The Nichan Smile

by C. J. Merwild

  “Papa . . .” Javik turned pale, his black eyes ranging from Ero to the human.

  “Don’t make me repeat myself, Javik.”

  The man and his son stared at each other and words passed between them without the need to utter a single one. With his jaw clenched, the teenager finally obeyed Ero and returned to the village.

  An owl hissed in the distance. By reflex, Domino had placed himself in front of the human.

  “Come in,” their uncle said, once the uneasiness was partly over. “We’ve just come back from hunting, so don’t mind the mess. You’re going to eat and rest. I’ll pass by the baths. That’s no way to welcome family.”

  “Thank you,” Mora said.

  Inside, the village paved with stone slabs here and wooden planks there consisted of bamboo huts on stilts. They were black—flames kept vermin and humidity at bay—and their roofs were rounded, vaguely resembling the shell of a walnut. Unlike Kaemat, the village facing the sea in which the three brothers had grown up, Surhok was built around a small central square in the middle of which stood a large bronze bell suspended from a barked trunk carved with spirals. The enormous tooth of a beast hung under the skirt of the bell. At the end of the square, away from the houses, was a building with a pointed roof overlooking all the others. This building had no windows. Like the rest of the houses in the village, this huge structure rising to the sky had been burned black.

  Surhok Sanctuary, Domino guessed. Most towns and villages where nichans lived had one.

  Even at this late hour, the village was still bustling with life. Through the evening mist, many eyes cast curious glances at the numb and exhausted children arriving from the Gods only knew where. Most of them quickly noticed the small blond head carried by Mora, with his strange eyes and asymmetrical wings. But no one acted beyond those intrigued glances, as if Uncle Ero—Unaan of the Ueto Clan—at the head of the group was enough to legitimate their presence.

  The newcomers understood moments after entering the village, where the blood trails they’d followed for so many leagues came from. In the central square, a group of men and women expertly peeled and dismembered a nohl. From up close, the giant centipede beetle reeked of iron and excrement. One of the women had her arm buried up to her elbow in the insect’s entrails. With a sharp jerk, she freed herself, her brown skin beaded with clotted blood. At the end of her arm hung a viscous sac streaked with green veins, of a yellowish color recalling a pus-soaked abscess.

  Fat. Nohls used it to keep their newly killed food fresh in their nests. Nichans burned it for light.

  Domino had never seen one of such size; at least sixteen feet. More than twice the height of an adult nichan. A thousand questions bubbling in his mind, he moved away from the specimen, whose scattered guts glowed under the lamps and torches.

  Ero left his nephews there, abandoning them to the mercy of curious looks and the strong smell of blood. He returned a few minutes later, washed and dressed in a warm beige tunic. He invited the three brothers and their protégé into the village sanctuary.

  They entered a large room filled with long tables and benches. It was lit by grease lamps placed everywhere or hung from hooks, projecting a dim light that struggled to reach the high, dark ceilings. A few nichans ate and chatted at one of the tables as they entered, but their attention quickly faded from the children.

  Food was served to them. Mora sat down with Ero at a different table from his brothers. They were close enough for Domino to hear their conversation, though he already knew what his older brother soon told their uncle.

  They’d left their mother at dawn about three weeks ago. Domino and Beïka had helped their brother count the days. What was meant to be a distraction had later turned into a source of worry. Their mother had promised that she’d eventually follow them, that if all went well, she’d even be able to catch up to them within a few days. Domino now assumed that nothing had gone well. After more than two weeks, Beïka had asked not to count the days anymore, getting angry when Mora insisted on him continuing.

  “Do you know why she decided to leave you?” Ero asked.

  “She said there were Blessers inland, close to our village. Or partisans, she wasn’t sure. Apparently they’d captured several nichans and humans. She’d heard they were closing in on us. She told us to leave, that she and other people in the area would try something to fend them off.”

