I
Gel wasn’t doing so well. The sun beat down
on him, the lack of water…they were not helping his journey,
especially not in his still injured state. He had no idea who had
re-wrapped his wounds for him, and in a quiet, distant part of his
mind he supposed it had done him well, but…still. He hurt.
His hand and face hurt, a dull, aching throb
with each step he took. He had no water, and he still had no idea
where he was going. Aimless vengeance was more difficult than he
had anticipated.
He’d given up on cursing or kicking at the
ground a while ago, and now he just walked. As it was, he spent
much of his time looking at the ground, watching where his feet
fell so he wouldn’t fall. He had fallen several times already, too
many times, and his feet were dragging now, putting rough, shallow
furrows into the dirt of the road. It wouldn’t take much to put him
face first on the ground again, and Gel wasn’t sure he’d be able to
make himself stand from another fall.
Because of his preoccupation with his pain,
because of the concentration it took to put one foot in front of
the other, Gel almost missed spotting him. Almost, but not
quite.
Gel was very close when he noticed the man on
the side of the road. He froze immediately in mid-stride and
crouched as much as his aching legs would allow, watching.
He was just…lying there. Dirty clothes, his
hands behind his head, one leg crossed over the other as he lay on
his back, a wide-brimmed straw hat covering his face. He was…well,
Gel wasn’t quite sure what, or who, he was. But aside from the man
sleeping curled up in the church when he left, he hadn’t seen
another person in…he wasn’t even sure how long.
Gel stood there, watching the man for a good
minute before he decided he must be sleeping, and wondered idly how
long it was since he had talked with anyone other than himself.
Then he spotted the sack near the man’s head.
It was full. Full of what, Gel didn’t know. Food, water, maybe even
a weapon. And then it didn’t matter; there, lying right beside the
sack, was a skein, clearly full. It could be water, or wine, but
Gel couldn’t care less.
The thirst that had ached through Gel for
hours hit him with a painful surge. Before he realized it himself,
he was creeping slowly towards the sleeping man, tiptoeing as
quickly and quietly as he could.
He reached the man, looked at him again,
making sure there was no movement. Skein and sack, Gel would take
them both.
He reached down, his hands inching slowly
closer to the skein on the ground.
His hands clamped down silently on the sack
and the skein, a grin breaking out over his face as his eyes stayed
locked on the man’s immobile form.
And then there was a hand around his wrist;
intense blue eyes and a cropped beard staring into his eyes.
Gel was stunned, frozen, by the blue eyes in
front of him.
Then the beard laughed. ‘Finally found you
again, Boy.’ A grin. Teeth. The skein and sack fell from his grip,
ignored and forgotten.
And then Gel was pulling back, stumbling,
trying to wrench his arm free, failing to break free from the
man.
Falling.
Gel flailed, he kicked, he punched with his
full left fist.
And the beard held on. His grip was like a
vice, held tight and fast around Gel’s right arm.
‘Settle down, boy,’ Gel heard the words come
out from behind the beard; ignored them. ‘I’m not like to hurt
you.’
A grunt as Gel landed a kick, hit the
man…somewhere. Gel had no idea where; it didn’t matter.
More struggling.
Somehow the beard snagged Gel’s left hand out
of the air, in mid swing.
More struggling.
Gel cursed as well as he knew how. He yelled
and screamed, pulled and twisted, but he couldn’t break free.
The beard just laughed.
It took a while, but Gel eventually stopped
struggling; accepting he wouldn’t be breaking free. The bearded man
was too old, too strong; Gel too tired from walking.
Instead, Gel affected an angry, accusatory
glare, staring down through the tops of his eyes at the man, his
hair falling angrily, messily, over his vision.
The bearded man hardly seemed to notice the
anger, the hatred that Gel was directing his way.
‘We done now, boy?’ the beard asked.
‘It’s like he’s making fun of me’, Gel
thought to himself, struggling again briefly. The man sat up,
pulled Gel to a hobbled sitting position. Gel tried to get an arm
free, but his struggle was short and in vain.
‘Boy, don’t make me tie you up.’ The beard
said, letting go of Gels right hand and pulling a length of rope
out from under his cloak.
