Tarc shoved his friend off the sidewalk and out in the street. “Get out!” He searched for something to say. Something that would remind Jacob of just how annoying his sister could be.
“Really Tarc, she’s your sister.” Jacob said, “You probably don’t see it ‘cause of that, but I’m not the only one who thinks she’s beautiful.”
They entered the armory and drill center, Tarc’s head spinning with the ramifications. Could it be that the big soldier wasn’t the only one who had a thing for Daussie?
Tarc’s first assignment in the drill center that afternoon put him on wall defense. He took his position on the defenders’ platform of the drill center’s practice wall. Armed with a practice spear that had a cushioned tip, he waited for his turn. His team would try to keep the other team from scaling the logs. Sometimes he thought the most important lesson of these practice drills came from being on the outside and trying to climb the palisade. Understanding how difficult it was to get over the walls gave the defenders more confidence.
However, Tarc often wondered how difficult it would be for attackers to burn or batter down the wall. A stone wall would be much better, but timber was much more accessible in this region.
The attacking team charged towards the wall, shouting and waving their wooden practice swords. With a sense of panic Tarc realized that Sergeant Garcia, the head trainer, led the charge and Garcia had aimed himself right at Tarc.
He shakily pointed his spear at Garcia and braced himself.
Garcia ran straight at Tarc’s spear. Expecting to be driven back by the impact, Tarc started to push forward. Then Garcia ducked to the side at the last moment, dodging the point and grabbing the shank of the spear. He jerked it forward.
With Tarc braced to resist being pushed back, the sudden pull jerked the spear out of his hands. Tarc’s body slammed painfully up against the palisade, trapping Tarc’s shield between his ribs and the wooden logs.
Sounding disappointed, Garcia shouted, “Come on, Hyllis!” He leapt up, grabbed the top of the palisade with his left hand, and swung overhand with his right to smack Tarc painfully on the back with the wooden sword. “You’re dead!” Garcia swung the sword to the right and struck Jacob in the ribs, crying, “You too!”
Dropping the sword, Garcia chinned himself on the palisade, rolling over the top to pick up his sword again. He began attacking the others on the platform.
When Garcia called a halt, he began dissecting everything the defending team had done wrong, starting with Tarc. Flushed with embarrassment, Tarc stared down at the floor. Done haranguing all the other defenders, Garcia returned to Tarc. “So, Hyllis, you’re looking all sulky. You pissed off that I’m picking on you?”
“No sir,” Tarc said without looking up. Though he’d tried not to sound surly he knew that he hadn’t succeeded.
“Hah! You are too pissed! Look at me.”
Tarc pulled his gaze up off the floor and glared at Garcia.
Garcia grinned and said, “I don’t care if you’re pissed at me. You probably think it wasn’t fair ‘cause I’m bigger and stronger than you? And ‘cause I get a lot of practice at this while I’m training the others. But you remember this, if Walterston is ever attacked, they are not gonna line up according to size so’s to be sure that each of you get a fair fight! Think about it! My first objective, is for the town to survive if we ever get attacked. The town with your mothers and sisters, wives and girlfriends. My second objective, though it’s a distant second, is for you to live through the attack. This may seem like a big game to a lot of you now, but it’s not! Doing this right could make the difference between living and dying someday.” He had turned to address the entire group during this little speech, but now he turned back to Tarc, “You got that Hyllis?”
“Yes sir,” Tarc said, still furious, but trying his best not to show it.
Next, Tarc and Jacob’s team took their turn attacking the wall. Once again, Garcia quickly reached the top and began wreaking havoc among the defenders on the platform. Tarc had charged the wall intent on dodging the spears like Garcia had. He’d pictured scaling the wall himself. Instead, two spears converged on him, one glancing off his chest and the other striking hard into his abdomen. Despite the padding it took the wind out of him and Tarc dropped to his knees gasping for breath.
Tarc hadn’t even managed to crawl to the wall by the time Garcia called the exercise to a halt and began berating the defenders again. Fortunately, Garcia’s back had been turned while Tarc had been on his knees, so Tarc didn’t come in for any more abuse this time.