  At the other table, Domino looked down at his full plate. He dreamed of digging into the steaming, spicy meat and tasting the turnips that came with it. His stomach grumbled, hollow. But he didn’t like to eat without everyone at the table, so he didn’t touch anything. To his right, Beïka coughed and grabbed his clay cup to help swallow the food he choked on. He always ate too fast. To Domino’s left, the human stared at the grease lamps burning on the table.

  He’s waiting for Mora to eat too, Domino thought.

  “Know that your mother will be welcome when she arrives,” Ero said to Mora. “However, you are my responsibility for the moment. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I understand.”

  “You’ll have to swear an oath to me. Only nichans who do so may stay. A matter of precaution. Do you know what it is?”

  “The oath? Yes.”

  “You boys don’t have a chief, do you?”

  “No.”

  “No, of course you don’t. No need to worry about that. It won’t be a blood oath; you and your brothers are just passing through. Your vows will suffice for now. As I said, nothing to worry about. We’ll see about that when the time comes.”

  Mora nodded and thanked Ero before getting up.

  “One more thing.” His uncle stopped him, and Mora turned to him, tense from head to toe as Ero stared at the little human with a glance sharp enough to cut through flesh. “Can you explain that to me?”

  That? Domino frowned, upset. This human child was no object or beast, even if his behavior . . . He was a person, not that.

  Mora looked over his shoulder at the human and took some time to consider before answering. “About two days ago, we came across some humans. They were going to kill him. Purify him.”

  The deep burn imprinted by the rope on the child’s throat was as noticeable as his inhuman eyes.

  “So you saved him?” Ero asked, and tension moved from one body to the next, leaving Domino stiff on his bench.

  How would he be punished when his uncle learned that he’d endangered his brothers by attacking these two humans? Beïka had slapped him that day. The punishment to come would probably leave a more noticeable mark.

  “It just happened,” Mora said. “We didn’t think.” Even Beïka stopped eating at these words and gave his little brother an unpleasant look. “I know he’s a Vestige but . . . he’s just a child. I thought he might have a better chance of surviving if I took him. The Blessers have no hearts. We do.”

  “You have a point,” Ero confirmed. “But humans aren’t meant to grow with nichans. Least of all Vestiges. We’re not in Netnin here. This isn’t a freakshow.”

  “I know.”

  “Anything strange happened since he’s been with you?”

  “No. No, nothing at all. He doesn’t talk. He’s a bit of a wild thing. They had time to hang him,” he whispered. “I don’t think he speaks our language, though. We found this on the men we killed.”

  Mora held out the leather satchel, which chimed as it landed in Ero’s palm. The man opened it and chuckled. Mora hadn’t let them look inside, but he’d told his brothers that the money in that purse could have bought their house ten times over, if not more.

  “Sirlhain myrts,” Ero said. “Did you count them?”

  “Two hundred silver heads and change. I don’t know much about Sirlhain money, but one of the humans mentioned five hundred myrts.”

  “You understood what they’re saying?”

  “They had an accent, but I’m pretty sure they were Torbs. I have the feeling someone hired them to kill the child.”

  “Paying
them in Sirlhain currency,” Ero whispered as he looked down at the Vestige. “The Sirlhain Blessers kill the Vestiges, and nichans they capture themselves. They have no reason to hire foreigners to do their dirty work. Somebody went through a lot of trouble to get rid of this kid.”

  Mora cleared his throat. “You can keep the money.”

  Ero smiled slightly, as if amused by this generosity. His expression seemed to say, You bet your ass I’m going to keep it.

  “If the Vestige is Sirlhain, we have someone here who can talk to it,” Ero announced, awakening Domino’s attention. “I’ll send her when I have time. Maybe she’ll be able to find out exactly where it came from, and if it’s wise to keep it here.”

  I I I

  The human’s name was Marissin. Meaningless. He’d wipe it out of his brain if he possessed such power. If someone called him that again, he’d feign ignorance. No one would know the truth. He’d never say anything.

  Never.

  Hidden in the shadows, he curled up and hugged his legs. Through the many pounding footsteps coming from all sides, he knew safety no longer stood, that he’d be caught eventually. He blocked his breathing, tucked his neck in.

