by Remi Michaud
They played and laughed in the way that boys do while the sun began its journey downward, in the field that had been stamped flat by livestock en route to and from the grazelands outside the farm compound. There were not many rules to their game except those Valik made up on the spur of the moment and changed whenever it was most convenient for him. It did not matter. The grim memories of earlier were gone and it was a lovely afternoon to play.
An awkward kick sent the ball bouncing and rolling off target, and Trig had to lunge for it. His own kick went wide and it careened toward the fence. Wag, ever the enthusiastic player, raced after it, galloping like a horse, squealing, “I got it, I got it.”
Barely slowing, he spun and kicked...
...And missed completely, nearly belting himself in the head as he went skidding and rolling alongside the slowing ball. He jumped to his feet and the others, laughing, could see his face redden.
“It jumped out of my way,” he called to them defensively amid their gales of laughter.
Eying the ball accusingly, he kicked viciously, and sent it back toward the little group who were still trying to regain their own breaths. Jurel aimed his kick toward Darren but caught it just so and the ball sailed high, seemed to float forward, to slow down as if giving everyone a fine show: “Look ma! No hands!” It landed with a hollow thud right on Valik's protruding rat nose. Sitting hard, spluttering, Valik glared at Jurel while a line of redness fell from his nostril.
That's not good, Jurel thought, his innards clenching like a fist.
“Oh! Valik! I'm sorry. I-”
“You did that on purpose,” he shrieked.
Valik rose to his feet and took threatening steps toward him, his face contorted with rage and drops of blood dripping from his chin, until they stood nearly nose to nose. Though three years his junior, Jurel was quite large for his age and he topped Valik by an inch. The advantage in size did nothing to halt the quaver of fear that Jurel felt.
“No. I swear I didn't mean it,” Jurel cried plaintively. “I was kicking it toward Darren and I missed. I didn't mean-”
Again he was cut off. This time by a wildly swung fist. Jurel recoiled instinctively and Valik missed. Even more enraged Valik howled like a mad coyote and threw himself at Jurel, tackling him to the ground. He swung and swung, and even though Jurel raised his hands protectively, several blows struck home and lances of pain stabbed Jurel's face and chest while he pleaded with Valik to stop.
It was with monumental effort that Trig and Darren hauled Valik off Jurel and to his feet. As soon as the weight lifted off him, Jurel scuttled backward, crab-like to escape the punishing attack. The older boy heaved and struggled, spitting curses at Jurel, his glittering eyes promising more retribution as soon as he got himself loose.
“Enough Valik,” Trig ordered. “He didn't mean to hit you. Leave him alone.”
Like a wolf in a trap, Valik continued writhing and squirming, growling and gnashing his teeth. Perhaps it was exhaustion, or perhaps it was the realization that the two boys would not let him loose, but whatever it was, Valik stopped struggling and slumped in the boys's arms, glared at Jurel and wiped his nose on his sleeve leaving a red line like a paint stroke.
“I'm going to get you for this new kid,” he said and his voice dripped with venom.
When Trig and Darren finally let him loose, Jurel tensed prepared for another attack. But instead, Valik turned and, picking up his ball, stalked off to leave four stunned boys staring after him.
“Now look,” Wag said, spinning to face Jurel with a pout. “He's gone and took his ball cause of you.”
“Shut up Wag,” growled Darren, punching the young boy hard in the arm.
“You all right?” Trig asked, inspecting Jurel's bloody nose and puffy red eye.
“I didn't mean to Trig. Honest. I didn't.”
He fought to keep the tears that threatened at bay, but even so his eyes stung and the world wavered and blurred.
“We know you didn't,” Trig comforted him wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Don't we guys?”
Even Wag did not argue, though because he actually believed it or because he did not want another shot in the arm, no one was certain. They were silent for a moment, shuffling their feet, not letting eyes meet until Jurel tried on a smile which to his mortification trembled alarmingly.
