The Nichan Smile

by C. J. Merwild

  Feanim had gathered his belongings for departure. Domino didn’t know how long the man had lived in the village. Feanim said nothing when the question was raised.

  “Whatever,” he grumbled as he checked the young man’s stitches. “Half of my herbs are good to throw in the fire. Might as well restock before shit happens. Or more shit.”

  “So? Where will you go? You have family somewhere?”

  Feanim shrugged before writing a smirk on his thin lips. “Who gives a shit? I’m not going to run out of nichans to treat, considering this mess.”

  In the corner of the tent, a new wheelbarrow waited to be loaded. It’d follow Feanim wherever he’d choose to go.

  “Give him two short weeks,” the healer told Ero, palpating Domino’s shoulder. “He’s young and healthy. Next month he’ll have forgotten about the damn hunting accident.”

  A hunting accident. Not what Domino would have called it. His failure felt more accurate.

  In the meantime, there was no going back on the road. Domino couldn’t do it and knew his uncle wouldn’t risk traveling with partisans roaming the countryside, not if the situation was as critical as they’d been told.

  “Two weeks . . . We’ll avoid the roads,” Ero concluded.

  “Are you heading west?” Feanim asked, lifting Domino’s elbow. A spasm stirred the boy’s arm. He grimaced.

  “Not west, no,” said Ero.

  “No?” Feanim continued to manipulate Domino, making him bend and unfold his arm, pushing his shoulder with his palm.

  “We’re continuing southeast,” Ero said.

  Sitting on the floor, packing up their supplies, Memek didn’t react. The conversation she’d had with Ero the night of the bear attack seemed to have persuaded her not to doubt her father’s decisions today.

  So the pilgrimage hadn’t reached its end yet. The Unaan hadn’t changed his mind or given up. After being attacked by a bear, Domino had feared a turnaround and had almost seen Surhok appear on the horizon.

  Deep relief filled his chest.

  Domino jumped again. His arm kept going numb and contracting in an untimely manner.

  “Push against my hand, kid,” Feanim told him in a lazy tone.

  Still troubled by Ero’s news and the discomfort running up and down in his arm bones and muscles, Domino had to focus to perform. He pressed his hand against the doctor’s long fingers. A pain pierced his right shoulder and his hand slipped from his grasp. His fingers bent, both soft and out of control.

  “Damn it,” Domino swore.

  “Easy, calm down,” Feanim said in a relaxed voice. “The nerves are probably damaged. It happens. It’s fucked up, but it happens.”

  After long seconds, Domino was able to bend his fingers again. As his thumb closed around his fist, another spasm ripped a grunt out of him, and the healer placed the scarf back on.

  “Stop it, kid. If you seek trouble, that’s all you’ll get. Give yourself time to heal.”

  Time to heal. Domino was running out of time. Ero didn’t intend to interrupt the pilgrimage, but he would eventually change his mind if Domino’s situation remained hopeless.

  Whatever was happening in the south, with all those partisans on the warpath, Domino had to be ready to face it. He had to find a way to free himself from his own shackles before it was too late.

  X X V I I

  Beïka seemed to have had an epiphany. He had always been a violent person, even as a child. Gus remembered very well the kick that had sent him into the river; the violent slaps that used to smack Domino’s cheeks. There had been some pinches strong enough to leave bruises. These gestures from adults had always appeared harmless—the punishments of a not-so-delicate older brother, nothing more. Mora had sometimes surprised such gestures, had interfered. Never mind, Beïka had learned a very simple lesson: to make it a secret.

  An epiphany.

  Sitting against a tree, palms pressing against his eyes, fingers buried in his bright hair, Gus struggled with nausea. He’d already emptied his stomach next to him, still the twitching of his belly was unbearable. A slight spasm twisted his insides; he gnashed his teeth. He could barely swallow for fear of throwing up. So he brushed his tongue over his teeth, collecting the acidic remains staining the inside of his mouth, and spat at his feet, drooling partly on his chin.

  His shaking was out of control. He was soaked with sweat. It still ran down his back, between his wings.

