Three weeks ago...
...
— Good morning, Ezekiel.
— Good morning, Fratley. Have you saw my daughter?
— If I could see her...
— Oh, sorry.
— Don't be sorry. It happens. Besides, this ain't no time for jokes.
— Of course.
— So, Zack... how's our client doing?
— She seems fine.
— Fine?
— Yes. After what happened, I mean. I suppose you should met her.
— I agree.
At court, I briefly spoke to Ezekiel as we walked in a large corridor. There is a plenty of space in here. More so inside the defendant lobby, whose doors were opened and I could feel the wind hitting my face, and my ears being hit of silence. No sobs at all, or any cursing, nothing but silence. A week ago, Margaret Guthrie could walk. She can still speak, after all she had been throught. All it took was a night, and weren't for a soldier deafened by her screech, more than those legs would be taken. Now, secluded by a wheelchair, unable to go upstairs without help, the children who ran away to the arms of the aunt... What she did to deserve this? I ask, but it ain't my task to accuse. No, I'm here to defend my client. The verdict comes next, but never that I heard her heart beat in a strange way. Sure, I can't only follow what a heart tells in order to tell if someone is guilty or innocent, but with everyone I worked with, they were all victims.
It is the second handicapped I met today, but this one wasn't born with a deficiency. Neither I was. In a way, Margaret and I were born in a world of meaningless violence. She reported a week ago that a figure took her to an alley and right away, cut her feet. Only now she seems to speak instead of whimper. Only now that I'm able to hear her true voice, as before I heard the voice of millions. She spoke to me, and said that have done nothing wrong. I said that whoever did this had no reason, but that doesn't mean there was an intention. Nothing of value was stolen, except for her legs. Funny how some things matters when they are lost, or gone forever... tears do not, because they always come back, unlike for what or for the one you cried to. And that's all I know about Margaret, so I know what I should do.
As a lawyer, I'll defend her, but that won't be enough. Besides, I have another client. They say a lawyer sees himself on its clients, but I see nothing since they took my vision from me. A time later, the trial is over, my client won, but it wasn't Margaret. I don't even remember her name, only that she's a mother, a dedicated one. When I think about a mother, I either think about mine, or April. She works sewing old dresses and its holes, doesn't get rewarded as much as I do, but at least, she likes what she does. As for me, I also sew holes, that happen to be made again into someone else. Then I met this Freya Crescent... I easily picture her out, and like Hrist said, she's tall. I don't know if her hair is really white, but if I can picture it, that's fine for me. Well, not everything only in mind is fine, you know. Margaret can picture legs whenever she wants, but she knows that will never be able to walk again.
As for me... I couldn't walk. At the same day my sight was lost, I lost my legs too. But they are still here, together with me, not only in body, but in mind. However, not so many can learn the Dragoon to be able to do this kind of miracle to happen. And not everyone is willing to go throught what you had been throught all these years. Not even I want to remember, but those were years of my life, a life I still have. A new life for Freya, then, perhaps the one she always had been wishing for, given her mother was a Dragoon too. Oh, Margaret... yes, I am here for you, but I can't be at two places in a same fraction of time. That's one of the disadvantages of being a Dragoon Knight... few in numbers, large in cult. Whenever I say to someone I don't know that I'm a lawyer, some think I am bad, mean, alike those jokes, but as a Dragoon, which everyone knows, they respect me.
Had I been the Dragoon now, I would find for myself whoever did such cruelty to Margaret. Don't worry. The monster who did this to you will be brought to justice. Had I a spear in hands... well, speaking of it, That's one of the reasons I hold my cane. It doesn't have a face, but I know its real.
...
Autechre - Yulquen
Today...
July 18th, 1778
...
Alright. Want a javelin, Crescent? Chop this cherry tree down with your bare hands.
That's what Sir Fratley said. And so I obey.
I wonder if my ancestors had to pass throught tests alike. This if I can call this by test. Whatever, I hit the cherry tree at its trunk, once again. My arms hurt. Water falls on me each time I hit that same trunk. Hard like a stone. Upon a ceiling, rain falls, and whenever waters hits its surface, the sound of drums hitting and hitting can be heard. There are no drums, or any symphony, just noise. Better than silence, or the humdrum of thoughts.
BAM! I hear no sound when I hit my fist against the trunk, and I do not want to hear any of my bones. Well, Sir Fratley can hear well, and since he said nothing since them... he isn't watching me, though. But if I leave, even for an instant, he will notice. Its ears are his eyes, and my fists and legs... they are the same. A bit wounded, mere scratches. I saw worse, at mother's back. The first time I did, if I can remember, or at least feel the sensation that stood, is that mom went to the butcher, and he sliced her back.
