The Nichan Smile

by C. J. Merwild

  “Dadou, it’s Gus,” said Belma, stroking the dean’s gray hair. “You know him, Dadou. Mora took care of him . . . ”

  Gus dared a brief glance in the woman’s direction. If pronouncing the name of her dead partner was difficult for her, she hid it perfectly.

  But her words slipped through Dadou’s mind like water on a duck’s feathers. “His—his eyes!” the old woman stammered. “It’s a monster.”

  Gus’s heart tightened. Dadou looked at him with glassy eyes tarnished by cataracts. Even though Belma held her still, the old woman kept backing away, or at least trying to do so despite the shock inflicted to her head.

  “Dadou,” Belma repeated.

  “Don’t let him put his hands on me, Belma. I’m begging you. I did nothing wrong. I didn’t want to lose the fish. The bucket was broken.”

  Words without meaning. That didn’t stop Gus from stepping aside when Belma signaled him to get away from Dadou. Behind his back, Matta was still there, discreet but unmistakable.

  “Let’s go see Muran, all right?” Belma suggested, and the old woman let herself get back on her feet, remaining attentive to Gus’s every move.

  He thought of going back to hide out of sight. Only Matta paid attention to him, but the Santig’Nell’s Eye could be much more intimidating than the attention of a whole crowd. However, Gus found the strength not to run away. He’d done nothing wrong, didn’t have to lurk in the shadows, driven by shame of any kind.

  He went to the fountain behind his hut. As if nothing had happened, ignoring the ball clogging his throat, he activated the pump and bent down to take a few sips.

  “I’ve thought about your request,” said Matta behind his back. She walked closer and leaned against the wall near the water source.

  Gus avoided looking up at her. “Forget about it.”

  “You didn’t give me time to answer you the other day.”

  “I’m not interested.”

  Could she not leave him alone? The slightest presence in the space around Gus made him nervous and feverish. Even though he knew Matta’s intentions weren’t malicious, the woman reminded him of what had happened the last time he’d spoken to her. Gus could still feel Beïka’s hands on his neck, his wings, his ass . . .

  Don’t think about it. Not here, he scolded silently.

  He bent down and splashed water on his face to cool his burning eyes.

  “You seemed interested enough when you came to see me,” Matta continued in a neutral tone filled with something Gus couldn’t identify.

  Fear. Or nervousness, perhaps.

  He remained silent. She didn’t. “That stubbornness reminds me of someone I knew well.” A pause during which Gus looked for the nichan who had been causing him so much trouble lately. “His name was Elidei.” Matta seemed to be searching for her words, as if something—an invisible force—was trying to silence her. “I told you and Domino about my role in the Worth of the Santig’Nells, didn’t I?”

  Gus didn’t answer, didn’t move. His legs shook, as did his hands. But he remembered Domino’s words very well, a seven-year-old Domino bursting with energy, joy, and excitement over all the details the woman shared with them between lessons, as to keep them invested in the task.

  “So you are the mother of the Santig children?”

  Matta had opened her mouth without saying a word. No doubt she’d considered denying what Domino had just said. But she’d been forced to admit that he’d somehow spoken the truth. After reminding them that once a Santig’Nell became part of the Worth, they became one of the Matrons’ children, she’d replied, “I watch over them as a mother would, indeed. Or a mentor.”

  She used to raise the young Santig’Nells, teaching them to read, write, and count. She was in charge of their education and the development of the gifts offered by the Matrons’ Eye. She also taught them the art of combat. This information hadn’t fallen on deaf ears. It was for this very reason that Gus had come to see her, asking her to teach him how to defend himself.

  As Gus bent to drink more water, Matta silently took a deep breath and continued.

  “Elidei wasn’t a Santig’Nell. He was the first born of King Manàdei; he was the prince of Netnin. The Sards have a custom in Netnin. When an alliance is formed with another estate or country, the firstborn of their leader is offered to be raised by the future ally. At the time, Manàdei had just concluded an agreement with Sirlha. His people had finally accepted the Matrons’ protection after almost eighteen years of conflict. Sards are known for their unwavering pride and obsession with lineage. This agreement was no small victory, and Elidei had only just been born when it was reached. Manàdei offered the Worth to raise his son according to the Sirlhain traditions so that when he returned to Netnin, the prince would be a son of both nations. Elidei would thus become a symbol of peace.”

