Mérdmerén began to be worried. They would surely find something on the witch, apart from the small fortune they carried in hundreds of crowns.
“Captain, am I right? You only have to look at your medals and stripes. I’d bet my wealth that you’re well appreciated in the military hierarchy,” Mérdmerén began smoothly. “You see how we’ve come, with our horses and not much else. All I want is to do business. With me are the good captain of my ship to advise me and my mother. You know what mothers are like,” he said in a confidential tone. The captain was still suspicious.
“The QuepeK’Baj was in San San-Tera, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“San San-Tera was destroyed three years ago. You’re a liar.”
Mérdmerén choked back a curse. He had to think fast. “Captain, that’s exactly why we have to look for other kinds of business, selling on the other side of the Early Sea.”
“And do you have anything with you that will prove your land ownership?”
“My will, my money, and faith that everything will come out well, Captain. These are hard times for all of us. We’re suffering after the destruction of the village, but we have to go on. You know we can’t give up the fight.”
The captain seemed to swallow the story. “Very well. Pay the tribute and go on. You’ll find two more road posts further along the Path of the Fallen. Show the soldiers the permit I’m going to give you so that you can continue on your journey.”
“Thank you very much, Captain. How much do we have to pay per head?”
“Fifty crowns. And children don’t pay tribute.”
“Fifty?” Mérdmerén howled, his eyes popping.
The old woman smiled.
Mérdmerén took out a pouch and counted a hundred crowns. Then he went over to the captain and the checkpoint with the coins in his hands.
“You’re still fifty crowns short,” the officer said.
“My mother has to pay too?”
The captain did not reply. The bastard! Mérdmerén knew that the elderly and children were exempt from payment. He took out another fifty crowns with his teeth clenched. The officer stared at him for a moment. The doubt was still there, but the commission he would earn from the excessive tribute was ample compensation.
“This is the permit that will authorize your journey as far as the end of the Path of the Fallen at the foot of the mountains.” It was a metal coin with a code Mérdmerén did not understand.
“Thank you very much, Captain. And how is Duke Thoragon?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“In that case, my respects to my lord duke and his family.” Mérdmerén knew that the duke deliberately had no children to avoid passing on the evil they all inherited. Despite this, he could not restrain his desire to annoy the captain. This was the price he exacted for the excessive cost of the tribute.
The other soldiers shifted uneasily.
“Our duke is a great leader. I’d follow him to the most diabolical ditch in the universe,” the captain said.
Mérdmerén nodded and set off, followed in silence by his companions. The setting sun was, little by little, beginning to shadow the cliff, the mountains, and the plateau. In the distant city, torches began to be illuminated in the watchtowers, and here and there, lights could be seen in the castle rooms. After a few hours, the travelers camped and tucked into their cured meat under a black canvas of brilliant stars.
Chapter XIX – The Nourishment of Thoughts
He was shaking vigorously. Was he having convulsions? What the hell was going on? His face was wet, his eyes were wet, his soul was wet. Had he been crying the whole night? Mama, why did you leave me alone? I need you, Mama! How he missed her even now, so many years after her death. The second wave of water showered his whole body. He shivered and opened his eyes.
“Come on then, sacristans, off to the baths with you all. To serve the Décamon! Up you get! Get on with it! It’s five in the morning, and there’s no time to lose. You’re going to be Décamon sacristans, by the Gods! No slacking allowed! Up you get!”
An army of priests in black cassocks was summoning the forty students violently and rigorously, military-style. Those shouts like knives in the side of the head—as a result of the hangover from dinner—weakened the faith of many.
Several boys were crying as they ran like hens with hungry foxes chasing them; others hastened to the showers to wake themselves up. A few were being sick, perhaps because they were hungover, perhaps because of the shock of being woken with a jet of cold water. Joermo, Kurlos, Ánomnos, and Argbralius strode to the showers with their brown cassocks in their hands.
They were used to getting up at seven in the morning with a sun that could warm both bodies and souls. Now it was five o’clock, and the world was still cold. The boys could not bear the water at that temperature.
In the classroom, the pupils were downcast and confused with hangovers and tiredness. Damasio put on his best stony face. “Welcome to the first day of your training as sacristans of the Décamon. I hope you enjoyed last night’s dinner because from now on, you won’t have much time for entertainment. Sacristans can never miss their daily duties at the Décamon, regardless of their state of health or spirit.
“Sacristans assist in the work of the priest in his daily mass. The sacristan is a pawn, yes, but an indispensable one. Don’t forget: You must never miss your duties for any reason.” The man cleared his throat to allow a pause. “Well now, in a year, you’ll be graduating. Good luck to all of you. I hope you’ll enjoy the process, which is difficult but brings its reward. Besides, you’ll be growing up as you go on.”
The boys, all teenagers except Argbralius, who looked a few years older, were yawning and did not attempt to hide their boredom, unlike their superiors and instructors, who gave every sign of being on top form.
The boys were reorganized and assigned new posts, then Orolio began the first lesson. “After each lesson, there will be a test. Anyone who fails will have to prepare an essay on the subject in question and hand it in the following day. If the essay is not handed in, expulsion is immediate and permanent.
