The Rage Within

by B R Crichton

  “It’s a Birthing,” Elan whispered to Kellan through clenched teeth.

  “A what?” he replied, just as quietly.

  “Birthing,” he repeated, as if that would clarify things. Kellan had heard of this, though never witnessed it. Lythurians were born from out of young trees, and the parents needed to coax the baby out when the time came.

  He watched as Elan’s uncle began to gently prise open the top of the sapling, pushing his thumbs into the soft pulp. His wife, too, tenderly peeled away the side nearest to her, clearly trying to avoid overly damaging the young tree overly. The small crowd murmured, and Kellan saw couples, young and old, squeeze each other’s hands or exchange long, loving glances. Slowly the opening at the top became large enough for Elan’s uncle to push both hands into it. He paused, and exchanged a long look with his wife, his grin splitting his face. Then he gently lifted a new-born baby from the hole.

  Kellan gasped. There was a louder murmur this time, as the babe was raised up.

  “A daughter,” the man said. “We will name her Allandra. May the Grove keep her; and her It.” He was almost weeping with joy by the time he lowered the child and placed it in the towel held ready by the openly crying mother. She wrapped her daughter up and held her tenderly while her husband returned to the sapling, pushing the splits together again and wrapping the whole stump in wet strips of cloth.

  Family members surged forward to meet the new child while her mother held her unashamedly selfishly. Kellan and Elan were the only two not joining the press of bodies; they exchanged a shake of the head. Women cooed at the baby, and men slapped the new father on the shoulders and back, his grin never faltering.

  “Elan,” his mother beckoned him into the little crowd. He rolled his eyes, and went to meet his cousin.

  Eloya emerged a moment later. “Hello Kellan,” she said demurely.

  Kellan could feel himself blushing. “Hello Eloya,” he said, “I like your new cousin.” He immediately regretted the stupid comment, but Eloya just laughed.

  “Meet me by the stream later,” she said, “before sunset.” She pointed deeper into the Grove.

  “I can’t,” he said quickly, “I have to practice. For the contest.”

  “Oh,” she said sadly, dropping her eyes to watch her little shoes kick at the grass softly.

  “Well, maybe I can,” he said quickly, “for a bit.”

  She brightened again and smiled at him. “Before sunset,” she said, and skipped back to the family members, who were beginning to dissipate into small groups.

  Kellan began to wonder if he would ever get to practice for the contest.

  He left the range early, after a few hours of practice, eager not to be late.

  “Where are you going?” Elan had asked.

  “Granger has some chores for me,” he had lied, and then rushed off before his blushing gave him away.

  He ran all the way to the Grove, only stopping to walk when he crossed the boundary, allowing his breathing to slow in case he seemed too eager. He made his way beyond where they had met earlier and on towards the stream. He reached the trickling water and looked around. He could not see Eloya anywhere. The sun had not set yet, and perhaps he was a little early, so he walked slowly upstream. He reached a clearing in the forest at a point in the stream where the water passed over a slab of polished grey-blue rock and tumbled into a crystal pool before continuing down to the great lake of Topaz, warming as it went.

  “Hello, Kellan.” He spun round to see Eloya, still in her white dress emerging into the clearing with a wide smile on her pale emerald features.

  “Hello,” he said dumbly. She giggled.

  “You look like a frightened rabbit,” she teased.

  “You startled me, that’s all,” he said. They stood in silence for a few heartbeats, Eloya smiling knowingly while Kellan felt his face grow hotter. She always did this to him.

  “Shall we sit down?” she said, enjoying his awkwardness.

  “Yes,” he replied hurriedly, glad of the diversion. They sat beside the little waterfall on a small grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest. She picked one of the small white flowers and rolled its stem in her delicate fingers.

  “Was that the first time you’ve seen a Birthing?” she asked.

  “Yes, I have heard of them, but never seen it before,” he replied. “It was very strange.”

  “Strange?” she said with a hint of affront in her voice.

  “I mean,” he said quickly, “I heard Elder Milasar talking about a baby being born in my village, and it wasn’t anything like that.”

  “Well I think your Elder Misalar is strange,” she pouted.

  “Milasar,” he corrected.

  “Oh, fine,” she said impatiently. “Who is that anyway?”

  “A woman from my village,” he said sadly. “She used to help the women give birth, as well as mend broken bones and heal fevers.”

  “I’ve heard how your women do it,” she said. “That is strange.”

  “So how did the baby get in there?” Kellan asked, ignoring the comment.

  “You don’t know?” she said wide eyed.

  “Well I know how it happened at the village. I heard the older boys talking. But this is different.”

  “Well,” she began, as though explaining to a child. “When a man and a woman love each other, they,” she paused, “come together.”

  “That bit I think I know,” Kellan said patiently.

  “Well then, they make a seed. The seed grows inside the mother until it is ready.”

  Kellan nodded. This all sounded pretty familiar.

  “Then they plant it, and look after it until it grows,” she continued, despite the lost look that suddenly came over Kellan’s face. “It can take as long as three years before the sapling is big enough to put on leaves and this is the signal that the baby is ready to leave the tree. The parents take it out.”

