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The Song of Boy UrukAndrew Gould# The song of boy uruk
Every morning Boy Uruk drank a cup of tea and looked at the sword above the fireplace.
It was long and slightly curved. And it was old, the steel scratched and rusted, the leather hilt faded to a dull gray. To some, it would seem like any other long sword. To others, it was legendary — passed down and down, and lost and found again and again over the ages.
In songs, they called the long sword Meadowlark.
The sword, the hovel, and the forest surrounding it was awarded to Boy for his bravery at the Battle of Blur Creek. After thirteen days of brutal fighting against a clan from the Farlands, Boy walked out of the woods alone, the only survivor on either side.
Every morning Boy drank a cup of tea and looked at Meadowlark. Until one morning in late autumn, when he decided he couldn’t look any longer, ripped the sword off the wall, and hid it under his bed.
To Boy Uruk, Meadowlark was a curse.
***
A few days later, his mother came to visit. If Boy would have known she was on her way, he might have kept the sword in place. She noticed it right away, the empty space, and it was the only thing she wanted to talk about.
“Meadowlark is meant to be seen, it’s not meant to gather dust under a bed like an old sock.”
Esmer laid on the ground with her legs up on a short table, stretching her back. She was a very large woman, but surprisingly nimble. She made the journey from Yilitin in under two days. On the first day she was attacked by a rabid fox and managed to kill it with her bare hands. This was the story Esmer told Boy as she unloaded her bags, took off her walking shoes, and noticed Meadowlark was missing.
Boy didn’t believe a word his mother said.
“What about your visitors? They come all this way to see you and the sword.”
“I can take it out if you want to see it.”
“Not me. Your visitors. Your fans.”
“I don’t have visitors anymore.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t have visitors. You’re the first I’ve had in months.”
“How is that possible? You’re still the talk of the town.”
“Am I the talk of the town, or do you just bring me up in every conversation?”
“Did something happen? What did you do?”
“Maybe people are bored of me.”
“Bored of a hero? Nobody gets bored of a hero.”
“I’m not a hero.”
Esmer finished stretching and sat up straight to look at her boy.
“I wish you didn’t feel that way, Boy. I’m proud of you. A lot of people are proud of you. They admire you, look up to you, aspire to be you. The other day, I saw a child play-fighting, calling himself Boy Uruk, the Blur Creek Miracle.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I don’t think that happened.”
“Why would I make it up?”
Boy didn’t answer.
Esmer was suddenly tired. She began gathering her things. “At least put something in its place. Your walls look a little bare.”
***
While Esmer napped, Boy went out to one of his gardens to clip wildflowers.
There were four gardens. One for fruit, one for vegetables, one for grains, and one for flowers and herbs. That spring he’d planted several apple trees, and he was drawing up plans for an orange grove. The gardens surrounded the hovel on three sides. Fruits and vegetables got morning sun on the east, the grains got afternoon and evening sun on the west, and the flowers and herbs were strategically placed in the back, under the kitchen windows. The apple trees, knee-high at this point, lined the dirt path leading to the door. He hadn’t yet picked out a place for the orange grove.
Most of the land given to Boy was heavily wooded. Most of it was flat. There were some hills, and some caves, a few clearings, and a few slow-running streams that met in a small pond. The hovel sat on the southern edge of the land. It was perfectly round, built in the old-style generations ago, and the uneven and multicolored thatch on the roof made it look like it was falling apart. Originally, they told Boy, it was a hunting lodge for the royal family. He confirmed this bit of lore one night when, by candlelight, and in a fit of madness, he found a crate of dry and shriveled elk hearts buried under the floorboards.
Esmer wanted to know why he took the sword down and hid it away, and he said it didn’t look good, that it was old and in need of repair. She didn’t buy that, so Boy stumbled through something about how it reminded him too much of the friends he lost in battle. Which was partially true, and therefore slightly more believable.
