Chapter VI
Artur stiffly paced a circle around a tree at the edge of the wood, desolate and fuming. Never had his people nor his body taken such a thrashing as at the hands of the Aoten. The Rufoux needed a plan, a strategy, and for long days he had pondered idly what battle might bring, but he had never settled on an idea. Instead he had relied on pure emotion; yes, he had always relied upon that in the back of his mind, from the very beginning. Believing that raw anger would carry the Rufoux to victory, as it always had, he had neglected his responsibility to lead. One can not lead without some idea of where to go, and Artur had failed. The failure could not be placed upon his people, Artur thought, it fell squarely upon him.
As the couples of the village bowed and embraced to console each other, Artur’s solitude again rushed in upon him. He gave up his stalking and sat, withdrawn at a distance. The crushing doubts he now felt, as never before, fed his usual isolation from all that felt safe and comforting. Thoughts of the battle swirled together with his pretensions to grand strategy, and hopelessness swelled in his chest. Only the jostling of another body sitting down roused him from his dejection.
Wyllem sat there silently.
He remained so for a time. Occasionally he would glance at Artur, but mostly he too hung his head and gazed upon the ground. Finally, Artur spoke.
“Victory comes easily for the Rufoux. Stalemate is no better than defeat.”
“We drove them off the fields. Isn’t that a victory?”
“They drew us off the fields, as you well know. And they may be back there already, you can’t be sure. I’m not going to go find out.”
“Don’t you think they feared to follow us? Didn’t we at least give them reason to think twice tomorrow?”
“I don’t want to consider tomorrow. Surely we can not survive this kind of striving every day. Certainly our strength will not hold out forever. We are men, made of muscle and bone and no more. One day death will catch all of us; only one has outfoxed that enemy. And speaking of Mog, did he flee with his protection? Has Mog himself abandoned us?”
Wyllem again fell silent for a time. “Will you stop being chief, then?”
“What? Of course not,” said Artur without hesitation. “If I had any strength left I’d bludgeon you for that.”
“Then at least I can thank the Aoten for saving me a beating today,” Wyllem tried to raise a smile but could not. “Or perhaps I should say another beating.”
“We have never retreated, never before have we retreated. Rufoux do not retreat,” said Artur. “This is not like any war we have ever fought. We will have to think our way in and out of this one, not just fight like frenzied baboons. And we can not let the Aoten pick the battles.”
“You talk like a true chief now, like a military chief,” said Wyllem. “But come, you must recover from this battle first. You must rest your mind and body now, before you prepare for another day. Come on.”
Artur lurched to his feet, and Wyllem led him into the gathering of people. A few spoke a word of encouragement to him, a few slapped him weakly on the shoulder, and a maiden approached him with a bowl of water and thick towels.
“What is your name?” Artur asked her.
“I am called Andreia,” she replied, and she squeezed water out of a towel and blotted at the blood and grime covering Artur’s face.
“You brought me the grain.”
“Yes, Sir Artur.”
“Your husband should serve with you. Why do you work alone?”
“I have none,” said the old maid at twenty-one.
Artur fell silent at this, and Andreia continued ministering to his injuries. The hummingbirds darted playfully from behind his head. A cold compress around the back of his neck and gentle nursing of his aches and pains improved his mood within, though his face remained stolid. His mind returned to the events of the fight. How grandly he and Wyllem had agreed about making a battle plan in the days before, and yet they never decided anything. This failure haunted him. But no decision presented itself. The Rufoux had come upon the Aoten with all their might, and had been turned back. Attacks like that day’s had scattered every foe the clan had ever faced. Artur did not know what to think. If raw power failed them, what could be added that might make the difference?
“What secret is there to victory?” Artur asked himself out loud.
“Begging your pardon, sir?” said Andreia.
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Do you still think about the battle, Sir Artur?”
“What else? Don’t call me sir.” The name stabbed him to the heart.
“Yes, sir. Did you not win victory you had hoped for?”
