Marked (3 page)

“I’m sure you could survive a few rounds, but I understand why you don’t want to compete against your best friend.”

“My only friend,” Komir pointed out dejectedly. His father nodded. “But it’s not just because of that. Even though we’re the same age, that hulk is a full head taller than me and his shoulders are twice as wide as mine—not to mention his muscles are more like a bear’s than a man’s. What chance to I have against that ox? He’s too strong for me, and for anyone else. There’s no one who could beat him! I doubt even the veterans could take him. He is a true force of nature. His fights really will be something to see,” smiled Komir.

“I can honestly say you will never see me challenging him,” chuckled Ulis.

Feeling in a little higher spirits, Komir looked to the South and then to the West. They were just now beginning to make out the first groups of farms, their fields cultivated on the uneven slopes of the mountain. A smile broke out on his face as soon as he saw them because he knew that, just below, spread out on the plateaus and hills, several communities of farmers were waiting for them, even though from where he was he could not make them out; the rough terrain and the woods were still hiding them. After that began the great valley that was home to the most populated communities and the first villages, sheltered in the protective bosom of the vast hollow. His house, to the west of the valley, somewhat isolated under a rocky slope, was a haven of peace and calm for his tormented spirit.

Soon they would arrive home and would enjoy a well-deserved dinner. And today it would not be turnip soup.

At dusk, after completing all the tasks that Mirta had entrusted him with in her characteristic tone of authority—soft but firm—Komir curled up under the great oak tree in front of the house. It was his favorite place. There he waited to be called in for dinner. Sitting on the roots, he fixed his attention on one of the two small windows of his house. Illuminated by the light emanating from an old oil lamp, he caught sight of his mother making dinner and giving countless instructions to his father, as usual. Ulis was carving up the kill with unparalleled skill—the fruit of years of experience—while taking in everything his wife was pointing out.

That familiar scene, in the midst of the beautiful wilderness of the highlands, filled Komir to the brim with serenity—and provided him with a false sense of belonging. But he was well aware that he did
not
belong in this place and, much to his regret, was well accustomed to the unpleasant loneliness that fact carried with it. He had never had friends in the village, except for Hartz. People steered clear of him. He pondered for a moment about the reasons for that. His whole life the people of the village had purposefully kept their distance, creating an invisible wall of separation from him. Their motives were tied to the dark enigma of his origins—of that he had absolutely no doubt. No one knew how or why he had mysteriously appeared there one frigid winter night, and the absolute refusal of his parents to discuss the topic with anyone had only increased the sense of mystery and had fed the absurd rumors. For the extremely superstitious Norriel, there was nothing worse than an unexplained mystery. Skepticism and fear of the unknown came naturally to them. And the dark stranger who had died under unusual circumstances and was found by the sentry of the Bikia patrol the same night as Komir’s arrival to the village had only made the situation worse.

That dark foreigner with strange, slanted eyes like no one had ever seen before.

Those two details, which the inhabitants of Orrio immediately linked together, stirred up all kinds of unsavory gossip in both the village and the surrounding areas. The Norriel were a people whose age-old customs were deeply ingrained. With an aversion to the mysterious and unknown, they clung to the familiar and traditional.

I’m a complete mystery. An oddity. An unsolved enigma!
He shook his head.

That fact was the root of the villagers’ unfriendliness toward him. And he had to live with that, like it or not. Even now, after all these years.

I am marked; I am a judged man
. He shrugged and then wrapped his arms tightly around his knees.

His parents had never explained to him the mystery of his origin. He remembered once having asked Ulis about the shameful matter. Ulis had led him away from the house and told him:

“That night I made an unbreakable promise to my wife—the promise never to reveal to anyone what happened. Because of that, no matter how much I may want to, Son, I cannot tell you anything more. I would not be keeping my word as a Norriel.”

Komir sighed, understanding his father’s dilemma.

“The word of a Norriel is sacred, Son. Never break it. Your honor and that of your family are inextricably tied to your word. If you break it, you lose everything. A man without honor is nothing! Less than nothing! Remember that always,” Ulis had taught him, taking him by the shoulders and looking him straight in the eyes. It was a summer afternoon Komir would never forget.

“I understand, Father. I’ll never ask you about it again. As for my word, you can rest assured that I know my word is my life and I never will break it—ever!

Seeing that his father could not reveal to him what he so longed to know, Komir later tried to find out answers from his mother.

“Mother, why don’t you tell me the truth about who I am? Where do I come from? How did I end up here with you that winter night?”

“You are a gift from the Goddess Iram, our Mother Earth. One night you appeared at our door to light up our lives and fill us with pride and happiness,” she’d answered, an enormous smile on her face.

“You aren’t planning on telling me what really happened, are you?”

“Do not bring this matter up again, Komir. You are our son. We love you more than life, and no one and nothing is ever going to separate this family or keep your father and me from loving you until the day we die.”

“I know, Mother... but even so, I’d like to know the truth about where I come from. If nothing else just so I can stop torturing myself with countless scenarios of who I am and how I came to be here.”

“Don’t pay any attention to what folks say. They are superstitious, ignorant people. You are my son; a member of my family, blood of my blood—and there’s nothing else to talk about,” she declared with an unquestionable authority, effectively putting an end to the matter.

That was the last time they ever spoke in that house about the mystery of his origins.

Komir did not force the matter anymore.