He couldn’t tell her the whole truth, what really happened at Blur Creek, why he didn’t deserve the awards, why he rejected and resented the thought that he was any kind of hero. He couldn’t tell her that he didn’t sleep, even though he spent his days in the sun, working the land, or that he was afraid of the woods at night. He couldn’t tell her that every so often he thought about falling on Meadowlark, thought about taking it down, sharpening it, going out somewhere near the pond, getting up on a rock, placing it between the second and third rib on the left side, and falling, and bleeding out, the blood pooling, running in little streams through the dirt and meeting again in the pond, a thin, blooming layer on top of the water, blood dissolving in the water, blood drying in the dirt, body relaxed and mind clear, no guilt, no shame, nothing.
Boy gathered the wildflowers into a basket. The wind rose, and shook colorful leaves from their colorful trees. It was cold and quickly getting colder. He turned up the collar on his coat, got to his feet, and wiped the dirt from his knees. Little bits of sunlight came in through the trees, warming his face. He came around front of the hovel and saw, some way before him, down the darkening path, someone approaching on foot.
He was young, younger than Boy, maybe seventeen, and he had a limp. He wore rags. He didn’t wear shoes. The only thing he carried was a military trumpet.
“The Blur Creek Miracle,” the stranger said, smiling. His eyes were shot with blood. He looked hungry, sick. “That’s you, right? Boy Uruk, the Blur Creek Miracle? What a name.”
“What do they call you?” Boy asked.
“They never called me anything but my given name.” The stranger didn’t elaborate. He surveyed the land, the gardens, the pond a ways off, down a slight hill.
“Which is?”
“Rian.”
“Rian, the Trumpeter.”
“I’m nothing special with this thing. I know the marches. Learning, though. Learning songs, I mean. Actually, that’s part of why I’m here.”
“To play me a song?”
“To write you one.”
“About what?”
“Boy Uruk, the Blur Creek Miracle.”
Boy laughed.
“I’m very serious.”
Boy looked at Rian, and suddenly felt like this might be a trick, a pretense, maybe, for something more sinister. “Play something.”
“I’m very serious.”
“I know.”
“I’m just learning songs.”
“A march, then.”
Rian took a deep breath, raised the trumpet to his lips and played a somber battle cry. He hit every note. He lowered the trumpet and, breathless, asked if they could continue the conversation inside.
***
Boy lit a few candles, made a fire, and got to work on a stew of fresh-picked vegetables and herbs.
Rian sat on the floor beside the fireplace, wrapped in a wool blanket.
“I come from Northwest, out Rum River way. You know it? That’s where I grew up, I mean. I don’t come from anywhere anymore. My home is everywhere, I guess. Wherever I am. I’ve been walking for a long time now.”
“I don’t leave Yilitin much.”
“You left for Blur Creek.”
Boy pushed diced tomatoes into a pot with his knife. He grabbed a handful of potatoes and lined one up for chopping. “Where did you hear about me?”
“The first time was in a small village without a name. Somewhere in the Farlands. From the mouths of your enemies, maybe. Yes, way out there. Outside of a tavern. One night, or early morning. Can’t recall. But I heard your name and story, and took them on the road with me. Some folks I talked to didn’t know from Blur Creek. Others, most folks I would say, knew your name and story. It was funny. They all had slightly different versions. Of the story, I mean. The number of sides to a story is the number of people who tell it.” Rian stopped looking at the fire, and looked at Boy. “I said part of why I’m here is to write you a song. The other part of why I’m here is to get your side — the hero’s side — of the story.”
Boy brought the pot over and set it in the fire. He watched the stew for a moment, then took a seat on the sofa and gathered a quilt up around his legs.
“Where do you keep Meadowlark?” Rian said, adjusting his wool blanket. “I thought it would be proudly displayed.”
Boy didn’t respond. Neither said a word for a while. The fire cracked. The stew cooked.
“I’m going to feed you, Rian. Give you clothes, if you like. Then you’ll be on your way.”
Rian smiled, as if this were a common refrain, the quick hospitality, the blunt goodbye. He closed his eyes and said, “The stew smells fantastic, Boy. I can’t wait.”