  Gus turned his eyes briefly to Matta. She was smaller than he was, and as she said these words, vulnerability showed on her face. A sentiment he wouldn’t have associated with Matta until today. Then she noticed the look in Gus’s eyes, and he turned away. But he didn’t run away when she spoke again.

  “Several of my brothers and sisters went to Netnin to retrieve the child. When he was first placed in my arms, he was only two months old. All the Santig’Nells in my care were then entrusted to others. Elidei was to be my priority, as the agreement required. He grew up in the Defense Palace in Laranga.”

  “Salted Harbor,” Gus whispered to himself.

  Matta nodded, the muscles of her face softening into a smile. Gus remembered his lessons. He was born in Sirlha. Even when he’d tried not to listen, to detach himself from his homeland, he hadn’t missed a crumb of the Santig’Nell speeches. Sirlha, the land of rivers. Laranga, the white capital, also called Salted Harbor by foreigners and islanders because of its salt-covered coastline. Places Gus would never visit unless to seek death. This country had been the Blessers’ headquarters for more than twenty-five years.

  “You are as stubborn as him,” the woman said. A reproach. Gus waited for the anger to rise in him, but his heart remained closed to the feeling. “He was a very gifted and intelligent boy, just like you. He was also a very good fighter. He had to be raised according to Sirlhain customs, so I set out to teach him dagger fighting when he was eleven years old. The boy wouldn’t listen. He wanted to fight with spear and staff, like the greatest Sard warriors. The Mother Regent of the Santig’Nell had even given him a beautiful silver dagger to motivate his enthusiasm. Elidei put it away and sulked for weeks. What am I saying? Months. I eventually surrendered.

  “The truth is, he wanted to prepare himself for the meeting that was coming up. His father sent a contingent of his best subjects to Laranga to be introduced to the prince, among other things. Elidei, in a duel against one of his cousins whom he was meeting for the first time, proved to be exemplary. His abilities promised him a bright future. But his cousin didn’t see things the same way. She more or less openly mocked Elidei’s abilities, comparing his technique to that of a rock incapable of producing sparks. Elidei was furious, but he didn’t let it bring him down. Oh, no, he didn’t. He took the dagger he’d received from the Mother Regent and came to me. He told me that the spear and staff were the weapons of cowards, wielded by warriors who dare not approach their opponents. He was ready to learn how to wield the dagger. He said that under his reign, Netnin would grow stronger.”

  “He sounds like a boaster,” Gus mocked halfway through.

  Matta nodded her head before sighing through a smile. “Yes. There was a little bit of that. More importantly, I think he wanted to convince himself that he could run a country that he only knew by name and whose reputation was enough to scare him. The Sards, his own people, were strangers to him. This reminds me of someone else.”

  Matta’s voice had soothed him.

  Gus had always loved the stories Domino told him. He’d listened to him for hours, marveling at his best friend’s way of speech and imagination, an imagination in w
hich lay more than a scrap of truth.

  Matta awoke in Gus the pleasure he had in listening to someone he trusted confide in him. But as she insisted on associating Gus with her story, he tensed up. He didn’t want Matta to make a sermon out of her past.

  He decided to divert her attention. “Where’s Elidei now?”

  A silence fell between them, and Matta took another deep breath.

  “He’s dead. The Blessers killed him. One of our own servants was working with them and made the capture of the palace possible. I couldn’t find Elidei in the upper town or at the palace when the attack began. I remained hidden in Laranga for several days after the Blessers took power and destroyed Reason and Hope, the Matrons. I searched relentlessly for a way to get into the palace without getting caught. In vain. With the Matrons gone, the connection between us, between Santig’Nells, was gone as well. I was lost, left in . . . silence.” She swallowed, eyes down. “But I kept searching and the city fell into chaos. At the end of that time, several people were hanged at the entrance of the palace, facing the city, then burned. Elidei was among them. He was seventeen.”