Jacob and Tarc moved on to practicing with the short swords that were the tertiary weapons for those defending the wall. Ideally the wall was defended with archery first, spears second, and swords only in desperation if attackers actually made it to the top. They expected every able-bodied man to participate in Walterston’s defense, but most specialized in one of the three methods. However, no matter how good you were at one of the defenses, you were expected to practice all three.
They wore padding, and the practice swords were made of wood, nonetheless they delivered some serious bruises. Tarc hoped that he would be pitted against Jacob because most of the other men drilling that day were bigger and older. Instead, he found himself in the ring with Will Jonas. Will was twenty-two and liked to fight. He weighed forty to fifty pounds more than Tarc did and bragged that he could beat anyone in town.
Tarc sighed as he stepped into the ring. Jonas was sure to give him a beating. Sure enough, as soon as Sergeant Eppley gave the signal Jonas drove Tarc’s shield aside with his own and struck hard into Tarc’s side with his sword. Eppley exploded, “Hyllis! That was pitiful! You’ve got to resist that shield strike. You knew it was coming! In a real fight you’d already be dead!”
Gasping and holding his ribs, Tarc hung his head. “Sorry.”
“Don’t say sorry! Tell me it won’t happen again!”
“Yes sir. It won’t happen again sir.”
Eppley rolled his eyes, “Okay, back in the ring.” As the two fighters stepped back in Eppley said, “Go!”
This time Tarc braced himself against Jonas’ shield strike, but he just wasn’t strong enough. Once again his shield was driven aside and Will dealt him a hard blow, this time to the back of the arm. He cradled his arm trying to keep the tears from his eyes.
Once Jacob had had his turn in the ring too, Sergeant Eppley put Jacob and Tarc in another ring with only their shields. He assigned them to spend the rest of the sword training period trying to batter one another out of the ring with their shields. It was exhausting work. Anytime Eppley saw them slacking he threatened them with extra assignments. In the past Jacob had always had a relatively easy time pushing Tarc out of the ring. Tarc was pleased to find that, even with a sore arm, he was holding his own this time. He’d been growing a lot recently. His mother called it a “growth spurt.” Because of all the wood and water hauling he did for the tavern, he’d always believed he was intrinsically stronger than Jacob, but just hadn’t had the weight for it in the past.
Finally, Tarc’s group took their turn on the archery range. Tarc had always enjoyed shooting, though he’d never been as good as he expected. After all, his father Daum, was thought to be one of the best, if not the best archer in town. Sergeant Banes, their master archer, greeted them cheerfully as they trooped into his area. He had always been more pleasant than the other two instructors. “All right,” he exclaimed, “remember that you won’t have to spear or stick a sword into anyone that you shot before they even get to the wall!”
When Tarc went to pick up his usual green bow, Banes stopped him. “Let’s see you pull a blue one young Hyllis,” he said, handing Tarc one marked in blue for its heavier draw. “You’ve been growing and I’ll bet you’re ready for a heavier draw now.”
Tarc felt some surprise when he found that he was indeed able to draw the bigger blue bow without a great deal of difficulty.
Banes grinned at him and slapped him on th
e shoulder, “Hell yeah, you’ll be moving up to a red one pretty quick!”
Tarc strapped on a bracer and moved onto the range carrying a quiver of practice arrows. The arrows were also marked in blue since they were a little longer than the green ones he had used in the past. Lining up at the shooting line Tarc pushed the bow out with his left arm, holding the string back to his cheek with his right. He couldn’t hold the draw for long so he glanced down the shaft of the arrow and loosed it at the straw backed target. With a sense of dismay he saw the arrow fly down the range and completely miss the target! He’d shot high and to the right. He supposed he could blame the height on the more powerful bow, but there was no excuse for how far he’d been to the right.
He drew and fired several more, hitting the target, but scattering the arrows wildly over it. Banes came by and snorted over Tarc’s shoulder, “Shooting that way Hyllis, you’re not ever gonna be an archer. Let me see if I can improve your technique at least a little. Surely you’ve inherited something from your father?”
