Hero Born

by Andy Livingstone

  Brann was ready with a cheeky retort as he bridled at the slight on his lack of height, but the intense stare from the tiny pupils amid yellow-green irises that showed white all the way around reminded him of Grakk’s less-than-savoury reputation. The hesitation allowed common sense to block his hot-headed reaction, and he realised that Grakk was being coldly practical, rather than insulting. He chided himself: until recent events, he had been particularly slow to anger, and he was not finding much to like in the surly temper he seemed to have developed. It was not so much an increase in that emotion, but rather a lack of any desire to hold back in expressing himself. He was caring little about anything, including the consequences of his actions or words, and it was only tempered by his desire to avoid injury, or worse.

  He nodded, not knowing how he could address the problem of reach, but aware that he must address it if he were to put in enough effort to avoid being seen as a slacker. That was the last outcome he wanted; he had long since decided that the best way to survive – and to find a way out of this nightmare – was to draw as little attention to himself as possible.

  The drum banged twice with insistence, interrupting their conversation, and a shout of ‘Oars!’ rang out. Brann hesitated, then remembered with a start that everyone on his side of the ship was waiting on him to carry out the order. Grakk already had the plug removed, and Gerens was working on the strap. Galen, who was still beside them, bellowed ‘Now!’ in his ear and he jerked into movement, scrabbling over the back of the bench and throwing himself at the strap as they had practised.

  His hesitation had been for the merest of moments, but he was furious with himself as he saw that it had allowed the equivalent benches on the other side to start moving the oars ahead of them. The new rowers swung their oars into position in what they thought was a quick time – and then watched in astonishment as, with a thunderous rattle, the rest of the oars slipped into place in a sequence so rapid that it took their breath away.

  ‘Now you see how it should be done,’ Galen bawled. ‘You have something to aim for next time.’ They felt severely inadequate.

  The drummer let out another double-beat and Brann felt himself being pulled forward as Grakk, in perfect unison with the other rowers, readied the oar for the first pull. Almost immediately, the drum sounded again and, as one, the oars dipped into the sea and pulled smoothly through the water. Remembering Grakk’s advice, Brann tried desperately to reach the other bench with his legs but found, as Grakk had predicted and as he, within himself, had really known, that the distance was too great. By now, even though the drummer was setting a slow pace, they were completing their second stroke and Brann, off balance and edging forward on his own bench, found his arms being pulled back and forth by the oar rather than adding any effort to the movement. Grakk glanced across at him. Brann blushed and, starting to panic, felt tears of frustration welling up. In desperation, he placed his feet flat on the deck and pulled back with as much strength as he could muster. The effort lifted him off the bench, and he found that adding his body weight to the pulling motion allowed him to compensate in part for not being able to brace himself against the other bench. He started to incorporate the movement properly into his rowing action and Grakk, satisfied that the boy had adapted to the situation, turned back without expression.

  Using his technique for a few strokes, Brann felt that the work was not as strenuous as he had expected. After around fifteen strokes, however, he realised that his opinion had been premature. His hands were burning, his legs were quivering and his back felt as if it would never again straighten. Even arms and shoulders built on a daily routine of lifting and carrying heavy bags of grain and flour felt as if all reserves of strength had drained from them. His breathing became searing in his chest and so loud in his ears that it would have rendered the creaking, splashing, grunting and drumming inaudible if his concentration on merely maintaining his movement had not already blocked out all outside distractions.

  Sweat ran in a series of rivulets down his face, enough of it easing into his eyes to make them sting and forcing him to squeeze them tight shut; he did not need them open anyway to perform the repetitive and all-consuming motion as he forced everything he had into keeping his arms and legs moving and preventing his feet from slipping on the deck.

  His arms began to seize up and he began to lean back further with each stroke to compensate for the reduced arm movement. In doing so, his back quickly grew more painful, but he forced himself on, mindful of his ignominious start to the exercise. Time seemed to stand still as he focused entirely on repeating the movement over and over again. His head was swimming and his breathing ragged, and he felt that the only thing preventing him from passing out was the thought of the other rowers’ reaction to such a sign of weakness.

  The rowers stopped. He had been so intent on keeping going that he had not noticed the drumbeat to signal the cessation. Galen’s voice rang out. ‘Ship oars and stow.’

  The oars were drawn in, in sequence. Without instruction, the rowers in the last few benches before the boys slowed their action to allow the exhausted newcomers to bring in their oars without too much panic or mishap.

  Squinting through stinging eyes, Brann attended to the strap with difficulty. His palms were raw and burning and his fingers were unwilling to move from the shape they had formed when gripping the oar. He wondered, as he slumped against the side of the ship, too exhausted to do anything other than gasp for breath, how long it would be before the skin was rubbed right off his hands. After several long moments, he found the strength to wipe the sweat from his eyes, but the effort did little to clear his blurred vision and he sat still, waiting for his head to stop spinning. To his surprise – and gratification – Gerens looked almost as exhausted as he felt. Obviously physical strength counted for little when those muscles were faced with such unfamiliar activity. Gerens started to slump against Grakk, but a baleful stare from the rower changed his mind rapidly and he collapsed instead against Brann.