“I don't think I've made my life any easier round here,” he said, more to hear someone speak than anything.
“Aw don't worry about him,” Darren said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He'll piss and moan extra hard for the next few days and then he'll be back to his usual sunny self.”
They all laughed a little at that and things were mostly all right again.
It was not much later, after the sun had dropped a little further in the west, fading from white to yellow and then to orange, that Jurel bade his friends good bye for the day.
“Father will be back soon and I still have my chores to do.”
He waved as his friends called their farewells and he trudged off toward his little cabin, his mood soured considerably. The day had started so well too.
Chapter 6
He sat at the table that dominated the main floor of the cabin, a wooden circle about the size across as his outstretched arms, spotted and pitted with age. It was a cast-off. Galbin had given it to Daved when they moved into the cabin a couple of years ago and it was where father and son spent most of their evenings in discussion and lessons.
The pot-bellied stove in the corner was lit and ready for the dinner that would be cooked as soon as his father got in, and it made the small space a little too hot in spite of the cooling effect of the setting sun. Even the low-ceilinged loft where they slept at the top of the ladder was too hot and Jurel knew he would spend most of the night without a blanket.
The remains of the day glowed purple like a bruise through the side window and mingled with the red gash from the open door on the front of the stove until the room seemed somehow injured. Shadows filled the corners, left endless wells of night there until it seemed that the table and chairs, wood stove and window were all that remained, that this tiny bit of world he could see was all there was and it floated in an empty void. That suited him just fine. It matched his mood.
His chores were finished. He had rushed through them when he got home, too distracted to put more than a passing thought into his duties and he hoped his father would not scrutinize his efforts too closely. His face hurt like someone had punched him—which, of course, someone had. He changed into new clothes as if casting off the muddy, bloody clothes and changing into fresh trousers and shirt, could cast away the events of the day, and he sat in his chair sipping from a cup of cold water, awaiting his father's return.
Which proved to be soon. As the last of the purple faded to black, the latch rattled and he jumped, looking up as the door swung open. His father halted in the doorway, eying him for a moment with hawkish eyes, one eyebrow raised but he said not one word and that made Jurel nervous. He was silent as he climbed the ladder to their loft. He was silent as he changed his own muddied clothes.
The silence was oppressive and heavy, like air before a thunderstorm but he held his tongue, preferring to wait until his father spoke. Feet reappeared at the top of the ladder and started down before there were finally any words, and when they did come, Jurel jumped again.
“We're going to the main house for dinner,” his father said.
His father did not sit. Instead he looked expectantly at Jurel who obediently rose to his feet.
“So how was your day, Jurel?”
Wincing, Jurel stared at his father's broad back as they walked out of the cabin. His father was a good man, an honorable one. But he was not a soft man and that question was too soft, too calmly spoken for Jurel's liking. It was the kind of question a wife asked her husband when she knew of his secret affair.
“It was all right,” Jurel mumbled.
“Oh? Anything special happen today? Anything inter
esting?”
Of course something interesting happened. I wiped grease all over Valik's best shirt for no good reason and when he finds out he'll beat me to mush. And then I hit him with his ball and he beat me up because I bloodied his idiot nose.
“Not particularly.”
“Really? That's not what Ingirt said to me.”
No one would have missed the warning tone in those words. Last year, Jurel had watched as the hands piled a wagon far too high with bales of hay. They yoked a team of oxen to the overladen wagon and the driver jumped up onto the high seat. With a call and a light crack of his whip, the oxen had pulled and even over the sound of creaking wood and squeaking axles, everyone heard the crack that came from underneath. The driver had jumped off, flailing wildly in the air as, a moment later, a mere heartbeat, the left wheel toppled and the entire wagon tilted crazily, sending bales of hay ramming against the side rails. Those groaned under the strain and snapped, not at all designed to handle that much weight, tumbling all that golden straw to the ground. The driver was caught under the largest bundle and he had screamed as his leg broke with another audible—and much wetter—snap. Jurel thought he heard the same axle-crack quality in his father's voice now. He resisted the urge to look up, to see if something heavy was about to fall on him.