Tarc’s stomach twisted. He’d always pictured himself as an archer like his father. Actually, not just an archer, he’d envisioned himself as the elite archer. The best of the best. He’d imagined the envy of the other men in town who would point at him and talk of his skill. He’d fantasized about the congratulations he’d receive after he’d shot the enemy commander right off his horse while the man was still far out on the field. In his visions, Tarc would open big ragged holes in the front line of the charging enemy as his arrows struck home, each one felling an enemy soldier. Tarc Hyllis wouldn’t be called on to man the spears at the top of the wall because everyone would want to preserve the town’s best sniper for archery. Unfortunately, reality didn't seem to be matching his dreams.
Banes critiqued Tarc’s stance and worked with him to improve his draw and targeting. Tarc did better and put a few arrows in the colored part of the target. Banes clapped him on the shoulder in congratulation, but Tarc could feel that Banes wasn’t actually impressed.
Looking around, Tarc felt tremendous disappointment. Jacob had been next to him on the range and most of his friend’s arrows were somewhere near the middle of the target. He’d shot much better than Tarc. For all Tarc knew, Jacob might be the best archer in their age group and Tarc might be at least average. Nonetheless, it was becoming obvious that Tarc was far from the elite bowman he’d always envisioned.
Tarc Hyllis’ feats of archery weren’t ever going to amaze anyone.
As he trudged downrange to recover his arrows, he realized he’d actually failed at each of the three training sessions that day. He wondered if his father could give him some lessons.
***
When Tarc arrived back at the tavern the great room was bustling. Daussie hissed at him, “Mama needs water, hurry!”
Feeling a mixture of irritation that no one had done his chores while he was at drill, and guilt that he’d dawdled some on the way home, Tarc hustled into the kitchen. Not only was his mother coming in with two buckets of water she could ill afford the time to get, but Tarc saw the woodpile was low as well. He took the buckets from Eva and climbed the step to pour them into the kitchen’s big barrel. Assessing the water need as more critical than the wood, he headed back out with the buckets.
As he was pouring the next two buckets into the barrel, Daussie came in and told him that Daum needed more water out at the bar as well. Working steadily, Tarc gradually caught up with their needs for water and firewood. He’d hoped he’d get to eat then, but Eva sent him to Stevenson’s butcher for a side of bacon and some chickens.
When he got back, Eva gave him a roast pork sandwich and sent him to Benson’s for potatoes, onions, tomatoes, cabbage, and salt.
Tarc sat on the back of the wagon behind Benson’s waiting for the potatoes, irritated because his mother hadn’t been organized enough to send him on both errands at once. He had a handful of pebbles he’d been tossing at a knothole on the hitching post. How much longer is it going to take them to bring me a lousy sack of potatoes?! he wondered as he threw the last small stone. About to climb down and get another handful of gravel, he suddenly remembered that he could float them up to himself with his talent. He glanced around to make sure that no one was watching, then reached out with his ghost and lifted a pebble which floated gracefully up to his hand.
He had pulled the hand back to throw the pebble when a sudden clammy sensation came over him. He paused motionless, hand cocked back; envisioning the use of his talent to guide the pebble after it had been thrown!
However, before he could cast it, he heard Benson’s stock boy say, “What are you doing?”
Suddenly Tarc saw the stock boy standing there beside him, a big bag of potatoes in his arms. He realized that he must look pretty odd sitting there motionless, arm cocked back to throw the pebble. “Uh, nothing.” He dropped the pebble and reached out for the bag of potatoes, helping guide it into the back of the wagon. “Thanks.”
Before he got back on the seat of the wagon, Tarc bent and picked up one more pebble. He clucked Shogun up and started back to the tavern, waiting until he thought no one was looking. Then, as he passed the baker’s place, he focused on their hitching post and threw the small stone. Tarc had never been terribly accurate with his throws in the past. In fact, most of the pebbles he had just been tossing at the knothole at Benson’s had missed the entire post. Embarrassingly, they’d missed the post even though he was only about 10 feet away. This time Tarc was about 30 feet from the post and sitting on a moving wagon. When he threw, he knew he had missed his mark.
