Narrannik
06-09-2008, 10:35 PM
The light Tark-Turn wind played in the crisp tan leaves, rippling a wave of motion through the row of the giant trees they called the Sentinels. I could drive this cart down the branches of any of them, Nathannik thought, dropping the reins to his lap. The squat, tri-horned Tark pony knew where home was.
The birds were singing, and the summer sun shone golden across the fields. The red winter sun was creeping across the western horizon, its season nearing, but he didn’t care much. Nathannik leaned back, letting the birdsong flow over him.
He raised his shirt, rubbing a wide scar, a mass of deadened flesh his children thought came from a wild carneth. It still hurt him, now and then. But no matter. He tucked the linen back under his woven grass belt.
The cart crested a flowered knoll, the lavender ripples swaying like water. His croft was just beyond, nestled in thick bushes. Drawing up the waddling pony, he watched his family for a moment. They were tossing a ball, slapping it with big basket-woven rackets, an intricate game he had never quite mastered. His wife was moving quickly, their baby in a packboard. Lassari, his tall strong wife, a dark haired, pale skinned Tark woman. His oldest two were across from her, struggling for the ball. Tanna was his only girl, twelve, and had his hair, curly and shorter. Tornick was three years younger, and as thin and light as any in the Tark system.
Lassari saw him watching, and lowered her racket, coming toward him. He put his arm around her slim shoulders, walking silently toward the croft. The children followed them, knowing supper was ready.
Inside the house, the three others dished food around the table as Nathannik unlaced the packboard. He stared impassionately down at the baby Narrannik. He had his mother’s pale skin, and her hair, straight and black, but Nathannik saw his own eyes in the baby’s face, hazel, the only betrayal of his father’s strangeness. Nathannik was a short man, no taller than his wife, and built square, heaver than any Tark man he had met. His hair was short and curly, his skin ruddy and tan. But the people of the planet Tark-Turn had accepted him, and his sober honesty and odd strength had endeared him.
Little Narrannik’s face faded, Nathannik’s mind leaving his eyes. His stony face divulged none of his visions, as scenes flashed through his tortured memory.
“Supper…” Lassari touched his arm. He jerked instinctively, and spun, arm out. Seeing her, he stopped, fighting his reflexes down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The crisp vines of the Stark plant were growing spiny, had been left too long. Tornick pricked his hand, and drew it away quickly, shoving his fingers in his mouth. Nathannik sighed, lumbering over to him. Grasping the long red squash by the stem, and stepping on the vine, he broke the stem sharply.
“That, son, is how you do it.”
Tornick nodded, still sucking his hand. Nathannik drew it from his mouth, examining the finger. “You’ll make it, I think. Let’s get this cart loaded up.”
It was bending, backbreaking work, but he liked that, and worked in what the Tark-Turns saw as a frenzy. They continued with a rhythmic steadiness until the yellow sun was high in the eastern sky, and the red sun peeping from behind the column of giant trees. The cart was nearly full, and they sat down in its shadow, splitting the giant purple fruit that Lassari had packed them.
“Daddy,” Tornick turned serious eyes up to him. “Why do you look so different?”
Nathannik drew a long breath, had known it would come eventually. “Well, sometimes that happens, son. Your sister looks like me, too. And your brother has eyes like mine.”
“That’s because they’re your children. And why don’t I know all my grandparents?”
“Tornick…”
“Were you an orphan?”
Nathannik rested his ropey arms on his knees. “You could say that, an orphan.” He lumbered to his feet, moving off before his son could ask another question. Grasping the edge of his seat, he pulled himself into the cart. Tornick scrambled up beside him. The silence was poignant. Never had Tornick known his father reluctant to explain a question, and he wondered if his childish curiosity had plunged too deeply.
When the cart rumbled into the village, the market was already bustling. There were greetings and calls as the popular farmer drew into his usual spot. Farmers and villagers gathered as Nathannik unloaded the starkfruit. Tornick tugged at his sleeve.
“May I go play?”
Nathannik nodded, and his son disappeared into the mass of people.
There was a commotion down the street, and Nathannik looked up from his produce. A man named Grisp strode through the market, swinging his studded club casually. In his wake came the shouting.
Some ruffians from the province capital had been causing trouble, a few years back, and Grisp ran them out of town. The people had named him ‘enforcer’, and paid him to keep the peace. Not that it was often needed. Since his salary was low, and excitement was rare, Grisp had taken to exacting an enforcement tax on merchants from outside of town.
Nathannik watched as Grisp drew closer. His neighbor, the butcher Warllo, growing obviously frightened.
“I’m going to do something about it this time,” a man named Kine hissed. “I can’t feed my family if I keep giving that cannash the best of my grain.”
The man was nervous, trembling and sweating, but the thought of his family being hungry was all he could see. Warllo slipped behind his cart, hoping to stay out of the fray he saw coming.