  She fell silent, however, she looked up at Gus. He regretted having asked the question, to have forced her to relive these moments. He could be insolent, but he refused to cause Matta any grief or to let anything write such sadness in her eyes. Both shone more vividly than ever. This Elidei had probably been like a son to her.

  Did she witness the killing?

  “I just want to help you,” Matta said in a soft but firm voice, almost begging.

  Gus turned his dark eyes to her. “I don’t need help.”

  “You know that’s not true.”

  “Matta, stop . . . ”

  “Who gave you all those bruises, Gus?” The language shifted in her mouth, yet the words remained clear to him. After so many years, Sirlhain was still his mother tongue.

  Gus looked around, alarmed. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” He wouldn’t speak Sirlhain. “You want to get us in trouble?”

  “There’s no one around.”

  “Then why talk in this language?”

  “So you know I’m on your side. I’ll always be on your side, Gus.”

  “I told you to stop.”

  “If someone’s hurting you, we have to end it. I can do it.”

  “I didn’t ask you to do anything.”

  “On the contrary. You wanted my help, and I’m willing to offer it.”

  “I don’t want your help. Get the fuck out of my face!”

  “I’m your friend,” she said as she took a step toward him.

  “I’m not Elidei!”

  Matta stood still and pursed her lips. “Yes, indeed. You’re not Elidei. Unlike him, you may live beyond the age of seventeen if you get the chance.”

  Seventeen. What a joke.

  The truth was, Gus didn’t know the month or even the year he was born. Since he was destined from his first breath to die by the Blessers’ purification, the woman who’d raised him had never bothered to celebrate his birth. Because Gus and Domino had learned to read and write at the same pace, Matta had concluded that the two boys were the same age. So it was she who had suggested matching Gus’s age on Domino’s. But Matta didn’t know either. No one knew.

  Seventeen . . . Maybe Gus was younger or older than his best friend. Being reminded of this gap in his own history knotted his gut.

  Matta was a good person; she’d done everything she could to make Gus feel accepted in an environment where neither she nor he belonged. But what was the point? No matter what she said, Gus had stopped believing that things would ever get better. He didn’t want to get his hopes up to see them be crushed into dust again.

  “You should leave this place,” he said, standing as upright as possible.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Go back to your sisters and brothers Santig’Nell.”

  “Gus.”

  “Stop.”

  “No, Gus. Listen to me. For a long time I thought I was running away from my pain—”

  “That’s what you’re doing. Just go.”

  “It’s true, I was running away. I should have rallied Ponsang with my people. Instead I left behind the ones I cared about. My friends, my wife . . . She will never forgive me—” She took a shaky breath. “But when I met you, I realized the Gods had other plans for me—”

  “One last time,” he said between his teeth before leaning over to her. “I’m not Elidei, and I don’t want to be saved.”

  Once again, Matta’s gaze was imploring. She shook her head, as if about to add more. Gus had no intention of hearing a word more. He turned away from her and walked along the side of his hut to go around it. He didn’t watch his steps, had no direction in mind. He just had to get away from her. Matta was probably following him. He didn’t look back to check.

  Orsa, who was coming from the heart of the village, noticed him and walked right up to him. Gus tensed in spite of himself. The nichan faced him, blocking the way, even bigger than he remembered. Before she opened her mouth to speak, he noticed the freckles on her tattooed cheeks.

  “You’re relieved of your week’s chores starting tomorrow,” the clan chief told the boy. “You’re coming with us on the hunt.”

  Gus just stood there gawking for a handful of seconds. He knew this day would come; they’d warned him years and years before.

  He had to go with them. Outside. He was going to walk out of the village. He’d done it before, but not like this, not officially. Not when his life depended on it.

  “What should I bring?” he asked, emerging from his amazement.

  Orsa detailed him up and down in a neutral expression. “Warm clothes for the night . . . and shoes. No bags. You put them on you. ” Gus nodded mechanically. “Then rest tonight and be at the gates by dawn. I hope you can go the distance.”