Welcome to the real world. The world of pain. As long as you feel pain, or something below your skin, it means you are alive. Why should I be alive? Because I can. Sometimes, to live is a privilege, while in others, you just do it. Right now, I am living to become a Dragoon Knight. Funny, mom never taught me this, as much as Sir Fratley never taught this to anyone. He's just testing me. My strenght, which I never overstrained over mom's sight.
Pant... She didn't wanted me to become a Dragoon, never showed any clear signs. She just wanted me to live, and so do I. Live strong, and who stronger than a Dragoon Knight? Maybe... Ugh... mom, if you are watching me... please, give strenght. I... urgh... this... this is taking a lot. Had I a hammer, or an axe, but I have never learnt how to hold a spear with a tip in hands. You forbid me of doing it so, mom. And with reason.
Pant... Pant... pant pant.. I know, I know. Mom ain't here, neither father. Pant. I like to imagine that they are upon the clouds, or somewhere above, watching me. Imagination is where my strenght resides, but I can't imagine my fists changing shape, making it all easy. Is that what you want to teach me, Sir Fratley?... Pant, pant... does my panting means something for your ears? Are you able to listen to my thoughs? I had been in doubt since them. Perhaps... pant... pant pant... it's just my imagination.
— Uh, Sir Fratley? – I didn't knew what to say. Other than pants... pant... I just said it's name, in order for him to listen something else... pant.
— Don't stop now, Crescent – he said back. I only stared at the tree, knowing Sir Fratley can't stare back.
— I won't – this Sir Fratley knows so many things, so I thought – you know, I have been wondering to myself...
— Why? Is it any relevant?
— I mean... when you fell down, without breaking a bone before...
— Oh, that? I'll teach you how to do this, Freya. But first, you'll need a spear.
— Why?
— A Dragoon can't be a Dragoon without a spear, javelin, call it whatever you want... but know it ain't an ordinary weapon.
— I know, but... – pant... pant... pant... pause for breathing. Yes? I'll try – Sir Fratley, can't I just let someone else make it for me? I have money.
— And what else do you have? – he asked. I stood quiet. Except for a few pants coming out, I have silence, and wounded fists – Freya... this tree is someone else. She is there to offer you its wood.
_/\/\_/\/\/\_/\/\/\/\_
— Really? Is that your justification? – I admit that I am a bit pissed. He knows it too, because for what reason would his ears rise like that? Oh, they're already risen – trees do not exist to offer wood to anyone.
— Unless you force something to happen, it never happens.
— Well, excuse me... but why should my javelin have a wooden tip? – I asked. It's hard to tell how Sir Fratley reacts, since the hat he wears, together with its hairs covers a lot of its face. Sometimes, more like always, his eyes are closed. They have no use, however, but sure they would to tell me he is like me. Well, he knows me by the heart, but that doesn't mean much for someone who doesn't.
— Freya, you already know that you can't can't be a Dragoon without a javelin, and that a javelin can't be a javelin without a wooden tip, and this tree can't be a tree without a trunk.
— And I can't hold a javelin without hands – as much as he can't see me. At least, feel the wave of both on its face, which I don't have time or indecency to do.
— You do not need hands to hold on anger. But fists to release it... – so I turned back to the tree, and punched it again. It's the only thing I'm allowed to punch. The more I do, the faster will be the outcome – Freya... a Dragoon must avoid anger. Right now, you are punching a tree, thie because I told you so, but not everything can be solved by bare fists or by the tip of a spear. A Dragoon, most of all, have a mind. The power of the mind surpasses the whole of the body it commands. Feelings, emotions... we are unable to not feel them. But to be overcome as a whole may be dangerous to yours and our image.
— Okay then – I said, giving a tone of someone ignoring words completely. Sure, I heard a bit there and here, but will I be able to remember these things? Mom rarely faced any Dragoons, but scars appeared on her back one by another – Sir Fratley...
— Yes?
— Uh... I wonder as well why... well, this may be a bit informal, but why you do not wear a Knight's clothes? – I said, without knowing that I would be ignored, or if this have any relevancy. Well, I took Sir Fratley's hat out the office after he fell out the window, so...
— Why do you ask for it? – he said, after I heard drops of rain hit the surface of something, making the sound of drums without rhythm – I suppose you are wrapping me on your finger's tip – he said. What I really want is to wrap my tail on its neck. A bit of me does, in unquiet slumber, where it should be put for now, and forever.