“I recommend that you take notes, but the most important thing is that you should not be left with any doubts. Ask me during the class or afterward. You can always come to me. From now on, you’ll have very little free time and plenty of tasks and reading to do.”
Joermo and Kurlos looked at each other conspiratorially, conveying how fed up they were, and they weren’t the only ones. Délegas, on the other hand, gave nothing away. He was sitting nonchalantly, not bothering to prepare his materials for the class. His disinterest was absolute.
Other boys, like Argbralius, were already bent over their desks, pencils ready to take notes.
At four in the afternoon, the boys came out after nearly twelve unbroken hours of lessons. They had only stopped for a simple lunch of vegetable stew and fruit juice. The forty students, who had been divided because of the game of soccer, were united once again.
Exhaustion and the new demands left them with neither the time nor will to keep up the fight. All the same, there were three boys who remained loyal to big Délegas because they had a common goal.
It did not take long for Argbralius to demonstrate his skill as a student, and he soon surpassed most of them in carrying out the tasks. He showed a good memory, swiftness with his answers, and wit. All of this irritated his rivals, Délegas in particular.
Every day, when classes ended, the boys looked like newly released convicts. On their faces was the childlike joy of receiving a well-deserved present.
“Sons of the great country!” Joermo cried. “This is too intense.”
Ánomnos was stumbling. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“Water! Water!” Kurlos was shouting, play-acting his death right then and there. Argbralius, on the other hand, was quiet as if he were elsewhere.
“Yesterday, you had one of those nightmares again, Arg. How do you feel?” Joermo a
sked. He was feeling his head as if he had a migraine.
“Yes, it was horrible. I dreamed about—”
“Your mom?” Joermo said.
“Baby wants his mommy,” Kurlos began but stopped when Argbralius glared at him. He seemed ready to reopen the wounds Délegas had given him, which had still not completely healed.
Joermo tried to calm him. “Easy, Arg. We just want to help and understand you. You can tell us whatever you need to.”
Argbralius considered the offer. Maybe it would do him good to put his fears and obsessions into words and to share his concerns with his friends. He could not tell them everything, but perhaps talking about his mother would bring him comfort.
“I saw my mother die in front of my eyes. She was worn away by some unknown illness. Her hair was falling out, her eyes were like graves, and her face was eaten away as if by maggots. I saw her suffer so much. My father beat her a lot. My mother suffered terribly,” he said, shaking his head.
Joermo put a hand on his shoulder. “We understand you, Arg. You had a difficult childhood, and that’s something that happens quite often these days. Sometimes parents aren’t ready to have children, and they ruin them.”
Argbralius had also dreamed about the terrible image of his father, a demon with long wings surrounded by flames. And then the strength which surged up from within him and put an end to his father. But there was something else, a dark breath lurking in his mind and soul.
Joermo, Kurlos, and Ánomnos saw it: the brightness in Argbralius’ eyes and the energy which issued from his whole being that they were unable to identify. They felt uncomfortable, unable to stay by their friend’s side any longer. But then, that energy vanished, and once again, the boys were at peace with him.
“Thanks very much, my friends. I’m grateful for your support, but don’t worry. We’re here to become sacristans of the Décamon and teach the divine word. I like being in this place; I feel like I have hope here. I have no father and no mother, but my mother, before she died, wanted the best for me. Unfortunately, I had to watch her die.
“My father wasn’t like that. He beat me. I’ve still got a lot of hate in me and a lot of resentment, but I think I’ll find peace in here.”
“The Light bless you,” Ánomnos said. “You’re on the right path, Arg, the way of Light. The god Alac Arc Ángelo will be very happy with your decision, and he’ll help you achieve your wishes. The Décamon will bless you, and, little by little, you’ll forget the worst. We know you’re a good person and that you don’t seek evil or wish to harm anybody. After all, we all have a past, but it can always be remedied by the divine word of religion. And we’ll always back you.”
Kurlos put his hand on Argbralius’ shoulder. “We’re with you to the end. Together, we’ll win through this test. Now, how about going to the sports ground? A bit of sun and fresh air’ll be good for us.”
The boys celebrated the proposal. The game would make them forget their woes. Argbralius felt lucky and grateful to have those friends. On the other hand, he doubted the promise that one day he would be free of his torments.
***
The days went by quickly, so much so that time seemed to slip like water between the boys’ fingers. The physical and intellectual demands of their training began to show in the spirits of some of the chosen and their faith. Also, the links between them became stronger: they felt like they were a group fighting for the same goal.
Délegas remained isolated, ever more aggressive, as if he did not know how to manage some inner pressure. On one occasion, Orolio tried to talk to the boy but only got a glower and an uncomfortable silence.
After a few months, the youngsters began to receive shows of affection from their relatives who missed them in the form of letters or gifts, all except Argbralius. One boy with big ears, a long nose, thin legs, and fat fingers called Zinthio Naturas had received more than twenty letters in three months, three of them signed by girls.
Zinthio came from a remote village near Ágamgor where the families were closer, perhaps as a result of living permanently with the danger of Némaldon. The boy was delighted with every letter and took on new energy with those words.
