Hero Grown

by Andy Livingstone

  He felt movement in front of him and the hood was gently lifted. He recoiled but saw the bald man, kind eyes and caring touch on his head.

  ‘I still live,’ the boy whispered.

  ‘You still live,’ the man whispered back.

  He didn’t want to wake anyone in case they were angry, so he crept along the corridor, the wooden boards threatening to creak with every step. Darkness lay beyond a window, but he knew not when these people slept. In his cell, he slept when he was tired, fought when he was told, ate when food was presented. But he could hear voices downstairs, so he headed the way he had been brought when he had entered this place, when he had been tired. Now he was hungry and the voices would have food. So he followed the voices.

  Part of the way along the corridor, a door lay ajar, but only by a crack. Something within called to his senses, an urge that brought him to push open the door and step through into a gently lit room of draped cloth and soft surfaces. A woman older than he thought possible sat propped by cushions in a high-backed chair, her head tilted to one side in slumber. Was she dead? He stepped quietly closer until he was near enough to see her chest rising and falling in tiny, but definite, movements. His brow furrowed. She stirred the feel of a memory, and a feeling of comfort. He reached towards her face, and traced the back of a forefinger lightly down her cheek.

  She stirred, her eyes half opening. Staring for a moment, a glimmer of comprehension showed through her drowsiness and she reached up and grasped his hand in strong fingers. A smile ghosted over her lips.

  ‘My boy, you have returned to us.’

  He stared at her, trying to make sense of her words.

  ‘How fare you, child? Are you well?’

  His eyes had been wandering around the room, but now they returned to her. ‘I still live.’

  ‘And it gladdens me that you do, so it does.’ Her eyelids grew heavy and her voice fainter. ‘It gladdens my soul.’

  A hand fell on his shoulder and he spun to his right, coming to a stop in a fighting crouch. He faced an older man, broad of shoulder and face and grey of hair. He did not attack the man, but remained poised, alert to any movement towards him.

  The man backed off two paces, arms held up and palms forward. A toothy grin wrinkled his eyes and he moved a single finger to his lips and nodded towards the old lady. The boy watched as slowly, keeping his gaze locked on the boy, he moved beside the lady and rearranged a pillow to better support her head. Then he crept to the door, and the boy followed. Why not? If the woman slept, what was there for him here?

  When they were both in the corridor, the man closed the door with care and spoke quietly. ‘She is one of a kind as, I suspect, are you. I can see the attraction.’ He reached a hand towards the boy’s shoulder and he tensed. The man raised his eyebrows and showed his empty hand, then the boy felt it fall on his shoulder. It felt strangely reassuring. Strange because the only hands he was used to feeling on him were dragging him under force from cell to pit and pit to cell, or were trying to kill him; reassuring because… He didn’t know why. He just felt it.

  He trusted the feeling, and let the man lead him towards the stairs. ‘There are others would see you, too. Friends of yours.’ Friends? People only either fed you or tried to kill you. ‘And they have food.’ He relaxed. Then they were not the killing type. ‘You have slept right through to the evening meal, so good fare awaits you.’

  They descended the stairs, which doubled back on themselves at the halfway point to face him towards the large room below. A long table filled the centre, four people seated on the long benches that ran either side of its length, spooning from bowls something that appetisingly looked and smelt very much like a stew: a huge boy with an honest face; a rangy boy with untamed hair that writhed from his head like tendrils of black flame; a slight girl in an easy pose that spoke of suppleness and balance; and a young boy of more sallow skin than all but the girl, and with a relentless smile. A large hearth with an inviting fire burning was surrounded by a selection of chairs and stools, no one of them matching another, and on one of them was the bald man who had led him to the daylight.

  In scanning the room, the boy’s eyes had not only seen the people; they had also noted the poker by the fire, the scabbarded sword by one wall, the butcher’s blade that had been used to cut the meat on a bench at the far side, a stool small enough to be wielded, the knives on the belts of the large boy and the one with the wild hair, the spear leaning beside the door, the stacked logs, some of which would fit nicely in a hand, even the discarded metal spoon on the table. Noted them and their positions, and how many paces it would take to reach them.