Nathannik put his hand on Kine’s shoulder. “Patience, my friend, wait until the people are ready to depose him.”
Grisp was sorting through the Warllo’s assortment of frozen meats. Kine’s stand was next.
“It is not worth fighting about. There is little in this life that is.”
“And what do you know, you’re so well-to-do. My family is hungry.”
“Listen, Kine, whatever he takes, I will pay for.”
Kine paid no heed. He toyed with his belt and drew out a small knife. Grisp moved to his stand. Kine turned slowly toward the tall enforcer. Nathannik’s hand was still on his shoulder. Struggling to free himself, he revealed the knife. Hefting his club with a dangerous smile, Grisp eyed his first assailant in months. Nathannik made his move. So quickly no one really saw it, he stepped on Kine’s foot, dropping his other hand to his wrist, and thrust his fingers into the nerves below the hand. Fingers momentarily lifeless, Kine let the knife slide to the ground. With a smirk, Grisp picked over his grains.
The yellow sun peeked through the sentinels, as the red sun wavered behind the huts. The merchants and farmers packed their carts for the evening journey, as Grisp watched. Tornick should have been back. Nathannik hunched his square shoulders and left the main street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rals was the village idiot. He was also Nathannik’s brother-in-law. Older than Lassari by almost twenty years, he was the only man in the village who had been traveling. He had seen nearly the whole planet, it was said, and somewhere amid all the wonders he had seen, he had misplaced most of his intelligence.
At least, that’s what they said.
The fire cackled evilly in the run-down croft on the edge of town. Tornick refused the offer of ale, as he always did. Rals took more than a polite drink, and sat down. His nephew was the only child in the village that was not afraid of him, and was therefore the recipient of all his stories, many of them repeatedly.
“Uncle Rals, how did my father come to the Village?”
Rals gazed darkly into his tankard. This was a story he had never told. “It was about this time of year. I was working a field, a few miles out of town. And…he just lumbered over that hill,” Rals nodded to the east. Tornick knew the hill. “…Dressed in a brown suit with metal studs. He had a big red vest on, and had his arm in his side, holdin’ his insides in. He staggered toward me, swayin’ like a sapling, glaring like a storm, then fell, face down in my stark patch.”
Tornik’s eyes were huge. “From the carneth, right?”
Rals chuckled. “I’ve fought carneths, boy, and I’ve fought men with fists, swords and spears; and I’ll tell you, that was no carneth made that wound. So anyway, I drug him home, and they nursed him back to health. Took a while though, and a lot of pain and delirium. Said some strange things, too, in his fits. Mostly a strange language.”
“What did he say?”
“Mostly he kept saying, over and over, Narl gast tri unti…”
Nathannik quietly filled the doorway. His son knew he was there before he spoke, and Rals’s words ran out.
“Tornick!” He rarely spoke sharply, but he was sweating and furious. Tornick quietly went to his father. Nathannik’s green eyes locked with Rals’ dark ones, and there was silence. The fire sputtered, and rain began spattering on the street outside.
Nathannik nodded coldly. “Evening, Rals.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a silent ride back to the croft. When they drew up, Tanna ran to meet them, carrying the baby. Lassari remained in the house, doing nothing, which was rare. With one glance at her through the window, Nathannik knew something was wrong.
Tanna was excited, breathless. “Strangers stopped here, father…asking about you.”
Nathannik brushed by her, and moved to Lassari.
“What did they look like?”
She said she had noticed nothing unusual. That was a relief, for it meant they were natives. Tanna stood in his wake, sensing fear in her fearless parents. Tornik sensed nothing, and tugged at Tanna’s sleeve, begging her to play, until she did, half-heartedly.
“Did they know my name?” Nathannik asked.
She nodded her head. “And they described you.”
He smiled down at her.
“They’re probably from the capital.” He said, smiling. “Something about the village taxes.”
She smiled as well, both pretending for the other, for the children. She alone of the villagers knew of his past, and told him she would share with him whatever it brought.
Nathannik clenched his jaw tightly. He knew it was well within his enemies’ power to enlist native agents, but he told himself that his explanation had been valid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was silent, finally, the others asleep. He sat in front of the croft, on an upturned slice of tree-truck, a wood splitting block, and removed the shoes he constantly wore. His feet were mangled, the left one especially, missing toes, countless tiny bones broken, the scars of hot prods crossing his soles. He couldn’t sleep again. Nightmares. Curse that fool Rals. There was a sound, and he slid his shoes on.
There was the hum of a tiny motor, straining across the skies, and he stood up. A diamond shaped black craft rose above the hill that dominated the village.
The Tark-Turns used no aircraft.
It hovered, then was skimming over him, barely off the ground. The hatch opened and two figures fell, rolling, suddenly on their feet, advancing on him. He backed off cannily, searching his mind for a weapon nearby. They were sleek and black, shining like obsidian in the light of the moons. They moved fluidly, and their long black blades were fused to their arms. They were robots.