One afternoon, Joermo was on his way back to his room after the day’s lessons. It was past four in the afternoon, and by now, the sun was setting over the religious city. He had read a letter from home and was carrying two others. When he came into the room, he noticed Argbralius start as he saw the letters.
“Hand them out, don’t worry,” Argbralius said. “You needn’t hide. I’m tired of you trying to protect me. Things are the way they are: You get letters, and I don’t. Well, that’s that. I haven’t got a family; it couldn’t be otherwise.”
Joermo made a face but accepted his friend’s words.
“Let’s see.” He read the headings. “This one’s for Joer—oh yes, it’s mine. Hey, Kurlos Maros. And Argbralius of Ágamgor.”
Argbralius’ eyes lit up as never before. His surprise was overwhelming. How could he expect to receive a letter there? He felt moved and did not try to hide it. His friends watched him in amazement, seeing that smile that, for the first time, seemed real to them.
Joermo handed him the envelope. It was like all the rest: white, rectangular, with his name on one side. Argbralius held the letter in his hands, weighing it, paying attention to its texture, looking at the handwritten calligraphy. He put it to his nose. It smelled of paper and herbs. He sat down on his bed and opened the envelope.
Dear Argbralius of Ágamgor:
We wish you a profitable experience during your training as a Décamon sacristan. We know you are a very capable individual and that, for a while, you were under the tutelage of Father Vurgomm. Before his death, Vurgomm told the authorities of Ágamgor that you were taking part in the program to become a sacristan. By means of this missive, Duke Nurimitzu wishes to convey to you that he would be very honored if you chose Ágamgor to do your practice.
Sincerely,
Nurimitzu Loyola, Duke and General of Ágamgor.
A tear ran down Argbralius’ cheek. For the first time in a long while, he felt appreciated. He put the letter under his pillow and looked at his expectant friends.
“It’s from Ágamgor. The duke has written to me! He’d like me to do my practice there. It seems my mentor told him where I’d gone and spoke highly of me! He wants me there! Can you believe it! Can you believe it? He wants me back in Ágamgor! That’s wonderful, by the life of the blessed Gods!” He burst into tears.
Joermo and Kurlos sat down beside their friend while Ánomnos remained standing, visibly jealous. He soon composed himself and managed to be honestly happy.
“Awesome, Arg! How wonderful to get such a good letter as that!” said Joermo.
“Wow, I wish someone appreciated me as much as that,” Kurlos said. “Only my parents believe in me like that. You’re the best, Arg, and that’s clear to everybody.”
“I wish they’d summon me to my town,” Ánomnos said with a sigh. “I don’t think they even know I’m here, but for you, Arg, you must be a celebrity in Ágamgor. The duke himself sent you the letter! And look at that paper! It’s royalty without a doubt. I feel I could eat it,” said the boy, licking the paper without anybody else noticing.
“But I don’t know whether I can go back to Ágamgor. My past there was so miserable that I’m terrified to walk its streets again.”
Their spirits turned somber, and the boys became aware of this.
“Don’t worry, Arg. You’ll decide where to go when the time comes. Now concentrate on becoming a good sacristan.”
Joermo always managed to soothe Argbralius. So they dropped the subject, and the boys got into bed.
***
Another month went by, during which the young men became used to their new routines of study, tasks, and schedules.
Many behaved as if they were already sacristans, and even in their physical appearance, certain holiness could be observed. Some had gained the rounded con
tours and flabbiness of religious men; others had that gaze that was somewhere between mysticism and wisdom.
Délegas, on the other hand, lagged. He murmured curses and distanced himself from his companions more and more. Those who had come close to him left him to get close to Argbralius, whose influence increased along with his intellectual progress.
One day, Orolio gave a very important lesson about the Emanating Rose and its derivatives.
“The Emanating Rose is a natural phenomenon discovered by Aryan Vetala. Our first evangelizer thought that this element, with its divine qualities, might bring religion closer to the faithful, given that stained glass windows, no matter how beautiful they might be, are distant and unreachable.
“However, a holy plant, sowed and cut by the sacristans, makes the faithful feel rooted in the earth and in touch with the deities. After the sacristan cuts the Emanating Rose, he gives it to the priest who will confer divine powers to it through the Conjuring Arts. The aim is to give it a celestial aura and to make it float within a crystal container.”
Father Orolio paused and gazed at his pupils.
“Yes, I know you’re wondering about the Conjuring Arts. Today, we’ll start to talk about the subject and we’ll continue throughout this month. We’ll practice the incantation of the Emanating Rose tomorrow. Now, when this lesson is over, you’ll be given a book about the principles of the Conjuring Arts, their branches, and their uses. Read it carefully, and don’t waste time because there are over two hundred pages of information that you need to know. Paper is very hard to make and very expensive. Your families paid dearly to get the money needed to pay for it. So keep that book dry and clean.
“Tomorrow, there will be a test at the beginning of the lesson to check that you’ve read it.”
The priest said a prayer. When he had spoken the may the Light bless you, he gave Argbralius a look which the boy did not understand. Could it have been for the book of Conjuring Arts, which he had exchanged for tobacco?
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