  The man with the hand still on his shoulder continued with him down the stairs and the boy’s eyes were drawn back to the faces in the room, all now turned towards him and seeming happy at the sight. It seemed as if he had seen them before. Perhaps they had been in the crowds who had cheered him.

  The man led him to the table where a large steaming bowl held what proved to in fact be stew, and one rich with meat. It was ladled into a feeding bowl and the boy’s eager hands took it while his wary eyes watched the others. One of them patted a space on the bench beside him, but he shrank away. He ate alone. He was only among other people when he fought.

  He took his bowl to the hearth and sat with the bald man, who regarded him solemnly but said not a word, leaving him to eat. He ate.

  The older man who had brought him down came also to the hearth but, at an inclination of the bald head with the markings, he nodded and sat with the others at the table. They chatted cheerily, and their conversation enveloped him. He was not used to much speech, only commands. Over the course of consuming half of his bowl, he began to find an interest in listening to the words. He did not know the people they spoke of nor why certain things would make them laugh from time to time, but there was a comfort to the sound.

  ‘You know them?’ The man nodded at the group.

  He shook his head.

  ‘You did. They are your friends.’

  ‘I do not know them.’

  ‘Maybe not now. But once you did.’

  ‘When was once?’

  The man sighed, a sad sound. ‘You were below, in the tunnels, in the caverns. You remember?’

  He nodded. ‘Home. I fight there. People like me when I fight.’

  ‘There are people like you for much more than that, young fellow.’ The man smiled gently. ‘It was not always home. You had a lot of life before that. You were only in there for a short part of your life.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘Close to nine months.’ Those words meant nothing to him, and it must have shown. ‘A short part of your life, but a long time to be there. You fought more than thirty fights. No one has ever lasted more than three months or ten fights and still lived.’

  ‘I still live.’

  ‘That you do. And now you will live longer, should we be successful. Somewhere in there,’ he tapped the boy’s forehead. He felt the finger and was surprised that he had not grabbed the wrist before the hand had reached him. It just felt right to allow it. He couldn’t remember feeling that way before. ‘Somewhere in there is the boy we know, the boy who knows us. We will find him again. You will find him again.’

  He looked at the man. ‘More food?’ He held out his bowl.

  The man smiled. ‘One step at a time, Grakk.’ He took the bowl.

  The boy’s hand on his arm stopped him. ‘I am Grakk?’

  This brought a smile. ‘My apologies for my rudeness. I spoke to myself. I am named Grakk. You are named Brann.’

  As the man filled his bowl, he tried the sound of the name. ‘Brann.’ It fitted well on his tongue. He looked again at the faces around the table. Memories swirled faintly in his head, like shapes in smoke. He strained to see them, but always they were just vague, just shapes, visible enough to know they were there, but just too far into the murk to discern. He shook his head at the frustration.

  He took the bowl when the man r
eturned, and finished it quickly. The heaviness in his belly extended to his eyes, and he felt them closing. He looked at the bald man.

  ‘You are a good man.’

  The man, Grakk, stared at him and, strangely, one of his eyes started to water. The boy understood that. It sometimes happened to him near a fire.

  He looked at the fire, and it looked inviting to his heavy eyes. He curled on the floor before it and the man settled a cloak over him. ‘It is winter,’ the man said. ‘There is a touch of chill at night.’

  It felt good. He let his eyes close.

  ‘Brann,’ he whispered. ‘Brann still lives.’

  When his eyes opened, the room was silent. A single candle burnt still on the table, casting a wavering amber glow over the room.

  The door was barred by a heavy beam, he saw, and the windows more permanently. Just one other person remained, the large boy. He slept, bent over the table and head resting on forearms, but an axe lay on the surface beside him. Were anyone to try to break through the door, he would be up and armed long before the intruders gained entry.

  Brann cast around for the other potential weapons he had seen earlier, or for others that may have appeared since. Only the poker remained, propped beside the hearth. He rose quietly and took the heavy metal rod, automatically swinging it in each hand to test it.

  The fire had burnt to its embers, but he left it. The room was mostly wooden and had retained enough heat. It was certainly warmer than his cave home.