Rian ate slowly, politely. He complimented the stew more than once, remarked upon the freshness of the vegetables, asked what kind of herbs were used, apparently no longer preoccupied with Blur Creek. After supper, Boy found Rian a pair of pants, a shirt, an old shawl, and an old pair of boots. Rian thanked Boy, then set out into the cold night.
Boy blew out the candles, went to the window and watched Rian go, watched him stop and look at one of the knee-high apple trees, watched him look back over his shoulder, watched him find a spot just off the path, watched him sit and stare at the hovel, blank-faced, stone-still.
“What are you doing in the dark?”
Boy jumped.
Esmer was picking through the flower basket on the kitchen table.
“I don’t know,” Boy said.
“Who were you talking to?”
“You hungry?”
“So many questions,” Esmer said.
Boy found a vase in a storage cabinet, wiped away the dust and handed it to his mother. She filled it with flowers and arranged it on the mantle above the fireplace.
“Who were you talking to, Boy?”
“Someone passing through. I gave him supper, and some clothes.”
“I bet he wanted to see Meadowlark.”
***
Esmer woke up, took a few long deep breaths, and stretched her neck. She slept well out here, better than she did in Yilitin. It was quiet, the air was cool and fresh, and she felt a certain comfort being around her only child, knowing he was nearby, safe and sound.
She went out into the main room and found the door open. The fire was out. Boy always made a fire first thing in the morning.
“Boy?”
Esmer made a fire, then put on a storm-cloak and a wool hat and went outside. It was cold and windy, and the sky was bright and gray. It felt like something had changed overnight. It felt like the first day of winter.
She found Boy in the vegetable garden, on his hands and knees, staring at the dirt. The vegetables, all of them, were dead – rotten and withered.
“All of my gardens.” He looked at his mother. “Everything is dead.”
After tea, Boy and Esmer hiked out to the north end of the property. It was Esmer’s idea. She thought it might take his mind off the spoiled gardens, being in nature, working up a sweat. Boy didn’t say much, half-listening as Esmer talked endlessly about everything going on in Yilitin.
They ate lunch near the pond. Boy still hadn’t said much, preoccupied, scanning the trees.
“What are you looking at?” Esmer asked.
“You see the willow there, upstream, hanging over the water?”
Esmer looked.
“See it? Just after the bend? Now, look at the little open area directly west of it. What do you think about setting the orange grove there?”
The rest of the afternoon was spent on chores. They cleaned the gardens, picked and weeded until all that was left was dirt. They piled the scrap in one of the larger clearings. Esmer took her afternoon nap. Boy took a fishing pole upstream and caught a few trout for supper. Near evening, they went out to the clearing and lit the scrap on fire. Boy let it burn, then cooked the trout over the coals. They ate and listened to the insects, under the black and starless sky.
***
That night it rained.
Boy couldn’t sleep. He threw a pair of logs on the fire, and sat by the window. Was it a coincidence that the same night he turned away a helpless stranger, his crops failed? Was this some divine punishment for making the young man leave? He had looked for Rian that morning, and kept an eye out all day. But there was no sign of him anywhere. What would Rian do on a night like this? What happens if a trumpet gets wet?
Boy looked out the window and saw Rian at the tree line. Rian must have noticed Boy, because he waved, slightly, then started toward the hovel.
***
They were a picture of the night before. Boy on the sofa, quilt around his legs. Rian on the floor beside the fireplace, wrapped in a wool blanket. Boy had given him a dry set of clothes.
“So…” Boy cleared his throat. “Where do you want me to start?”
“Start what?”
“My side of the story.”
Rian stopped looking at the fire, and looked at Boy. “Wherever you think is best, I guess.”
“How much detail do you need?”
“Whatever you think is important.”
The rain fell, and a strong gust of wind shook the hovel.
