by Justin Kauer
“Dusk was stealing across the evening sky.” he began. “A full array of fiery yellow, orange, and red tones engulfed the castle towers, leaving only the development of deep, dark shadows in their fading. The courtyards and gardens were all empty. A solemn silence swept through the still stone structures. Great billows of smoke filled the air, rolling into blinding billows that blotted out the vision, leaving its viewer in complete darkness. A voice that seemed to shake the whole earth rose from the darkness and said, ‘Awake and remember!’”
A young, well-built slave of average height awoke from his dream in a cold sweat. He gasped and looked all around him. He tried to think as to why the dream had such great emotions attached to it. Was it a memory, or merely a nightmare that had poured itself deeply down into his aching mind?
The tumult of a large slaver’s colony sent sharp waves of pain through his head. Every echoing thump of the horses’ hooves and every syllable from every “cheerful” command from the slave drivers seemed to beat a slow bludgeoning upon his brain.
One of the slavers, a great big hairy-chested beast of a man, yelled, “Boy, do you know how to cook?”
The young slave found himself nodding in spite of all of the pain. Then he had to wonder if he really knew the first thing about the subject.
“We need someone to take the place of ol’ BenDan. He never woke up today. It seems that he tripped and fell on his own knife . . . in the night. Normally I wouldn’t even ask you, being male, but we just sold all of the females to the Darvanian . . . umm . . . Well, anyway, the old cook was also male. Since there were no females, as I said, I just thought of you immediately when they asked for a replacement. You do know how to cook, right?”
“Yes, I do, sir.”
“Where did you learn?”
“I do not rightly recall, sir”
“What do you mean by that?”
“What do I mean by what, sir?”
“You say that you know how to cook! Where did you learn?”
“I . . . I really cannot say. I just know how to . . . When you asked me if I can cook, I found recipes popping out of my head. It was the only thing that seems to be able to elicit anything different than this awful headache that I have, sir.”
“What? What do they call you?” asked the slaver.
“I am . . . My name is . . . It’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“NORDHOLST!” yelled the slaver with cupped hands around his mouth in order to amplify his voice, which sent the young man’s hands to hold his head and curl up in a ball on the straw-littered floor.
“I am quite sure that my name is not Nordholst!” replied the young man.
A slim, short, gray-haired man came running as fast as he could, which was not very impressive at all; in fact, it was downright depressing.
“Yes, sir?” he panted.
“Nordholst, what did you say this boy’s name was?”
“Let’s see . . . Was it Al . . . Alvin?” answered Nordholst, whose voice had the gorgeous qualities of broken glass scraping on metal.
“I don’t know.” began Ryan, then he slightly angered, saying, “That’s why I am asking you!”
“Well, we do deal with so many different males from so many different cultures and lands that I find it hard to remember them all, let alone their names. Let’s see . . . Have you tried asking him? Maybe he would know such a thing!”
“You don’t think that I would have thought of such an extraordinary idea? Of course, I asked him!” pressed the slaver sarcastically.
“Was it Ani . . . Anakin? Of course not! What a stupid name for a slave boy! He would probably resent such a name . . . and end up becoming some evil emperor’s lackey . . . Albert? Al? It seems to me now that . . .”
“It seems to me that you never did know his name!” jabbed the slaver, or so it seemed to Nordholst.
“Yes, I did because Decebal came up to me when he first brought him from making the trade and told me his name. He had on his red tunic with his black robe which, personally, I think he wears when he is nervous because he always has it on when there are hostile trades to be undertaken — or royalty. There was the time when he was dealing with the king of . . . Oh, what’s the name of that kingdom just below and over Darvania?”
“Below and over Darvania?”
“Yes, that is the one!” Nordholst whined.
“How can a country be below and over Darvania, you bellowing buffoon?”
Nordholst thought for a minute, opened his mouth as if to answer in eloquent oration, and then stood staring back at Ryan.
“Portland?”
“No! The one that is just next to Portland!”
“No. I’m talking about the other one.”
“Darvania?”
“No.” replied Nordholst.
“Do you mean Farsland?” said the slaver, more annoyed by the second at Nordholst’s lack of any real knowledge.
“Yes! That’s it!”
“Farsland is two countries over to the west!”
“But you knew which one I was talking about!” Nordholst rifled back in a way that showed that he had obviously thought that he had been treated unfairly by his leader.
“You have never even been there, and besides, we only deal with three countries!” said the slaver.
“True, but he wore it when he left.”
“Who wore what when he left?”
“The red tunic!”