  “Like we saw,” he said. It all sounded very strange to him, but then, now that he thought about it, he had never seen a woman with the obvious bulge of pregnancy. Granger had told him that the people of Lythuria were very similar in most respects to the people of the rest of the world, yet contrasted greatly in others. He had told Kellan that while they were from the same ‘template’ - whatever that meant - their differences were more than skin deep. This must have been one of the differences. He wondered what Eloya would have made of childbirth in his village. The Lythurian way certainly involved a great deal less fuss.

  “Like we saw,” she confirmed.

  “And the tree?”

  “Continues to grow, of course,” she said. “All the trees in the Grove are of my family. That is my tree there,” she pointed at a young looking tree. It had become slender, having lost its squat growth habit after Eloya’s Birthing. “Every tree in the Grove started out as a sapling like the one you saw today. We all feel a bond with our tree; it will always be a part of us.”

  “What happens when people die? Does the tree die too?”

  “No, silly,” she giggled, “some of these trees are centuries old. They live on so that a part of our ancestors is with us long after they are gone.”

  “That’s,” Kellan wanted to say ‘weird’, but instead settled for, “interesting.”

  “Are you teasing me?” she said with a pout.

  “No, never,” he said.

  They sat in silence on the grassy mound where the daisies grew thickest, beside the small waterfall and the crystal pool. The sun had begun to set, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange on the western horizon.

  “Will you come to watch the archery contest?” Kellan said, trying not to sound too hopeful.

  “Of course I will,” she said, placing her hand on his. “I will come and watch you win.”

  “Oh, I don’t think I’ll win; Lannier will probably win it, again,” he said modestly.

  She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “If you win I will give you another kiss.” And with that she st
ood and skipped back into the trees, leaving Kellan alone with his blushes, and the caress still tingling on his cheek.

  The day of the contest arrived. Kellan had hardly slept the night before, spending the hours in bed thinking of the day to come. Hoping for glory, but fearing failure.

  He ate his breakfast quickly.

  “Slow down there,” Granger said, “you will give yourself a stomach ache.”

  “I know,” he said through a mouthful of porridge, “but I think I can get an hour’s practice done before the start.”

  “What you can’t do now you will not learn in the next hour. You would do better to fuel your body for the day ahead.” Kellan nodded, and slowed a little as Granger placed a plate of scrambled eggs with herbs and mushrooms beside the bowl of porridge.

  Kellan had come to realise that Granger was as much a parent to him as his real parents had been at Goat’s Pass. He had never been far from Kellan since they came together at the orphanage and since that day Granger had offered support and advice as well as scolding him when his behaviour warranted it. Granger gave him all the comforts of a loving home; cooked meals and shelter, encouragement when Kellan felt hesitant, and words of consolation when he was in need of solace.

  “Granger,” said Kellan after he had toyed with the last of his breakfast for a while, “there is something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Go ahead,” he replied, sitting at last with his own steaming plate of eggs.

  “Well, the other boys’ fathers carry their longbows onto the range for them, and refill their quivers with arrows. Master Sharrow said that one of the instructors could do it for me, but I wondered if maybe, well, would you do it for me?”

  Granger stopped eating and placed his fork on the table. “Nothing would make me prouder, boy,” he said with a sincere smile. “Now, you best go and get ready.”

  Kellan nodded and left the table, trotting to his room to dress. Granger sat back in his chair and grinned, wiping a wet eye with his napkin.

  “Now that,” he addressed the room, “is a feeling you will never know.” Then he returned to devouring his eggs.

  Kellan stood on the range, with a group of seven other boys. They varied in age from beginners of only twelve years to boys in their final year of martial training at sixteen. Kellan was among the youngest, but had been at the school for over two years now, and was hailed as a great talent on the range by his instructors.

  Traditionally, the younger boys were knocked out of the competition early, with their honour intact but their appetites whetted for greater achievement the following year. Kellan however felt that he was good enough to challenge the older boys, and even win.

  This was the third group to stand on the range. The four highest scorers would remain in the contest while the others would be knocked out. Then the challenges would become harder with every round. Spectators lined the edges of the range up to a few long strides down-range but most kept behind the competitors, where they would not distract them, and where they probably felt safer. Family, friends and old competitors came to see the spectacle, cheering the boys on. Eloya was there, with a blue flower tucked behind her ear. Kellan tried to concentrate on the range.

  Granger and the fathers stood proudly behind the boys, each with a bow and a large bundle of arrows, made by the boy they supported.

  When Master Sharrow gave the order, the men stepped forward and handed the boys their hand-crafted bows. Then a small bundle of arrows for the quivers at their hips.

  Granger winked at Kellan as he handed over a dozen of the fluted arrows. “Good luck, boy,” he said.

  Kellan nodded his thanks and turned to look down the range. The first challenge was the most straightforward. Each boy had to fire six arrows over a distance of twenty five paces into a bound straw target.

  “Archers, fire at will!” called Master Sharrow once the bearers had withdrawn to a safe distance.