— No, that's not it. I... I don't know. Looks odd – as if nothing in Sir Fratley isn't odd for you – Well, ts it any useful for you to wear less garments?
— Sure, Crescent. It makes me quick, but speed ain't everything. I am defenseless, the javelin I hold is heavy, and had not been for the Dragoon, I would be just blind and by myself. Satisfied?
— Not yet – that's a question without clear answer, but I gave one anyway – funny how you have holes in your hat...
— Funny? – he asked, as if he didn't knew there were two holes in there, even knowing there are. I don't bother about holes, except the ones – I can understand asking for broken bones, but this... why, Crescent? Your helmet has two holes too. You're a Dragoon as much as I do.
— Well, I do wear a helmet, after all.
— What do you mean? – other than doing time...
— I mean, what else a hole is worthy for, if you can't see throught them? – as if I could see throught my own as well.
— I could, as a child – when Sir Fratley said those words, I stopped punching the tree. My hands are numb, but I don't care. Not as much as I should.
— So, this hat... – I wonder for a moment why I'm asking about that hat, taken out of its head, but then I remember I can't ask for a new pair of hands.
— I wore a green cap like any other boy of my age. So did you, I presume.
— Yeah, sure. Though, sometimes I also wore one of mom's helmets. To this day, this one ain't rusty.
— Only iron helmets rusts. Yours is made of copper.
— How do you know?
— Just a guess. Anyway... why did you stopped? – so he asked. Maybe I talked about the holes on his hat, or whatever camed first in my mind, only so I could be granted a pause. Well, I'll try another approach..
— Geez... Can't you give a pause to me, Sir Fratley? Please – then I would complete the sentence by saying 'with a cherry on it's top', but that would be dumb even for a child.
— It depends. Let's see – I already can see my work, but Sir Fratley needs to approach the touch and feel the dentation I left so far. I could say that the tree was bleeding, but it ain't the case here – fine. As it seems, you have dug the cork tissue, exposed a bit of phloem, and it's still, in a way of saying, miles away of reaching the fibers of xylem. Alright, a pause then.
— Whew – I don't know how to express relief in same way as my lungs do.
— Okay, back to training – now? I mean... I just took a breath.
— What? I only took a breath – so I said, but Sir Fratley ignored me – I'm thirsty.
— Raise your head, then – this time, he didn't ignored me, but I would prefer he did – nothing in heaven is compared to the dirt of this world.
— You said a pause, Sir Fratley.
— I didn't told you how much time, Crescent.
— That's unfair of you.
— The world is unfair – then I had no reply. Had I one, this would go nowhere. And I want to be somewhere, after all.
— Know what else is unfair? This helmet – I say, before I punch the tree, water drops fall in me, a pause... rinse and repeat – I wear it, but it doesn't fit my head. Used to, when I was a kid.
— So why do you insist wearing it? – for some reason, I keep listening to Sir Fratley, besides my fists.
— Like I said before, this is mom's – so do her coat, her belts, her cravats... but the skin is mine. Argh... but the pain... – I looked like a turtle wearing it. Now, this helmet doesn't seem that heavy.
— That's the reason why I wear this hat, so you know. I feel no weight on it. There is no guilty in it, or what I do when wearing it – said Sir Fratley, taking its hat and the shadow that covered its face out, and feeling it by the tip of fingers.
— You must be very proud of yourself, Sir Fratley.
— A bit. I mean, on other hand, he would be very proud of me.
— Who?
— My father. Prescott Highwind was its name. He was no Dragoon, but inspired me to become one. Be strong like one, which I wasn't. This hat was one of the last things he left for me before he left this world. And these two holes... he made them too, in shape of a Dragoon's eyes. As I said, I could see through them, as well to walk without being restrained by a cane and concentration. To be fair, father said that I never learned to walk, but run around – then Fratley left a little smile out. A quick one, before he came back to it's current self – to think such little holes could hold on of a plenty of history... as for this feather, this ain't the first one. In the beginning, I collected dead birds feathers and put then between my ears. When I grew up, I went to the dark city of Treno and bought a new one sold at the Audiction House. It's a nice feather, don't you think?
— Sure it is – I said. Had no words, or pants to excuse the lack of them – now, don't you think I should I go back to the tree chopping?
— You're almost there, Freya – said Sir Fratley, putting his hat upon the head again – besides, you do not need the whole tree, as much as the tree doesn't need the whole of you – and so his inspiring, almost mystical in tone words came back.
— Uh, excuse me, Sir Fratley...