“It was an accident,” the words bubbled out. “I didn't mean for it to happen. I kicked the ball to Darren and Valik's fat nose got in the way. Then the big idiot attacked me.”
“I can see that.”
He raised his hand to his face, to the tender lump under his eye. “I didn't mean to,” he mumbled.
His father spun on his heel, crisply, like a soldier, and he knelt in front of Jurel. Pinning him with his gaze he gripped Jurel's arms in hands that could have doubled as vises.
“It was naught but an accident? You're certain, boy?”
Speechless, almost breathless, he stared into eyes that were hard as diamonds and piercing as daggers, and he could only manage a nod. He thought his father would say more. He thought perhaps his father might not believe him. But then his father abruptly rose and walked on down the dusty path.
“Then that is how you will explain it to Galbin.”
As they passed the squat stone column that was the water well, Jurel could not remain silent any longer. His prank had gnawed at him all day and the moment seemed ripe for truth. His gut clenched again, roiling like an angry serpent but he would not let it deter him. He took a deep breath.
“Father? There's something else.”
“What Jurel?”
“I...”
Words fled as he stared at his father's back. He suddenly no longer wanted to say anything. He regretted it, regretted opening his big, fat mouth even though just a moment ago, he had resolved to come clean. To tell about the soiled shirt. He kept his mouth shut. Maybe his father would let it go. But of course, it was too late. Once again he found himself the victim of a powerful stare. A stare that demanded truth. Right now.
“Come on boy. Out with it. Galbin's expecting us.”
He was certain that a rock slide could not sound more menacing.
“He...I-I...” Helplessly, he rummaged around in the attic of his mind for words that would be less damning. His lips worked soundlessly as he tried to coax moisture into his suddenly arid mouth. “His shirt,” he blurted.
“His shirt. What about his shirt?”
“It-I got it dirty.”
“And how did you do that?”
His father was not particularly a tall man but somehow, he managed to loom over Jurel like a black obelisk.
“I wiped my hands all over it.”
Of all the reactions Jurel expected, laughter would have been far down on his list. But that was what he got. Great booming laughter that reverberated through the night air and once again Jurel jumped.
“Boy, I don't imagine a little dust would have done much harm. I'm sure that-”
“It was grease. And butter.”
“Explain.” Rock slides and swords and flinty eyes. That was more like it.
So Jurel did. Haltingly to be sure, and mumbling, which did not help his father's temper. Three times, as Jurel told his story, his father had to bark out, “Speak up!” And Jurel spoke up only to lose his voice a few words later.
By the time he finished his story and stood silently awaiting judgment, he was dizzy with a mixture of terror at what his father would do, and relief that he had at least been honest. It was a dizziness that lasted for what felt an eternity even though it could not have been more than a minute, a few seconds, really, as his father stood silent, with arms crossed across his chest like a statue of an ancient king or an angry god, before drawing in a deep breath and sighing.
“I'm glad you told me lad,” he said. “It shows that I haven't completely done wrong by you. I will discuss this with Galbin later.”
They were near the house now and were just about to step onto the veranda when his father spun back and stuck a finger in Jurel's face.
“You understand that I will see you work off your debt. Apparently your hands are too idle and need to be kept busy.”
His eyes softened then, and the slightest hint of a smile passed across his stern features.
“Still, I'm glad you told me, lad. It took courage to admit a wrong. It took honor.”
Before Jurel could respond, even before he could fully comprehend that his father was complimenting him—he was still stuck on the fact that he would be doing chores forever—the front door flew open and Galbin's bulky form appeared in the light spilling from within.
“Well there you are,” he bawled out in his usual jovial way. “I was beginning to think we would be dining without you.”
