“You should go to confession,” Kurlos suggested. “You’re possessed or something.”
“Enough of that!” Ánomnos exploded. “Haven’t you ever had bad dreams? Better get out of the room right away before we chase you out with a stick. Out!”
Kurlos looked at Ánomnos disdainfully and left the room. He could have knocked him down with a couple of blows, but he did not want trouble immediately before the verdict of the Celestial Screening.
“I’m sorry,” Ánomnos said. “Kurlos can be stubborn and a real bastard, but he’s just scared. That’s why he gets like that, isn’t that right, Joermo? D’you feel any better, Arg? Want some water? Here.”
Argbralius took a couple of sips. “Am I as bad as that? Judging by your faces, it seems a horde of orcs must have trampled over me.”
“In all honesty,” Joermo admitted, “during this whole year we’ve been sharing rooms with you, these bad dreams have been getting worse. Sometimes you have convulsions; other times you seem to be choking. I’m telling you because we’re good friends, Arg; I don’t want you to feel bad. Take no notice of Kurlos. You know he’s from some tiny village where the people are quick to call anything they don’t understand demonic possession. I think that’s why he’s afraid of you.”
“Or perhaps he hates you because you’re the favorite,” Ánomnos added with a broad smile.
Argbralius smiled too. “There you go with the same nonsense again. I’m nobody’s favorite, but the one everybody prefers!”
The prodigy burst out laughing heartily, and the friends followed suit, with mockery in their eyes.
When the laughter subsided, Joermo turned serious. “Honestly, I don’t want you to feel bad, but just think about it: You’ve been having these nightmares for too long. You sometimes let out weird sounds.”
“It’s true,” Ánomnos confirmed, lowering his gaze. “But we’re your friends, aren’t we, Joermo?”
“Of course we are, and we’ll go on being that. I wish we could all pass the selection and became sextons together. But coming back to the subject, Arg, I think maybe it’s time you sought help. At first, I thought it would be just now and then or that it’d go away by itself, but you must have something inside you that makes you suffer.”
Argbralius looked at his friends in silence. He was not ready to tell them anything about those dreams. Even he tried to ignore them in the hopes that if he did they might be less painful.
Joermo and Ánomnos were waiting for Argbralius to give them some sort of explanation, but he had none to give. Until now, he had not been aware of how those dreams manifested themselves while he was asleep, oblivious to his body’s will.
He remembered his childhood, the path he had had to take when Trumbar forced him to defend himself. He wondered whether those convulsions and moans which frightened his friends had been with him since he was a little boy. What he did know was that inside him, something was lurking, waiting to be activated. He remembered Vurgomm affectionately. Thanks to him, he had emerged from poverty and left evil behind. Ferlohren had made a great sacrifice. But nothing of this had been enough to banish from his mind those terrible events of his childhood, the violence, and the pain.
Perhaps he would seek counsel from Orolio or Damasio. Living with this weight on his shoulders was not something he wished for the rest of his life. He had to find a solution.
“My friends, I am grateful for your support,” he told them, glad to have concluded. “I’m really lucky to have you with me and to have you worry about me like this. I’ll seek counsel with our mentors. I’ll ask the Gods to help me. I’ll get past this.”
Without waiting for a reply, the boy got up from his bunk and went to the shower.
***
At around four o’clock, all the pupils had finished their tests. The priests told them to go into the classroom where the forty chosen to continue with their learning and become sextons would be announced.
Argbralius sat down in the front row, as usual, to show his interest. He arranged the materials on his desk with calculated perfection. He straightened his back, set his feet firmly on the floor, and waited with his eyes fixed ahead for the priest to appear with the roster of the lucky ones.
All around him, his colleagues sweated, tapped their feet nervously, and cleared their throats. He stayed calm; he trusted that his name would be among the forty. He heard insults, the usual ones, like ass-licker, and other less refined turns of phrase. Beside him, Joermo was snorting.
“I don’t know how you put up with those imbeciles.”