  Come on, move. Don’t stay like this.

  The young man sniffed and uncovered his eyes. Not far from him, a beige spot in the middle of the dark vegetation caught his eye. The sheets from the infirmary.

  Beïka had dragged him by the wrist from the riverbank to the depths of the village woods. Gus hadn’t had time to get on his feet. One hand holding the human, the other carrying the sheets the boy had been cleaning seconds ago, Beïka had applied the lesson he’d learned from years of persistent cruelty: he’d found a discreet spot to keep this a secret.

  No reason was given to justify what happened, but did he need one anyway? Gus could see the nichan’s face, the pleasure he took in dragging him behind him, pulling his hair, throwing him to the ground. Gus had tried to run away. A breathtaking blow to the gut had interrupted the foolish attempt. A punch, a kick, he’d never know. And as he’d run out of breath and as his heart threatened to stop in the midst of his jolts, Beïka had slammed his pale face into the wet earth for long seconds. No more air or light. The nichan hadn’t even said a single word. Once released, Gus had immediately started to vomit.

  Then Beïka had released his dick from his pants, turning away from a still gasping Gus. The freshly washed sheets were now covered with cold urine.

  Beasts! They’re beasts. Words of which Gus thought more and more, remnant of a past that, in the moment, could have belonged to another man. Right now, he wasn’t sure anymore of who he was, of when he’d last breathed normally, and why the earth beneath his feet still felt so close to his scratched face.

  A silence sob bounced in his chest.

  No one would look for him, there was no rush. He could sit here a little while longer. So Gus did, until his stomach recovered enough to allow him to walk again.

  That same evening, in the brazier of his hut whose door he kept an eye on every night, Gus burned the sheets he refused to clean.

  To clean Beïka’s piss . . .

  Over my dead body.

  Muran complained. Her sheets were missing. She asked Gus what he had done with them. Nothing, he said. He’d washed them and put them back where they belonged. The sheets were missing, though. Gus suggested she might have moved them and forgot. The nichan turned sour. She drank enough to forget half her actions of the day.

  “Washing the sheets is your responsibility,” the woman recalled.

  “If you say so.”

  The woman’s hand rose. Gus retreated with a flutter of his eyelids, his chest compressed by a start. She was going to hit him, his mind told him. A mistake. No blow reached his face or hurled his guts up his throat. She was instead pointing to the door to kick him out. She barely noticed his confusion and the fear that had bleached his face.

  As he walked away from the infirmary, Gus found himself on the threshold of a home other than his own. Built on stilts, the hut was a little larger and better maintained than any other in the village. The steps leading up to the front door had been swept away. The door itself appeared to have been brushed, and several birds had nested under the woven bamboo stems.

  Watching the surroundings through the heavy darkness of the evening, Gus raised his fist and knocked.

  The front door opened, revealing a tidy, incense-smelling interior. Matta’s countenance darkened as she discovered Gus’s face. The young man’s cheek was still covered with small gashes after being pressed so violently against the ground. The bruises, several weeks older, still colored his cheekbone like gushes of purple and yellow ink. His thin, white skin marked way too easily.

  So what? His cheek
would heal. For the moment, he had only one thing on his mind, and his determination couldn’t wait another minute.

  “Good evening,” Matta said, obviously trying not to examine the young man’s wounds too insistently. “What can I do for you?”

  “I have a favor to ask of you,” said Gus.

  “Why, I’m all ears.”

  “Teach me how to fight.”

  The woman paused, licking her lips, staring at the boy. Gus stood still, waiting without showing any sign of impatience. But he hoped she’d bring him in quickly. He didn’t want anyone to see him, even though no one would know—or care about—the purpose of his late visit.

  When Matta stepped aside to invite him in, she seized the opportunity to take a good look at him from head to toe. Gus pretended not to see anything and crossed the threshold.

  Before agreeing to Gus’s request, Matta offered him a seat at her table, which took up almost half the space of the small hut. She brought to the table the grease lamp, placed a second one not far away, and then lit it. The golden flame stretched in flickering waves and warmed an earthenware vase filled with a bunch of twisted branches. A heady scent reminiscent of an overripe melon tickled Gus’s nostrils.

