Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3)

by Pablo Andrés Wunderlich Padilla

  Manchego stopped. He put his hands to his lower back with a grimace of pain and breathed deeply. It seemed that he had been slaving for hours with his back bent over the ground, and it was not even lunchtime.

  “Hello!”

  Manchego straightened. He blinked, unable to believe what he saw. He was so tired he had not seen her coming. He rubbed his eyes so as to better appreciate the princess dressed in purple tulle…No, it was Luchy in her cotton clothes, like any other villager, but for a moment he dreamt of that lovely face: the eyes, two emeralds, large and almond-shaped; her chestnut hair, long and straight.

  “Silly, it’s me. Your grandmother’s sent you this,” the girl said with a smile that melted the shepherd. It was lemonade with honey and cookies with caramel pudding. Manchego was already savoring these delicacies, not to mention the palpitations caused by the sight of his best friend glowing in the sunshine. Luchy laughed at her friend’s dirty, downcast face.

  Tomasa interrupted the meeting.

  “What on earth’s going on here? There’s a pile of work to do yet.”

  “Hello, Tomasa!” Luchy said in her crystal-clear voice. She had the gift of mellowing anybody with her voice and her charm. She offered lemonade with a friendly gesture. “I thought you’d be thirsty too.”

  Tomasa allowed herself to be seduced. “Hey…hey…” she stammered. The big woman was not used to courtesy. Perhaps because of her animal appearance she was not often treated like a person, with needs and weaknesses of her own. “Thank you, missy. Gods bless you!” she said, and was quick to drink her share.

  Manchego did the same. At the end he burped.

  “You pig!” Luchy reproached him, laughing.

  The servant could not help laughing too.

  Manchego blushed. “Oops, excuse me,” he muttered.

  Tomasa could not help a feeling of tenderness toward the two children. She knew how unfair it was that Manchego had to work so much in his youth.

  “You’re done for the day, my little Manchego. But mark my words, be careful about coming late. I need you to go on working the land, because just look at how many things there are still left to do. Bye then!”

  Manchego was surprised. It was rare to see Tomasa so amiable. He guessed that even she must have a soft heart under all those folds of muscle and fat. Luchy and Manchego raced away amid laughter, with Rufus barking behind them.

  ***

  “How many times have we talked about the importance of being on time, Sunshine?” Lulita began as soon as the boy came in through the door. “I don’t want to forbid you to see Luchy, it’s something I’d be very sorry to do, but it’ll have to be done if you go on failing the Ranch. I’m very sorry that at your age your duties are so burdensome and full of responsibilities, but that’s something we’ve discussed too. Now sit down and eat your dinner. They’re Doña Paca’s tamalitos.”

  Manchego was contrite. “I’m sorry, Grandma. I’m going to do everything I can to stop it happening again.” He was lying. He was convinced he deserved a break, and the only way to get it was by pulling the wool over his grandmother’s eyes. Besides, his best friend deserved the time he spent with her, listening to her chatter, to her words filled with charisma. His mind wandered and he lost himself in the girl’s green eyes.

  “You’d better, Sunshine,” the old woman said. “There’s plenty of work to be done, and nobody else to do it. Remember, it’s your future as well.”

  The boy’s only reply was a sigh. He felt the weight of work on his shoulders.

  Manchego cut the string that enveloped the tamal in a banana leaf. A cloud of steam came from the dough and invaded his nose with the scents of olives, chili, peppers, and pork. The dough was typical of the South, very different from the cured meats and cheeses of the North. Manchego devoured his dinner like a hungry puppy under Lulita’s proud gaze. When he had finished, his grandmother took away the dishes and wrapped her beloved heir between the sheets. While the lad slept, the old woman noticed that once again a frown appeared on the boy’s forehead: a look of effort, the tightened muscles, and then the release, but always with that frown.

  Chapter III – The Village

  Manchego went as a passenger in the cart, sitting on the sacks filled with the products of the Ranch. With his face resting on his hands, he watched the passing of the day with boredom. What he wanted to do was play with Luchy and Rufus, but today his duty to the Ranch was leading him to learn how to sell the farm products at the market.