“Well, success isn’t an easy path, Joermo. The mediocre will always try to bring the outstanding ones down. But we need to be strong. For example, what happened with Aryan Vetala? Do you think that as the first evangelist he didn’t have to experience situations like this?”
It had involved years of hard work, waking up in the morning in time to get to the classroom first and take the best seat, eagerly taking notes, and working in his room with summaries, diagrams, and supplementary readings. He owed it to his mother and Vurgomm, and it had been worth the effort. His grades had always been the highest.
“Shitface! Are you going to take notes today? Pass them to me, or I’ll break you in two, you scum!” yelled someone behind him. It was Délegas, a boy from a remote village who was hateful as a sleepless night and rancorous as a cat without claws. He was tall and strongly built with a square face, thick arms and legs, and a back like a wooden gate. Argbralius could not understand why Délegas had not chosen a military career for which he seemed much better suited, at least physically.
He did not flinch; he would have his revenge in time. He smiled.
“As you well know,” Orolio began addressing the two hundred students in the classroom, “before announcing the chosen ones, we want you to know that the Perfect Pontiff is very grateful for everybody’s participation. Those of you who are left out must remember that the Décamon loves you all equally, begs you not to give up your dreams, and to try again next year. You are all excellent, as shown by the fact that you’ve surpassed thousands of candidates in the previous selection.” The priest cleared his throat and looked at the list.
“And now, at last, I am going to name those who have been chosen. Don’t stand up or move. Those I do not call may come and talk to me when I finish the list.”
Orolio adjusted his cassock over his belly. He hated the moment when he had to pass the verdict on to them, and he sweated like a pig every time he had to give this speech before dozens of boys who looked on the point of fainting. Orolio coughed as if an avalanche of rubble were going down his gullet; a gobbet of phlegm caught in his throat, which he publicly cleared and swallowed. The boys laughed, releasing their tension and nerves. Argbralius remained expressionless. Délegas’ group made more noise and shouted “pig” and “boar.” Father Orolio went red as a tomato.
“Silence in the classroom of the Gods! Have some respect for your elders!”
The animation subsided. When the priest was satisfied, he began to read from the sheet of paper.
“Argbralius of Ágamgor, Grenouille of the Castle, Fergano Farmer, Pastulio Marongas, Ulio Curinthos, Meromento Yugugú, Rombor of the West, Numilor of Moragald’Burg, Numilor of Grizna, Ficosinto of Omen, Marcus Marandas, Desmond Dertox of Aldebarán, Xavier of the Valley of the Spell, Sebastian Awesome, D’Abinat Trumitar, Lostros of Kathanas, Gramashun the Heir, Kolober Ilosof of Narkalagh, Wendo Walkas, Zinthio Naturas, Breccolos Tinlosa, Xerios Ceritos, Paulus D’In, Queranthus Salath, Lionis Judis, Vertenes of Vásufeld, Fenfendur of Érliadon, Sailor Merromeron, Oceanicus of the Early Sea, Blasticu Corticus, Kurlos Maros, Jacinto of the King, Magoceno Adoleno, Ánomnos Moreira, Joermo Pipagrass, Délegas Promegaia, Hurtos of Bónufor, Manco Longwar, Nargodon Don’Queras, Noerend Gabaman.”
The classroom remained silent. Some of the students looked at each other nervously, confused. Surely there was some mistake? Had he called all the names? A murmur began to spread throughout the hall. I
n their seats, Joermo, Kurlos, Argbralius, and Ánomnos were already celebrating with their eyes. They were laughing inwardly as they heard Délegas’s group, who had been eliminated except for their leader. They were taking it out on the one who had been their friend until now.
The families would receive a letter with the good news. Argbralius felt a pang in his heart. There was nobody to send a missive with Argbralius’ great news; not even Vurgomm, who had disappeared.
He felt alone and sad. Then something stirred inside him. He understood that powerful emotions, particularly negative ones, caused that strange presence to surface.
“Those who have not been called, please follow me to my office. I have a letter and a gift for you, prepared by the Perfect Pontiff. The others remain here.”
