The Birthday Dragon Page 3

  The rooster began to crow, waking the rest of the farm as the first light of the rising sun hit the barn. I had been going to skip them, but began my katas or martial exercises, using one of several heavy practice-sabres Father kept in the barn. My blood was soon pumping though I wasn’t awake properly, but then I was never awake properly before noon.

  ****

  By the time I had turned the pigs and chickens out of their sleeping quarters and fed them, the cow was waiting for her breakfast. Though I could supply that, Mother did the milking. Thankfully swordplay and farm work meant my hands and fingers had too many calluses for me to be a good milkmaid. That suited me because I didn’t like crouching on the milking stool to milk. Mother was five-eleven, nearly my height, and didn’t like crouching either, but she wore gloves for chores so her hands were soft.

  My hangover was feeling worse again so I went to get another pipe, wondering how Father managed to drink every day. Mother was awake, about to do the milking, and thinking she’d be pleased if she knew I was suffering, I mumbled,

  “Hangover, stealing your mindweed.” She just nodded. I pretended that always happened, and grunted. Taking the smoke, I headed for the far paddock to check on the sheep.

  ****

  My Uncle Doug, who was really Father’s uncle, gloomily told me once that like all their kind, and crossbreed sheep more so, they were angst-ridden. Like half-breed teenagers, Mother said, which I thought was unkind.

  The sheep were definitely depressed. They seemed to enjoy life, and loved their feed, a good scratch, and being let out to grass, but it was just a front for their real purpose, death by any means. All our sheep tried to commit suicide at an alarming rate, and the crossbreeds added to the collective depressive tendencies of the flock.

  Mother had bought a pretty black-faced ewe, one of the Northern Fines, tupped by a champion Torc Wavy ram. The ewe had crossbred triplets, a ram and two ewes, before killing herself, possibly over the shame of half-breed lambs, by escaping the barn and lying down in a spring snowstorm. We hand-raised the lambs, which added scope to Mother’s breeding program and wool production, but being treasured additions to a cosseted small herd did nothing for their sense of self-worth.

  It was barely spring, the thaw turning the world to mush, everything wet. Too cold to shear yet, so heavy wool and the weather gave the sheep scope for their meeting with the goddess of death. As I walked, I wondered if Haka took the souls of sheep. Grandmama Daeva said once that Haka took the souls of ponies. I had been worried about my old pony not meeting the goddess’s exacting standards. He hadn’t always been a good pony, but I hoped he was accepted anyway.

  The sheep ran up to me. I told them I had no food. Since they always believed the worst of people, they followed me suspiciously for a while in case I was lying, then gave up. The crossbred ram was missing, and I said,

  “Zol’s balls!” which was my favourite curse of the moment.

  Some people thought gods didn’t like you using their names unless you were praying, but the local priest agreed there was nothing in the Book of Thet that said we couldn’t. I might be an atheist, but I liked wondering about religion, and especially arguing about it.

  Mother and I were surprised when the priest said my avowed atheism was no barrier to a career in the church. “Priests,” Mother had said, rolling her eyes after he left, “such pragmatists.” The priest was trying to get me to join the Temple Guild, probably because aside from him I was the only person in the village who’d read the Book of Thet. I only read it out of boredom, not devotion.

  ****

  As I slid down the damp slope towards the stream, I decided if one believed in souls and in animals having them, then the soul of a sheep must also go to Haka. She was the Collector of Souls so all belonged to her. That begged the question, did sheep have souls? They certainly had no brains at all. The crossbred ram was known as Bertram, which made Mother giggle. In the same spirit she named his sisters Eunice and Euphemia.

  I could hear Bertram bleating, then saw him lying half on his back in a damp hollow, weighed down by wet wool. The beast had rolled over a small ledge onto the stream’s bank and was stuck, legs at an angle against the slope and unable to roll against the great bulk of his winter fleece. The ewes had all moved away, leaving him to die.

  No real solidarity amongst sheep, another of Uncle Doug’s sayings. When Bertram heard me coming he began bleating louder, and I could see he was wriggling, happy to see me. Quite affectionately, I said he was a moron who didn’t have the sense any ordinary animal was born with, then knotted my fingers in the thick wool and heaved him away from the ledge.

