Barid's Story

by J F Mehentee

  The Morana gave me a slow shove.

  Noor walked to the centre of the ring as if it was something he did every morning. Years later, he’d tell me that he was as scared as I was. But I still remember how he stood in that ring, his stick held in both hands, his right leg and shoulder leaning forward, his eyes hardly blinking. Back then, I didn’t know how much was expected of him.

  With the intake’s and Noor’s attention trained on me, it took all the courage I had to shuffle forward. If it were not for the mention of punishment, I’d have dropped my stick and spared myself a beating.

  ‘Noor,’ said the master who had led him into the yard.

  At the mention of his name, Noor straightened and stood with his stick held at his side. I saw his shoulders rise and fall as he slowly inhaled and exhaled a deep breath.

  Noor closed his eyes and then dropped his stick.

  The sand muffled the sound of that stick hitting the ground. In its place, as one, the men in the training yard yelled, ‘Chah!’ And as one, they went down on one knee and bowed their heads.

  ‘Well met, aspirant Noor,’ the Morana said. ‘What say you all to the punishment?’

  The men stood, their gaze silently praising Noor. Each struck his weapon against the weapon of the man closest to him. Two clangs filled the yard.

  ‘Your brothers have spoken, Noor,’ the Morana said. ‘The minimum of two lashes is your punishment. May you and aspirant Barid need only learn this lesson once.’

  The Morana’s hand was on my shoulder again, this time steering me toward a post at the opposite end of the yard.

  I was confused. I couldn’t understand why Noor had dropped his stick when it was I who’d started the fight—and now he was being punished. I felt light-headed and tasted bitterness on the back of my tongue.

  ‘You will all come to know this post,’ the Morana said, the intake having formed a semicircle around it. ‘Two years from now, you will practise striking it with your hands and feet to harden and thicken your bones. Until then, it is a place of punishment.’

  During the Morana’s instruction, the other master had stripped Noor of his tunic and had shown him where to press his palms against the post.

  One of the men—a pale pink scar prominent on his bare chest—passed through the intake. He held a coiled length of plaited leather. I’d only ever seen a whip being used by drivers of ox carts, and though I had no idea what would happen next, the looks on some of the boys’ faces—the colour leaching from their skin—only added to my dizziness and muzz.

  When the bare-chested El’ Zamu offered the whip to the master standing beside Noor, the Morana said, ‘No. You do it. And do it sparingly.’

  ‘But…’ said the other master, his shock and confusion similar to Noor’s after I’d struck him.

  ‘These boys are my responsibility,’ the Morana said.

  The master bowed twice, once to the Morana and then to the warrior holding the whip.

  As I’ve said before, I’d only ever seen ox drivers wield a whip. Seeing one used on a boy—just the once—was enough. I fainted before the second lash marked Noor’s back.

  15

  I stared up at a tall ceiling, its skylight spilling sunshine into the already-sweltering room. The place smelled of smoke, but not the pleasant kind you get from burning wood; this was pungent and oily. I turned my head and saw three pairs of legs: two belonged to a table, and the other wore sandals. The sandalled feet turned and faced me.

  ‘Are you feeling better?’ The Morana’s head appeared above the tabletop. I couldn’t take my eyes off his clean-shaven skull, and I wondered what it must feel like to touch such smoothness. ‘Don’t just sit there, boy. Stand up.’

  I did as I was told. Earlier, the Morana had led me from the training yard, brought me to this room, then told me to sit in the corner until I felt better. No longer feeling nauseated, I took in the room and its assortment of tools that hung from hooks on the walls and the ceiling. Beside the table, files scattered across its surface, sat an anvil—though, at the time, I didn’t know its name or what it was used for. The Morana stood before a stone trough, a soot-covered metal hood hanging above it. I knew the trough was the source of the heat when I saw a square object sitting among the coals, glowing.

  When I reached the edge of the forge, I pointed at the bright-yellow block. ‘What’s that?’ I said.

  ‘That’s a sword waiting to be made, Barid.’

  ‘Really? How?’