  Sitting on the edge of a small bench, waiting for his answer, Gus watched the woman bustle around the room, remaining silent, suddenly wondering if his idea wasn’t downright absurd.

  He didn’t want to involve anyone, for his problems with Beïka were nobody’s business. But he lacked a solution. Beïka would come back. He was enjoying himself way too much to stop. Gus could feel it in his abdomen, still tense with pain and anticipation.

  When the Santig’Nell finally sat down next to him, in her hand was a round tin can. She opened it, and a scent of arnica rose to the boy’s nose, blending with the other smells filling the hut.

  “A boost to the healing process. May I?” Matta asked, pointing with her chin at Gus’s face and then at the jar of ointment.

  Gus had more than once taken small amounts of herbs and balm for his own or Domino’s use, but never a whole jar. With his gift, he didn’t often need a remedy. He was surprised to find that Matta had also stolen something from the herbalist. Arnica only grew in the heights, outside the village, and, as far as he knew, Matta had no access to it.

  “No need,” Gus answered.

  He figured it would have been better if he hadn’t come. He’d missed the chance to weigh the pros and cons, had only felt a strong need to learn how to defend himself. The way Matta had tried to get him out of Issba’s clutches some time earlier had influenced his judgment. But the more he considered it now, the stupider it felt.

  Him, defending himself against a nichan? What a fool.

  It was the request of a desperate man, and he hated more than anything to have come to this point.

  “Tell me about it,” Matta said. “You seemed to be in a hurry to talk, but I can wait. In any case, I’ll only speak once I’ve applied the ointment on the wound that poses as your face.”

  The reproach in Matta’s words was as thick as mud, though she was careful not to raise her voice. But anxiety mixed with anger passed into her eyes, both the brown one and the blue one. Worry or pity. He wanted neither.

  “Keep your ointment for a better use. I’m all right.”

  “It’s up to you, but the best thing would be to let me help you,” she added.

  The ointment was no longer the issue, and Gus had figured that out. He could heal by himself; he had plenty of time for that. A sermon was the last of his needs. Most of all, he didn’t want to be touched. Not while he could still feel Beïka’s hands on him.

  Unsure what bothered him most, Gus got up and walked away. Might as well do it before Matta asked any more questions he certainly wouldn’t answer.

  “Is it so hard to let me help you?” Matta asked him, and Gus stopped in his tracks. “Does it cost you so much to admit it?”

  “I didn’t come here for treatment—” He couldn’t even look at her. The bruises of his skin spoke a truth different than the one he needed her to accept.

  “You come in here covered in marks and scratches. Your face, your wrists.” Gus resisted looking down. He hadn’t even noticed his wrists, but the mention of their bruised appearance immediately drew his attention to the tightness in his forearms. “This isn’t right. Do you know how worried I am about you, Gus?”

  “Then stop worrying.”

  “If I could, I would. But it’s not in my nature to look away from a child in need.”

  “A child?”

  “At my age, that’s what you are. Please, come back and sit down. And talk to me.”

  Gus breathed harder, and the ferrous taste on his tongue intensified.

  He couldn’t take it anymore.

  “Forget that I came,” he said as he left the hut, ignoring a last call from Matta.

  He slammed the door behind his back. Silence came back.

  What a fool! What would she have to teach me? She wouldn’t be able to resist a nichan, no matter how powerful her bloody Eye is.

  He should never have involved her in this. Now she would come back at him with her silly questions and worries.

  Gus immediately returned to his hut. He made no detours to the sanctuary. Since that blow forced through his gut, no food had passed his lips. The evening had just begun, but he was tired. He might as well go to bed now and try not to think about the Santig’Nell. He’d send her away if he had to. Nothing easier than that. Matta was a good woman, but . . . She didn’t belong here. She would leave too.

  They all did.