When the last footsteps of the hundred and sixty who had been rejected faded along the corridor, the fortunate ones burst out with joy like a mighty wave against a cliff. All of them took part in the uproar except two: Délegas, who had just been left with no friends, and Argbralius, who was still immersed in his meditative silence.
But Joermo and Ánomnos insisted so much that in the end, Argbralius caught something of their good humor and came out of the vicious cycle of his nostalgia.
Chapter VIII – The Rhythm of Love
“We’ll set up camp here,” Mérdmerén said as he dismounted. The cave was a large one. Mérdmerén had spotted it at sunset thanks to a timely reflection from the declining sun. It was empty and no more than half a league off the main road. It was perfect.
“Unless I’m mistaken, sailor,” he said as he took the saddle off his horse, “These mountains ought to be the Peaks of the Claw. I believe they’re called that because of legends about the wild wyverns that inhabit this region.”
“Aren’t all wyverns wild, boss?”
“No. Némaldon has managed to train them, though it hasn’t taken their rage away. Far from it; they’re more rabid than the wild ones. There are some with red scales, some with black ones. I think Némaldon has adopted the black ones.”
Mérdmerén set out to gather a handful of tinder. The wood was dry and ready for a small fire. Meanwhile, Ságamas watched Mérdmerén curiously. He sat down on a high rock with a flat base.
“What did you feel when your people banished you?”
The question took Mérdmerén by surprise. He was thoughtful for minutes on end, trying to gather together memories and feelings to answer the question. He hated the sailor’s way of always sticking his nose everywhere, but at that particular moment, he was bored and did not mind a bit of talk. Besides, the old man had warned him that he liked to talk a lot.
“I was born in Háztatlon to an honest family, not very influential but well esteemed. My parents didn’t own much, but my father was respected by society. My father was an inventor, and though he died poor and lived poor, he was respected for his intelligence and for creating gadgets that improved other people’s lives.
“As I say, he never did anything remarkable. On the other hand, I was always pretty good as a trader. He who doesn’t cry doesn’t get fed is what they say in Háztatlon. There’s a lot of action there. Every day, something is going on in every corner.
“It’s the most beautiful and prosperous city in the Empire, the perfect place to encourage ambition. To cut a long story short, I was always greedy, and ever since I was very young, I was only interested in how to have more and more. Honest business went well enough for me, but it didn’t take me where I wanted to go. I’d see the nobles on their expensive coursers, accompanied by beautiful women and living in luxurious houses, and I wanted the same. So, I decided to take a shortcut: the black market.
“I did well out of illegal trade. Today, I realize the result: banished with no family, with nothing. All the same, in those days, I was immensely happy. I was rich, and I managed to get into the higher levels of Háztatlon society. I met a nobleman called Fahr, may he rest in peace, who introduced me to the world of politics. It was my chance to enter the closed circle of the nobles. They control everything, sailor. They control the media, production, distribution, and sales, and they do whatever they want.
“I didn’t want to tiptoe past them. No, I wanted to belong among them. And I managed it. First, I bought a cotton farm, one of the most important in those days for the production of textiles. That way, I found my way into that industry, and later I joined up with a nobleman. His name was Trérelen des Morimor. His family had controlled the textile market for nearly a hundred years. One day Trérelen died and left me everything.”
Mérdmerén passed his finger along his throat.
“You murdered him,” Ságamas said flatly. “You polished him off like a sardine for lunch. You were a real bastard, boss. A bastard through and through,” the sailor said and smiled.
“That’s how I became a noble, sailor. The politics game in Háztatlon is dirty, more so than you imagine. There are plenty of nobles, but only thirty make up the Council of Kings. Twelve seats can’t be disputed: the eleven dukes of the most important cities of the empire and the king’s philosopher or counselor.
“Then, there are eighteen seats that change from time to time, but six of those seats are in the hands of a group of families of professional blackmailers, and they’re untouchable. They’re the Promegaia, the Lordkillers, the Trenna, the Leeches, and the Catano. They’re very violent, and they don’t waste time over courtesy. They control the market in alcohol and drugs, particularly black beer and florifundia. There are also the Slithers. The present lord is a son of a bitch linked to dark magic, or so says the rumor.”