  Go away, you don’t want to find me. Just leave me alone.

  A mute and useless prayer. He’d begged anyone willing to listen to be left in peace since those men had come for him. No one listened. The Gods had not answered a single prayer for nearly two centuries. They’d disappeared. Their beautiful faces no longer brightened the sky. It was the first thing ever taught to Marissin.

  Leave me alone . . .

  These people, so tall, with their dark eyes, wouldn’t respond to his plea. Only unknown, incomprehensible words came out of their mouths. Even if his prayer turned into a scream, the only result would be a sore throat.

  Long, bare feet passed his hiding place. The child followed their progression.

  Go away!

  Then the same feet retraced their steps. When they stopped in front of him, Marissin straightened up like the rope that had been passed around his neck. Instinctively, his hand covered the aching wound circling his throat. If they captured him, would they put another rope around his neck? It had felt as if they’d tried to separate his head from the rest of his body. He . . .

  No, not now. It was that memory, that feeling that no words could convey, that threatened to surrender the rest of his strength. He couldn’t afford to think about it.

  After his escape, he hadn’t gone far—it was no wonder he’d been found so easily—yet a glimmer of hope had turned him into a fool. A fool who could not run, who could not go back home. No one could be trusted, he was certain of that. Not a single soul, not when even Mother had left him . . . No! This memory had to be suppressed as well.

  A shadowy face appeared in front of the corner sheltering the child. The newcomer sighed before saying something in his unknown language. Then he extended his hand toward the human, who reacted by reflex. A faint squeak escaped his lips as he bent down to grab this outstretched hand with his teeth. His jaw snapped in the air. It didn’t stop a second attempt, and another. Each missed its target. The person facing him yielded and growled something. It was an expletive, Marissin was sure of it.

  The table above his head suddenly shook and then rose with a loud grinding sound. Light invaded the child’s hiding place, and he unfolded his legs to flee. But where could he run? A fool, through and through.

  So the tallest of the boys grabbed him in his arms and shattered his hopes.

  Domino should have been in the water by now. The fumes rose up behind his back, their comforting warmth inviting him to forget about everything else and immerse himself completely. He’d gotten rid of his wet, cold clothes, exposing his skin to the soft clamminess of the baths, and then turned to the human. Mora had found the blond child in no time at all. It had to be said: the winged boy reeked of sweat, piss, and filth. Any nichan could have tracked him down with eyes closed.

  “Go wash yourself, Domino.” Mora had repeated himself more than once, but his little brother still didn’t obey.

  Domino wanted to wait for the human. In his condition, the child would probably need his help to clean himself. On the other side of the long room, Beïka was vigorously rubbing his belly and arms with soap. There were no such places in Kaermat. Soap, a bucket of water, and a sponge had always been enough. Here the instructions were different: they would wash from top to bottom in front of a fountain that could be activated with a pump. Then they would rinse themselves under the same fountain before going to the stone basin flooded with hot water to warm up and loosen their muscles. To bathe in cold water, one had to turn to an identical basin on the other side of the room.

  A pile of clean cloths and towels had been placed at the baths’ entrance.

  When Domino turned his attention to the human, Mora undressed. Wordlessly, the teenager sniffed his tunic and rippled his soft face in a deep grimace. Then he grabbed the braid of black hair resting on his shoulder and repeated the same process. Each gesture was studied to serve his purpose: it was time to wash.

  It didn’t have the desired effect. The little human pressed himself harder against the wall.

  “He doesn’t understand,” Domino said, noting that his brother’s impatience was beginning to wane.

  “Of course he understands. He’s just scared.”

  “Why? We’re nice, aren’t we?”

  Mora sighed and rose to his feet, unraveling his long braid. “The door is locked. He’s not going anywhere.”

  “But he must wash himself. I can help him.”

  “Forget it.”

  How? Domino looked down at the human and wondered if he could ignore his presence. His wings, his fascinating eyes, his hair that must have been golden underneath the dirt. After a brief reflection, he decided that it wasn’t possible.