— Yes?
— Well... If you are a Highwind, why did you changed your surname for Irontail?
— Somehow, I changed. And Irontail was the surname of another important man in my life, but that's another history. Now it's time to make your own, Freya.
...
It's real.
Everything said is real. I see what's really real. My eyes hurt. A hole in the sky, rain which tastes acid. Words come out the mouth alike poison, if you are the smoker or the one who breaths the thick fog. Rats, all rats. Gray like pipes, all attached to another, holes sucking holes, a boy and a girl, how cute are these kids, how sick they are to walk barefoot.
Everyone walks barefoot, nobody wears shoes, and even if they did, mold would grow on feet and devour the flesh... oh, this mere thought made my head ache. A crack in my skull, and they didn't even touched me. I was touched, got sick... all the disease of the world, I see, smell, touch again, feel sick again. Today, a pregnant woman set herself on fire. The baby's fine. I didn't see it happen, but it sure did. Everything can happen in a real world. This world.
Yet, none of them see what I see. Rats; just rats. Nothing inside hollow eyes, dark as coal. Staring deep at the soul, never closing, mere orbs. A bell rings, it hurts my ears. It hurted father. He walked, and was gone soon as the bell rang. Never came back. I have no idea who he was, only that he was father. A dead father. A lead soldier for the rest. A good husband for mother, who married at church.
Yes, the church. I see a couple. The woman is a cleyran, given the big hair. So much hair, so much lices, sand, dust, a hand dares to touch it. I... I can't look... they do, cheer for her, and the man, but he ain't of my interest. Though, he should have looked better, all of them should have, but none can see what I see... It's a cleyran. Ugh... she has a bb-b-b... an awful birthmark in her cheek. A nasty birth defect, which will be carried on to her sons.
Why? Why none of them do something? Is it all... left for me? Only I can see?... None of them can? I... I turn back. Yeah, better this way. Ignore the problem... ignore the disease. But it always follows you, infect other parties. The rain has a pleasant sound, but it's wet. I might get a cold if I do not stand out. N-Now... Where are the Dragoons to arrest this guy bursting like a fridge? Where are they? Should... Should I do something? I... I can't. Not right now. The least of the defects I can't fix... with these own hands.
...
— Hey Fratley – so Hrist came in, by a jump. Water out a puddle splashed on me, and my coat, together with a bit of mud. As if the sweat in my face wasn't enough... – uh, can you tell me what supposedly Freya is doing?
— She is using her inner strenght in order to search for the strenght of a spear in hands – said Sir Fratley, in an almost enigmatic tone. He's trying too hard, by the way. I wish my fists were harder, though.
— So, in other words...
— Come on, Hrist. Had not you been throught this as well? – I said, without facing Hrist, but the tree.
— As far as I recall... no, I didn't – I have a tree to punch, and ears to listen to Hrist – well, what had you been expecting, Crescent? To lift some books with your heads?
— Actually, I think we'll do this later.
— Later? – I said, with a bit of disdain to Sir Fratley. He must be joking. This if he didn't meant by tomorrow, which I can accept.
— Now, focuse on the tree, Crescent. Without this tree, you won't have tomorrow – he said. Pant... Without any trees, surely there won't be a tomorrow. Without their beauty, Burmecia is nothing more than... than... I would say graveyard, given the tombstones, but every people I see carries on gray fur. Excluding that brat, and a few like Ezekiel... oh, what I'm doing? Comparing people as tombstones in order to give this place a sense of decay that keeps moving, that never ends? Or is it because I can't feel my hands? Yet, to listen voices at my back...
— Where had you been, Hrist?
— Waiting for you, Fratley. Edea had to train me instead...
— Was she harsh with you?
— A lot. Not that you are a better choice too.
— Please. I'm not that mean.
— Well, say it to the Crescent. Why haven't you taught the poor thing regeneration yet? Geez, you're so mean, Fratley.
— Hrist, please... Freya needs concentration.
— Sure. But from where true concentration comes, I ask?
— Silence, perhaps? – I said. Was about to say something worse.
— Of course not – Hrist said. Didn't looked to her face, which may or not have made a difference – had you been in a room with absolute silence, you would be bored enough to do any noise.
— Do you live in a world of absolute silence to know?
— I live in a world where it rains.
— A world where your throat never dries up...
— I feel glad it doesn't – so Hrist stopped for a while, but I knew I would hear more than my fists hitting the wood – you're getting there... kinda. I mean, mashing your head against the trunk would be more useful.
— Know what would be useful? If you happened to be in my place.