“That leaves twelve seats available to upstarts like you,” the sailor chaffed him.
“Exactly,” Mérdmerén replied with no sign of being offended. “I took Trérelen’s seat. You can’t imagine how incredible those years of power were, Ságamas, you can’t imagine. I had everything: women, land, and, little by little, I got hold of more and more riches. Among all those treacherous men, I had one friend. His name was Cantus de Aligar, and together we made and unmade. You know what the problem was?”
“What was that, boss?”
“I fell in love. My wife, Maria de los Santos, was the baker’s daughter. Just as you hear. As I was a nobleman, it wasn’t hard to convince her to accept me. Her parents didn’t oppose me either, though they were never happy with our decision.
“When I fell so deeply in love with Maria, I began to get my sanity back and notice the evil I was causing. She made me see the hardships of the poor, who had to make do with the crumbs the rich threw at them. I began to change.
“My arguments included words like justice and honor, when before I’d only spoken of control and power. I didn’t know that my friend Cantus de Aligar had stopped considering me an ally and was already planning my banishment. There’s no room for justice and honor in the corridors of Háztatlon, sailor.”
Ságamas remained respectfully silent, seeing the pain the deserter seemed to be experiencing.
“What happened then, boss?”
The smoke rose in the air, and the tinder crackled. Mérdmerén blew on the beginnings of the fire and added a couple of dry logs.
“Lord Cantus de Aligar hired an ex-military man, a professional strategist: Don Loredo Melda. He was a man who fought, not on the battlefield, but in the disputes of corridor gossip. He and Cantus set a trap for me.”
“How?”
“First, they spread the rumor that I wanted to dethrone the king, which was ridiculous, but my name was now in question. I might have tried to stop that, but by then I didn’t even care because I had love. I felt complete with my wife, and I was sick of that world of falsehood and dodgy dealings.
“Cantus and Loredo were already counting on the fact that I wouldn’t waste my energy on anything apart from love. Then they sent me a discussion bulletin for the next council, where there was mention of a possible de-centralization of government with the people taking power.
“That bulletin was false, but I
didn’t know that. I was looking forward to the novelty of the Empire opening itself up to concepts of justice and equality, and when my turn came and I began to speak, I got very much carried away. The dukes rose and declared me a traitor.
“The punishment was beheading, but I fled, and there, I earned my illustrious title of Deserter and the danger of ending up killed by any soldier. I swore revenge against those two traitors Cantus and Loredo. They took everything! They left me without honor!”
The sailor’s gaze was lost among the flames of the fire. Night had fallen.
Mérdmerén asked, “And what about you? What does a man of the sea feel, a castaway on land?”
“The sea… there’s nothing like the immensity of the sea,” Ságamas replied, his voice breaking as if at the memory of an old flame. “You feel tiny in that deep blue space, as mysterious as life itself. I’ve seen whales, gigantic animals, squid, and octopus. I’ve heard legends about water dragons and fish as big as a ship.
“It was love at first sight, boss. When I bought the Stingray, I was fifteen, and all I wanted to do was go to the sea. It’s not easy to explain that calling, the call of the sea. People believed it was because of an unhappy childhood, that I’d fought to the death with relatives, or that I was setting out to leave a girlfriend. But it had nothing to do with any of that. From the moment I saw the sea, I knew that my destiny would be to ride on her back forever.
“The smell, the salt, the winds, the storms, the shellfish. There’s nothing like the sea, boss. Have you ever felt that craving to possess something, whatever the consequences? That there’s only one thing you can do, and that if you don’t get it, you’ll die or go mad?”
Mérdmerén did not have to think for long. Maria de los Santos, how I miss you. I’ll get you back, I promise. I’ll get you back!
The sailor noticed the emotions on Mérdmerén’s face. “I see you have,” he said. “The same thing happened to me with the sea. That immense blue conquered me with its salty kisses. The sea breaks the weak and tests the brave. The sea gives meaning to my life. Now I’m a fish out of the water, boss.”
Shepherd’s Awakening (Books 1-3) Page 39