Mat'tock had an older brother named Awl, who had inherited the family farm from their mother.
Awl was a decent sort; strong, hard-working, and level-headed. The two brothers got along well enough, save for the occasional squabble, soon forgotten.
They looked out for one another, and got each other out of trouble more often than they got each other into it, although, as brothers, they did that too.
For the last year he was home, Mat'tock had distanced himself more and more from everyone around him. He knew he didn't belong where he was, and others sensed that, or felt the same.
He'd also convinced himself that he was a drain on his family and the community, although in truth this was mostly just something he told himself, to make the parting easier.
This was more painfully felt when it came to their mother, who couldn't easily accept that her son, her baby, had not only grow up, but had something in him that demanded far different things than what she, and the life she had created for her family, could provide.
What made it all the more painful was her unexpected passing, only a month after he'd left.
She'd killed herself, going out a little ways into the woods and slashing her own throat open, shortly after Awl's second daughter was born. Awl had been the one to find her. Mat'tock had recieved the bittersweet news of both events from a professional messenger, almost a month after the events had happened.
Mat'tock's mother had been the one to teach both her sons their runes. He blamed himself for her death, even though Awl had explained in the letter that she'd made it clear to him that she had only been staying around to see her fifth grandchild born.
Ever since their father had died, Awl and his wife, Gridh, had taken over most of the farm's workings. Their mother helped, but she was deeply in mourning-she'd loved their father very much, despite referring to him regularly, even after death, as "that lazy, dofornothing rascal"-and she also knew that it was time Awl took charge of his inheritance.
Once Awl came into his own, she felt there was little reason to keep on living. They hadn't gotten along well in years, but Mat'tock still wished he'd been there for her.
The only person who Mat'tock hadn't put at arms-reach, or further, was Awl. Mat'tock had even confided in Awl about the sword, and his fear that he might be going mad. Awl related a few stories that concerned swords that he'd learned from their father, but he'd ended up as baffled as Mat'tock had been.
He'd been someone Mat'tock could talk to, and he'd listened. That was worth something.
Every year since Mat'tock's father met Mat'tock's mother, the family had always had a feast to celebrate the harvest, and-if they had made it through the winter with enough to spare-another to welcome the coming Spring.
Even in the worst winters, when the snow would lay thicker on the ground than a tall man's height, and the nights were as black and as cold as the bottom of the sea, they'd always have fresh meat.
Mat'tock's father would take out his old spear, don his enormous sheepskin coat with the wool inside and the copper buttons all down the front, put on his green cap with the pheasant feather, and his great black boots. Strapping thin strips of bark to the bottoms of their boots, he'd set off into the woods, with one or the other of the boys.
Whichever child went along would get to carry their mother's sharp bronze knife in it's oiled leather sheaf, and a bundle of tall reeds, dyed red with berries the previous year, and trimmed to points for sticking in the snow, to mark their way.
Even if the winter was a bad one, they'd always try to have a pig. Sometimes, it was a deer or a pheasant, and once it was a brace of rabbits-half-starved-during the worst winter in memory. That year, Mat'tock's father had killed two wolves, and Mat'tock's mother had sewn the skins into cloaks for each of the boys. The winter had been so cold, they'd needed them.
Mat'tock had given his to Awl, as a wedding gift.
The meat from the wolves had gone to a neighboring family who had a smokehouse and would make jerkey out of it, in trade for firewood, a basket full of parsnips and onions, several gigantic turnips that had been carved into ghost-lanterns, but were still perfectly edible, and a little brandy.
Mat'tock's father always tried for a pig. A wild boar, in other words, although the old man always called them pigs. He'd explained to Awl once-and Awl had related to Mat'tock-that the boars would, if given a chance, steal food, destroy growing crops, and injure or kill a dog, a child, or even man, if given the chance.
They were smart, and they could be vicious, so it was better to take one of them than another animal that might cause less harm.
There was truth to this, and there was wisdom too--there was always wisdom to be found in their father's words. He'd lived too long, and too well, without having to work too hard, not to be wise.
But there was also truth in the fact that the man seemed to relish the taste of roasted boar above all other pleasures.