  Bertram suddenly saw the possibility of death by drowning, weighed down by me, and pushed off hard. He shot free and I stumbled backwards, hands caught in his wool just long enough to yank him back off-balance. With perfect timing the bank gave way and we fell together into the stream. It was freezing, about to my knees with snowmelt, but lying down it was plenty deep enough to cover most of Bertram and all of me.

  Winded from the impact, I lay on the bottom of the stream, twitching a bit. It was very uncomfortable. Not to mention the flailing sheep on top of me. I wasn’t sure if it was the cold or the wet but Bertram decided to choose life and struggled valiantly to get to the bank. I couldn’t quite breathe, but being underwater, that wasn’t a bad thing.

  As far as starts to the day went, this one kept getting better. It seemed to take minutes, but was probably only a few seconds. The ram hadn’t managed to kick me in the head. Recovering movement, I tried to curl up, an arm up to protect my face and head, rolling onto my side. I got my head above water and Bertram moved for the bank, bleating loudly, probably telling the ewes that damn Polo foiled his suicide plans again. I floundered in the same direction then had to cover my head with my arms as Bertram lost his balance and fell one last time, mashing me flat before falling off me and onto his feet, before standing on me as he leapt for the bank.

  On its way to gaining purchase on my thigh, one of Bertram’s hooves caught me in the left testicle. He scrambled up the rise, safely this time, and paused at the top. I was in agony, half in the icy water, coughing up the stream and part of the bank, then throwing up the coffee and willow, hoping to lose all feeling below the waist soon. The thigh was going to bruise and though fortunately the groin hit wasn’t hard, any man will know a light flick is sometimes enough to bring us to our knees and empty our stomachs. Bertram looked down from the bank as if interested to see if I could resist putting my head under the waters and finding peace in death.

  ****

  After some time - hours, days, who knows, even Bertram had wandered off - I crawled out of the stream and limped back to the cottage, shivering and squelching angrily. Father was in the bathhouse singing peasant rebel songs. I peeled off wet clothes and boots, dumped the clothes in the laundry, then hopped over the freezing cobbles to the bathhouse, where Father was still hogging the shower and the hot water, singing about the cavalry. I took a towel and, muddy or not, picked up my boots and went to wait in the kitchen, where at least it was warm. I stood on the threshold, shivering and dripping, hoping Mother wouldn’t throw me out.

  “B-boots,” I said, my teeth chattering, “g-got w-wet.” She rolled her eyes skywards.

  “Galaia preserve me,” she said, “well get in here. Don’t put them in front of the fire, stuff them with straw and put them over there. Let them dry, then you can brush off the mud.” I looked at her, trying for piteous. She sighed. “I’ll fetch some straw in a minute,” she said, “no sense in you catching your death. What in the name of Thet happened to you?”

  “Bertram,” I said, and explained. She found me another towel and an old blanket, tried not to laugh but gave up eventually, especially when I reached the bit in the story where the mongrel animal got me in the groin, but she let me wait next to the stove with a fresh coffee.

  Father came in, laughed at me too, and I went to shower, praying the solar system was pumping out enough
power this early to keep the water warm. Mother didn’t want us being soft, so had shied away from installing a generous number of panels in the array.

  One day I’d escape, from crazy parents, demented animals and never-ending mud, to somewhere with a decent hot water system. I promised myself enough solar panels to heat a big tank of water, perhaps a water turbine for all-night power too, even if I had to sell Mother or Father to get them. I idly wondered about selling at least one of my parents in Kavarlen, as some members of the Blood wishing to inherit had allegedly done. They allowed slavery there.

  However, as I had nothing to inherit, much easier just to leave. As Mother always said, she might be related to rich people but she wasn’t one of them. She and Father were expecting me to do something at a guild when I finished high school at the end of the next year. Father particularly wanted me to go to his alma mater, the Military Guild. I fantasised about faking my own death and disappearing, perhaps to join a circus.

