Neverland's Library: Fantasy Anthology Page 22

  He waited, looked at the priests to see if they had anything to offer, but Milkthrop looked as pale as dead birch and the other two remained silent. Sirk went on, “And how do we repay him? We let children rob from him.” He pointed the sword at us. “They broke into his tomb, they stole, and for what? To keep the loot for themselves, to admire? No. It’s no coincidence the merchant will be riding through here soon.”

  Whatever else I could say about my whoreson uncle Sirk, he was no fool. “They stole objects belonging to the greatest chieftain the Vorlu have ever known and they stole them for profit. And when caught, they lied, and when confronted today, they mocked the council, and would have lied again if they thought they could get away with it.” He addressed the three priests. “So you ask me if I’m satisfied with the punishment? No, I’m not. It’s a start, but not near enough. Their hands must be broken, but there must be more.”

  Milkthrop’s assurance had vanished when the blade was drawn, and he’d regained some of it in the interim, if only a little. “And what do you propose, Sirk?”

  Our uncle looked at us, and though his eyes were angry, his words were flat. “When the next tribal dies in this village, part of him will be burned into ash, and these ashes will be mixed with broth, made into soup. The rest of him will be entombed in a vault. These two thieves will be entombed with him for one week, with nothing to live on but the soup of the dead. One week, in the dark, with the rotting dead, living on the broth of his body.” He turned back to Milkthrop, “Maybe when we dig them up they’ll be in less of a hurry to disturb the dead again.”

  I didn't believe it possible, but Milkthrop looked even more ill than usual. “I see. Do you have anything else to add before we pass judgment?”

  “No. That’s all.”

  “Then we will convene—”

  My father spoke up. I’m not exactly sure what prompted him. But he said, “Third priest, may I be allowed to speak? One last time?”

  Milkthrop started to answer but Hrodomin overrode him. “All here have been heard, Findarr. You’ve spoken already.”

  I expected my father to back down. That’s what he was best at. But this day, snow melting in his hair, face splotchy, hands plump and red, he did not. “I know this is irregular, Sun Priest Hrodomin. But I have one more thing I’d like to add before you make your decision. I will be brief.”

  Hrodomin looked ready to deny the request, but Grubarr touched Hrodomin’s elbow and said something in his ear. Then Hrodomin looked at Sirk. “Will you allow your brother to speak?”

  Sirk slid the blade in his belt again, regarded his brother with a look I couldn’t quite measure. “He wants to prattle, let him prattle.”

  “Very well, Findarr. But be brief. My bones do not like this cold.”

  My father nodded. “As you wish, Sun Priest. Sirk is right about one thing. I am not a strong man. And I probably am too lenient as a father. Given he has no children of his own, I’m not sure if he’s the best one to judge.” Sirk looked like he wanted to spit but held it in. “But it is true, nonetheless. Most days, I bend too easily. But this isn’t one of those days. I want to share one thing with you now, one last thing, and then I’ll be silent and stand by your judgment in this matter.”

  Hrodomin waved him on. “Proceed.”

  “My father was a strong man. Sometimes a brutal man. This much is known. But there was more to him than that. One day, many, many summers ago, our brother Drunik, the eldest, told us it was our time to become men. We were about the same age as these two,” he pointed at us and continued, “maybe younger. Drunik said we were going to steal some sheep from the Brunzi. Of course, children can’t raid unless accompanied by elders, but that was Drunik’s point. If we could return with sheep without being caught, we’d be deemed men, and having proved ourselves, we’d be asked to go on the next raid, and every raid after that. I was uncertain, frightened, but my brothers went, so I went.

  “But things did not go as Drunik hoped. An alarm was raised. We managed to get a few sheep between us and tried to flee into the woods. But pursuit was fast and we were stupid. And worse still—and I am sure Sirk remembers this well—I was shot in my rump by an arrow as we ran through the woods.”