The juicy meat, cooked and basted for hours over a fussily tended spit that their father wouldn't let their mother approach.
The crisp, fatty skin, rubbed down with a syrup obtained by slowly boiling down dry, wrinkled apples in water, sometimes with the addition of brandy or honey, if there was any to be had.
A stuffing made from raisons, stale bread toasted in butter-or the pig's own trimmed fat-some sage if they had any, more apples, if any were left, and either spring onions or preserved garlic. Sometimes parsnips, or dried mushrooms, although usually these were long gone.
The blood and the offal was turned over to their mother, who used it in a hundred different dishes, although each of the boys would always recieve a slice of the liver, to toast over the fire as a treat.
The old man worked atleast three times as hard for those pigs, as he did for anything else. He'd been clever enough to get away with it, feeding his family and keeping his wife well happy, but those glorious roast boars, eaten in the dead of winter or early spring, were his weakness and his obsession.
Even a proper pig, raised in the little pen they had, and fattened on acorns-which they would sometimes have for the autumn feast, when they could afford to do it-didn't bring the old man the same joy as a boar, however lean or scrawny it was.
Mat'tock was, in many ways, his father's child. He was the clever one, the adventurer and the dreamer. He wasn't lazy-his mother had waged a nearly military campaign from a very early age to ensure that neither of her sons would take after their father in that respect-but when he worked, he worked smart, and he worked to survive, or to further specific goals.
Awl, who was otherwise the model of their mother, Awl, who was grounded in the here and now, and who honestly enjoyed hard work for it's own sake, had inherited the madness of the pig. As an adult, he'd taken to hunting them with a vengeance.
Mat'tock guessed that it was one way his brother had found to connect with their father.
Awl would sit for hours in front of the fireplace, while the old man turned the spit, watching the fat drip into a thick, fire-blacked crock, set in the coals to catch grease, and to keep flames from licking the skin. Listening to the old man tell his stories, while the coals glowed in the darkness.
The old man could have made a living telling stories, and admitted he had at times in his life. He told stories of his own life-some improbable but none impossible, and most not noticeably embellished-and hundreds of others from all over everywhere.
They were good stories: funny ones, clever ones, scary ones, or just talk of things he'd seen and done as a boy--what things had been like back then, and what their grandparents and his brothers had been like.
He told stories of the bravery of men, and stories of the gods, stories of the strange lands he'd visited, and strangers he'd known. Often they were simple tales that would have been boring if anyone else had talked of them. He had a talent for talking.
He could draw you in.
He'd lived many places, had been touched by many accents, and the richness of his voice-and it was a good voice, deep, sweet, mild-added a veracity to anything he said, even when you knew that he was just making it up. Even when he told you he was spinning you a yarn, he could make you believe what he was saying, atleast for as long as he was saying it.
There was a rhythm to it, when he talked. It was almost like he was singing. Each word flowed into the others like a chant.
It was hypnotic, mesmerizing.
And he could keep it up for hours.
On a cold winter night, when there's absolutely nothing else to do but to sit in the dark and listen, it was magical.
Between their father's storytelling, the crackling fire, and the promise of the pig, Awl was a lost cause.
Mat'tock had loved to hear his father tell his stories too, but in the end, his restlessness had sometimes won.
He'd only listen to a given tale two or three times through, before wandering off to whittle himself a wooden soldier, or play games with his mother. To visit with the donkey, old Grigg-and later, his mate Som'buc-that shared a room in their house. Often, he'd just stare out into the snow, watching the impossibly white flakes float dreamlike from the impossibly black sky.
Mat'tock knew that Awl had memorized all their father's stories. Awl knew every one of them by heart, and that made him glad. He wouldn't want them to be forgotten.
Awl-who had three sons of his own-was already teaching his youngest son, who had a talent for it, to be a storyteller by trade.
Mat'tock had found that quite funny. It was just like Awl, who had loved those stories so much-but in whom they'd never done more than lay dorment-to find a way to turn a coin from them.
When Mat'tock and Tol'brek had arrived at dinner, Morion was tending a small fire in one of the dining hall's three fireplaces. They exchanged smiles and friendly nods, but hunger damped any urge for conversation between the three.