  During the most recent term at school, the teacher talked about skill-sets and career paths, mostly what skills went well with which guilds, but I hadn’t paid attention. Anything would do as a career, providing it was away from my parents, paid my board, and gave me good books to read. Maybe I could be a librarian.

  Though good at fighting and riding, I was no natural talent. To get to a high level I’d worked hard. I still didn’t want to be a soldier. Getting hit in a spar hurt too damn much and without armour it hurt even more. Being actually attacked with an axe didn’t bear thinking about.

  What else was I good at? Animals liked me, the experience with Bertram notwithstanding, and I was handy round a farm. I didn’t want to work on one. Like my father, the country life wasn’t for me. Though I wouldn’t mind a rural life mixed with an urban one.

  Perhaps I should join a circus after all. I was strong and could swim. I could row. Perhaps a move north to the Great Star Lake or to one of the coasts, to be a fisherman. Although I liked sex, and there was only one career where that was pertinent. I couldn’t think of a damn thing else. My view of the world was a trifle narrow, which I knew and found frustrating. My knowledge was limited by the collections of books in the local libraries or what the people around me knew.

  ****

  At the kitchen table, Father was on his final coffee. It was his rhythm in the mornings. Two coffees before he could leave, nothing to eat until he got to work, then they’d stand around eating hot bacon rolls fresh from the bakery, griping about the poachers and stray stock in the king’s forest, which was most of the land to the north and west of us. Until then, Father read out bits from the newspaper, which though was bought yesterday, was in fact two days old.

  “Young Harris ended up in the hospital at Beech Wood,” he said, “idiot knelt on his own pocket-knife while working in his vegetable garden. Needed stitches.” I winced. I knew Harris, he was a complete twat, but a knife in the knee must be nasty. “Galaia preserve us,” said Father, “Miz Pinkerson at Upper Beech managed to get herself in the eye with a pair of scissors while doing close work. Doctors say she may not lose the eye, amazing.”

  I tried not to listen, and munched on my toast. The local news knew what people liked. Gossip and gore. I didn’t mind the gossip, but gore at breakfast was more than my addled brain could cope with. “Keep expecting to read about Polo in the gossip columns,” he said, giving me a look over the paper. “You were getting on well with the barmaid last night.”

  “I always do,” I said, “but then I tip.” He snorted.

  “Our son’s getting a reputation round the village,” said Mother, laughing, tossing her dark hair back, talking about me as if I wasn’t there, “any day now there’s going to be a queue to his bedroom.” Father curled his lip and looked over at me. I returned the look.

  “Polo’s as likely not to be there,” Father said, “but while the wives wait in line, he’ll be off doing their husbands.”

  “I don’t do men,” I said, slouching past on the way to the sink with my plate. “At least, not without women.” I paused, smiled beatifically at them both and took a last mouthful of coffee. “You know,” I went on, “in a melee it’s impolite to squeal and pull away.” They both scrunched their eyes and pulled faces.

  “Polo!” said Mother. “I do not want to know.” I shrugged.

  “Faggot,” said Father. I didn’t look, but waved my free hand from the wrist, very camp, as Mother turned on him.

  “Evan!” she snapped. “Do not call your son that!” Father shouted back at her,

  “I’ll call him anything I bloody want to, Tess! He does it with men!” I minced out, heading for my bedroom, laying on the queen just for them. I didn’t usually pretend to be effeminate, just being known as a book-reader was enough trouble. Anyway, I liked women too much to be gay. I was omnisexual, but whenever I tried to tell my parents that they both shouted at me.

  “If you hadn’t introduced the boy to all those Blood soldiers,” said Mother, “he’d never have developed a taste for depravity!” As I went round the corner and out of sight, I was pretending to be deaf and trying not to laugh.

  Father was pretty strait-laced for someone who’d got through three years in the Military Guild and another two in the army, and shouted back that it was her blood made the boy who he was. The boy. Like I was something they made one summer, but lately felt embarrassed by.

  Now I was old enough, I was working hard to make sure they had something to be embarrassed about. They both hated that part of my reputation was for doing men. I found it amusing that neither would have minded as much if it were just women. Why not do both? It was fun.