  ‘It would take a while to explain. If you really want to know, I’ll show you, but only after you’ve completed your lessons and homework.’

  I gazed at the luminous block of metal, my mind unable to fathom how it would become one of the curved scimitars I’d seen in the yard.

  ‘Well, Barid. Would you like to learn how to make a sword?’

  I saw the Morana’s smile and nodded.

  His name was Nibras. He was both Master of the Intake and the Tabaqa’s armourer. To me, he became what Noor refused to be: someone I could admire.

  16

  Two older boys worked as Nibras’s apprentices. My presence at the smithy, before and after lessons, was tolerated, and they put me to use refilling water pails, sweeping up ash and, if I was lucky, cleaning the tools—at least those that I could lift.

  One evening, as I was about to leave, Nibras called to me. ‘Barid. Are you now friends with Noor?’

  It had been two weeks since the incident in the refectory, and out of shame, I had done everything I could to avoid Noor.

  I shook my head slowly, guiltily.

  ‘He took a lash for you.’

  ‘I didn’t ask him to,’ I said, wanting to shout my reply. ‘Why did he drop the stick?’ The question had plagued me, but I’d had no one to ask.

  ‘Sit, Barid,’ Nibras said, pointing at a blanket, the place where he slept when some project required him to work through the night. Nibras wiped the sweat from his head with a rag. I decided then that, when I next reported for a haircut, I’d have it cut very short so that I could copy that gesture.

  ‘Noor,’ Nibras said, ‘is no ordinary aspirant. His father is Sanna Halabi, a decorated El’ Zamu. His fame won him the hand of the Sultan’s cousin. But she, Noor’s mother, died during childbirth, and Noor almost died with her. During his first six months, the Sultan’s magus was called every other day to Sanna’s quarters to loosen death’s grip on the child. Noor survived, but his frequent battles with death took an irreparable toll on his body.

  ‘Sanna has been a master at the Tabaqa for fifteen years. He’s also the Sultan’s orchardist, like his father before him. When Noor was born, Sanna refused the Sultan’s offer of a nurse for the child and instead took the infant everywhere. Noor took his first steps in the training yard. The child was passed around the refectory during mealtimes so that Sanna could eat. Once, Sanna sat him on my workbench and Noor bawled after spiking his thumb with a splinter. We all became uncles to Noor.

  ‘So, when Noor was five and Sanna announced his wish for Noor to become an aspirant, no one was surprised. But I told Sanna what the rest of us were thinking: the child would never be strong enough to endure the physical training, let alone fight someday.’ Nibras’s face sagged. ‘From that day, Sanna changed from being a father to being Noor’s tutor, and a hard one at that.

  ‘Noor dropped the stick because he doesn’t just understand the value of brotherhood to the El’ Zamu; he lives that value. His father taught him that an El’ Zamu would rather die for his brother than see harm come to him. Sanna made Noor put that lesson into practice when the two of you stood in the combat ring.

  ‘I’m not sure if you’ve understood much of what I’ve said, Barid.’ Nibras bent on one knee so that his eyes met mine. ‘But understand this: you must put aside what happened in the refectory and become friends with Noor. Do you know why?’

  Nibras’s capacity for kindness was evident in the way he looked at you, serious and thoughtful but never judgemental. He was the one maste
r with whom I could always speak my mind. So, it was easy to admit that I didn’t understand why I had to befriend Noor.

  He wiped his head with his rag again and smiled. ‘Are you sure you don’t understand, or is that you feel you owe Noor for accepting your punishment? For warriors to win a battle, they must help each other. They must know how to give help as well as how to receive it.’

  I stared up at the skylight and wished I could fly out of it. Finally, I said, ‘Why would Noor want to be my friend?’

  Nibras nodded. ‘A good question, Barid. Perhaps if you show him that you’re grateful for what he did, he might consider being your friend.’

  ‘How would I do that?’