  The cart, pulled by Sureña the ranch mare, went down the Avenue of the Ranchers, where all the roads that led to the other farms came together. They were all part of a complex which many generations back had been called The Farmer, The QuepeK’Baj, which in the original language of Devnóngaron meant “fertile land”.

  The complex consisted of twenty farms, all of them belonging to families who knew each other, many of them related. In order to supply the population a market had started nearby, which had grown into what was now known to all as San-San Tera.

  Rattling along the Avenue of the Ranchers, Manchego was thinking about Luchy and the other kids at school. None of them had to negotiate with traders, they were not of age. The injustice of his situation made him want to cry, but he needed to be firm, because without him the farm would collapse completely.

  They reached the entrance booth, guarded by two watch-towers whose watchmen were taking their mid-morning nap. In the booth the guards were chatting with a couple of women of loose morals and low price. They were letting the people in after a casual inspection.

  “What’s your business in the village, sir?” asked a soldier with a paunch while he pulled out a large green snot from his nose. Manchego observed the exchange with caution. The farmer who was in front of them waiting for entry pulled a small pouch from his satchel and handed it over to the guard. The man hid it quickly and squinted, smiled, and yelled, “Let ‘em in! They have a permit.”

  Money granted easy passage, a thing Manchego was well aware of. It bothered him this was a reality. It was unfair to ranchers like Tomasa and himself who didn’t have a single crown to spare in order to gain easy entry.

  It was their turn to go through the inspection. The large Wild Woman glared at the guard defiantly. “We’ve come to sell from the Holy Comment Ranch.”

  “You’ve got a permit, lady?” asked the large soldier still picking his nose.

  The Wild Woman glared at him.

  “Easy there. There’s no quarrel between me and the wildborn from Devnóngaron. Go ahead, m’lady,” said the guard, changing his stance and suddenly becoming quite interested in Tomasa. The large Wild Woman usually attracted large dirty men who were very upfront with their desires. “I like them large like you,” said the guard as the cart moved forward.

  Tomasa boiled in anger. She reached down to her hilt dagger but remained calm. As a Wild Woman, she knew she had to be careful while in the Mandrake Empire. Even though most people would say there was no lost love between the wildborn and the Empire, wildborn were always seen as potential slaves and lesser men or women.

  As soon as they passed the gate and were inside, Manchego noticed the stench of filth, manure, and other putrid smells he did not want to identify. In the last few years what had grown most was poverty, and with it, sorrow. The village was going from bad to worse.

  Poverty spread at the edge of the village, on the border between the Mid Sector and the Noble one, and it soon came to be called The Pigsty. The area had the highest rate of violence and misfortune.

  Poor children ran behind the carts as they came in. “Give me a coin for my bread!”

  “A coin for my bread!”

  “Just one!”

  “May the Gods bless you!”

  All Manchego wanted was to leave them behind and not hear their crying voices. He was not sure whether to feel disgust or pity for them. What bothered him the most was realizing those poor children were also light brown of skin… like he was.

  The hous
es of the Pigsty were huts, wooden cubicles with earthen floors. The streets, also dirt, were formless. Naked children stood at the doors of their huts with bellies swollen by ferocious malnutrition.

  The canteens overflowed with drunkards at only eleven in the morning, while the cheap prostitutes offered their services to anyone who passed. Gangs of mercenaries took advantage of the weak or exchanged a few coins with the whores for their favors. Manchego turned his face away in disgust.

  The change when they reached the Mid Sector was so radical that Manchego felt he was breathing a different air. The sound of the hooves on the cobbled streets was like celestial music. At the same time security measures were doubled. The guards, protected by polished armor, did their rounds with swords in their belts, watching so that the poor were kept under control. Manchego could make out the badge of the House of Thorén, a noble family who had donated the armor. In the Mandrake Empire, every house had its own fortress and militia.