  If I ever found one of those half-and-half’s, I’d enjoy doing him or her, whichever he or she preferred. The soldiers at the barracks who’d been to the front, where there were whole brothels full of them, said most of them liked being her. I was bewildered by that, why would any man want to piss sitting down? Not just for an occasional change, but always? Even women admitted that was a very good aspect to being a man, the pissing standing up part. Besides, why would you want to be a woman? Women were often crazy. It wasn’t just mothers.

  Thinking to have more breakfast, I went back into the kitchen. They were shouting about sending me off to school somewhere so that their lives would be better. I felt bitter at that, although I knew it wouldn’t work. When I was young, they sent me to Grandmama Daeva whenever - as Mother explained - they needed a break from just being parents. Like they worked so hard at that. Grandmama would take me off visiting her friends in other kingdoms, and I was gone sometimes for months, but it never stopped my parents fighting.

  As I wandered round them, getting more toast and coffee, they settled a bit. I sat at the table with my food.

  “Done your katas, lad?” said Father, which was his way of making peace. I nodded, taking another mouthful of toast. He drained his coffee. “Want to come for a spar?”

  “Mmm,” I said, in a non-committal tone, pointing to my mouth while I figured out how to get out of it. I’d come to hate sparring with Father, mainly because I could beat him easily and was having trouble hiding it. He’d taught me well, and I had his gift for war games. But the drink was slowing him while I was coming into my full speed and strength. I chewed slowly, trying to get my morning-hating brain to come up with some excuse.

  “I need him,” said Mother, before I could reply, “he’s supposed to clean the solar panels on the barn roof.” I was? I groaned. She ignored me. “And the barn.”

  The barn? Oh gods, it was the first day of the school holidays. Didn’t I get any time off? This was her revenge for last night.

  “Boy needs to spar, Tess,” said Father, looking sorrowful, “he’ll lose his edge.” Mother went to the sink and Father got up too. I decided sparring beat cleaning the barn. I looked hopefully at Mother, willing her to forget it for now. Father was edging towards the door.

  “One day won’t hurt,” said Mother, giving me a stern look, “he trains every morning. This morning he�
�s in no state to fight. Besides, let’s call it like it is, Evan.” She turned to Father and put her hands on her hips. “You mean you’ll lose money on him.” Father and I looked at each other. I gave a slight shrug. I hadn’t told her. It was probably one of the villagers. Many men adored or were scared of Mother, and the news of Father earning coin on my fights was a decent titbit to get on her good side. As Grandmama Daeva said, Mother was too beautiful for her own good.

  “What am I supposed to do, Tess?” said Father. “They’re all betting on him or each other. Be a fool not to put a coin down.” Mother’s eyeballs were starting to roll upwards in their sockets again.

  “He can’t get decent odds on me any more,” I said helpfully, “not unless they’re new in town. We haven’t had a good win in ages.” Father nodded.

  “I suppose you drank it all,” said Mother, looking down her nose at both of us. I wasn’t taking the blame. I didn’t know what Father did with his winnings but pissing it away seemed plausible. I was only fighting, nothing to do with the gambling.

  “I didn’t get any of it,” I said smugly. Father gave me a dirty look.

  “You had a hangover this morning,” Mother said, sounding nasty.

  “End of school,” I said promptly, “and I used my pocket money, which I get because I work hard around the place. Unlike some people. And unlike some people, I’m not drinking every night.” It didn’t hurt to remind her that Father wouldn’t do any work on her farm and spent a large part of his earnings on alcohol. He edged closer to the door.

  “Evan!” said Mother, noticing him as she followed the track of what I was looking at, but it was too late, he was gone. I sighed.

  ****

  Unlike me, Father was a damn fast runner. With his blonde hair and light eyes, from a distance he might look like he had Dragon blood, but his genealogy was pure peasant. Unlike Mother or me, he was human. Not that Father or I thought it meant much, peasant or Blood, other than the latter than being stronger and having funny-coloured eyes. It was like the difference between men and women. Men often had better upper body strength, didn’t mean they were superior.