by Jacky Gray
Rattrick asked him to help Savannah set up her pitch. As Geraint positioned the water barrel, he asked about what had happened. ‘I don’t understand why he jumped. I never sent the bad energy back; you taught me we never deliberately try to hurt someone.’
‘I know. Well done for remembering to cleanse the energy before you sent it back, but I’m afraid the instant your shield raised, the negativity would have been returned to sender. Manfrid received the full force of his own venom until you completed the intention to cleanse it first.’
‘Oh dear, I never meant to hurt him.’
‘No, because you have a pure heart, unlike him. Take no blame; you did everything exactly right. If he got a taste of his own medicine, it’s no more than he deserves.’ Savannah pondered as she connected the waste pipe to a second, empty barrel. ‘In fact, if the universe is doing its job properly, he would have felt three times the hatred he sent you.’ She frowned at his miserable expression. ‘Why the worried face? I said it’s not your fault.’
‘You think that will make one jot of difference? Manfrid already has so much resentment toward me. This will just remind him how badly he needs to make me suffer.’
Savannah regarded him for a moment, her head tilted slightly to the left as though listening to someone. ‘And he’s such a coward he won’t challenge you directly, but try to hurt something dear to you. Don’t worry, I will look after Ciria while you compete in the games.’
With her assurance in mind, Geraint entered the first contest with a lighter heart. Unlike Manfrid, who’d grown fat and slow since their last meeting and didn’t qualify in any of the heats. He no longer commanded the respect of his former gang; only Georgios seemed content to be in his company. The rest were split between Nestor and Tamas, who both qualified for the semi-final, but the final stage saw Geraint squaring up against Tamas.
The scar across his face didn’t seem quite so livid, and Geraint thought of the way the boy had questioned Manfrid’s authority: He did everything but actively support Geraint. Tamas nodded to acknowledge his opponent’s worthiness, but the remorse on his face said he, too, remembered the incident on the bridge. The fleeting look was quickly replaced by a bland expression which disguised the fierce concentration required to react effectively to Geraint’s opening move.
Their staffs rang out a sonorous note every time they met, which was often since both boys were fit, fresh and wielded the short cudgels with comfortable expertise. Each clash was fast and acrobatic as they took turns to be the aggressor while the other boy blocked and dodged, twisting and spinning to stay inside the circle. The first one to put a foot outside lost the bout, and the contest comprised the best of three. If either competitor became disarmed, it meant automatic success to the other. This led many boys to use dishonourable tactics, aiming for the hand which held the staff, hoping the pain would make their opponent let go.
There was none of that here. Underhand tactics were not required as both boys were skilful and, even if they weren’t, it would not have entered their heads to play dirty. This became more than just a good match; the spectators were given a rare treat. It seemed as though each boy tuned into the thoughts of the other, anticipating his every move in an elegant dance.
Tamas was first to concede a round, although his reactions were so quick he twisted and only put half a heel outside the ring. The sharp-eyed adjudicators on both sides spotted it and two blue flags of the home team were raised. Breathing heavily, both boys took the full two minutes to recover.
At the horn, they returned to the centre with grim smiles as they clashed the staffs above their heads, marking the start of the round. Tamas showed his hand early with a fast sequence of moves which took Geraint by surprise, forcing him to the edge of the ring. Teetering over the brink, a detached part of his brain registered that, should he not manage to regain his balance, they would have another two minute breather and be a lot fresher for the final bout than if he righted himself and they fought on for the full ten minutes.
Even as a more virtuous part of his brain questioned the honour in that, his body must have decided it was a legitimate tactic as his toe landed just outside the circle. Two orange flags for the away team shook with righteous energy as they zipped up above heads for the crowd to see. The reaction from the crowd told him his body’s instincts were good; both sides were shouting with glee at the even match.
The third bout saw the stuff of epics: Two heroic gladiators battling it out in the arena. In a ballet orchestrated by the Gods, each move showed a text-book example of how the game should be played. Tamas had no opportunity at the start to pitch a winning run. Geraint was ready for his strategies, anticipating every feint. He parried each attack, blocking and responding in a smooth, relentless rhythm.
