Sons of the Oak

Twice more the torturer came and went. But the hulking, hooded brute never turned to look Fallion’s way.

But the time will come when he will look my way, Fallion thought.

No food or water appeared.

Jaz had grown weary of asking for it, and both times that the torturer passed by, Fallion saw that his brother only hung limp now, barely alive.

Fallion knew that torturers liked to soften their victims, to withhold nourishment before putting them to pain. It weakened their wills, weakened their resistance. A man who could withstand the burning tongs often could not withstand the eroding weakness brought on by hunger.

Or maybe the torturer won’t come at all, Fallion wondered. Maybe they’ve forgotten about us, and they’ll just leave us here hanging on the wall until the rats gnaw the flesh from our bones.

Jaz woke later that day. He did not speak. Only hung on the wall, sobbing.

Fallion mustered enough energy to sing him a lullaby that their mother had taught him.

“Hush, little child, don’t you weep.

The shadows grow long and it’s time for sleep.

Tomorrow we’ll run in the fields,

And wade in the streams,

But now it’s time for dreams.

Hush, little child, don’t you weep.

The shadows grow long and it’s time for sleep.”

Fallion wondered at the words. His father had warned him to run, that the ends of the Earth were not far enough. Borenson had promised the children meadows to play in, and hills to climb. In Landesfallen they were to enjoy their childhood, put their fears behind them.

It’s all a lie, he realized. They’ve got nothing to give.

Or maybe we did something wrong? Fallion thought. Maybe I didn’t understand the message?

Fallion tried to remember the message, but his mind wouldn’t work.

“Jaz,” Fallion croaked after a long time. Jaz held silent, and Fallion wondered if he had fallen back to sleep when finally an answer came.

“What?”

“What were the last words that Father said when he was dying?”

Jaz stayed silent for a long time, then grunted, “He said, something about… ‘Return a blessing for every blow…’ ”

The words seemed to strike Fallion like a mallet. He’d forgotten. He’d forgotten those last words. They’d seemed like only the rants of a dying man, the idle chatter of one who was fading from consciousness.

“Learn to love the greedy as well as the generous, the poor as much as the rich, the evil as well as the kind.” The words seemed to resound, rising up from his memory. His father had said something like that when Fallion was small, a babe of two or three, cuddling in his father’s arms. He’d been talking about his own personal credo, the guidelines that he’d chosen to live his life by. But Fallion didn’t remember that last, “A blessing for every blow.”

Could his father possibly mean that literally? Was he supposed to show kindness to those who now kept him in chains?

Fallion had nothing else to do but ponder this.

And fortunately, it was only a few hours later that a visitor came to the cell again.

Fallion had drifted into a half sleep, and woke to keys rattling in a lock, and a squeaking door.

A girl was opening their cell, a young girl perhaps a couple of years older than he, pretty, with raven hair.

She held a candle in one hand, and had set a silver jug on the ground while she carefully tried the keys.

Fallion thought that he recognized her, though he’d never seen her before. He managed a groan, and the girl looked up, startled, almost guiltily.

Yes, he recognized her dark eyes, the hair falling down around her pale face.

“You!” she said in surprise. “I know you! You’re from that dream!”

Fallion peered at her, and the world seemed to somehow tilt askew.

“Yes,” Fallion said. “You were in the cage.”

And she’d begged him to set her free.

She peered at him, trembling lightly, and Fallion realized why she had come.

Here is my tormentor, he thought.

Not the man in the dark hood with the tongs, but this girl.

Jaz had wakened. His breathing came raspy, and he peered at the silver ewer as if to drink with his eyes. “Wa,” he whispered. “Wa.”

The girl said no more. She looked away guiltily, then picked up the pitcher and stepped forward carefully, as if to keep from spilling a drop.

Near Fallion’s feet, she set the pitcher down.

Is there water in it? he wondered. Or maybe even cider? He was so thirsty, that being this close to drink made his head reel.

The girl stared up at him, her dark eyes boring into his. “We got it wrong, didn’t we, in that dream? You’re the one in the cage. Not me.”

Then Fallion’s mind seemed to leap, and he said, “We’re both in the cage. We’re both in chains, but just of different kinds.” She stared at him, confused, and so he added, “I hang in chains on the wall, but you are caught in the chain of command. There’s nothing for us in that pitcher, is there? You brought it only to torment us. You’re waiting for me to beg. What are you supposed to do if I beg?”

She peered up at him, but did not answer. She was forbidden to answer their questions, to tell them anything but lies, to give them any hope.

I’m supposed to spit in it, she thought, and then leave it at your feet, to torment you for two more days.

She looked over to Jaz, saw that the younger boy was unconscious. He’d be dead in two days. She’d seen enough of the beggars die to know that.

She turned and began to hurry away, candle in her hand.

“Thank you,” Fallion said.

She whirled on him, unaccountably angry. “For what? I didn’t give you anything!” She was to give them nothing. She’d be punished if she broke the rule. And if he ever claimed that she’d given him a drink, she could lose a finger.

“Your eyes gave me drink,” Fallion said.

She glared.

She rushed from the cell, and turned the key in the lock.

“What is your name?” Fallion called, just as she finished.

She was not supposed to answer questions.

She looked this way and that, up and down the hallway. “Valya,” she whispered, then ran.