“Oh, Decebal! It is true that he does wear the red tunic and black robe when he deals with the king there, and anywhere (though he didn’t have it on when he left, he just took it with him). He doesn’t want to offend them by wearing his purple robes in front of royalty, but when we met with the leader of the bandits at Verdis GranSecas, he did the same; they are just a group of scoundrels that have amassed to avoid arrest!”
“Ah . . . True! But ‘e calls himself King of the Bandits!”
“Quite so, Nordholst.” admitted the slaver.
“Well, we finally have that settled!” claimed Nordholst in victorious tones.
“Yes, INDEED!” grunted the slaver.
“Was there anything else that I can do for you today?” Nordholst sneered, notably upset both at the tones that the slaver was using in dealing with him and at the fact that he just realized that there was not only said tone of anger, but also a sub-tone of condescendence (well, maybe the tones rivaled each other).
“You can bow down and kiss the ground that I walk on!” suggested the slaver, as if in confirmation of Nordholst’s suspicions.
“Look! I ain’t one of your slaves that you can just order around. We’re not . . .”
“I do apologize!” interrupted the slaver. “I do tend to order others around. It’s what I do for a living. It’s just that I have Decebal breathing down my neck and there’s all of this talk of war.”
“That may be true, but it’s really a matter of forgetting who you’re talking to. I forgive you, nonetheless.”
The two simply stood there for a while, looking all around to avoid eye contact. Nordholst shuffled his feet in the pebbles that lined the rocky ground. The slaver scratched his arm and then acted surprised when he saw a bug bite that had been there for some time, judging by the scabbing.
Finally, to break the awkward silence, the slaver offered, “Alban, let’s get you to the kitchen.”
“So, you knew his name all this time!?” Nordholst screeched. “You call me over from my work and practically accuse me of not knowing about when Decebal wears his red tunic or purple robes in front of what countries’ royalties, as well as start ordering me around!? I don’t even like that!”
“I thought that we had gotten past all of that!”
“True. But that was before I knew that you already knew his name!”
“I am still unsure about what his real name is. It seems that he was called Alban or Alden. So, there’s a fifty percent chance that I am seemingly right!” the slaver asserted, quite pleased with
himself. “Anyway, why, in the name of Galendetra’s Whistle do you pay so much attention to Decebal’s wardrobe?” he continued, “No matter! I don’t want to know! I’m sure that the boy’s memory will return to him soon. He just got a good knock on his noggin.”
“Believe me, it doesn’t feel like it is even close to good!” assured Alban.
This elicited laughter from the slave driver. Nordholst soon joined in with a nasally high-toned noise that was probably supposed to be laughter. Alban felt that it was much more like a woodpecker drilling into his skull at several different angles.
Alban tried to get up but found it impossible by himself. He struggled a few times more. Finally, the slave driver offered a hand. Alban reached for his hand and soon found himself on his feet. He wobbled a bit, and soon his arm was placed around the slaver’s shoulders as he helped Alban wander toward the kitchen area.
When they got there, Alban surveyed the area. He was disgusted with the lack of cleanliness, but it seemed to have a fairly good selection of wares of the trade, so he thanked the slaver for the ride and began to further survey the possibilities of the services within the kitchen.
“Sir?” he asked
“Yes?” replied the slaver.
“Is there any way that I could get some help in here to get this place cleaned up?”
“Of course, we are slavers! Yes. How many will you need?”
“Normally, I would say five, but since this kitchen has been neglected, and the meals have not been prepared, at least ten will be needed — some for the cleaning and some to help prepare.”
The slaver just stared at him in amazement. Alban wondered if he had said something wrong so he looked about him as if to catch something that he had missed.
“My boy, who are you?” the slaver asked in all seriousness. “I mean, most slaves would never have asked for help, much less have known how many for which to ask. You are polite as well, which is rare for a slave.”
“I thought that you had just been through all of this identity crisis with Nordholst!” laughed Alban, much to the agony of his aching head.
The slaver also laughed. “You can call me Ryan. If you do well here, things may go well for you. If you do not, well, we will obviously sell you to the highest bidder.” He paused for a moment and then added, “Good luck!”
“Thank you, sir,” replied Alban.
With that, Ryan turned and left. Alban could hear his captor’s voice yelling sarcastically, “I need ten men for kitchen duty. Are there any volunteers?”
Shortly, Ryan returned with a group of men and told them that Alban was in charge, and if they got out of line, they would answer to him. He then turned back to Alban and said that he would leave him to it.