  Sirk’s face didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes that said he now understood where this was going and he didn’t like it one bit. “My legs went numb, so my brothers carried me home. I had lost blood and was very dizzy, but I still remember the look on our father’s face when we were brought before him. Here was a man who had already become celebrated for his raids and daring, his cleverness and brutality, and his sons return from an unsupervised raid, sheepless, and with one of their own injured in a most unmanly fashion. I am sure you can imagine his reaction.”

  There were some small laughs at this. “For those of you who cannot, he was furious. He wanted to put arrows in all our rumps.” This was greeted with larger laughs. He let them rise and fall before continuing. “We had disobeyed him and broken the law. Surely, not in the same way my children did last night. Do not mistake my meaning; I’m not comparing the offenses. Still, a broken law, a damaged son, and the seriously wounded pride of a man who already had the reputation as being one of the most feared and ferocious fighters in our tribe. And do you know how he punished us, this enraged man so gifted in violence?”

  Ordinarily my father would have preferred eating live eels to public speaking, but this was a rare occasion and he rose to the task, pausing for effect before saying, “He didn’t shoot us with arrows. Didn’t even beat us. Our father made us take a handful of our own sheep to the Brunzi, me hobbling the entire way, and once there, he presented us to the chieftain, and told us to offer him the sheep and publicly apologize for being such incompetent thieves, and then our father made us swear if we were ever allowed to accompany him on a raid, we would reclaim our own sheep as well as several of their lambs. The Brunzi erupted in laughter. And I suppose that was our father’s intent. A humiliation we would never forget.

  “That is how he punished us. Appropriate to the crime.” My father bowed. “That is all. Thank you.”

  I saw Grubarr try to hide a smile with a cough and then Hrodomin clapped his hands again. “That was less than brief, Findarr. We convene. Our decision will be forthcoming soon. Stay or go as you wish.” The three priests walked towards the stream. Several people stood to stretch or shake their cold limbs, but no one left.

  The priests talked far longer than I expected, and my legs began to ache as I stood there, both from the cold and the welts, and the glade was quiet for the most part, only a few low murmurs here and there, so the time stretched indefinitely.

  The priests returned. Hrodomin raised his arms and said, “We have reached our decision. Step forward, Braylar and Soffjan.”

  Soff didn't hesitate, but I felt rooted to the spot. I looked around the glade, at our tribe, and something struck me, disturbed me, a detail I will never forget. Everyone’s breath was visible in front of them, but where I expected everyone to be breathing differently, shallow and deep, fast and slow, puffs here and there and everywhere with no rhythm or pattern, the breath I saw was almost collective. Uniform. Everyone seemed to be inhaling and exhaling together. Except me. I wasn’t mirroring their breath—they were spectators while I was the spectacle. And I had never felt so miserable and alone.

  My father touched my back and pushed me forward. I looked up at him, and he swallowed and nodded then gave me another push. I didn’t see his breath at all.

  I took a few steps and stopped beside Soff. Hrodomin said, “You’ve committed a heinous deed, and you’re too old to blame your crime on youth. If we don’t respect the sanctity of the dead, we can’t respect the sanctity of the living. It’s been noted you lied when caught and I believe you would lie again today if you thought it would do any good. Truly, these actions must be punished severely. Your hands will be broken. But your uncle is right—there must be more.”

  I nearly vomited.

  “Ho
wever, your father is right as well. You did conceive of the first part of the punishment and the second need not be brutal to be effective. You won’t be buried with the dead, but you’ll be made to serve them. For the next three years you shall aid Grubarr in all burial rites. You shall prepare the bodies of the dead, dress them in their deadclothes, dig the graves and prepare the pyres. You shall ensure the sanctity of the dead is both arranged and protected. If any kin are dissatisfied with your service, you shall answer to me. If any graves are looted, you’ll be held responsible. For three years hence. So ends our judgment.”