— Well, had I been... you must feel pity for have chosen a tree like this, Crescent.
— Shut up.
— How rude – and in the middle of it all, Sir Fratley did a wise thing: nothing. He just stood there, quiet, a thing I should have done too – whew... so, came up with a name for your javelin, Crescent? Mine is Quicksilver, so you can't take it.
— What about Silvertongue?
— Whoa... That was quicK. A pretty name, don't you think, Fratley?
— Uh huh – said Sir Fratley, this if he wanted to say a thing.
— Oh, here she is – and then another Dragon came in, by a jump. I expected a splash out the puddle of water, but guess it was done on purpose by Hrist alone. Alone... know when you feel uncomfortable in middle of many people? As if they are about to stab you at back, or look at you with dissapointment? That's what I ask to myself, with 'yes' as the only reply. Yes, that's how I feel now. With Hrist, Sir Fratley, and – hi there, Captain.
— Hi, Hrist. Fratley. Freya. – I knew that voice, a feeling of emptiness beyond her face... Edea. So, I turned to her direction, interrupting this kind of training once again. A relief fo hands.
— Oh... hi, Edea – she looks so serious it's... how can I describe? Well, Edea wears an armor cold as her sight. A pretty coat too, which seems to be made of a sort of metallic fiber. I say this because it's the first time I look to her wearing something, hiding those scars – nice coat – and then she said nothing. It's worse than saying nothing, in this case.
— Well, what brings you here, Edea? – said Sir Fratley. I mean, he can't see her face, so his words flow out naturally, or maybe it's because he knows Edea more than I do.
— Besides an apprentice who fled from training...
— Thanks for you, my shoulder dislocated quite a few times – said Hrist. I knew there was something strange in her, but I didn't cared to noticed. As for Edea, and that dull face...
— That's not the important matter here.
— I thought it was.
— Didn't I said 'besides'? – then Hrist stood quiet, but not quiet like a pause between words. Must had been the way Edea looked at her, and said with plain lips – well, now that I found you, Fratley...
— Did Ezekiel called for me?
— Had my father called you, he would have come out its room – said Hrist. I know she would say something, but the way she said sounded as if she didn't wanted to say anything at all. Strange? Maybe, had not Edea been here – sorry. Proceed.
— Right. Ezekiel received a report coming from the southeast surroundings.
— The southeast? – I asked, without knowing what was happening, or if I had something to do with it
— Yes. You know, Crescent, the Jugend is found at the center of Burmecia. From here, we can go to any direction.
— Well, I didn't knew that.
— For someone who is the daughter of a Dragoon Knight, you should have know better – for some reason, Edea sounded a bit like Hrist, except that unlike the later, it was more an advice than an insult. Just the first day here, and they treat me like I had been here for a decade – anyway, they are requesting our help, Fratley.
— Okay, but why me? Isn't there any other Dragoons avaliable?
— There is, but I know you are good with words. Can you use them to save a life?
— What happened? – that's what I would like to know too. Must be an urgency, given there is a life at risk.
— A man is surrounded by a crowd, about to witness the descent of its final curtain, children are watching... – many lifes are at risk, as far as I know. Nothing that I can do – you know what to do, Fratley.
— Alright. I'll go – with only a cane in hands, Sir Fratley was about to leave.
— I'll go too – same for Hrist, not without making one of her remarks – maybe I can learn something new today.
— There is nothing new under the sun, as they say – and so Sir Fratley made one of its statement.
— We live without the sun very well.
— And who will be there to watch me? – I asked. In no way I would be left without someone watching me. Zack has a lot of papers to do before they do him, so...
— Think about Edea as my pair of eyes – that was the last thing I heard from Sir Fratley, before he and Hrist took a walk somewhere at southeast.
Before they jumped, I mean. Jumping and jumping until their colors became mere dots for my sight. Again, it ain't time for thoughts. Arrgh... My fist hurts. Cold water falls upon it. It ain't enough. What would be worse? I ask. The spikes Hrist mentioned before do not seem that harmful. I once saw a burmecian laying over a bed full of spikes, and none of them hurted him. Maybe it's because he just layed there, letting all the pointy spikes touch its back, or because barely he had a skin to be dug up.
Ouch... I try my best to not say a curse word. I didn't learned to say them with mom, but Jack and its friends were there, at the street. I see none, but the path of cobblestone at the left, which's empty. I see my life there, in a gap between the stones. Momentary reflections aside, throat drying up, skin wet... I give another punch, water falls on me, and only I can make the cycle end.