Warriorlog #10. Fractals

An anonymous individual writes about her experiences —fantasy setting

When I was a child, back in the city where the rivers cross �" what a time I had, living around water and green �" there was an old man everybody hated. He had a foul mouth and never attended Sunday service. He was the reference when it came to bad citizens and bad neighbors. His name was Turi or Toori or something like that. He kept drying his laundry outside, where everyone could count the holes in his underwear.

He owned shoes, for some reason. Sometimes I think that was the only reason the chiefs of the city never kicked him out.

All parents warned their kids not to come close to him. Not mine, though, and I’m glad. They knew better, maybe. Maybe they didn’t think him so bad.

(I miss them).

I didn’t like Sunday service, either. I knew the point of it was to keep morale up so people would continue building on the city and for each other, and it worked. But I didn’t feel I needed it. My morale was always up. Not like the other kids, who whined every time their turn came to bring rocks and branches and pots of mud to be dried for the building of the fence. As long as we didn’t have a full fence, I knew perfectly well, we were vulnerable. I didn’t need to be told that. Also, I like working; always have.

I think Tuni/Tooni didn’t need it either, because he was out there building the fence, one bucketful at a time, while everyone else was sitting at the clearing, having a peaceful time, feeling fresh, while listening to the chiefs give his favorite pep talks.

I ran away one time. I was old enough that my mother was angry instead of worried. I found old Tuni/Tooni stacking stones and slabbing them with clay. He was dirty from head to toe in mud and dust and grass. He looked scary but, unexpectedly, didn’t smell bad. The way people smell says a lot about them. There are bad smells, and there are foul smells, and there are good smells. The scariest ones have no scent at all, like desert travelers. Most of them don’t smell, not even like sand or sundried clothes. They smell like nothing. That’s why I couldn’t stay with them too long. Their lack of scent was unsettling.

Tuni/Tooni smelled like earth at dawn, when it’s wet with dew. I liked that smell. It wasn’t his clothes or his tools, it was himself.

I helped him as much as I could, considering that my hands were still small and my mother was probably on her way to grab my ear and yank it from my skull, which made me drop and kick and crash accidentally all over the place.

When she appeared in our line of vision, Tuni/Tooni held me in his arms �" got my dress full of clay, too. That was when I became fully aware of the way he smelled. Mom stopped dead in her footsteps. My younger brother stepped closer and held Tuni/Tooni from behind, as if he feared my mother would try and yank the old man’s ear, too.

When others came to the fence, a small group of people that always hung out with her after service, Mom stood between us, a clay statue of three, and the others that slowly approached with brows furrowed and clenched fists. It would not be the first time a bad person tried to hurt the innocent in our small city. Mom came closer and put her hand on the old man’s head, signaling that it was fine; no harm had been done.

I helped Tuni/Tooni, he helped me. Then my brother helped us two, then my mother helped us three. Then the town as a whole stopped talking crap behind Tuni/Tooni’s back, for a while. At least the parents didn’t tell their kids to stay away from him anymore.

Small changes do change the larger picture.

It’s been a while since I have allowed myself to be part of the larger picture…