  “This is the last time I’m telling you this—go wash yourself, Domino.” Mora walked away, took the rest of his clothes off, and sat on a low stool in front of one of the faucets. When the water began to pour, Domino was still studying the human’s curled up body.

  There had to be a solution. That stench, that filth, not to mention the boy’s blood-crusted nails and skin—Domino could stand neither the sight nor the smell of it. They awoke discomfort in his belly while reviving the memory of the man pulling the rope. The child probably ignored how badly he needed a bath.

  He was scared. That was why Domino had to help him.

  It would be impossible to carry the child to one of the fountains and clean him, yet Domino couldn’t stop marveling at the thought. He’d saved this boy’s life. Bathing him would probably be child’s play. Mora had done this dozens of times with his brothers when their mother was busy. Domino still lacked strength, but he could do it. He had to, otherwise who else would take care of this little one?

  He walked to one of the fountains and pressed it down several times. Water sprinkled on his legs and feet; it was hot. A glance over his shoulder reassured him. The human had not moved an inch. Domino took the brown soap from a small wooden dish and one of the cloths hanging on a hook and passed them under the water. His fingers disappeared under the lather, and a strong, musky scent mixed with the surrounding sweat.

  Now ready, he returned to the boy, whose wide eyes promised danger ahead.

  “Just to be clean.” And Domino crouched down in front of him, gently bringing the wet cloth to the child’s pale face. The child moved backwards, his gaze going from Domino’s to the cloth carefully wiping the corner of his chin.

  The dirt gradually faded away, and Domino continued his cleaning, gaining confidence with each passing swipe over the jaw, the cheeks, the brow. He avoided the sensitive burned part on the boy’s temple and forehead.

  Before him, the little boy was as still as a rock, but the tension in his body was thickening the hot air into paste. The thunderous beating of his heart reached Domino’s ears. The nichan slowed his movements. A small voice whispered to him that he was
taking a risk.

  Yet the human was letting it happen.

  This was permission enough for Domino. “The rest we must clean up too,” he announced.

  He reached out and grabbed the hem of the human’s tunic. Before he realized his mistake, Domino was shoved by two small hands. He collapsed backward, right onto his ass.

  “Domino, get away from him,” Mora ordered.

  Domino froze, staring at the child, who now rubbed his filthy hands all over his face. The shock of seeing his help and efforts rejected was more painful than the hard stones against his cheeks. What was the reason for this? What had he done wrong? Domino only wanted to help him. If the human let him, he would see that Domino meant him no harm. Until he was older and big enough to fight, this was the only place where he could prove himself useful. Maybe he had to try harder.

  Yes, harder.

  As he stood and walked forward again to take over the human’s ablution, a hand gripped Domino and shoved him away. Breathlessly, the child dropped his cloth and soap.

  “Leave him alone,” Mora said, frowning, the spitting image of their mother at that moment. “Go and wash. Now.”

  At last Domino obeyed.

  The darkness was a poor attempt at familiarity, although Marissin was used to it. He’d spent most of his life lying on or sitting in its cold embrace. It seemed to him that all sorts of things could, like him, lurk in the dark—things with no faces, waiting for him, preparing to hurt him.

  The darkness had always been there. Then Mother came, the sound of her footsteps gradually approaching. The door opened, and she joined him in the back of the room only lit by a white crystal lamp that sizzled continuously. In the distance, the man in black waited. He didn’t move, didn’t utter a word. He always stayed too far away for Marissin to discern his features.

  Mother watched, judged, then talked. “I can see you didn’t sleep, Marissin. You don’t have to wait. I’ll be back when I’m back.” She opened the Artean, the Book of Blessings, placed it on her lap, asked Marissin to sit up straight and listen with all the attention the Gods had given him. The little boy listened, as concentrated on the words Mother recited as on the movements of her thin lips, of her white fingers on the worn pages. However, no matter how much attention she forced him to devote to the teaching, he always ended up looking toward the door.