  In addition the Empire led its own Imperial Army, made up of legendary guerrilla warriors, soldiers, archers, and magicians who manipulated the elements. Manchego knew that if one day he enrolled in the militia, he was sure to end up under the House of Thorén’s orders, even though he had never met the family and never would. A young boy from the village was rarely invited to a castle, except to work in exchange for a small wage.

  When they went into the Noble Sector, the atmosphere changed again. Manchego, unused to luxury, was dazzled by the elegance. The women were lovely, with billowing dresses in yellow and purple tulle. This was like a dream, the kind of stories he had heard throughout his childhood. As a rancher he was unused to such extravagance.

  At last they entered the Central Park, a square space, spacious and vast, in whose center stood a tall, heroic statue in honor of Alac Arc Ángelo, God of Light, despite his being dead, or missing, as the faithful of the polytheist religion preferred to believe. The statue held a spear in its hands which was aimed at an imaginary enemy. Its angel’s wings were spread like two masts with billowing sails.

  The market was spread out around the statue, crowded with vendors, suppliers, and customers, all absorbed in their exchanges. The noise was deafening. The drizzle which had been falling since morning was no obstacle to business. Buyers bargained, went in and out, and bought.

  Tomasa dismounted and tied the reins to a post. The big woman arranged her cotton dress and adjusted the sharp dagger in her hilt. She was nervous. Manchego knew inside her leather boots she had a knife. She had come prepared for anything as she usually was. His grandmother had once told him the wildborn were used to warring most of the time. Working the fields was difficult for most Wild Men and Women, mostly because they were unused to peace and quiet. Tomasa’s demeanor was proof of that.

  Manchego got down from the cart, overwhelmed by the variety of stimuli the market offered: the smells of meat both fresh and past its prime, dead and rotten fish, vegetables fresh and cooked, the poor hygiene of vendors and customers; the colors of the goods; the noise of voices, the barking and braying.

  Tomasa glimpsed two men who were getting off their cart at that moment. The boy shuddered when he saw the icy coldness of their faces. The exchange promised to be anything but pleasant.

  One of the traders looked like a scarecrow. The other proudly displayed a belly the width of a stride; his eyes cried defiance.

  Tomasa made the introductions: “This is Manchego, the heir of the Ranch, from my landlord Eromes, may he rest in peace.”

  The buyers, Marcus and Feloziano, replied with looks of disapproval. Marcus, the big one with the enormous belly, grimaced in disgust. He crouched in front of Manchego until his face was just a few inches away. The shepherd could smell the buyer’s putrid breath. Whether from fear or from the stench, he sank his head between his shoulders.

  The fat trader raised his chin: “This pitiful vermin is the heir to the Holy Comment Ranch?” He laughed vindictively. “This bait is what’s going to take the place of the great Eromes the Perpetuator? How pathetic! Ha, ha, ha!”

  Feloziano had also been studying the boy. “It’s quite clear that your village is going downhill at amazing speed. I don’t understand why, because the settlements and villages nearby aren’t suffering the same decline.”

  Tomasa held back her anger so as not to lose the farm’s only customers.

  “Manchego is the sole heir to the Ranch.” Her foreign accent became stronger as her nervousness increased.

  “Well then, lad,” said Marcus, “what do you have to offer us? Are you going to show us your goods laid out decently, or are you planning on letting Tomasa do the work? What d’you say? Maybe you’ve got no balls between your legs, or maybe you’re too green for your manhood to have ripened? Ha, ha, ha!”

  All Manchego could do was turn red. Tomasa stepped in. “Now look, things are hard these days, you’ve got to understand. The fields are suffering! Drought and lack of coin! The situation is difficult, for goodness’ sake!” Tomasa was losing control.

  The traders were adamant. They shook their heads.

  “I expected more of you and your beloved ranch, Tomasa,” said Marcus. His double chin quivered. “By the Gods, how do you expect me to buy this crap? Tell Doña Lula she’d better lower the price of her crops, so it matches their poor quality. How much do you want for this disgrace?” He threw aside a handful of the harvested grain, attracting the ravens, who were anxious to peck at the unexpected treasure. Tomasa was on the verge of tears.