Sullen, Gel realized he was stuck. He
couldn’t break the man’s grip, even with one hand free. Not yet
anyway. He’d have to think it through, stay calm, escape later. He
was young, clearly smarter than the dirty old man. He’d find a
way.
‘I’m done.’ He grumbled, dejectedly, letting
his arms fall limp at his sides.
The man let go of his arm.
‘Bout time,’ he chuckled, shaking his hands
out at either side of him.
‘Not yet…’ Gel thought to himself as the
temptation to bolt for freedom rose, ‘Have to catch him off
guard…’
And so he sat, glaring, as the bearded man
sat in the dirt of the road opposite Gel, stretching his back and
smiling.
Gel wouldn’t be fooled.
***
‘Boy’s going to be a problem’, Dan’r thought
as he sat across from the glaring youngster. ‘He’s young. 11? 12
maybe? He has no survival skills. He’s scared, and too angry to
think clearly.’
Dan’r smiled, almost a wry grin. He never had
children, never even had brothers or sisters. He had no idea how to
deal with a child.
‘Kid knows nothing’ he thought, wondering how
to start talking to the boy.
***
The bearded man just sat there, grinning
stupidly at him. After a minute or so, well, Gel started to get
angry.
Angrier.
‘I’ve already given up, haven’t I?’ Gel asked
himself, scowling, ‘what more does he want?’
They sat there for a minute longer, Gel
glaring and the man doing…nothing really.
Then the beard seemed to shake himself out of
whatever strange world he had drifted off to in the first place,
and spoke.
‘So, boy. What’s your name?’ His voice was
harsh and low, with a slow, muddy rasp and a strange accent.
‘What do you care?’ Gel spat. Stupid old man,
trying to be nice.
‘Do you want some water?’ the beard asked,
motioning towards the skein that lay on the ground between
them.
Gel wouldn’t say it; wouldn’t give the man
the satisfaction, so he just glared.
The beard shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ He said,
grabbing the skein, drinking deeply, and putting it back on the
ground.
‘My name is Dan’r’, the beard said.
‘That’s a stupid name.’ Gel interrupted
sullenly. What did he care what the beards name was.
‘Probably,’ the beard said, shrugging again,
‘but it’s the only one I’ve got, so I live with it’.
‘Still stupid’
Silence again.
‘That was quite the storm…’ the beard tried
again.
Gel glared.
‘What, ah, what happened to your village?’
the beard asked.
‘You know, you did it!’ Gel thought, glaring
more angrily.
‘You’re…not going to talk with me, are you?’
the beard asked, shaking his head slightly.
‘No.’
‘What happened to your lute?’
Gel’s glare softened immediately, and he
looked away from the beard, his eyes seeking and finding the dirt
ground beneath them.
‘Broke.’ He mumbled.
It was…they were both broken. His lute, the
one he had used, had carried with him almost everywhere for years;
the one he had taken from old lady Vaen’s house…they were both
gone. And he wasn’t likely to hold another.
Lutes were, well, expensive. And no-one was
likely to let a child hold one. Gel was the best, he KNEW he was
the best, with a lute, but no-one else knew. Everyone else would
just think him likely to break it. Everyone who had known he was
the best was…
‘Broke.’ Gel said again, to get his thoughts
clear of what had happened to his home, his life.
The worst part was he could feel it. He could
feel the desire to sit and play, to continue what he’d been doing
under the tree. He wanted to play almost more than he wanted to
find whoever had attacked his home, whoever had…
‘That’s too bad,’ the bearded man said, and
Gel almost imagined he could hear sorrow in his voice. ‘I’m sorry
for your loss.’ He sounded…sincere.
Gel looked up to see the man rummaging
through his sack, pulling out what looked like paper, and
charcoal.
‘What are you doing?’ Gel asked, curiosity
overwhelming some of his sullen anger.
‘I’m going to give you something; try to
prove I’m not going to hurt you.’ The beard said, as he started
making quick, accurate lines on the paper in front of him.
He was holding the charcoal lightly, looking
like it was more likely to fall out of his fingers than make a mark
on the papers pressed tightly against his thigh. It looked awkward,
out of place, but also…right.