Neither contender resorted to the fiercely competitive banter typical between boys of this age. Normally, each boy would try to distract the other with slurs against the other’s ability or insults against their family. The crowd were moved to silence by their intense concentration, the only sounds being the scuffle of boot against dust and the ringing of staffs. Occasionally, a collective drawing in of breath at the skill and audacity of these finely matched contenders could be heard.
In the battle of wills, Geraint had one thing on his side. He recognised his opponent as completely worthy, and this allowed him to detach himself from the outcome. It didn’t matter to him which one of them won, their skills were equally balanced and both deserved the victory. Savannah’s teaching had deepened his knowledge about having faith and understanding that sometimes, the universe knew best.
Tamas stumbled on the uneven ground. Despite hungry shouts from the crowd to finish, Geraint did not think it proper to take advantage of his opponent’s misfortune, so he paused for a beat to let Tamas recover his balance. Hereward’s clan appreciated his restraint, so when he won after anticipating Tamas’s final attempt at a fast run, both sides applauded Geraint equally.
A true sport, Tamas was gracious in defeat, congratulating him on an intelligent win. ‘I guess that’ll teach me to use dodgy tactics.’
‘Nothing dodgy about your killer run; it was superb.’
‘No, I meant the stumble. How did you know it was a feint?’
‘I didn’t.’
‘So you didn’t go for the killing blow because ...?’
‘It would not have been honourable.’
Tamas grinned and clapped him on the back. ‘I should have remembered your strong principles; you showed mercy to Manfrid last year.’
Geraint’s face twisted in pain. ‘And he repaid me by turning my girlfriend against me.’
The time for talking ended as Rattrick came up to congratulate his son on a splendid victory, bemoaning the fact he won no money this time as no-one was prepared to bet against him.
The two finalists sat together during the feast and, after the soup dishes had been cleared, Tamas returned to their earlier conversation as he tried to apologise. ‘I-I’m sorry about the part I played in the awful ambush at the bridge.’ His shame was evident as he shook his head. ‘I was so disgusted by Manfrid’s lack of honour, I never listened to a word he said ever again.’
Geraint sighed. The wound still bled several moons on, but he sensed Tamas’s need to be forgiven. He nodded acknowledgement.
‘You shamed us with your courage.’ Tamas shook his head as he reached for his ale. ‘Until that night, we lived in fear of his bullying. He made us do horrible things and if we challenged him, he used innocent animals to force our obedience.’
Geraint frowned. ‘Why not simply ignore him?’
‘I tried once. The next day a dead squirrel’s blood soaked my pillow. It had been tortured.’ He looked away. ‘If any boy dared defy him, he threatened terrible revenge on their sisters or younger brothers.’
‘He sounds charming.’
‘The thing we feared most was his claim he would turn Hereward against our families.’
‘Why would Hereward listen to him?’
‘Because Manfrid is his nephew.’
‘Of course. The ties of blood are strong.’
‘Apparently not that strong. I know he’s tried to make trouble for us on many occasions since, but Hereward has more sense than to take notice of his whining.’ He took a swig, frowning at its flavour.
‘As I remember, you took my part several times against him. You were the only one who stood up for me.’
‘I tried to, but I could have done a lot more.’
Geraint shrugged. ‘You did what you could under the circumstances. It was enough.’ He swigged the ale with a matching frown. This was strong stuff.
‘I’m glad you think like that, but one good thing came out of the whole sorry mess. A few of the other boys felt like me, which was the beginning of the end of Manfrid’s reign of terror.’
‘So it all turned out for the best.’
‘Except for your girl. She was really pretty, I couldn’t understand why he called her ugly.’
Geraint grinned, explaining the trick he’d played. They forged a strong bond as the meal progressed. When the final plates were cleared away, Tamas invited him back to his van to meet his parents.
