feet and her smile vanished. “I m-must go b-back.” Her little head drooped to her chest.
“But now you know a new game,” he said, and her face brightened at once.
“Yes! I’ll play in the water again!” she replied with a wide grin, lifted the entire heap and started off toward the village.
After a few steps, she paused, turned and looked back over her shoulder. “An’ if I see you, I’ll splash you a-again!” She giggled and continued on her way, bouncing a little as she went.
Well... if they met here again and it came to that, he surely wouldn’t let her have the last splash.