And as if that mystery had not been reason enough to cause mistrust among his compatriots, an unfortunate second incident condemned him to complete ostracism in the village. He was twelve years old when it happened, and even today he could still not explain what happened nor could he undo the consequences. His entire childhood, or at least what he remembered of it, had been complete agony, except when in the refuge of his home. Whenever he was out, he was not only indiscriminately outcast but was constantly tormented and mistreated by his peers. Daily he was forced to silently withstand insults, attacks, and harassment. He resignedly suffered the abuse and tried to avoid confrontation. But it did no good, and unfortunately only made the already critical situation worse. A gang of bullies made up of six boys from the village about the same age as Komir were his own personal tormentors. He knew he was the group’s favorite target, so he had to stay constantly alert and avoid them at all costs or he’d end up severely beaten. They were always looking to torture him. Afterwards—their egos puffed up like bellows—they’d brag and spread stories about it, terribly pleased with themselves.

When Komir ran errands for his mother in the village he had to walk cautiously, looking for alternate routes to evade the group. They were always waiting for him, and tirelessly chased after him wherever he went. For this gang, hunting him down and beating up on him had become a fixation. As long as he was far from the village he was safe, but his required attendance at Udag was a problem. During the training he was safe since no one would ever dare to interrupt one of Master Warrior Gudin’s lessons, but before and after the lessons was another story entirely.

One unfortunate autumn afternoon, everything took a drastic turn for the worse. His life would remain inexorably marked by the traumatic incident; it had enormous repercussions. Nothing would ever be the same for him again. Komir remembered it clearly, as if it had just happened yesterday though it had transpired more than five springs before. On the way to Udag he’d walked into a treacherous ambush. He had chosen to take a detour on the south side of the bridge at the entrance to the town. Unfortunately, the gang was hiding there, waiting for him. He did not realize they were there until it was too late, and he barely had time to react. He saw Akog come out from behind a tree, his face red with rage. For reasons unknown to Komir, Akog utterly hated him.

When he saw him, Komir’s heart skipped a beat.

At that very instant, on his left and his right, he saw the rest of the gang emerging from their hiding places, screaming violently. His blood froze in his veins, but the intense fear that followed the initial shock compelled him to take off running. In the past, his quickness coupled with his knowledge of the area surrounding the village had saved him from more than one beating. He ran with a speed born from panic, as if his heart and legs were being fed from the terror raging through him.

But that time, a few steps from the river, a thin boy named Belgo, who was a year older than him and very quick, gave chase. Throwing himself at Komir’s feet, he knocked him down, sending Komir rolling downhill until half of his body was in the river. He tried to stand up but Joxiel promptly arrived to hold him down. Shortly thereafter he had the whole gang restraining him in the ford of the river. Luckily he was not completely submerged and managed to keep his head above water. He had Joxiel sitting on his chest, Belgo holding his legs, Etxol holding his right arm and Inieg, his left. Overcome with fear and rage, Komir tried with all his might to writhe away from them but he could not break free. The river water splashed his face, filling him with terror.

Akog walked up to him and, without saying a word, punched him in the face.

Komir absorbed the impact, but his lip split apart like the peel of an orange. Pain exploded on his face.

“Give it good to the little bastard!” Inieg screamed furiously.

“Don’t you worry—I’m going to break his face,” boasted Akog, hitting the defenseless Komir once again.

“Damned swine!” bellowed Etxol, pushing Komir’s arm even harder into the muddy river bed.

“Let me dish out a couple!” volunteered Joxiel.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” Komir managed to sputter as he spit out a mouthful of blood. “I’ve never done anything to you!”

“Your mere stinking presence is an insult to the whole village, you filthy foreigner,” scowled Inieg.

“I’m not a foreigner. I’m a Bikia, a Norriel just like you,” defended Komir.

“How dare you compare yourself to us, you foreign pig!” screamed Akog, full of an anger that was quickly turning into an uncontrolled rage. “We are Norriel by blood; you are a disgusting bastard foreigner!”

“Let me clean up that son of a hyena!” shouted Belgo.

Akog hit him again, a sharp and powerful blow that detonated painfully in his head. His nose started to bleed. Joxiel began punching him in the ribs and the chest. The pain took him over
and with it came an uncontrollable fear, as if his mind could withstand no more and yearned to abandon his body. Akog knelt down, grabbed Komir’s head with both hands and shoved it back, submerging his bloody face in the river.  Komir felt himself drowning; he needed air. Panic washed over him.

He was going to die!

Akog let go of his head for an instant and Komir hurried to breathe in the precious air he had been denied. He had taken in two lungfuls just before Akog forced his head under water again. But this time he prolonged the torture, turning those long moments into pure agony.

He had no air left!

When Akog finally let up on him, Komir immediately tried to breathe but instead gulped water, flooding his lungs and causing him to start coughing violently. Not waiting for him to recover, Akog savagely pushed him under again. He held him down for a long time. Komir sensed his end approaching as he endured the insufferable agony caused by the lack of air, feeling like his lungs were going to explode.

“Akog, stop. You’re going to kill him. Let him breathe,” pleaded Belgo.

It was no secret Akog had a propensity for flying off the handle and even for violence, which didn’t surprise anyone who knew his father.  It was well known in the village that his dad was an abusive drunk. Unfortunately for the young Norriel, the beatings he received were constant. No one knew what had happened to his mother, but one night when Akog was five years old she disappeared, never to return again. Akog never talked about it, but a look of suffering remained forever etched in his eyes. 

“He’s right, Akog, stop it!” Etxol chimed in.

But Akog was not listening to anything or anyone. His eyes reflected a gleam—almost an elated madness—as if he were possessed by a fury that was corroding his insides and denying him of all reason.

And that’s when it happened.