Goran’s visible disappointment at his son’s defeat was lessened by Joelle’s generous welcome. She plied Geraint with ale and offered savoury biscuits which melted in his mouth. They were such good company he lost all sense of time, and the sun hung low in the sky when an image of Ciria came into his mind. He sensed trouble – she needed him.
Standing abruptly, he reeled, sending the very worst thoughts into his mind. Tamas had tricked him, pretending to make friends so Manfrid and the rest of the gang could terrorise his poor dog. Geraint didn’t want to cause a fuss in front of Joelle who could not have known about the plot, so he thanked her politely for her hospitality, saying he had to check on his dog.
He struggled to keep his composure as his mind whispered nasty things about how Tamas had set him up. Hadn’t he admitted using underhand tactics in the contest? The boy obviously had no morals. The idea that his judgement had been so poor hurt Geraint more than anything else, so when the object of his evil thoughts jumped to his feet asking if Ciria was alright, his instinct was to knock him straight back down.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Tamas was a master, innocence itself.
‘No thanks. You’ve done enough.’ It took every effort to make his tone innocuous, but the look he shot at Tamas sizzled with the force of his anger, blistering the pretend concern off his face.
The fact the door to Savannah’s van was uncharacteristically closed barely pierced his consciousness. A tiny atom of respect filtered through the red mist of panic, and he raised his hand to knock on the door only to have the top half flung open. The healer’s face was rosy and he expected the full force of her anger, but she asked in a mild voice what all the panic was about. A subconscious part of his brain registered her tousled hair, and her hands flew to smooth the tumbled curls as he stuttered his request.
‘Ciria needed to relieve herself.’ Savannah’s tone held a morsel of humour. ‘She’ll be in the woods somewhere.’
‘How long has she been gone?’
‘I don’t know. Not long enough for me to be concerned.’
A movement inside drew his eyes to the van and something fell to the floor, followed by a muffled oath. Geraint’s eyes widened as he recognised his father’s voice and it became obvious why her clothes were disarrayed. Savannah was far too distracted by what she and Rattrick had been doing to pay any attention to the dog. Ciria could have been gone for hours.
Ignoring the commanding tone as she called his name, Geraint ran past the van into the forest, calling Ciria’s name and trying to make a mental connection with the path she’d taken. His fear and anger were getting in the way, so he forced himself to sit down on a log and connect with the earth energies. Shutting his eyes and stilling his brain, he narrowed his sensory input to just sound and smell. Still way too much data for his brain to process. Although he knew Ciria’s particular aroma well, the multitude of strong scents from the trees, plants and animals which inhabited the woods masked it easily.
He thought back to a technique he’d seen Hunter teaching the seniors. They started by identifying each smell one at a time. Breathing in deeply, he recognised that the damp, peaty smell of the earth itself was strongest, underlying all others. Acknowledging its unique tones, he discarded it, then went on to the next one. All the time, his ears were tuned in to the trees whispering in the breeze and the scrabble of small creatures. He picked up the soft, regular padding of feet and prepared for the stealthy approach.
21 A Remarkable Friend
‘Geraint, don’t attack, I have a message from Savannah.’
But Geraint’s hackles were up, and he had Tamas in an arm lock before the sentence completed. ‘Is this another one of your tricks?’
‘No, I promise; I’ve come to help.’ He choked on the last word, and Geraint released his hold slightly, allowing the boy to take in some air. ‘Savannah said if Ciria were being mistreated, she would protest and you would feel her pain.’
‘Possibly.’ Not a natural aggressor, Geraint released his captive. ‘Is that it?’
Tamas massaged his throat ‘She said you must focus on your connection to Ciria.’
‘What does she think I’ve been doing? I can’t feel her because your mates have already killed her. Oh, what’s the use?’
Tamas turned on him. ‘Do you care about this dog of yours?’
Geraint wanted nothing more than to punch him.