The birds were singing, and the summer sun shone golden across the fields. The red winter sun was creeping across the western horizon, its season nearing, but he didn’t care much. Nathannik leaned back, letting the birdsong flow over him.
He raised his shirt, rubbing a wide scar, a mass of deadened flesh his children thought came from a wild carneth. It still hurt him, now and then. But no matter. He tucked the linen back under his woven grass belt.
The cart crested a flowered knoll, the lavender ripples swaying like water. His croft was just beyond, nestled in thick bushes. Drawing up the waddling pony, he watched his family for a moment. They were tossing a ball, slapping it with big basket-woven rackets, an intricate game he had never quite mastered. His wife was moving quickly, their baby in a packboard. Lassari, his tall strong wife, a dark haired, pale skinned Tark woman. His oldest two were across from her, struggling for the ball. Tanna was his only girl, twelve, and had his hair, curly and shorter. Tornick was three years younger, and as thin and light as any in the Tark system.
Lassari saw him watching, and lowered her racket, coming toward him. He put his arm around her slim shoulders, walking silently toward the croft. The children followed them, knowing supper was ready.
Inside the house, the three others dished food around the table as Nathannik unlaced the packboard. He stared impassionately down at the baby Narrannik. He had his mother’s pale skin, and her hair, straight and black, but Nathannik saw his own eyes in the baby’s face, hazel, the only betrayal of his father’s strangeness. Nathannik was a short man, no taller than his wife, and built square, heaver than any Tark man he had met. His hair was short and curly, his skin ruddy and tan. But the people of the planet Tark-Turn had accepted him, and his sober honesty and odd strength had endeared him.
Little Narrannik’s face faded, Nathannik’s mind leaving his eyes. His stony face divulged none of his visions, as scenes flashed through his tortured memory.
“Supper…” Lassari touched his arm. He jerked instinctively, and spun, arm out. Seeing her, he stopped, fighting his reflexes down.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The crisp vines of the Stark plant were growing spiny, had been left too long. Tornick pricked his hand, and drew it away quickly, shoving his fingers in his mouth. Nathannik sighed, lumbering over to him. Grasping the long red squash by the stem, and stepping on the vine, he broke the stem sharply.
“That, son, is how you do it.”
Tornick nodded, still sucking his hand. Nathannik drew it from his mouth, examining the finger. “You’ll make it, I think. Let’s get this cart loaded up.”
It was bending, backbreaking work, but he liked that, and worked in what the Tark-Turns saw as a frenzy. They continued with a rhythmic steadiness until the yellow sun was high in the eastern sky, and the red sun peeping from behind the column of giant trees. The cart was nearly full, and they sat down in its shadow, splitting the giant purple fruit that Lassari had packed them.
“Daddy,” Tornick turned serious eyes up to him. “Why do you look so different?”
Nathannik drew a long breath, had known it would come eventually. “Well, sometimes that happens, son. Your sister looks like me, too. And your brother has eyes like mine.”
“That’s because they’re your children. And why don’t I know all my grandparents?”
“Tornick…”
“Were you an orphan?”
Nathannik rested his ropey arms on his knees. “You could say that, an orphan.” He lumbered to his feet, moving off before his son could ask another question. Grasping the edge of his seat, he pulled himself into the cart. Tornick scrambled up beside him. The silence was poignant. Never had Tornick known his father reluctant to explain a question, and he wondered if his childish curiosity had plunged too deeply.
When the cart rumbled into the village, the market was already bustling. There were greetings and calls as the popular farmer drew into his usual spot. Farmers and villagers gathered as Nathannik unloaded the starkfruit. Tornick tugged at his sleeve.
“May I go play?”
Nathannik nodded, and his son disappeared into the mass of people.
There was a commotion down the street, and Nathannik looked up from his produce. A man named Grisp strode through the market, swinging his studded club casually. In his wake came the shouting.
Some ruffians from the province capital had been causing trouble, a few years back, and Grisp ran them out of town. The people had named him ‘enforcer’, and paid him to keep the peace. Not that it was often needed. Since his salary was low, and excitement was rare, Grisp had taken to exacting an enforcement tax on merchants from outside of town.
Nathannik watched as Grisp drew closer. His neighbor, the butcher Warllo, growing obviously frightened.
“I’m going to do something about it this time,” a man named Kine hissed. “I can’t feed my family if I keep giving that cannash the best of my grain.”
The man was nervous, trembling and sweating, but the thought of his family being hungry was all he could see. Warllo slipped behind his cart, hoping to stay out of the fray he saw coming.
Nathannik put his hand on Kine’s shoulder. “Patience, my friend, wait until the people are ready to depose him.”