Alban instinctively began, pointing at each, one by one, “You, make a fire big enough for boiling water. You, go and fill this large pot with said water. Judging from the size of the pot and the placement of the pump over the sink, you may have to fill another pot a few times and empty it into the larger pot. When it be full and the fire lit, place the water on the fire to boil. The rest of you start cleaning. You, grab the broom over there in the corner and start to sweep. The rest of you start to clear all of the dishes from the table and look for a stopper for the sink’s drain as you go.”
“What . . . about me?” asked a short, fat slave.
“I didn’t give you anything to do?” asked Alban.
The slave just shook his head nervously.
“Do you not understand that I said that the rest of you begin to clear the tables and look for a stopper for the sink?”
“No, I not know.” replied the slave in an accent that Alban finally perceived through the haze in his head.
“E’tate limpiaco dan miezhan e buscaco dac tappa.” he said, pointing to the sink.
Surprised, the slave nodded and began to work with no further reservations. Ryan, who had remained to watch, stared again in amazement.
“You speak Goff?” he asked at length.
“Uhhmm . . . I guess so,” replied Alban, chuckling slightly to himself.
“If I find out that you are not telling me the truth about your memory, you will be severely punished.”
“Well, it is odd. I can recall things,” said Alban, rubbing his head. “In other words, I remember how to do things like cook and, apparently, how to speak Goff. However, neither do I remember how I know them, nor do I know who I am, nor from where I am. I also just remembered that the neither/nor sentence structure that I just used usually involves just two negative choices.” Then he gasped, “I just used three!” To dissuade attention from his possible error in syntax and the fact that he may even be wrong in his correction, he quickly added, “Incidentally, where are we now?”
“We are in the kitchen!” Ryan mused.
“Yes, I can see that, but in what country or province is this kitchen located? What household owns this kitchen?”
“We are here in the kitchen of . . .” began Ryan, but he was interrupted by the crashing of pots and pans that had fallen to the floor.
Alban’s head began to throb a bit harder at the clamor. He thought that the woodpecker must have flown away. Now there was most definitely an axehawk smashing into his skull.
“You will not find any creatures in there, you gnarled-up axehawk!” Alban said aloud.
“But, it was an accident!” protested the slave that had knocked over the stack of pots and pans that crashed loudly against the stone floor. “Besides, I am not gnarled-up, and axehawks aren’t even real!”
“I meant no harm; in fact, I was thinking . . . aloud, apparently . . . about (and to) the aching of my head. I was thinking about the pain being compared to an axehawk smashing into the base of my skull. By the way, axehawks are really real, really. I have seen them soar high above and then swoop down and smash into the trunks of the trees, crashing through the hollowed out wood and bringing out a squirrel or small bird as its prize. It is really quite remarkable to watch. But I imagine that if one were to smash in the back of one’s skull, that it would feel like this headache does for me.”
“Where have you seen these axehawks?” quizzed Ryan.
Alban opened his mouth to answer but found that he had nothing to give. So, he just shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly he felt dizzy and began to see stars. Ryan saw that he was paling even more, so he asked him if he needed anything.
“Just bring me a chair, and I’ll have this bunch of blunderers whipped into shape in no time,” Alban commanded.
Ryan turned himself quickly around and began to leave the room when a realization flashed over his face. He couldn’t believe that he was actually taking orders from a slave. He tried his best to dissimulate by yelling through the open door for someone to bring him a chair. To his pride’s pain, no one answered. Of course, there would not be anyone else nearby this early in the morning. He decided to have one of the slaves that were already in the kitchen to go and fetch a chair for Alban to sit on. It was rapidly brought and placed before Alban. It was all that he could do to sit in it and not fall over.
Soon, Alban found himself going in and out of consciousness. He would remember later that he kept telling people to go off and ready the next step in the dishes that they were preparing, only to see them right by his side asking what they needed to do next. He needed reminding exactly what it was that they were cooking and the steps that they had already taken. Finally, he realized that only one ingredient was needed to finish the last dish.
“Put the quart of cow’s milk in the sauce, and bring it to a boil. Serve it over the pork and potatoes while it is all hot . . .” Alban instructed as things began to go black.
Then, Alban heard the soft, kind, female voice of what he thought at first to be an angel calling him home because it seemed to light a fire of peace in his heart. Soon he realized, though, that she was just asking if he was alright. He thought to himself that a real angel would already know the st
ate of things better than he. Though somehow, he knew that he would be fine, now that this substitute angel had arrived. He felt her soft hands holding his, and then the hair being brushed back from his face.
“That Ryan is a perfect idiot!” the voice said in tones much gruffer than before, and perhaps not befitting an angel, as Alban slipped out of consciousness.
Chapter Three – Ryan’s Wagon