  ‘That was the longest half-hour of my life,’ Gerens gasped. Brann could only nod weakly.

  Galen strode towards them. ‘Well, lads,’ he said jovially. ‘Not bad for ten minutes’ work.’ Brann and Gerens stared at each other, aghast. Grakk looked amused. ‘We will take half-an-hour’s rest, then another ten minutes’ rowing. After another break, we will build up to fifteen, then twenty.’ He caught the identical horror-stricken expressions of the new rowers around him. ‘Think yourselves lucky that you have started on a day with a following wind, when we can use the sail to fill in the gaps and make up for the slow pace you are setting. If we had needed to row all day, you would not have enjoyed the luxury of being broken in gently, and you would just have had to find a way to survive.’

  He passed a small earthenware pot to Brann. Inside was a pale paste. ‘Take some, then pass the pot to the other new boys,’ Galen instructed. ‘Smear it on your palms and fingers and let it dry in after each session of rowing for the first week. After that you’ll be fine.’

  He headed back up the aisle, chuckling at the looks that had sprung to seven faces when he had revealed the short span of time they had rowed. It had not seemed possible that they could have seemed more stunned, but they had managed it.

  Grakk turned to his companions. ‘You,’ he looked at Gerens, ‘worked hard.’ Brann’s breath caught in his throat as the staring eyes turned his way. He had let them down. ‘Your start was deplorable, but the fault was not yours – we will attend to that. Do not concern yourself. You also tried hard; I like that.’

  The boys nodded weakly. Grakk indicated the paste in Brann’s hands. ‘Do what the man said. It will work. It is made from the sap of a tree that grows in my homeland. It is mostly utilised for its soothing qualities, something I am sure you will appreciate at this time. But what you will find even more useful over the coming days is that, with regular application, it also aids the toughening of the skin. It is one of my country’s two main exports. One day, I will tell you of
the other.’ Without another word, he slipped to the deck and sat with his back resting against the bench. Gerens rolled his head around to look at Brann, and started to say something, but gave up as the effort became too much and, eyes closed, flopped back against him. Brann was left pressed against the side of the boat by his weight, with little option but to remain there – not that he had any intention of doing anything more strenuous than breathing in any case. His spirits had been lifted, however, by Grakk’s unexpected approval. If they put in the effort, the tattooed rower seemed willing to offer them consideration and, however long Brann’s ordeal at the oar lasted before he could escape, it seemed as if he might survive it. If he could survive the effort of today.

  The break seemed too short. When the order came to row again, they felt as if their stiff limbs would be unable to move to their full extent. Within a few strokes, however, the boys were surprised to discover that their muscles were easing enough to allow them proper movement after all.

  And so the day progressed. They rowed and rested as Galen had said, six times in all, during the three hours until lunch – then repeated the programme in the afternoon, but in reverse, easing down to the shorter periods of rowing at the end of the day. During the second stint of rowing, Gerens, and then the others, had noticed the technique that Brann had been forced to adopt and copied it, still pressing their feet against the bench in front that they, unlike Brann, could reach, but also lifting themselves clear of their own bench as they pulled back. The men beside them said nothing, but exchanged glances, their expressions eloquent enough to demonstrate that, while they noticed the physical difference in the contribution the newcomers were making, it was the attitude that mattered more to them. They were showing that they were eager to maximise their help. Whether that effort was born of natural character or fear of the rowers, they did not care – it was enough that it was there. The new rowers would quickly grow stronger, but only if they worked. And, already, they were showing that they wanted to do so.

  By the time dusk settled over the sea, the trainee rowers had barely enough energy to eat. Encouraged or, in some cases, forced by the men around them, they took the food but, immediately afterwards, every one of the seven was slumped and sound asleep. The men around them were amused – it had been a light day’s work for them, as they were used to periods where they needed to row for hours with breaks only for meals and, for a few minutes, for water – but no more than amused. Each one of them could remember, even over a distance of, in some cases, a decade or more, their first day on the rowing bench.

  The boys were awakened at dawn by a drenching of shockingly cold water. Spluttering, Brann and Gerens jerked up to find a chuckling Grakk watching them with interest.

  ‘Good morning, young fellows. That is both your wake-up call and your daily wash. Rub it over you,’ he grinned, vigorously rubbing over himself the water that had also been thrown over him. The boys gaped at him, still gasping for breath. All along the aisle, warriors were hurling large buckets of water over the rowers, although none of these seasoned men was still sleeping by the time that the water had reached their row.

  ‘We are blessed with plenty of fresh water just now,’ Grakk explained, noting their confusion at the profligacy with the precious resource. ‘When there is plenty, we wash. It keeps the salt off the skin, and the sun will not burn as much. Although this may not seem quite so relevant in the feeble sunshine, remember this especially if you ever row in the waters around the coast of the Great Southern Empire. Here, on certain days, the sun can be hot, but not compared with there. There it can murder men.’ He gestured to remind them of his previous instruction. ‘Go on, young chaps. Rub the water over you. It will not harm you, you know.’