Grisp was sorting through the Warllo’s assortment of frozen meats. Kine’s stand was next.
“It is not worth fighting about. There is little in this life that is.”
“And what do you know, you’re so well-to-do. My family is hungry.”
“Listen, Kine, whatever he takes, I will pay for.”
Kine paid no heed. He toyed with his belt and drew out a small knife. Grisp moved to his stand. Kine turned slowly toward the tall enforcer. Nathannik’s hand was still on his shoulder. Struggling to free himself, he revealed the knife. Hefting his club with a dangerous smile, Grisp eyed his first assailant in months. Nathannik made his move. So quickly no one really saw it, he stepped on Kine’s foot, dropping his other hand to his wrist, and thrust his fingers into the nerves below the hand. Fingers momentarily lifeless, Kine let the knife slide to the ground. With a smirk, Grisp picked over his grains.
The yellow sun peeked through the sentinels, as the red sun wavered behind the huts. The merchants and farmers packed their carts for the evening journey, as Grisp watched. Tornick should have been back. Nathannik hunched his square shoulders and left the main street.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Rals was the village idiot. He was also Nathannik’s brother-in-law. Older than Lassari by almost twenty years, he was the only man in the village who had been traveling. He had seen nearly the whole planet, it was said, and somewhere amid all the wonders he had seen, he had misplaced most of his intelligence.
At least, that’s what they said.
The fire cackled evilly in the run-down croft on the edge of town. Tornick refused the offer of ale, as he always did. Rals took more than a polite drink, and sat down. His nephew was the only child in the village that was not afraid of him, and was therefore the recipient of all his stories, many of them repeatedly.
“Uncle Rals, how did my father come to the Village?”
Rals gazed darkly into his tankard. This was a story he had never told. “It was about this time of year. I was working a field, a few miles out of town. And…he just lumbered over that hill,” Rals nodded to the east. Tornick knew the hill. “…Dressed in a brown suit with metal studs. He had a big red vest on, and had his arm in his side, holdin’ his insides in. He staggered toward me, swayin’ like a sapling, glaring like a storm, then fell, face down in my stark patch.”
Tornik’s eyes were huge. “From the carneth, right?”
Rals chuckled. “I’ve fought carneths, boy, and I’ve fought men with fists, swords and spears; and I’ll tell you, that was no carneth made that wound. So anyway, I drug him home, and they nursed him back to health. Took a while though, and a lot of pain and delirium. Said some strange things, too, in his fits. Mostly a strange language.”
“What did he say?”
“Mostly he kept saying, over and over, Narl gast tri unti…”
Nathannik quietly filled the doorway. His son knew he was there before he spoke, and Rals’s words ran out.
“Tornick!” He rarely spoke sharply, but he was sweating and furious. Tornick quietly went to his father. Nathannik’s green eyes locked with Rals’ dark ones, and there was silence. The fire sputtered, and rain began spattering on the street outside.
Nathannik nodded coldly. “Evening, Rals.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was a silent ride back to the croft. When they drew up, Tanna ran to meet them, carrying the baby. Lassari remained in the house, doing nothing, which was rare. With one glance at her through the window, Nathannik knew something was wrong.
Tanna was excited, breathless. “Strangers stopped here, father…asking about you.”
Nathannik brushed by her, and moved to Lassari.
“What did they look like?”
She said she had noticed nothing unusual. That was a relief, for it meant they were natives. Tanna stood in his wake, sensing fear in her fearless parents. Tornik sensed nothing, and tugged at Tanna’s sleeve, begging her to play, until she did, half-heartedly.
“Did they know my name?” Nathannik asked.
She nodded her head. “And they described you.”
He smiled down at her.
“They’re probably from the capital.” He said, smiling. “Something about the village taxes.”
She smiled as well, both pretending for the other, for the children. She alone of the villagers knew of his past, and told him she would share with him whatever it brought.
Nathannik clenched his jaw tightly. He knew it was well within his enemies’ power to enlist native agents, but he told himself that his explanation had been valid.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It was silent, finally, the others asleep. He sat in front of the croft, on an upturned slice of tree-truck, a wood splitting block, and removed the shoes he constantly wore. His feet were mangled, the left one especially, missing toes, countless tiny bones broken, the scars of hot prods crossing his soles. He couldn’t sleep again. Nightmares. Curse that fool Rals. There was a sound, and he slid his shoes on.
There was the hum of a tiny motor, straining across the skies, and he stood up. A diamond shaped black craft rose above the hill that dominated the village.
The Tark-Turns used no aircraft.
It hovered, then was skimming over him, barely off the ground. The hatch opened and two figures fell, rolling, suddenly on their feet, advancing on him. He backed off cannily, searching his mind for a weapon nearby. They were sleek and black, shining like obsidian in the light of the moons. They moved fluidly, and their long black blades were fused to their arms. They were robots.