Gel leaned forward, curious and confused. It
took him a minute, but the lines slowly started making sense.
Stupid, useless sense.
‘You’re drawing me a lute?’ Gel asked, his
anger returning. ‘You’re making fun of me. First you attack my
village, then you trick me and capture me, and now you’re making
fun of me?’ Gel’s voice rose quickly ‘What’s wrong with you?!
You…you…’
‘Quiet, boy.’ The beard cut him off, not even
bothering to look up from his drawings.
Gel was left spluttering; wide-eyed. It
didn’t make sense. The old man was insane, he had to be.
‘Good enough for now’ the man mumbled to
himself eventually.
And then everything got stranger. The man
took the drawing he had just made, frowned, and crumpled it into a
ball between both his hands.
‘What…’ Gel started.
‘Quiet. Watch.’ The man said, almost before
Gel had started talking.
And then he pulled his hands apart, and the
air, it shimmered. It looked almost like the waves that appeared
sometimes in the air on hot days, making waves out of whatever was
behind them. Only it was magnified a hundred fold; a thousand fold.
Gel couldn’t see through the waves, and it hurt his eyes just to
look at them.
It didn’t last long. The man spread his
hands, the air shimmered, Gel’s eyes rebelled in confusion; in
pain, and then the man was holding a lute.
Not a drawing of one, not a sad replica made
of charcoal and parchment.
A true, honest, lute.
The bearded man hefted the lute once, twice,
and shrugged, then held it out to Gel. ‘Haven’t done that in front
of anyone in a long time’ the bearded man said, rolling his
shoulders and shaking his right hand.
Gel stared at him. The wide-brimmed hat, the
blue eyes, the beard. The lute.
‘How…’ he started, shook his head. It didn’t
really matter right now.
Gel reached his left hand out towards the
lute slowly, looking at the bearded man sitting still across from
him.
‘Gel’ he said, then wrapped his hand around
the neck of the lute. ‘My name’s Gel.’
***
Dan’r watched as the boy took the lute,
slowly ran the free fingers on his right hand down the strings,
before stopping and shaking the bandages off the hand angrily,
impatiently.
The boy sat up straight and played his left
hand along the neck of the instrument, as if to get a feel for it.
He breathed in, closed his eyes, and started to play, two clear
notes ringing out under the afternoon sun.
And stopped immediately, looking angry yet
again.
‘It’s out of tune’ Gel complained as he
started playing with the pegs at the lute’s head. The pegs cracked
and squeaked as the boy turned them slowly, sounding a single
string and listening each time he turned a peg, till he was
satisfied with the sound it made.
Dan’r laughed. ‘Look, kid, I just made you a
new lute. What’s more, I made it out of nothing. You don’t get to
complain about it not being in tune.’ He said, putting his hands on
his knees to stand, and grimacing at the cracks his knees made as
he did. Besides, you can tune it later. And play it later. For now,
we should move. Get out of the sun at least.’
‘What makes you think I’m coming with you?’
the boy said, suddenly suspicious again.
Dan’r looked at the boy, brushed a hand back
through his hair, shorter and cleaner now than he could remember it
being in years. ‘Do you want to know how I made that Lute?’ he
asked.
‘Well…yes…’ Gel said, nodding.
‘Do you want to know what else I can
make?’
‘Well…yes…’
‘Well, then you’d better follow me, hadn’t
you?’ Dan’r answered, holding his right hand out to the boy to help
him.
The boy looked at Dan’r’s hand, shrugged, and
stood up by himself, folding his right hand into a ball to push
himself up while holding onto his new lute in his left.
‘Lead the way then, old man’.
II
He entered his office quickly, the door
swinging shut behind him the moment he crossed the threshold. His
strides were quick, purposeful, and in three he reached the dark,
polished wood desk in the middle of the floor.
The desk itself was ancient, and he knew its
every intricacy by heart. Hand carved with the images and symbols
of Ragn; the names of his disciples and prophets. In the center of
the desk, in testament to the religious fervor and god-given skill
of the carver lay a burnished flame, depicting Ragn in his most
pure form. Underneath the dark desk was a bright red rug,
luxurious, and patterned throughout in black and gold.