  The boys copied him as well as they could. As he did so, Brann shifted on the bench and his foot knocked against something. He looked down to discover a wooden block nailed to the back of the bench in front. He glanced across and saw Grakk watching his reaction with interest.

  The man nodded at the block. ‘For your feet, boy with short legs. One should not fret about problems, but should look at how they may be addressed. We are defined not by the mistakes we make, but by the reactions we have to them; not by the problems we face, but by the solutions we find to them. In life, learning is everything.’

  Gerens looked impressed. ‘I like that. Did a great philosopher come up with it?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ Grakk nodded, his face and tone solemn. ‘Me.’

  Brann tried his feet against it, and found it to be a perfect distance. ‘Did you do this?’ he asked Grakk.

  The rower shrugged. ‘Me?’ he said innocently.

  Brann pushed on it again, miming an oar stroke and wincing slightly as his aching muscles objected. Despite the pain, it felt good to be able to follow the correct movement. ‘How did you manage it?’ he asked in astonishment.

  Grakk shrugged again, holding up his manacles. ‘Did I say that I was responsible for it? I am chained up, am I not? I could not wander away and fetch tools.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Perhaps Boar misses you. Perhaps Boar did it.’

  Brann snorted. ‘Yeah, and maybe I am a mermaid. You did it, or had it done, though the gods alone know how.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you, Grakk.’

  Grakk just shrugged once again, and turned away, slipping onto the deck to sit in his customary position against the bench. Try as he might, however, he could not hide the fact that the boy’s appreciation had pleased him.

  The day passed with the periods of rowing increasing further, as they did the following day, and the one after that. The days, and then the weeks, ran into one another and Brann found himself silently thanking Grakk with each stroke of the oar. The addition of the block, although a simple measure, made a huge difference to his contribution and he was able to improve at the same rate as the other six. Soon the newcomers had settled into the routine. Oars were unstrapped and swung into position – and stowed away again – almost by second nature, and almost as quickly as the other rowers. The work was still exhausting, but Brann was surprised how quickly he had become used to it, despite the increase in the amount of rowing, day by day. He was still drained at the end of every day, and sore at the start of the next, but he managed. After just a few weeks of the activity, he found that, once he settled into a rhythm, he felt as if he could row all day. And he soon found that the physical activity helped him to avoid the morbid and morose thoughts that dogged his quieter moments. Thoughts of his family, of his home, of his brother, of a life now distant.

  The days drifted past, merging into one another. Brann found, curiously, that the repetitive nature of the rowing did not bore him, as he had expected it would – and as it might have done previously. Instead, it was soothing, a physical activity within which he could lose himself from his recent horrors. It suited the change in his character: as time passed, he found himself becoming more withdrawn, contrasting starkly with the gregarious, outgoing, cheerful child he had been before. He now preferred to observe others, rather than join in their conversations. He did not lack interest in what was being said, but rather listened intently, becoming watchful of everything spoken or done around him, feeling almost analytical about his surroundings. Gerens’s companionship was comfortable, and Grakk seemed satisfied with the continuing levels of effort shown by the pair and seemed, as far as they could tell, to be warming to them – although it never manifested itself overtly in any way beyond occasional words of advice or, even more occasionally, of approval. Brann’s two companions were not among the great conversationalists on the benches and, for that, he was grateful. He had wondered if they would think his reticence rude, but as they proved to be of few words themselves, it did not seem to be an issue.

  And so they rowed on, and Brann rowed with them. Even the brief interlude when they put a party ashore to seek replacements for the seven of them who had been brought from the hold, rowing out of sight and returning the same evening to retrieve the men and their captives, had proved little distrac
tion for the boy. He had seen the bedraggled and bewildered group brought on board but, although he knew vividly what they were experiencing, he felt little empathy; he felt little at all, other than a need to fulfil his duties and sleep.

  They travelled south, and then – as far as Brann could reckon – roughly east before turning south again. It took them, he guessed, around six weeks, although it was impossible to be even close to accurate. The ship moored in a port that Brann neither knew the name of, nor cared. What did it matter? The boys from the hold were led, blinking and staggering, to the dockside and were taken away, a chain of head-bowed misery and bewilderment. Brann and his six companions readied themselves to follow them, but, when Cannick returned to the ship, he conferred briefly with the Captain before approaching the young boys on the benches.

  ‘You lads are no longer our guests, but are now residents. A new contract has come our way, so we have sold the delivery of those other boys onto some other captain, who will complete their journey south to the slavemasters who commissioned this. This port is a staging post rather than a market, so we can’t buy any strapping oarsmen of experience to replace you… so we all lose out. We are stuck with you puny boys, and you miss out on the sunshine of the Empire. Welcome to our happy family.’