  ‘Another good question. What could you do?’ His eyes grew large and playful. Without knowing why, I began to grin. ‘I know,’ he said, then stood up. ‘You could make him something.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look around you, aspirant.’ Nibras traced a circle with his arm. ‘We have the means for making anything we want.’

  And that was when I had my first lesson at the forge.

  Years later, when I was old enough to appreciate such things, I understood the wisdom behind what Nibras had done for Noor and me. It was a lesson he wanted all the aspirants to learn. He needed us to understand that when a sacrifice is made, it should be received with gratitude rather than shame or awe. After all, how can one man truly be another’s brother if he feels reduced by the other’s sacrifice? A sacrifice must strengthen the bond between El’ Zamu, not weaken it.

  I spent an afternoon making my gift for Noor. However, it took me two days before I mustered the courage to give it to him.

  Quite by accident, I met him in the library, reading a large book with yellowing pages, its edges dry and cracked. I bit my lower lip as I approached. Noor was so engrossed in the book, I had to nudge him to get his attention.

  ‘What are you reading?’ I said when he looked up.

  For a moment, I thought he didn’t recognise me. I almost turned and ran.

  ‘My grandfather’s book.’

  ‘Your grandfather wrote a book?’

  ‘Are you suggesting that he couldn’t?’ Noor said. It was the first time I saw him moue.

  ‘No, no. It’s just that clever people write books.’ I realised I wasn’t helping myself. ‘What’s it about?’

  ‘Trees.’ Noor pointed at the drawing of a date palm on the book’s facing page.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I said, certain that he was annoyed. ‘Your father’s the Sultan’s orchardist,’ I added quickly, remembering what Nibras had told me. ‘Just like your grandfather.’

  Noor’s features softened. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I blurted after an uncomfortable silence. ‘I’m sorry I hit you.’

  He swivelled in his chair so that he faced me. He looked directly at me, but he also appeared to be staring at something behind me. This faraway look, which I was always asking Noor to come back from, was Noor thinking.

  Noor stood, held out his hand and said, ‘I accept your apology.’ As I went to shake his hand, he grasped my wrist and motioned me to do the same. ‘That’s how brothers shake hands,’ he said.

  After we shook hands, I dug inside the pouch hanging from my tunic’s belt.

  ‘I made this for you.’ I handed him the steel ring. ‘To thank you for what you did.’ I was already glad Noor had accepted my apology. His surprise, his wide smile and the way his green eyes shone made me feel as if I were no longer under his obligation. I watched him try on the plain band, but after he had tried it on a third finger, all the while doing his best to hide his disappointment, I handed him a long thin piece of the rough leather Nibras used to wrap around sword hilts. ‘I guessed it might be too big,’ I said, ‘so I thought you could wear it around your neck until your fingers get bigger.’

  That ring always hung from his neck—it was always too big.

  For a sword to be tough, it must be tempered. And so it was with the bond between Noor and me. His father’s fear—that Noor’s physical frailty would be his undoing—drove him to develop, instead, Noor’s mental resilience. He pushed poor Noor, made him study while the rest of us relaxed together, and thereby drove a wedge between him and the rest of the intake. While he was never considered special by the other boys, they did see Noor as different.

  Thanks to the frequent prompts from Nibras, a flick of the eyebrows in the direction of Noor, I would leave the group I was with and bring Noor into the fold, my arm around his shoulder so that he couldn’t leave.

  But the chore-like directions from Nibras, along with Noor’s seriousness, didn’t make him much fun to be with. And besides, I had my interest in sword-making to occupy my spare time. It would be another three years before Noor was no longer the boy who took a lash for me and became, instead, my friend.

  17

  Just after my thirteenth summer, when my body underwent the same changes as the other boys’, our education shifted from academic to athletic. We spent more time running than sitting and had more lessons in the training yard, learning to heft a weapon instead of a stylus. The timing, I’m sure, was deliberate. We were becoming men, and the energy boiling within us needed a channel if discipline was to be maintained.