  Kellan nocked an arrow and drew back his bow. The bow was perfectly weighted for his strength, and he released the arrow at the top of a slow intake of breath. Then he exhaled as he took another arrow from his hip, never taking his eye off the target, and slotting the bowstring into the nock. He loved this fluidity of movement, the moment of release above all, breathing evenly into each action. Inhaling as he drew the arrow back, then exhaling after the arrow was set free and he reached for another.

  He slowly allowed the Calm to settle over him. There was a moment of regret at the letting go of emotion; it pleased him to be on the range, and the Calm took away that emotion, replacing it with detached efficiency.

  Six slow breaths, and six arrows in the target, each one in the black dot of the bulls-eye. He was not the only one with all arrows in the dot, and so a pair of instructors acted as judges to decide which were the best grouped and most accurate. Kellan was easily through to the next round. The crowd applauded the efforts of all the boys, a few shouting out the names of their loved ones.

  Elan was also through to the next round. He had been part of an earlier group, and had come third out of the eight. There was a buzz amongst the crowd as the targets were moved back to fifty paces. The boys tried to maintain their concentration, avoiding eye contact with each other for the most part, in case they lost their focus.

  Kellan was in the second group this time, wordlessly accepting the bow and six arrows from Granger. At Master Sharrow’s command, he began the mantra of inhale and draw, release and exhale. Another six slow breaths brought this round to an end, and once again, Kellan was easily through

  At seventy five paces, the arrows were not as tightly grouped on the targets, and some of the boys began to show their limitations, but not Kellan. Though his bow was not as powerful as those the bigger, stronger boys were able to handle, within the calm of his mind the act of altering the arrow’s higher trajectory to make the distance was a simple thing. It was so obvious when the mind was not buzzing with self-doubt and overcomplicating the trivial.

  At the end of that round, both Kellan and Elan were through, although Elan only just. The judges had been in quiet discussion at Elan’s target for some time before awarding him fourth place over a boy a year older. Of course, Lannier was through easily, and was strutting in front of a group of girls, who giggled and blushed at his attentions. They took a short break while the instructors readied the next challenge.

  “I was lucky in that last round,” Elan said, sipping a cup of water.

  “What do you mean?” he said

  “I thought the judges were going to knock me out. It must have been close.”

  “You’re through, so stop worrying about it. Just focus on the next round, Kellan advised.

  “How do you stay so calm? I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been and you just behave like it is any other day.”

  “‘Don’t worry about things you can’t change’,” he replied. “That’s what Granger tells me to do. Just do your best.”

  “You sound like my mother,” Elan said with exasperation.

  “In that case, she is a very wise woman.” Elan looked at him quizzically, and then they began to laugh. Granger joined them, along with Elan’s father.

  “You’re doing well lads,” Granger said encouragingly.

  “You had us worried for a while there Elan, but I need not have been concerned,” said his father.

  “I think I got lucky, Father,” he replied.

  “Nonsense,” Granger said, “you two are equal to those older boys any day you care to choose, including that Lannier oaf.”

  “Thanks, Granger,” Kellan said, watching the oaf himself prancing in front of the girls.

  Master Sharrow called for the end of the break and everyone returned to their places.

  This next challenge involved boards suspended from ropes that were in turn drawn across the range on pulleys. They were only two hand spans across, with a black dot at the centre the main objective. The idea was to put one of your arrows into each of the boards which were at distances of ten, twenty, thi
rty and fifty paces. Three archers stood facing the targets, with Kellan wrapped in unfeeling calm.

  An instructor at each rope began to slowly pull the boards across their field of fire at Master Sharrow’s command.

  He breathed the rhythm he had been taught, loosing the arrows at the top of his breath. The movement of the boards was merely another piece of the puzzle to slot into place, and four breaths sent four arrows to their targets. The spectators were getting livelier as the contest got harder, whistling and cheering the feats of the boys. The next three groups whittled the final competitors down to four. Elan had failed on the furthest board, and was being consoled by his father. Lannier, of course, won his group.

  They took refreshments before starting the final round, while the instructors readied the range. Kellan allowed his mind to return to normal and felt a rush of relief that he was through this far as feeling became available once more.

  “Bad luck Elan,” he said when his friend approached with his shoulders slumped.

  “It’s all right, I will practice more and do better next year.”

  “On another day you would have got that target,” he said. “I’ve seen you hit that board dozens of times in practice. Just bad luck.”

  “Never mind. You’re still in it. You can really win this, you know.” Kellan was about to reply when they were interrupted.

  “Kellan,” a voice behind them said.

  “Hello Lannier,” Kellan replied coolly. Elan groaned.

  “I just wanted to say, no hard feelings.” He held out his hand in a friendly gesture. Kellan took it hesitantly, then wished he hadn’t. The sixteen year old squeezed, and ground Kellan’s knuckles together painfully. He felt the bones pop and grind as Lannier crushed them together. Kellan gasped and tried to pull his hand away, unsuccessfully. “This is my final year, and would like to end my training on top, but good luck to you anyway.” He held onto Kellan’s aching hand for a moment longer, squeezing harder, if that were possible, then released it and walked away to talk with some of the older boys.