  He curled again before the hearth: he liked that spot. There was the comfort, and attackers could come at him from only the way he faced. As a bonus, thrown embers could make a useful weapon and, if stirred, they would put the light at his back. It was a good spot.

  He sat the poker quietly on the floor, beside his hand. He could have taken the axe, but that belonged to the large boy, and the man with markings instead of hair had said he was his friend. You care for friends. You don’t leave friends defenceless. You protect them.

  He watched as the others, freshly arisen, arrived in the room, the dawn sun just starting to lighten the high windows. He remembered the sun. It was a good memory, even if it did hurt your eyes.

  Back resting against the warm wall beside the fireplace, knees drawn up and shins clasped in both arms, he saw the girl descend first, feet hardly seeming to touch the stairs as she passed. She had barely wakened the boy at the table before the one with the hair of black flames came down, heavier of tread but a different sort of balance: a stronger one. The older man was next, scratching his cropped hair and rubbing his weather-beaten neck.

  ‘Was your sleep a good one, young fellow?’

  Brann’s head snapped around and the poker was in his hand. The man who had helped him sat in the chair by the fire. How had he reached it unseen? Brann’s eyes narrowed as he relaxed. This was a clever man.

  ‘Grakk,’ he said.

  The man looked pleased. ‘Are you hungry?’

  He nodded.

  Grakk looked across to the far side of the room, where the large boy was preparing food. A stone box had a steaming pot hanging over it that the boy was stirring, breaking off only to add a little water to the pot or open a door on the front of the box to add small pieces of wood to a fire within. The man called across, ‘Ensure you have enough of your famous peasemeal for our returned friend.’

  The boy flashed a good-natured grin. ‘Of course. How could I omit the guest of honour?’ He beckoned with his head. ‘It is ready, Brann. Come and get a bowl before these other vultures finish it before you can start.’

  Hunger roared through his belly and he rose quickly.

  The man smiled and gestured at his right hand. ‘I think a spoon will be more use than that poker, young Brann.’

  He scanned the room. There was no immediate danger, and the hot pot could be grabbed if need be. A knife also lay on the table beside a half-remaining wheel of cheese. He replaced the poker exactly as he had found it and let his feet lead him to the food.

  The stone box had an opening in the top that let the heat warm the pot above it, and the steam was still rising, bringing with it the smell of the food. The pungent aroma filled his head and he stopped dead, his eyes widening and his finger pointing.

  ‘Hakon.’ It was a statement, a flat fact, but the joy it brought to the large boy’s face was instant.

  The finger swept round. ‘Gerens. Cannick.’ It stopped at the girl. ‘You, I don’t know.’ A frown creased his brow, then cleared. ‘Sophaya. Marlo is missing.’

  Cannick collected two bowls and handed one to Brann. ‘Marlo stays here seldom. His home is elsewhere.’

  ‘You are my friends.’

  Hakon slapped the surface before him in delight. ‘You remember us!’

  Brann shook his head.

  The big boy was clearly confused. ‘But you know our names. How?’

  He thought about it, tried to find an answer. ‘I just do. They came into my head.’

  ‘Then how do you know we are your friends?’

  Brann nodded at Grakk. ‘He told me.’

  Grakk was walking across to the food. ‘Never underestimate, Hakon my young friend, the power smell holds over memory. In this case, your peasemeal unlocked a door. There are many doors our Brann must have opened for him, and some will be unlocked more easily than others.’

  Hakon smiled. ‘Glad it was useful.’ He took Brann’s bowl and slapped a brown sludge into it. ‘But you should all take advantage of its original use before it gets cold.’

  Brann took his bowl to the table. As he lifted a spoonful, though, he paused, looking at the others. ‘Milk.’

  ‘Correct,’ Gerens said, handing him a ewer and sitting beside him. ‘Well done, Chief.’

  ‘My name is Brann. I am not Chief.’

  The dark eyes regarded him emotionlessly. ‘You are to me.’

  He looked around the room. ‘I lived here? Before… before Below?’