The Monarch-Chrys-soon arrived from a distant doorway, carrying two immense loaves of bread, one under each arm, and a broad copper knife that wouldn't have been out of place on a battlefield.
"I'm afraid, master Mat'tock, that you find yourself as the centerpiece of a celebration. For nearly a fortnight we've lacked any good tidings to speak of, and your coming here is quite an unlooked-for pleasure. The meager hospitality we may offer is-were we left without the skills of a proper farmer such as yourself-nearly at an end. In short, you represent our hopes not only for prosperity, but survival as well."
As he talked, the Monarch placed the two loaves on the nearest table, and began industriously sawing at them, setting a slab of bread on the table in front of each place setting.
The slices of bread were nearly a foot square, and fully three inches deep.
It was a dark, dense bread, that looked like it had been made from flour ground out of rocknut husks. That must have been done at the village--Mat'tock had passed a mill down there.
'Breakbake', as bread made from rocknut husks was called, was food for the poorest of the poor, even by Mat'tock's standards.
It was filling-and considered healthy-but very bland, having a consistently only slightly softer than wood.
It was the common practice in many lands to use it in place of plates, and the bread, once a meal was over, was often enough donated to beggars, rather than suffer through eating the stuff when one had other options.
There were many recipes that improved on the taste-and this version smelled delicious-but the texture was, universally, a foregone conclusion.
Chrys's determined sawing proved this point.
Baromek and Shal'e'ish soon arrived together, and exchanged casual greetings with the others.
Mat'tock again felt an unexpected satisfaction when he noticed that the two, despite having arriving together, didn't seem to be more than acquaintances.
Mat'tock realized with a start that Carbuncle had been in the room the entire time, having been standing with his back against a piece of stonework that protruded from the furthest fireplace, and which mostly hid his soundless presence.
Except for Chrys-and even that relationship seemed very professional-the foreign soldier wasn't particularly warm towards the others, either, and the sentiment was apparently returned.
A few nods were shared, rather halfheartedly.
Mat'tock did greet the man, and recieved a polite nod in return, as well.
"Master Bardolom won't be joining us immediately," continued the Monarch. "He'll be relieved at his post after Master Morion has eaten his fill."
Tol'brek had been in the Fortress the longest of anyone present, and so it was his right and honor to serve the food to all, or to delegate this responsibility as he saw fit.
He was all too eager to fulfill his duty, though, and clearly took a lot of pride in the service.
As ancient custom demanded, Shal'e'ish was the first to be served. Women were always served first, and in some Fortresses, were the only ones allowed to purchase food. Male children, under some cultural traditions, weren't even allowed to eat meat, although this last was rare and considered outmoded.
These types of customs dated back to the times when male infants were often abandoned because not enough food could be found for them, and when females were kept under constant guard, to ensure a clan's survival.
Back then, women had been worshipped as demi-gods. Glancing shyly at Shal'e'ish So'pah, Mat'tock could imagine more reasons that might be, than just their gift of procreation.
As the newest resident, Mat'tock was served last, although Tol'Brek and Chrys made up for the inconvenient custom by proudly presenting him with the goat's head, and the little dish of salt.
Everyone cheered at that, even Carbuncle--if a grunt and a nod can be considered a cheer. Perhaps the strange man wasn't entirely a lost cause.
Mat'tock thanked them, earnestly. Aside from being very hungry, brains were a favorite of his.
"Kindly save the bones, everyone. I'll be turning them into soup stock, later on," said the Monarch.
To Mat'tock, he said "It's unfortunate that we can't spare the marrow-bones for this meal, as they are a favorite of mine. Let us take comfort in the hope that on some merry day, you and I may breakfast on them, with proper bread fried in fresh-churned butter, good strong spirits, and other niceties, and we shall get to know one another better."
No smile touched the Monarch's lips, but there seemed to be real interest, and pleasure, at the thought.
Mat'tock said that he'd like that, smiling openly, himself. There was something about the man-Chrys-that reminded him of his father at his best. Not in any defineable way, but there was wisdom there, and a nobility of an intimate sort, that went farther and deeper than any mere title, "Monarch" or otherwise, could ever convey.
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Topic: The Birth of an Artifact (Read 19929 times)