  Hrodomin turned to Sirk, “You’ll break their hands and begin their punishment. Step forward.”

  Sirk said, “Gravedigging? Dressing up the dead?” He laughed, something as rare as Soff’s and far more ugly. “This is your judgment?”

  “It is. Step forward, son of Drogan, and complete this Reckoning. I have need of a fire, and—”

  “It isn’t enough,” Sirk said, and the collective breathing stopped.

  Hrodomin wasn’t a man accustomed to being interrupted, less accustomed to having his authority challenged. His face, possessing little enough color on the best of days, turned to ash. He said, “It’s the ruling of this tribunal and it is final.”

  “I don’t agree with this. It’s not enough—”

  Hrodomin brought his hands together and the clap echoed in the silence. “You’re wrong, son of Drogan. You do agree. You called for this Reckoning and by doing so you agreed to our judgment, regardless of what it might be. Now break these whelps’ hands and be done with it or you’ll find yourself on trial today, and I swear to you I won't be so impartial or patient a second time around.”

  Both men were shaking with rage, and all waited to see what Sirk was going to do. Finally, he complied, though without replying to Hrodomin. He marched over to us, grabbed Soff’s arm, and started to drag her towards the nearest stone seat.

  I ran after them and grabbed Sirk’s other hand. He stopped and looked down at me.

  “Break mine first,” I said. Both of them looked surprised and confused, but I continued before anyone could stop me. “For lying. Break mine first.” I was terrified if I saw my sister cry out or wail I wouldn’t accept my punishment willingly, would try to run or beg. There are few shames greater.

  Sirk released Soff’s arm and grabbed mine, roughly guiding me to the first row of seats. He told old Urgus to move and she didn’t argue, though he had to tell her twice, she being nearly deaf. Sirk put his hand on my shoulder, pushed me to my knees. And then he pulled his father’s sword from his belt and I cried out, sure this was how he planned on answering Hrodomin’s threat, by cutting off my hand. But he grabbed my right hand, laid it on the stone, and brought the pommel of the sword down on top of it, hard enough that I heard several bones snap.

  I screamed and pulled my shattered hand away, covered it with the other one, and fell forward, my forehead landing in the snowy grass. I heard Soff shouting, something about how it was supposed to be our off-hands, and then there was another crunch, and then everything was silent. I felt nauseous, and looked over at Soff. Between the tears and the snow I only saw her blurry silhouette, but while she was holding her hand the same way I was, she hadn’t fallen over. She was sitting on her calves, back straight, shoulders rigid, and though crying quietly, her head was up, staring straight ahead.

  Soffjian never stole from another grave. That was the end. That day changed her somehow. I wish I could say I never looted again, but that would be a lie. If anything, the Reckoning only inflamed my irreverence and anger.

  But I was changed in a different way.

  The Vorlu is a warrior culture. A man is judged on how well he wields a sword or a spear, how many raids he has been on. A man who does these things well is glorified in song and poem, his exploits recorded and celebrated, and a man who does them exceptionally well is remembered in songs sung for eternity. A man who fights poorly might still be valued in the tribe for his husbandry, craftsmanship, knowledge of the law, what have you. But he’ll never be glorified, and even if he’s gifted beyond measure at what he strives at, he’ll be forgotten. Quickly.

  By that rubric, I’d always considered my non-martial father a weak man, a frightened man, an embarrassing man.

  I don’t know if any of us know our fathers well. We often see them as less or more than they truly are. But that day in the grove, when the first snow fell and my uncle broke our hands as viciously as he could, for the first time in my life, I looked at my father and saw him the way he was.

  I will always remember the crunch of bone. And the interminable sentence of preparing and serving the dead that followed. But more sharply, I will remember my father’s quiet show of strength, standing up to his brother, the priests, all to protect his children that didn’t deserve it.

  Misguided? Yes. But I loved him for it.

