Chapter 7: News of the North

Berin reveals something of his past as news floods from the battlefields.

News of the North

The veros passed by in the laogai with no definitive news from the north, apart from severe battles transpiring. The Manas Hu soldiers in charge of the prisoners were optimistic about the battles, claiming in the lingua franca that originated in Akola they had inflicted great casualties on the Keturah army.

“I believe not,” worried Glavino.

“Nonsense, Glavino. They are sure to defeat the Bacana.”

“Doubt it.”

“Why must you say that? The Manas Hu will win, the chaos will end, we will be freed and I will be reunited to my family.’ Berin turned to the other prisoners. ‘Do you not agree?”

The others murmured in agreement.

“We are of an older tribe,’ said one. ‘We shall defeat the Keturah.”

“We are not of an older tribe,” said another.

“Yes we are.”

“No, Ariquemes was birthed over a hundred eklars after Ketur.”

“What about Buenito?”

“Well, yes, that is true. But can you really count that?”

“Of course. Vergara is full of both Ariquemes and Buenito blood.”

“True.”

“What about the Manas Hu?”

“Oh, their tribe is not as old. I mean, they are well established here.”

“Will that be enough?”

“Of course it will,” interjected Berin.

 

After some veros passed, Berin noticed the sullen look in Glavino’s eyes as he leaned in to whisper.

“They know little.”

“What is your meaning?”

“We have four walls around. How can we know what is outside?”

“You mean what is going on in the war?”

“Yes.”

“The guards. They are hopeful. Can you not tell?”

“It is illusion.”

“Meaning?”

“Think, Berin. Your tribe is at war. You are frightened. You want to win. You say all is well.”

“You are being cynical.”

“Cynical?”

“Doubtful.”

“Course I doubt. You see how large the army was?”

“The Manas Hu army?”

“No, Berin. The Bacana army.”

“Well, yes. They were large in number. So were the Manas Hu hordes.”

“They will lose,” Glavino said as he gazed at the spot where his feet made circles in the sand.

“You cannot say that.”

Berin turned to see a fellow prisoner pass a small object to another. He looked carefully, wondering what it was.

“A huntera!” cried Glavino. The others pounded him with their fists.

“Quiet!”

“We do not want the guards to know.”

“Looks as though we are too late.”

One of the guards marked Glavino in his sights and marched over.

“What is a huntera?’ he demanded in the lingua franca. ‘That sounds like a Keturah word.”

Berin stepped forth. “It is, but we use it all the time, especially at coming-of-age parties. A woodwind instrument,’ said Berin. ‘Glavino was saying how much of an expert I am at playing the huntera back in VERGARA.”

“Ha! I imagine you are…” He noticed the wooden object held by one of the prisoners behind their hand. Marching over, he grabbed hold of the object and held it to the sunshine.

“Glavino!” hissed Berin.

Berin wondered if a divertissement, however, small, could help. He sauntered over to the guard, who was inspecting the craftsmanship of the huntera.

“May I?” Berin reached out his hand.

“You are an expert?”

“That I am.”

“Prove it.”

Berin smiled.

I am not an expert, he thought.

Berin began playing it softly, though his lips had never touched one before. The men gathered, sniggering at Berin’s attempt to master the instrument. Glavino giggled like a child as he inched closer.

The guard covered his ears and wrinkled his nose.

“You are no expert!”

Berin stopped.

“Of course not!”

“But I am,” said the prisoner who passed it earlier. He took the huntera from Berin and began playing a melodious tune. The prisoners clapped along with the offset of the beat. A couple began to dance. Glavino joined in, his large body bumbling into the guard. The guard laughed and walked away.

“Lucky he did not take the huntera,” said Berin.

“They may later,” said one of the prisoners.

The music ended, the men looking at each other.

There must be hope, Berin thought.

“I have never told you this, Glavino,’ started the novice flutist, ‘because I was fearful of your reaction, but I was born not in Vergara, but on one of the Alanga Islands.”

“No!” exclaimed Glavino. The crowd that gathered for the music now grew closer around Berin like children hearing a story from their preceptor. The guards gathered too, though too few of them were familiar with the Vergaran tongue.

“Yes, Glavino, I was born in Vinues. That was before they were part of Alanga.”

“Melchiorre told me that.”

“Melchiorre?” piped in one of the prisoners.

“Yes.”

“That fatherless…”

“How can you say that?” cried Glavino.

“He is evil?”

“How?”

“I will tell you later. I want to hear this story.”

Berin squinted his eyes while raising one eyebrow. Melchiorre? Evil?

Berin continued, “Soon after Vinues joined the confederation, King Xedon acquired the island. He was a rather violent man, his troops killing most of the men and attacking the women. One of those was my mother, right in front of me. So,’ turning to the man whose wife was abused, ‘I know how it feels to watch one’s own kin to be tortured.

“After they finished with her, they strung her up like a piece of meat and left her to die.”

The man whose wife had been abused arose and left the group. Soft sobs could be heard.

“What happened to you?” asked another prisoner as he turned his attention back to Berin.