“No, I’d say not. We held our own, but for what? Only to put off for a few hours the pillaging of our fields.”
Andreia stopped her nursing for a moment and sat thoughtfully. “You must not wait,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“This people know as much of the battle as you. They think the same thoughts as you. They look to you to tell them what to do. You must not wait.”
“I see —”
“We depend on you, our leader, Artur. You are a great leader — Artur of the therium. This clan needs you now more than ever before, needs you to make them believe they can overcome the Aoten. But you must not wait. You must talk to this people soon, immediately. Do not let this battle sink into their minds and fester; lift their spirits, and give them hope. The Rufoux have never faced a greater threat than this, and you must make them know there is a way to victory. Only you can make them understand that secret.”
“There must be a secret. But what?”
“Mog will whisper it to you. You will know when you hear it.”
Artur looked into her young eyes. “You are a great encouragement, Andreia, was it? I know that name, I believe.”
At this Andreia’s countenance turned down and she hung her head.
“Yes, Andreia,” said Artur, his memory returning. “And you have no husband. You are Andreia, betrothed to Aric.”
Andreia nodded her head slightly, and a tear fell.
Artur looked upon her with pity and thought back through the years. Aric and Andreia, promised to each other at the age of six in the Rufoux fashion, reached the year of their twelfth birthdays, time for engagement. Andreia, already with a thick head of long hair, fair skin and still a few freckles on her nose; Aric, slender and straight, deep blue eyes and broad shoulders for his age. The young couple appeared the ideal of Rufoux culture and life, ready to take the next step in their traditional lives.
But one was not ready.
At the head of the ceremonial tent, Aric stood with his vast family to the left, regaled in flowers and feathers, a new sword at his side. To the right stood the family of Andreia, looking about uncomfortably, for their young lady had not appeared.
“Where is Andreia?” asked the patriarch of Aric’s family, who would act as priest.
“We do not know.”
“And why is she not at this most important ceremony?”
“She does not want the young man.”
“What?! And why not?”
“We do not know.”
And so it was: Andreia herself did not know, for her years numbered but twelve. Early that morning, facing a commitment forced upon her, she left the village and hid herself among the thousands of caves at the edge of the desert lands. There she sat, her arms wrapped around her knees drawn close, grieving that she could neither live with Aric, nor would her clan likely let her live without him. One of the best of the Rufoux youth, Aric showed great promise among the metalworkers in training, and yet something in him she found repulsive. She did not know why, she only knew it to be so: She could not give in to the cultural pressure of her people, even if it meant having to leave them. And so she stayed rocking and weeping in the cave.
Days passed; hunger gnawed at her and she became feverish. When she heard her name called, almost unwillingly she answered, and the blurred figure of her father appeared to carry her weak body home.
“I’m sorry,” she told him as he laid her to bed. “I will marry Aric. I’m sorry.”
As she drifted off she dreamed her father and mother exchanging a weary glance.
Of all the Rufoux boys from all of Rufoux memory, Aric alone suffered the rejection of his intended. Never had any bride shunned her engagement ceremony, and yet this day he had so seen. Unable to bear the humiliation, the insult to his already-inflated Rufoux manliness, the twelve-year-old boy had left camp early the next day and run to where the scaled ones live. He lashed himself to a tree, and waited for a deviltooth to cut short his life.
A great legacy grew around Aric and his courageous end in the following days and years. The remembrance of his name never reflected the shame of his rejection, but rather the honor earned by a man who set his face towards death. The final irony fell when, with Aric’s death, Andreia gained that most rare Rufoux gift: forgiveness. With no groom remaining, no pressure applied to the bride; but when Andreia recovered and learned Aric’s fate, the weight of guilt nearly broke her. She carried the burden still these many years later.
“Because he gave his life, I have had mine,” she said quietly.
Artur remembered his own engagement, and the events that had quickly spun out of his control that day, and laid his hand upon her bowed shoulders. “Bless you, child. Bless you for your tender care, for your words, for your suffering.” And Artur turned again to the deep woods.