But, as he had intended, he focused his ghost on the stone as it flew, trying to guide it to the post with his mysterious talent. It seemed almost as if his eye followed directly behind the stone, letting him see exactly where it was going! As he had noticed when he’d first started trying to lift pebbles, the farther the stone flew the less influence he seemed to have over it. Nonetheless, during the first 5 feet the stone traveled, he had already set its course. As it got farther from him, he was less and less able to change its direction, but its path had already been shaped to near perfection.
The rock hit the post with a solid “thock.”
Tarc felt goosebumps form on his skin as he thought; Could I do that with an arrow?
Back at the tavern, Tarc unloaded the wagon then took Shogun and the wagon back to the stable. When he returned to the kitchen his mother gave him an apple turnover, crisp from the oven. “Thanks Tarc. But, no rest for the wicked,” she said, one of her favorite sayings. “Denny Smith is out at the table with something wrong. She didn’t say what it was. I told her that I couldn’t help her until we’d finished the dinner rush, so she’s waiting. But why don’t you go out and see if you can figure out what her problem is? It’ll be good practice for you.”
“What if it’s a female problem?!” Tarc knew that Denny was newly married. He didn’t really understand all that entailed, but was sure Denny wouldn’t want to talk to him about it. He was a boy; three or four years younger than she was. Just the fact that Denny was pretty intimidated him.
“Well, we won’t know until you ask her, will we? Besides, if you’re going to be a healer you’ll have to take care of women’s problems too, you know?”
Tarc knew that look in his mother’s eyes. He let his shoulders sag and turned to go out to the big room.
His mother called after him, “Don’t go out there looking like that. Part of caring for people is looking like you want to help and are confident you can. If you go out there looking like the only reason you’re there is because I sent you, she won’t have any faith in your treatment.”
As if there were any chance she’d trust my treatment without thinking it came directly from you! Tarc thought to himself. Nonetheless, he straightened his shoulders, pasted a smile on his face and went out to see their patient. “Hello Ms. Smith,” he said sitting down across from Denny at the little corner table where his mother usually saw patients.
Look
ing a little wan, the young woman looked up at him with a strained smile. “Tarc Hyllis, just because I got married doesn’t mean you need to start calling me ‘Mizz!’
“Sorry Denny, Eva insists that we be very polite to our patients. She says that when you’re sick you have enough problems without our being disrespectful.”
Denny glanced around the big room, sizing up the crowd. She turned back to Tarc, “Do you think it will be a lot longer before she has enough time for me? You know the business here a lot better than I do.”
Tarc looked the room over as well. Daussie was coming their way and he looked up at her, “Daussie, are there still a lot of people waiting for orders?”
Daussie shook her head, looking irritated. However, just then the tavern door opened and six more men came in. Tarc turned back to Denny and shrugged helplessly, “Those six will hold things up quite a bit.”
Denny sighed, “I’ll wait. Everybody says your mom’s the best. But I’d better run back out to the outhouse.” She started to get up.
Tarc tensed, but he knew what his mother would want him to do. “Well, that’s the thing. Mom’s training me to be a healer too. While you’re waiting she sent me out to talk to you and see if I could start figuring out what’s wrong.”
Denny’s eyes flashed wide and she blushed. Quietly she said, “I don’t know if I could talk to you about this!”
Tarc shrugged, feeling relieved. “That’s okay. Most things can wait a little bit.”
Denny buried her face in her hands a moment; then spread her fingers to peer out between them at Tarc. Somehow looking both mortified and determined, she said, “Sorry, I suppose you can’t possibly learn if nobody will talk to you about their illnesses…” She took a deep breath, “When I pee, it feels like I’m on fire… down there.” She glanced downwards but didn’t point, “Even worse, I have to pee all the time. Then when I do pee, hardly anything comes out.”
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