  Cannick sat opposite, carving cheese and placing it on a plate beside a torn hunk of bread and a selection of fruit. ‘You did not, but that is a story for another day, I think. Suffice to say, lad, it is your home for now.’

  ‘It is a nice home.’

  The older man grunted. ‘I’m glad you think so, but right now this part of this home stinks of that pease-crap and I must take my leave and my breakfast to a distant room.’

  ‘You do not like it?’

  The man headed for the stairs. ‘Tell you what, you take my portion.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Brann rose, lifting his empty bowl. ‘You are a kind man.’

  As he finished his second bowl, Hakon chatted amiably, filling him in on the washing arrangements, the layout of the building, the duties and responsibilities of the occupants and the work they did to bring in the coin. ‘After you’ve eaten, I’ll show you where we shit and piss, but if you’ve forgotten how to do those activities, that’s one thing I won’t be helping you with.’

  ‘You do not have a bucket?’ It seemed strange that they should be adequately equipped in every other respect, but not in this.

  ‘We do not have a bucket.’

  ‘A bucket would be helpful. It is convenient.’ If they were helping him, it seemed only fair to try to educate them in return.

  Grakk put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Thank you, Brann, but we’ll maybe just persist with the arrangements we have.’

  ‘In the meantime…’ Cannick was descending the stairs. His arm shot out and an object flew towards them.

  Brann rolled back off the bench and came up with Gerens’s knife in his hand. Sophaya’s arm extended and plucked the object from the air. Gerens looked at Brann and then at the empty sheath at his belt. The girl showed Brann a small pouch. ‘Among friends, remember?’

  Gerens held out a hand, and Brann placed the knife in it. ‘Sometimes I do first, then think.’

  Hakon laughed. ‘You always used to do the opposite. Either way, just try to remember who’s on your side and who is not. I have a feeling t
hat this will prove important to our health.’

  Sophaya’s eyes narrowed. She looked at Cannick. ‘Can we trust him?’

  The older man shrugged. ‘I believe so. And who would he betray us to, anyway?’

  ‘I mean, are we safe from him?’

  Hakon leapt to his feet, his voice impassioned. ‘Brann would never harm us. Never.’

  Gerens looked at her and nodded. ‘He is right. I believe it.’

  Sophaya grunted, grabbed a bowl and sat. But she sat where she could see him, Brann noted. She was sensible. Never turn your back on someone new.

  Cannick cut in. ‘What will be more important to your health in the short term is whether we have enough food or not. Our young friend should be reacquainted gently to the world above ground. Take him to the market.’ He rhymed off a short list of essentials. ‘Young lady, you take charge, as you have the coin as well as the only sense among this group of hare-brained cubs.’ Gerens looked pointedly at him. ‘Fine, hare-brained cubs and a remorseless achiever.’ Gerens looked pointedly at Brann. Cannick sighed. ‘Right, a remorseless achiever, a danger-obsessed pit-fighter and a hare-brained cub.’ Gerens looked satisfied. ‘Regardless, I think that lends even more credence to my choice of the most responsible among you. But,’ he tapped the pouch in the girl’s hand, ‘please do pay for them. We do not need any more enemies, nor to attract attention.’

  She smiled sweetly. ‘Of course, dear Cannick. Whatever do you take me for?’

  He grunted. ‘The most natural thief I have ever known, that’s what. And I have known a few, believe me.’ A look of alarm struck him and his hand shot into the low neck of his tunic to emerge with his own pouch in his hand and a look of relief on his face.

  Sophaya’s smile never wavered as she turned to walk backwards shortly before the door. Her wrist snapped and a knife embedded itself in the table top. ‘Our Brann is not the only one who can relieve someone of the blade from their belt.’

  Brann pointed helpfully at the quivering knife. ‘It is true. Look.’

  Cannick’s reply was short, but highly uncomplimentary.

  Their walk to the market was a source of wonder to Brann. He swung his arms, unencumbered by a heavy grip on each of them. He stared at the blue of the sky, the faded and cracked white of the building walls. He listened to groups of people talking, rather than chanting, screaming, howling or cheering: just talking. And through the myriad smells, there was one that cut through them all to his core.