  The Last Magician

  William Meikle

  “THERE AIN’T NO MAGIC any more, boy,” the old man said. “It went away to the west with the trains and the wagons and what was left of our dignity.”

  Tom kicked at the dirt at his feet in frustration.

  “But the stories said…”

  “Them’s just stories, lad. That’s all them is.”

  The old man looked so sad that Tom couldn’t bring himself to say any more. He’d come in search of the old man for two reasons, the first of which was to find out where to find the magic he’d read so much about in his books. Now that hope had been quashed, he kept the second reason to himself.

  It would be his secret, just between him and his newest friends.

  He’d found them by accident, in the creek that bounded the north edge of the farm. When they first spoke to him, he thought he might be going daft.

  “Soft in the head,” his Pa said, and that didn’t sound like a good idea at all to Tom, having your skull all squishy and the like. So that first time, he’d just stuck his fingers in his ears and ran, fast as spit, back to the kitchen.

  But the voices were insistent. He woke in the night to hear them, singing and dancing out there at the big pond. He got up, crept to the window, and watched the lights, blue and silver and emerald green, spinning and dancing and having a high old time.

  He didn’t go out. Not that time. His Pa told him it was just a dream, a bad dream, and although it hadn’t seemed bad at all, Tom knew better than to argue with his Pa during harvest season.

  It was three days before he went out to the pond.

  They were there, waiting.

  #

  “Tell us a story, Tom,” the blue one said. “An old story.”

  “We love old stories,” the green one replied.

  The silver one merely danced a bit faster.

  Tom sat with them for the longest time, telling them of bears that talk, grandmothers with big eyes and wizened little men that spun gold.

  They liked that one a lot.

  At the end of the day they thanked him profusely.

  “We have given you a gift,” they said in unison, their voices mingling in a most pleasant chorus. “Something to remember this day by.” They vanished with a pop that made Tom’s ears hurt.

  He looked everywhere for his gift, but there was nothing to be found, even after a thorough search of all his pockets. He went home feeling slightly sad that his new friends had deceived him.

  Ma was in the scullery, frying ham on the big skillet. She turned when he came through the door and her hand hit the skillet handle. The heavy pan tipped over. Tom saw it all happen in his mind; the hot fat was going to spray everywhere and scorch his Ma’s arm.

  He did it without thinking. He reached out and although he was on the opposite side of the room, he felt the weight of the skillet, felt it shift under his hand as he pushed it away to one side so that the fat skittered on the stove and not on Ma’s skin.

  “Did you see that?” he whispered.

  Ma was too busy cleaning up spilled grease.

  �
��Dashed near did myself an injury,” she said. “Don’t you be going scaring me again like that, you hear me?”

  “But Ma…I saved you.”

  “Near had me in the infirmary you mean? Now away with you and wash yourself. You can’t come to dinner with muck all over you.”

  And that was that.

  In the washroom he tried to make Pa’s shaving brush move just by looking at it, but nothing happened except that he developed a headache that lasted until bedtime.

  The next morning he went into town, looking for the oldest man he knew of, one that might know where the magic had all gone.

  Now he was trudging home, having failed in his quest.

  Them’s just stories, lad. That’s all them is.

  He had to cross the creek to get back to the farm. They were there, under the footbridge.

  “Who’s that walking on my bridge?” a gruff voice said, quickly followed by three singsong voices laughing in unison. “Tell us a story, Tom. Tell us an old story.”

  He told them about the girl with the ugly sisters, the seven dwarfs, and the princess who couldn’t be woken. They liked that one too. But the stories took a while in the telling, and the sun was going down in the west before Tom was finished.

  “Look what you made me do,” Tom wailed. “Pa’s going to take the belt to me again for sure.”

  The silver one danced and swirled around Tom’s head.

  “Do you believe, Tom? Do you really believe?”

  Tom nodded, remembering the weight of the skillet as he’d pushed it away, the feel of it in his head.