“The soldiers took me away to another island of the confederacy. It was, oh I forget. That is correct, it was Corse, where they took most captives to work in the mines. From an early age, I laboured. The only source of pleasure to come out of the mines was the transformation of my body. Nothing else.

“Where did your muscle go?”

“He is still strong, believe me,’ piped Glavino.

Berin smiled. The guards listening all wandered away. It was close to rotation time. Berin continued.

“One vero, I stole a piece of bread and was caught and placed in their prison. It was horrid. For days, all I did was vomit, and my sleep was filled with violent images. Eventually I was released, back to the mines, but I vowed to flee from such a horrific island.

“When I did escape, the Alangan soldiers searched for me for days, but I was well hidden.”

“How did you escape?” asked one of the prisoners. The other thumped their hands on the wooden seats, silencing him.

“After many veros, with little food or water, I commandeered a canoe, some supplies, and paddled across the treacherous Gronin Sea. I paddled for many hours, with the Alangan boatmen behind me for some time. Eventually I lost sight of them. However, I did not know where I was paddling. I cannot navigate well. At least I could not, then.

“I ended on Annobon, another island in the confederacy. There they captured me, and for most of my puerile years, I was shifted around the Alangan Islands, as a method of keeping me locked up, without adequate time to formulate a plan of escape.”

Berin lowered his voice. The new guards were commencing their work.

“However, at each prison, I tried to escape, often with a number of other prisoners. I remember one time on Balleny where there were over a hundred escapees from the Balleny Central Prison. However, the vero before, I was separated from the other prisoners, and could not escape with them. The soldiers spent the next two lunar cycles corralling the escapees, and even then they did not recapture them all!

“My last time in prison was in Corse, where eventually I broke away from there. This time ensured I had supplies and a few crewmen. We set sail, and, after docking near Qala Vali, I made my path to Vergara.”

Glavino had remained seated the entire monologue with his mouth open with astonishment. He finally closed it. Sitting there for a moment, with his breath held, he gazed at the ground, then at the sky. Finally words came from his mouth.

“You then roamed Vergaran woods?”

“That is correct.”

“Amazing. Now, tell about Melchiorre.”

“It was not me who talked about Melchiorre.’ Berin said in a huff. Here he was pouring out his childhood soul to a man he was growing to love, and Glavino was so flippant with it. ‘Who was it?”

“Me,’ piped the prisoner. ‘I tell you, that man is pure evil.”

“How so?” asked Berin and Glavino in unison.

“I was in Ariquemes when the Bacana attacked.”

“We saw that burnt to the ground!” cried Glavino.

Berin’s surfaced anger shifted its focus. “Along with Buenito and nearly every vero-walk inn between the two cities. How did you get out?”

“I was lucky. My friend and I found a way out of the city, through the sewerage…”

“Eww!”

“…And got out alive.”

“So how is Melchiorre evil?”

“He was supposed to tell more stories the final day at the festival. But I saw him leave the city not long before the attack.”

“So?” said Glavino.

“So? He had to have known they were coming.”

“But Melchiorre would not be privy to such information, would he?” Berin asked.

“What do you think?”

“I know not. That does not make him evil.”

“Who do you think told King Labar where everyone was going to be?”

“Lies!” said Glavino.

“Perhaps. But it was an odd coincidence that the festival would bring many folk to Ariquemes, rather than be scattered all over the countryside.”

Glavino looked at the ground. Berin released a breath through bloated cheeks.

“Glad I went hunting rather than to Ariquemes,” said Glavino.

“I agree,” said Berin.

Two guards approached the group.

“Right, you lot, spread out!”

Over the coming veros, Glavino asked questions about his past life. Berin was slightly relieved. Glavino was not being flippant. The gossip of Melchiorre overrode a story of Berin’s past, something he had plenty of time to tell on this strange quest they found themselves. Berin, however, preferred to remain quiet of certain things in his past.

“I cannot and will not tell you more.”

“Why not?”

“I…I do not like to talk about it.”

“Scared?”

“No, it was a difficult time of my life. Meeting Juolo changed that. My time with Juolo and the children, up until they were taken, has been the greatest moment of my life.”

“Why?”

“Because I feared no more. I could live life peacefully, without worry I was going to be imprisoned.”

“Sounds like rough time.”

“You can repeat that again.”

“Sounds like rough time.”

“I did not mean…oh, never mind.”

“Did you murder anyone before the Bacana soldiers?”

Berin paused. He glared at Glavino.

Where did that question come from?

“Hunger and necessity are poor preceptors of morality,” was all he could say.

“What does that mean?”

“It means, it means, when you are in need, you have to save your life.”

“Did you kill before?”

“Animals yes, when I was hungry.”

“I mean, a person?”

Berin walked away. His energy was spent.

I desire to rest until my strength, my all encompassing hope returns. Talking about escapes makes me think I can escape from here.

He returned to his bed, easing his head against the rocky pillow. Glavino followed Berin. Berin ignored the large man. Instead, he swam deep into his own thoughts, washed with fresh hope. One more escape could not be terribly difficult. He had to think of a route out of the prison.

Yet even more, he thought, I must free myself, to free my family. Liberation is the only option, no matter the events of the outside world. Even if the war comes, I will not be downtrodden.