‘Go on, punch me if you need to. Just get rid of the anger blocking you. I promise, I don’t know of any plans Manfrid has to hurt your dog. I don’t think he even knows about her.’
With a snort of derision, Geraint relaxed as Tamas continued. ‘You saw what he’s become: fat and slow. Nobody takes any notice of him anymore.’
‘So why did Ciria reach out to me? She was definitely hurting.’
‘Maybe she’s caught in a trap. I can help you track her. Sit down and focus on her. Tell me what she looks like.’
With Tamas’s help, Geraint dug deep into his sub-conscious to describe his pet’s habits and how she liked to hunt for funghi and dig up the sweet roots of the fruit trees. As they searched, Tamas’s sharp eyes picked up a paw print; then they both heard the sound of a stream. A number of prints showed where she’d quenched her thirst and they spotted a few hairs in a patch of dusty earth.
‘She squirmed on her back here; it’s one of her favourite things.’ Geraint smiled at the picture.
‘Probably had an itch. This is good.’
The grin on Geraint’s face was blown away by a chilly breeze which raised goose bumps on his arm after the heat of this last day in July. That, along with the unmistakeable smell, could only mean one thing. Rain. A grey cloud darkened the sun, stealing the last hour of daylight.
‘Damn that cloud, we’ll never find her now.’ Geraint panicked.
Tamas’s energy was irrepressible. ‘This will make it easier. Where would she go to get out of the rain?’
‘I don’t know. The nearest shelter, I suppose. No, wait. She prefers a scented bush like rosemary or healing trees like willow and linden.’
‘Right, I know just the place.’
Geraint paused; Tamas was still an unknown quantity. His intuition whispered it could be another trick, but the boy went charging off the path. Following his former enemy with great reluctance, Savannah’s stern voice inside his head, startled him. ‘Stop this now. Is it your choice to live in a world of fear, surrounded by enemies? Trust that this boy’s motives are nothing but good, and it will be so.’
All thoughts of danger evaporated as he spied the pale body lying under the yew bush. With a strangled sound, he fell to the ground next to his beloved animal. As he felt her warmth, he lost control of the water collecting in his eyes, and it escaped to wet his cheeks. He saw no physical sign of mistreatment, but something obviously ailed
her. She barely had the energy to lift her head, and her greeting was merely a hoarse expulsion of air which could not be called a bark.
Lowering his head to hers, he was rewarded with a brief flick of her tongue, seeking the salt in his tears. ‘Ciria.’ His voice cracked as he gently cradled her head onto his lap, trying to hug her body from this awkward position. ‘What’s wrong, babe? Did you eat something bad?’ His mind flooded with memories of seeing her like this after one of the funghi disagreed with her.
Tamas hovered with an air of uncertainty, as though he wanted to say something but didn’t know which words to use.
‘Say it out loud. You think they poisoned her, don’t you?’ Geraint voiced the concern building up inside him.
‘No.’ Tamas spat the word out in his haste to quash the idea. ‘No, she would be behaving very differently if she were poisoned.’ Taking a deep breath as though making up his mind, Tamas sat on the ground next to Ciria. ‘I’m sorry mate; there is no easy way to say this. I’m afraid Ciria is dying.’
‘What? How do you know this?’
Tamas shrugged. ‘It’s a gift. My mother says it comes from her mother; she could sense when people were about to die.’
‘No, you’re lying again. Get lost.’ Geraint shoved the other boy so hard, he toppled into a bed of nettles, putting his hand full into them as he tried to get his balance.
‘Ouch.’ Tamas grabbed some dock leaves and squeezed them in his poor hand to release the healing juices.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you have to stop pestering me like this, telling me lies.’
‘I swear an oath I have not lied. Why would I lie to you? You’re the first boy I’ve met who didn’t even notice my scar, let alone tease me about it.’ His face flushed with anger as he looked away, but his voice was gentle when he finally continued. ‘You’re hurting at the thought of life without your best friend. Think about it, and you’ll know it’s true. What possible advantage could I gain by lying about something like that?’