  Was there any other way out of Surhok than this one? Once out, could Gus slip away from the nichans? If so, which direction should he go? Unlike nichans, the north was a mysterious concept to him. Would it be wiser to hide some food in his clothes so he wouldn’t starve to death? The nichans would smell it, get suspicious, and search Gus. What if he couldn’t get away? It was unlikely Gus would be left unattended for even a minute. And even if he did manage to get away, they would go after him. They would follow his scent, chase him down like an animal.

  Like prey.

  Gus turned in his bed. Outside, a cricket had been chanting continuously for hours, refusing to acknowledge the arrival of winter.

  The young man was overwhelmed with thoughts. He was aware that his idea of running away was out of reach, yet he kept thinking about it and looking for a loophole to exploit to see it through.

  His belly growled, and he lay on his wings, taking a deep breath. He’d tried to eat something today, but after hearing the news from Orsa, he’d felt too nervous and anxious to put anything in his belly.

  His mind was in turmoil. His thoughts were, of course, disordered, but that was enough to keep him awake. He’d swallowed a whole cup of the same soothing herbs he’d offered to Domino more than once after Mora’s death. In fact, they’d always kept a sufficient quantity in their hut, furtively restocking at the infirmary when the supplies became too thin to have an acceptable effect. After several hours, the bitter mixture still hadn’t worked on him, and Gus knew he’d continue to struggle for some sleep until exhaustion knocked him out.

  If I manage to get up and walk straight in the morning, it will be a miracle.

  He closed his eyes, trying to chase away the thoughts parasitizing his mind.

  The door of his hut slammed open.

  Gus reopened his eyes and sat up in one fell swoop.

  No! Not again. Not now . . .

  Beïka walked into the room, lit by the burning lantern outside, his silhouette standing out in the half-light. Unable to resist his fear, his fatigue making him weak, Gus backed into his bed and almost fell out of it. Before losing his balance, a firm grip seized
his collar. The door had remained open. Another silhouette appeared on the threshold. Another man.

  Gus didn’t have time to recognize him or understand what was happening. Beïka’s fist fell on his face, and the world dissolved into a painful, acidic mist.

  Out of breath, his nose clogged with blood, the boy felt his body rise, a sharp pain in his forearm and shoulder. The next moment he was lying on his stomach, upside down, an arm as solid as rock passed around his waist. Something was swinging and bumping against his forehead. The necklace, he was still wearing it . . .

  The world wavered again. A door slammed gently.

  The wind blew across Gus’s face, over his bare arms, over his wings. He shivered and shook his head. A little blood came out of his nostrils, but he was still struggling to breathe.

  What’s he . . . what’s he doing? Where is he taking me?

  The world wavered around him, as if he were floating in the air, taken from one point to the next. Beïka had probably lifted Gus up and put him back on his shoulder, hence the pressure beneath his ribs.

  No! Gus thought again, and he fought off the haze and pain in his skull.

  Despite the dizziness, he managed to lift his head and open his eyes. At first, he only discerned the ground moving over him. Now, below, he understood. He recognized the wooden planks that paved the path between the huts, barely revealed by a flickering light. Gus turned his head. Blood rose to his face and put his nerves to the test. He was suddenly so desperate for sleep. If he closed his eyes, he would fall unconscious, but would he ever wake up? He could hear the answer whispered through his marrow.

  Another shudder shook him from head to toe, along with a sob that he managed to hold back. The moaning that slipped between his lips was irresistible.

  “Wait,” whispered a man’s voice.

  Gus searched for its owner. Before finding him, a piece of cloth was inserted between his lips and teeth.

  A gag.

  He reacted immediately. He expelled all the air from his lungs and screamed. Only a croak-like complaint rose from the depths of his throat. Without warning, a hand covered Gus’s face to silence him, forcing the cloth even deeper into his mouth. The wide palm was enough to cut off the boy’s air. He wiggled on his perch, trying to push away the hand that was choking him, but his arms were firmly wedged against his flanks by the arm Beïka used to hold him on his shoulder.