  He reached his hut, grabbed one of the matches left under the nearest lantern, and set it alight. Protecting his flame against his heart, he entered his house, pushed the door shut with the tip of his foot as he went by, and quickly found the lamp lying by his bed.

  He noticed the gaze following him in the dark only once it was too late. The glow of the flame was reflected in two black eyes. Gus started (did he cry out?) and took a step back. One step too far.

  Probably thinking he was about to run away, Beïka leaped up from the bed on which he was sitting.

  “Where do you think you’re going? Well, well. Aren’t you feisty tonight?”

  “Let go of me.”

  “I’m the one giving orders. Shouldn’t be so hard to understand?”

  Gus’s arms were already stuck in the nichan’s grip. To restrain him was child’s play.

  “Let me go,” Gus repeated, retreating to be pulled back in place the next moment, trying to keep control of his voice and nerves.

  He was already sweating profusely and the pain of the previous assaults woke up everywhere in him, feeding his terror. He didn’t give up, however, and pulled harder to regain his imprisoned wrists. Without even thinking about it, Gus sent a forward kick that hit the nichan’s tibia; it wasn’t what he was aiming for.

  “You want to play this game?” Beïka laughed as he leaned over Gus, insensitive to the attack. “Then let’s play. Yes? All right. Let’s give you exactly what you’re asking for.”

  With a gesture so quick it blended into the darkness, Beïka released one of Gus’s arms, clasped the nape of his neck and held tight. The next second, the man twisted the human’s arm, turning it inexorably. With a loud bang, Beïka slammed him against the wall and tore a handful of his hair in the process.

  Breathless, the wood flaying his face still swollen and stained from the previous strikes, Gus groaned. He complained all the more when Beïka’s hand closed on his dead wing. The nichan touched it, but Gus didn’t know exactly what he was doing with it. This little atrophied wing was devoid of sensation from its base. Gus could only wince as the weight of the limb fluctuated against his scapula. If Beïka had cut the skin, Gus wouldn’t have felt a thing. But then Beïka moved on to the next wing. And the twisting and pulling started.

  Unable to turn around, Gus hit the wall with his free fist.

  “What? Does it hurt?” Beïka asked in a lazy voice.


  A searing pain arched down Gus’s back. He didn’t know what Beïka was doing to his wing, but he wanted it to stop. It had to stop. With anger vibrating through his entire body, Gus forced himself to keep his teeth clenched, even as Beïka tested the strength of the thin, sensitive membrane by squishing it into his grip.

  “We should cut it, what do you say?” said the nichan as he opened and pulled at the trembling wing Gus was trying to fold against his back. “That shit would make a nice fan.”

  You motherfucker! I’ll make you pay for this!

  Gus’s lips remained sealed. One more word, one more complaint, and Beïka would get exactly what he wanted. But as he tugged and tugged on the wing, as if to lengthen it, Gus couldn’t help but struggle, contracting the limb made of fine bones and fragile cartilage.

  “You’re right, monster, we shouldn’t rush. What about taking some time to think instead? We’ll cut it off another day,” Beïka promised.

  Then his hand went down the middle of Gus’s back, down his spine, and forced Gus’s pants down. A sharp, violent movement that ripped the seams holding the fabric. The cool night air bit the young man’s exposed flesh, urging him to move, to free himself. He wanted to scream.

  Until now, Beïka had never undressed him. Hitting Gus, insulting him, spitting on him, had always seemed to be enough. Tonight he’d just crossed a line.

  Without warning, Beïka rested his hand on Gus’s ass. His fingers were hot and dry, cracked from work. “I really don’t get why he likes you so much. You look like shit. Look at that ass. What came over the Gods’ head when they created humans?” Beïka’s palm came and went on Gus’s skin, pinching the flesh, snapping it with the flat of his hand with enough force to leave a rash. “Hey, tell me. Did he fuck you? Come on, you can talk, it’s just the two of us. Did my stupid little brother have the balls to lay you on your stomach and fuck you?”

  The touch as much as the words revolted Gus. He growled. A thick sob of hate and disgust clutched his throat. And Beïka’s hand slipped between his cheeks.