WARNING! The protagonist of this story may be nine years old, but this is most definitely not a story suitable for children. Rated R for violence, other potentially disturbing content, and salty language.
Part 2 | 3 | 4 | 5
Part One
"Sheb! Don't!"
His mother's voice rang shrill in his ears. He kept walking, fists clenched, face clenched.
"Sheb, let it go. Better the dog than..."
Sheb kept walking.
"Son, please. He is going to hurt you."
Of course he would. He always did.
The dog had retreated as far as his chain would allow. His tail was clamped between his legs and he was trembling. Fergo was part wolf, massive, but one eye was cloudy, and there was more gray than black around his muzzle.
"The damn cur growled at me. My own dog growled at me." Sheb's father lifted a cleaver in his meaty hand, sweat darkening his blond stubble.
"Don't touch him." Sheb said it quietly, with as much authority as he could muster.
Father turned towards son, cleaver lifted, dog ignored. "What did you say?"
"Don't. Touch. Him." Sheb stood as tall as his nine years allowed.
His father slashed a smile. "Oh? Is that how it is? All right." He put the well-used cleaver aside, and pointed at the ground by his feet. "Come here."
Sheb remained where he was. Waiting.
"Ionar, please, he didn't mean it," Sheb's mother said. "Sheb, apologize to your father."
"When I'm done with the brat," Ionar said, "I'll get to you, Serela."
Sheb looked back at his mother. She stood hunched, curled in upon herself, waiting for the inevitable punishment like a sheep waiting for slaughter. She never fought back. Nobody ever fought back. That's why father did what he did: Because nobody stopped him.
Sheb's entire body started to tingle, and he felt almost as if he was looking at himself from the outside. He watched himself unclench his fists and bare his teeth in a smile of his own. He took a step towards his father.
That's when everything happened at once.
Fergo darted forward and clamped his jaws on Ionar's calf. Ionar bellowed and tried to kick the dog away. Serela shrieked. Sheb dodged around his father, picked up the abandoned cleaver, turned it over the way his father did when he stunned a sheep before cutting its throat, and swung with all the wiry strength he had gained as a butcher's apprentice. His father's apprentice.
The yard was quiet for a moment. Then: a heavy thunk. The growl of a dog. The sobs of a woman. The moans of a man. And not a sound from the boy. Sheb stood, legs braced, cleaver held loosely by his side. His entire body pulsated, and he felt more awake than he had ever felt before. More powerful. He waited for his father to rise, but Ionar merely groaned. Blood seeped from his ear and pooled under his cheek. Crumpled on the ground, his father didn't look so big, so intimidating anymore. Sheb slid the cleaver through his belt. He looked up into the cloud-fluffed blue skies, and smiled. Everything would be all right now.
"Sheb... Holy Fosan have mercy..." Serela's work-roughened hands hovered in front of her gaunt face as if she feared her own touch. Her voice was a mere whisper. "What have you done?"
"I wasn't going to let him kill Fergo. Or hit us again." Pride made his voice resonant.
His mother took a step back. "You hurt your own father."
"He deserved it."
Serela opened her mouth. Then she closed it. "Run. Get the healer."
Sheb looked at his father, still awkwardly sprawled in the dirt of the yard, one hand spasmodically opening and closing. He looked at his mother, still with her hands half hiding her face. Sheb shrugged. And then he took off, across the town square and down the path that led to the healer's house.
Pachin wasn't much of a village, so it didn't take Sheb long to get to its outskirts, where the healer lived. She was turning the soil in her garden, her sleeves rolled up to reveal strong, tanned forearms. The strands of graying hair fluttering around her face failed to soften her angular features. She stabbed the spade into the rich soil, braced her hands against her back, and straightened up with a grimace.
"What is it this time?" she asked when Sheb came to a halt before the fence.
"It's my father, Mestra," Sheb said.
"That's a new one. What happened?"
"I hit him."
"You... what?"
"He was going to kill Fergo."
"Who is Fergo?"
"Our dog."
"You hit your father because of a dog?"
Sheb faced the healer, hands fisted, chin jutting. "Yes. And so?"
The healer let out a sigh. "How badly is he hurt?"
When she heard Sheb's description, the healer's face turned grave. She left the spade sticking up from the dirt, hurried into the house, and only moments later reappeared with her well-used healer's bag slung over her shoulder. She held out a pack for the boy to carry. "Sheb?"