  “Thirty crowns. And no less!”

  “I’ll give you twenty,” the big man said. Manchego could not help but notice that both men carried sharp swords sheathed at their belts. He guessed they would have little mercy and did not want to think about how many people must have tried the edge of their weapons.

  “But…” the servant began to protest. She was interrupted by the glutton:

  “Twenty or nothing.”

  Tomasa lowered her gaze. At this rate, the farm would succumb to the crisis.

  “Well then, all right,” the woman said, left with no other choice. Her face was distorted by humiliation and sadness.

  Marcus took out a satchel from his smock and let it fall disdainfully into Tomasa’s hand. At his whistle, two boys unloaded the sacks from the cart.

  “A displeasure doing business with you,” Marcus said, getting himself ready to go. “Pray to the God of the Earth so that he grants you the favor of blessing your fields. It’s painful to watch your decline. And you, lad, put on a few pounds at least. Don’t they feed you properly? Skinny, dark skin, black eyes…what are you, a raven? You don’t look in the least like your dead grandfather. Ha, ha, ha!”

  “Have a very happy evening, my friends,” Feloziano said. “Be seeing you.”

  Tomasa waited until the traders were at a safe distance before she broke down. All she wanted to do was take revenge against those ingrates, for being insolent, for humiliating her for the umpteenth time in the exchange. “Oh, no, Mancheguito, what are we going to do? I can’t go on like this! The farm will perish, and your granddad will turn over in his grave! If you only knew how I’ve prayed to the God of Earth, but Gordbaklala doesn’t seem to hear my prayers.” The serving woman collapsed into desolate weeping.

  The boy felt terrible. To be with Luchy he had neglected his duties, but now he understood that his presence was crucial for the future of the Ranch. Sooner or later he would have to face those traders again, or others with a similar attitude. He needed to learn fast to avoid something like this happening again, and he would only manage that by throwing himself wholly into working the fields and learning. He knew all this would keep him away from his friend, and from his yearning to appreciate nature, but it was necessary.

  The boy stretched his skinny arms around her. “Don’t cry, Tomasa. Those men will have to deal with me one day, you’ll see. When I’m the owner of the Ranch, they’ll have to pay double the number of crowns for our products. That’s my promise!”

  “Oh
, laddie,” Tomasa lamented, wiping her face as she did so. “You’re very special, yes. Everything will be alright, I know. But I need you to be more diligent with your work.”

  “Are we going back home?

  “Heavens! Not yet. I almost forgot. Your grandma needs you to go to Ramancia’s shop for a magic potion for the hen. It seems she’s not laying eggs anymore, and if she doesn’t lay, then you’ll have no breakfast. Oh no, all the animals are dying…”

  Manchego’s heart sank. They had sold many animals: pigs, oxen, bulls, and several hens. They only had one hen left, and now she was sick. They could not lose this hen, since with the few coins they had gained they could not pay for another one.

  Manchego put the eight crowns Tomasa gave him into a small satchel.

  “Don’t take too long, Manchego. We need to get back to the farm, to go on working. Off you go!”

  Manchego trembled at the thought of the witch’s name: Ramancia. He hated going to her shop. He always ended up with the threat of being turned into some kind of disgusting vermin.

  Chapter IV – Innominatus

  The bloody scenes of a painful past stabbed him, and in his solitude he was carried back to that moment. Tzargorg…Innominatus…Mérdmerén…Irijada…

  The wild winds beat at his face and long, shining black hair. The cold penetrated into his bones. On his muscular chest, uncovered, was revealed a black tattoo which spread over half his torso and which he had etched with forest dyes. On his forehead was a mark made with the fresh blood of an animal he had killed to feed the clan. His name, Tzargorg, had ruled for three generations. He had inherited it after overthrowing and beheading his own father; his father had done the same to his own. Such was the wild law of Mother: The strong young man takes over from the old. Only a few chosen ones survived the fury of Mother.