Supple

I woke to my own steady breathing and the chirping of crickets.

The wood was so dark I could barely see a few feet in front of me. My side was sore and wet, right, from where I had landed on my shovel. I fingered at it to see the extent of the wound, mostly out of some morbid curiosity. Not deep. Damn. There was always the possibility of infection getting to it. Yes, there was hope.

I pawed for my shovel and slung it over my shoulder, and headed back toward camp. I was slow and hesitant at first because thorns tugged at my legs that I couldn’t see. More importantly, though, I was slow because Cara would certainly have questions about my whereabouts. She was taking a liking to me. She watched me longer, thought things with her brow, and I knew it was a matter of time before she asked about me. About Harvi. I hadn’t decided whether I’d tell her or not, but I dreaded it all the same.

When I could see through the treeline into the encampment, still glowing by firelight, I heard some shouting. I poked through an opening. No guards stood watch. Gone. The shouting grew louder, and I followed it through empty tents. In a mass of bustling bodies, nearly all the convoy stood. The men and the less squeamish of the women formed a tight circle near Dae and Cara’s carriage while the little ones and their concerned mothers cowered near the bonfire. I waited motionlessly for them to part.

“You fuckin’ murdered ‘im!” A slender, harsh-looking man shouted at Dae. “In cold fuckin’ blood! I saw’r it!”

At Dae’s large feet was a dead man, skull bashed in. A bloodied helmet, the dead man’s, it seemed, was gripped firmly in his hands. He was panting, face contorted in rage. Cara’dina stumbled out of the carriage, dress torn and lip swollen. Long blond hair, a tousled mess, some of it was missing. She struggled to keep her breasts covered under the rags she had left. A long blabbering of her language poured out, in short, panicked bursts.

“Shut the bitch up!” A voice shouted.

“Muurish gash got ‘im killed, she did!” The slender man yelled, eyes crazed.

I bristled at the language directed at Cara. Then, I recognized the crier from before. The man who had lost his daughter, the wasting sickness woman. The heat rose in my chest again. Dae stepped between his wife and the angry crowd, a calm, controlled presence. He centered his breathing and spoke once, loud enough for all to hear.

“He attacked my wife.”

And that was all there was to it. Dae had made himself clear to everyone. A few of the wives gasped, and most of the men took a step back. The guard detail watched from the edge of the road, letting the infighting proceed, gathering information. From the looks on their faces, they knew the truth already, that this one of theirs was a lout. A craven, sick man desperate to take what he wanted.

They said nothing in Dae’s defense.

My chest was on fire, my ears hot to the touch, and seeing the thin lines of blush streaking across Cara’s face had only made it worse. I stepped forward, and the crowd parted for me. I stuck my shovel in the earth.

“I’ll perform the rites,” I said. I wanted to intervene, say anything that might diffuse the situation.

“Rites!? A man is dead, BOY! Are we all just gonna stand ‘ere and let this beast get away with it, then!? Who will be next!? Look at his woman and get brained!?” His hands waved erratically, and his eyes darted around for support. “THE WHORE CANNOT BE SPARED!”

I wished he hadn’t kept talking. Not because I didn’t relish the feeling of metal in his teeth when I swung my shovel into his mouth, but because I knew things were going to get worse.

CLANG!

One sound. It rang through the air like I’d shattered a stained glass window. The lanky bastard shrieked in terror first, then pain. He writhed on the ground like the worm he was. I grinned. I knew it only by the way Cara looked at me in surprise, and something older. She stepped back once, clutching her chest.

There’s a feeling that men often don’t speak of, at least not good men, and I learned it this day. Striking a man down is not like digging a hole. The earth gives when struck, it parts, makes room for the blade. A face does not. And when finally overcome by the force of the blow, the stricken one is met with a second pain. See, the earth does not part for the one who falls, but for the one who strikes.

And it felt incredible to be the one who struck.

Naturally, the guards stepped forward and pulled out their swords. I answered by sticking my shovel back into the earth and started digging. Everyone watched me closely as I continued to dig the hole where I stood. There was muttering. I didn’t care to hear it. Then, Dae stepped in front of me and spoke some more. Within minutes, everyone was cleared out, and I was digging my hole. I don’t know what he said to those soldiers, but they sheathed their weapons and hurried off. There weren’t many rocks this time. The ground was supple, like Harvi.

I saw her face again, this time not as a specter, but a pleasant wind on my cheek. She spoke to me of her approval, of my good work.

I had done good work, right? I was a digger now, and I had dug more than a few holes already. Driven more spikes than anyone cared to. Said the words, and minded the ritual. The convoy must be proud now, for me to begin with no spurring. Maybe the ground was looser, or maybe I was getting stronger, but it was the happiest grave I’d ever dug.