  And so, I found myself standing in the combat ring, facing Noor again. But this time, we each wore a padded shirt that reeked of the previous aspirant’s sweat. We both wore helmets that shielded the top, sides and back of the head. Except for a narrow nose guard, our faces were exposed. Mine fit me, but Noor’s head looked as if it would rattle around inside his helmet. He kept having to adjust it so that it wouldn’t obscure the left side of his face.

  We both advanced when the master gave the command to begin.

  The masters reminded us repeatedly that the first blow was not a blow but an assessment of our opponent’s strength and skill. Most of us, on the other hand, saw it as a means of intimidating our adversary. Noor, of course, was the exception. He parried and pranced, gauging the other boy’s weaknesses. When he eventually struck, it was often lethal.

  After drawing Noor’s lot, I’d decided that fighting Noor would require a different tactic.

  A quarter of the way into the ring, I stopped. My plan was simple: I would wait for Noor to come to me, and I’d let him strike the first blow. I thought it was a good plan until Noor stopped a similar distance from the centre. I hadn’t anticipated Noor mirroring my behaviour. Since I didn’t know what to do next, I held my position.

  And so did Noor.

  At first, the other boys cheered and shouted suggestions: sword thrusts, shield swipes, feints. The cheers quickly changed to complaints, mainly from those who were waiting their turn. The moaning eventually turned to booing. When the master finally intervened and ordered us to advance, neither of us did, for fear of being the first to be struck.

  Our punishment was to spend the remainder of the afternoon in the training yard performing a sword-and-shield routine called the Khorna Chaht, which consisted of a choreographed routine of offensive and defensive moves. The routine was repeated five times, making a set. At the end of a set, the aspirants would swap roles and a new set performed. The practice swords we used were made of teak, and they made a loud clack whenever they struck each other. A master could tell the force of a blow from that sound. Noor and I were expected to use full force while performing the routine. At any point during a set, if the master didn’t like the sound of our sword strikes, we’d have to start the set again.

  It had taken the intake five months to learn the Khorna Chaht and execute it without interruption. With so much to do and remember, it was physically as well as mentally strenuous to perform. It was also dangerous. A lapse in concentration could result in a broken bone.

  The first set was straightforward. I was impressed by the strength of Noor’s blows.

  At the end of the second set, I smiled at Noor. He knew what he was doing, so I hadn’t held anything back.
/>   It wasn’t until three-quarters of the way through the third set, however, that I found that my free rein was taking its toll on Noor. He still struck with lethal force, but his skin was slick now, and he frequently blinked sweat from his eyes. Each time he struck, he snarled, having to dig deep to land those blows.

  I knew that Noor was in trouble when he almost slipped after my fifth blow of the fourth set. I held back a little with my sixth blow, causing Noor to glance over at the master.

  The purpose of the Khorna Chaht is to teach the aspirant how to exist in the moment, to focus on nothing but the blow or its corresponding defensive position. Such focus roots the warrior’s mind in the present, freeing it of fear.

  Noor had lost his focus.

  My seventh blow was not a blow but a thrust to the opponent’s midsection. Noor would have to lower his sword to parry, sweep aside my thrust and, at the same time, swerve so that his body was out of harm’s way.

  Instead of thrusting, I raised my arm and swung. It wasn’t a hard blow, but it was hard enough to knock the helmet from Noor’s head and send him toppling sideways.

  My second punishment that day was three lashes from the master. The final lash split my skin and resulted in a visit to an apprentice magus for stitches and a poultice.

  That evening, I skipped dinner, both the apprentice’s medicinal brew and the pain making me nauseated. Instead, I sat on my own in the library, trying to read, but more often wondering if I’d done the right thing. When I returned to the dormitory, ready for bed, a little unsure of how I would sleep with stitches in my back, I heard an unusual silence on the other side of the double doors.

  Entering the dormitory, I was stunned to see Nibras standing among the intake, none of whom had yet changed for bed. When he saw me, he uttered a single word and the boys ran to their cots and stood at attention. Nibras raised his hand, and the dormitory was filled with an echoing Chah. As one, both the intake and Nibras went down on one knee, paying me the highest compliment one El’ Zamu could pay another.