He looked at her.
"Run."
***
Both Sheb and the healer were panting by the time they reached the yard. Ionar was still in the same spot, with Serela kneeling in the dirt beside him, rocking back and forth.
"Serela," the healer said, not ungently, "get a board. We need to bring him inside."
"But we can't possibly carry him."
"Why not? He's not such a big man."
Sheb went to the workshop and dragged out the big board they used as a makeshift table sometimes, when the butcher block alone wasn't enough. He carried it into the yard, while his mother was still wringing her hands.
The healer nodded at Sheb, then she said to Serela, in a tone that brooked no argument, "Take his legs."
A little later, Father was laid out like a hog on his own butcher block, while Mother and the healer were in the kitchen, preparing. Sheb studied his father's twisted, bloodied face. The big vein at the side of his neck. A quick cut, step back to dodge the spray of blood, then wait for him to bleed out. It would be easier than slaughtering sheep. Father would never hit anyone again. Turen would come back, like he'd promised, and then they could live their lives in peace, just the three—
No. No, it wouldn't work. If he killed Father, the Guardians would come after him. They'd— Sheb swallowed, and dropped his hand away from the cleaver still in his belt. Just then, footsteps sounded in the hallway. Sheb turned on his heel and ran to the door. He needed to get out before the healer made him help. The mere thought of having to touch Father made Sheb's stomach turn.
The bloodstain in the center of the yard was darker now, not the bright red of fresh blood, but the reddish brown of blood that had sat on the counter too long. It would dry into a darker, crusty brown, and finally disappear into the dirt of the yard like all the other bloodstains had. Here in the yard, the blood of sheep and goats and cattle mingled with Fergo's blood, and Mother's blood, and Turen's blood, and Sheb's. And now, finally, Father's. Sheb smiled.
***
A wail rose from inside the workshop. Sheb had never heard a sound so loud and rending come from his mother's stooped body. He raced back inside.
"There's nothing more I can do," the healer said. "He will live or he won't, but if he does, he won't be what he was before."
And how is that bad? Sheb thought. He looked down on his father. His face was clean now, the blood washed off, and a bandage circled his head. The right side of his face drooped, and drool slid from slack lips, which held no hint of his usual sneer. His eyes were open; the right one roving off to the side, but the left one dark with hatred. One side of his mouth moved, but all that came out was a wet gurgle.
"Let's take Ionar to his bed," the healer said. "Sheb, help your mother."
Between the three of them, they carried Ionar across the yard and into the house, and got him settled. Serela sat on the edge of the bed, and held Ionar's hand between both of hers.
"Keep him awake as much as you can," the healer said. "I will look in on him in the morning,"
"Please stay." Serela's voice quivered. "Please don't leave me alone with him."
The healer laid a hand on Serela's arm. Her voice was soft, yet firm. "Don't worry, Serela. He will never again hurt you."
"I wasn't talking about him."
***
It rocked Sheb like a slap. "Mother?" He took a step towards her, his arms lifting as if of their own volition.
"Get away from me!"
Tears shot into Sheb's eyes, and he blinked furiously to keep them from falling.
"The Guardians will deal with you."
"No. Please... not the Guardians."
"Serela," the healer said gently, "Sheb is just a boy. He only wanted to save the dog. He didn't mean to hurt his father."
"He knew exactly what he did. He's killed enough sheep to know." Her voice was the hiss of a knife drawn from its sheath when she turned to Sheb. "Only you didn't quite manage to kill him. Not even that you could do."
The healer jerked. She looked at Serela as if she were a stranger, and not the baby girl she had coaxed from a villager's womb nearly thirty years ago.
Not even that you could do. Sheb couldn't hold back the tears. Not even that you could do.
"Get out!" Serela said.
"Serela," the healer said, "don't push him away. Your son needs you now."
Sheb had never noticed how blue Mother's eyes were, how hard her mouth.
"I do not have a son."
DANG! I'm hooked! Gripping, tense, INtense. On to part 2!!!!! (That paragraph about the blood in the soil -- WOW. Simply stellar!)
What a fascinating, powerful story this is! I can't wait to read Part 2--was completely engrossed and anxious to know what happens next. Nicely done!