He was a huge ox of a man, standing easily head and shoulders above Jurel's father and certainly he was nearly as wide—like a great big squishy square—but for all that, he moved with the easy grace of a man possessing untold amounts of strength hiding beneath the soft layers. He shooed them inside with massive hands that seemed carved from marble and his teeth glimmered white with his easy smile.
“Welcome Daved. Always welcome of course. Come in, come in. You too young Jurel. Come in and be welcome. Marta? Marta where are you? Our guests have arrived.”
From somewhere deep inside the house, a reply came followed by the bustling footsteps of old Marta, head of the household staff, co-conspirator in the attainment of illicit lunches, and unknowing abettor in the incident of the greasy shirt.
“You know where the dining room is. Make yourself at home. My dear wife and son will join us shortly.”
Galbin strode down the hallway and disappeared through a large arching doorway on the right still chattering over his shoulder at them. Jurel loved the man like an uncle but he never seemed to be able to keep up with him. Daved rolled his eyes and snorted; they were well used to Galbin's energy.
“Well, let's go lad.”
They entered the dining room and Jurel could not help but stare. The dark stained rectangular table dominated the center of the room but it was what was on top that riveted his attention. Illuminated by a dozen bees wax candles in the finely crafted chandelier hanging above the center were plates and bowls, all containing something that made Jurel's mouth water. Carrots, corn, peas, potatoes; it was all there and it all steamed. Delicate porcelain salt and pepper holders, each with their own dainty spoon, flanked bowls filled with creamy butter. They themselves were flanked by bowls of warm rolls that looked so soft, so scrumptious that Jurel was tempted to reach out and snatch one and gulp it down right then and there. Crystal goblets, each one reflecting the chandelier's light in a glittering rainbow, stood by each setting, waiting to be filled by one of the bottles of wine that were uncorked on the table. In the center of the table, a bare circle of wood was conspicuous only due to its being bare but Jurel was pretty sure by the succulent aroma coming from the kitchen what would fill that spot.
He had been to dinner here before but usually dinner was a modest af
fair. Not that dinner was ever forgettable at Galbin's table. On the contrary, the smells and tastes were to be remembered for months afterward. But that night seemed extravagant. Almost excessive.
“Sit, sit,” Galbin invited, indicating two chairs. “Daved, have you had a chance to rate the new man, Buril?”
Daved heaved a sigh. “Oh aye I have and I must say he's as stupid as he is lazy.”
Even as Galbin roared out his laughter, Jurel tuned them out. Farm business was not his thing. He was much more interested in his surroundings. The frenetic activity of earlier had died down, and the house was quiet. The hearth behind Galbin crackled pleasantly though not too brightly or hot that the dining room was uncomfortable. Soft light reflected from the darkly lacquered wood wainscoting that ran around the room at shoulder height giving the illusion that it was not wood at all but fine satin. His inspection was cut short though when he heard familiar voices drift in from the hallway.
In walked Valik, sullen as ever, wearing the same grimy clothes he had on earlier, the red smear turned rusty on his sleeve, and he stalked to his place directly across from Jurel. Ingirt entered right behind, her puffy yellow skirt swishing and whispering as she walked to her end of the table. Even as those already at the table rose to greet her, Valik plopped himself down and stared sourly at his plate over a nose that was still noticeably swollen, eliciting a sigh from his father.
“Hello dearest,” Galbin said. “Our guests have arrived.”
“Why thank you husband. I hadn't noticed.”
The scathing sarcasm almost made Jurel's eyes pop out but wisely, he kept his mouth shut.
“Good evening madam,” Daved said with a bow so gracefully done that any queen would have been satisfied.
“Well. Now that the pleasantries are past, why don't we eat?” Always ready for food, Galbin was. “Marta? Marta! If you could, please?”
Ingirt was a waspish woman at the best of times. More often than not, if the children of the farm were doing something they should not necessarily have been doing, it was invariably she who found them out. Her voice was high—some might say shrill—and she used it to good effect.