“I was working as a mill hand when the conscription started. Inspecting the grains. Turning the wheels. I knew it was a possibility, conscription, war, but didn’t think it would actually happen. Wars happen in other places, not here. They sent me to Bispo. I was assigned a battalion and a platoon, and I trained, learned to use a sword. Soon after, maybe a month, we set off for Blur Creek. We were in reserve, camped a few miles south of the fighting. We trained, and otherwise hung around doing nothing, talking about the Farlands, trying to understand what we were fighting over. They never really explained that, you know? Nothing besides ‘the Farlanders broke a treaty.’ What treaty? I don’t know. But they broke it. We got the call and came in from the south maybe five days in, six days. No clue as to how the battle was playing out. Were we winning? Advancing? Were we losing? Suffering heavy losses? No clue. They didn’t tell us. It turns out we had lost a few commanders, and the new leadership had never led before. We retreated too late, charged too soon, reinforced the wrong areas.” Boy paused, looked out the window. “From here on out, I don’t remember much, sorry to say. It’s all kind of a blur.”
“But Boy, what happens next is the most important part of the story! The part I’ve heard so many different versions of.”
“Those versions are probably better, anyway. Surely they’ll make a better song.”
“But they aren’t true,” Rian said.
Boy got up and went over to the window. “Songs are meant to entertain. Does it matter if they’re true?”
Rian stopped looking at Boy, and looked at the fire. “I could tell my side of the story.”
“Your side?” Boy said, turning to him. “What about the truth?”
Rian laughed, a laugh that wasn’t friendly.
“How’s this, Boy? I’ll tell you my side of the story, then you tell me if you think it’s true or not. I promise you, once we’re finished with this, things will be better for both of us. I’ll start where you left off, because, as far as I know, everything you’ve said so far is true enough. You didn’t kill any Farlanders, Boy. You didn’t fight until you were the last man. Your brothers ran to meet the enemy, and you ran the other way. You survived because you were nowhere near the battle. You survived because, by the time the beast came down from the mountains, you were back in Yilitin Provence.” He saw the look on Boy’s face. “You didn’t know about the beast, did you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Am I telling the truth?”
Boy didn’t say anything. He felt light in the head.
“Do I speak the truth, Boy?”
“Who are you?”
“Rian, the other Blur Creek Miracle,” He said. “Here’s what happens next. The people of Yilitin have heard my side of the story. They’ll come to hear yours, after the rain. I imagine there will be a crowd. You and I are going to write your song, and perform it for them. You will tell them the truth, Boy, about what kind of hero you really are. If you don’t do this, your mother will die in thirteen days, and you’ll be made to live forever with your shame. I have cursed you, Boy.”
“Why…” Boy stammered.
“Do you understand what I’m saying? Is it clear enough for you?”
“I’ll give you this place. I’ll give you Meadowlark.”
“I want your song.”
Boy felt dangerous, outside of himself, out of control.
He charged Rian. Rian, still on the ground, tried to scoot away, but Boy was too quick. Boy tackled him. They rolled around, grunting, wrestling, until Boy got the advantage, got on his knees and pummeled Rian across the face. Rian took a few punches, then saw his trumpet, reached for his trumpet, reached and reached and got hold of the mouth piece, swung the trumpet around and hit Boy in the side of the head, stunning him. Rian staggered to his feet.
“Now he wants to fight,” Rian said through bloody teeth. He hit Boy again with the trumpet. Boy’s nose cracked, sprayed blood. Then a great, golden light filled the room, and a sword shot through Rian’s chest. He fell to his knees, dropped the trumpet, and slumped to the floor. Esmer gripped the old hilt and slid Meadowlark out of Rian’s back. His body shook. His blood ran.
“Does the curse stand?” Boy asked, nose bleeding, blood all over his face and shirt. “Does the curse stand if you die?”
Rian stared at Boy, blank-faced, stone-still, dead.
Esmer opened the door, then dropped the sword and sat on the sofa. Boy got up and went to the doorway to cool down. The rain fell, and the wind was light and gentle.
“What was that all about?” Esmer asked, looking at the flowers above the fireplace.
Boy told her the truth.