Hardy was probably
the smallest Village in Westsnow. It still is, it you make it there today, but
the people there are merry and kind, so it isn't like the bigger Villages like
Craft or Rushtop where everyone minds their own business so much so that there
wasn't much stopping to talk and laugh. Not that they're unpleasant, but Hardy is at the bottom of the
Mountain Westsnow and, truthfully, their rum is unbeatable.
There weren't really
many important people in Hardy because it was quite looked down upon by the
rest of the people in Westsnow, so to speak. The biggest industries were
weaving and carpentry and tanning, but most people got their tables from Tree
and cloth from Payse so the Hardy villagers didn't do much trading. However,
despite to their isolation from the other Villages Hardy managed to do just
fine material-wise; they grew their own crops instead of importing them from
the Fields of Laurel and built boats themselves in the place of buying them
from Cold. Besides the yearly Assembly in the White Tower where they would send
their twenty representatives, Hardy had no contact without the outside world.
It was a cold, clear
night. The stars were bright and laughing, but to Nathanael it was just another
reason not to be in Hardy's Hall freezing in the gauzy sheets. He sighed and
rolled over so that the breeze drifting in from the window didn't hit him at
such a harsh angle. Lionel Carpenter, the slight, freckled boy who slept in the
bunk next to him, was breathing peacefully. The other boys in the dormitory
were asleep, but Nathanael didn't dare close the window. Bradshaw of the Wood,
a burly, ape-faced youth, insisted it open (chiefly because it annoyed
Nathanael), and even though his snores were the loudest Nathanael didn't think
it sagacious to shut the windows quite yet. He shivered and snuggled deeper
into the mattress, while trying to remember why he was here in the first place.
Located across from
the Square, the vast, open space in the heart of the Village, was the grandest
building in Hardy: a three-storey high mansion of brick as red as the sunset.
It was the home of the representatives and twenty boys who were being trained
as the next batch. Each Village had twenty representatives (all male, of
course) that would be sent on Midsummer's Day to the capital of Westsnow (the
Castle Blizzardtop) to discuss Village relations, Military training, Trade and
the Economy, Agriculture, Law and Justice, Medicine, Housing, Technology,
Education, and Labor. There were two Representatives for each department, and
this term the trainees (as the boys were called) seemed especially gifted at
their subjects. Of course, the people of Hardy never had much use for Village
Relations, but it was taught all the same; Allard Fletcher and Brandon Bennett
were the trainees for the term and didn't seem to mind.
Nathanael shivered
and remembered his cheery room with a bed of heather and a tiny fireplace and
an entire dresser to himself. The curtains were a faded cobalt and his
notebook, emerald green, was filled with sketches of all of the plants that
Aunt Althea grew in her garden. And the shutters were always closed past
Midwinter's Day. He finally fell into an uneasy slumber.
A blinding blizzard
coated the windows with a thin layer of snow; the wind pounded on the walls,
wailing to be let in. Dark were the clouds to those who managed to catch a
glimpse of them, and the people of Hardy woke to find their Village encased in
white. But to Nathanael it was especially dray. Wednesdays were always boring;
the first hour was to be spent in a room in the attics with his viol and then
some time listening to the constant drone of Dr. Jason Asa, the Medicine
instructor. Breakfast consisted of a lumpy, bland bowl of something that Cook
called "porridge" and three spoonfuls of sugar. Nathanael 's robes,
pale blue with silver thread weaving through the hems in a wavy, simple design,
with its long sleeves and high neckline, was freshly washed and was still warm
from drying in front of the fire. He buried himself in it as he shoveled the
mush into his mouth.
"Hungry?"
Lionel Carpenter slid in beside Nathanael. He poked at his bowl. "I never
really an, with this stuff Cook makes." His saffron uniform that stood for
Trade and the Economy (which the people of Hardy didn't have much use for, either)
hung even more loosely than Nathanael's.
"No," was
the reply. "Just cold."
Lionel made a face.
"Yeah; freezing out there; the North take the cold, I say. Timothy
Over-Bridge, he says that Ginny from the dairy was out milking and 'twas so
frigid that the milk froze clean out of the udders."
"Don't believe
Timothy Over-Bridge," Nathanael said, taking another bite. "Don't
believe a word he says. He's a right liar, most people from Law and Judgment
are, always trying to worm their way to the Assembly and tell everyone what to
do. "
Lionel stopped
picking at his food. His squint always hid his amber eyes, but now they were
easily seen at Nathanael's shocking words. "Nathanael, I wouldn't say
something so bold."
"Well, it's
true."
"Nay, not
because it 'tisn't true, it 'tis, but because the Over-Bridges have ears like
the wind."
"Folly! That's
a tale that Goodwife Lillian would tell."
"Then I suggest
you turn around," whispered a voice from behind. Nathanael ignored it.
"Baker,
honestly. This doesn't involve you. Not you, either, Bradshaw." Nathanael
continued to eat his breakfast, calmly as though no one had been saying
anything. He didn't seem to understand why he was so afraid of him last night
with the windows.
Heath-cliff Baker
and Bradshaw of the Wood were both large and burly. Their black Military garbs
were bursting at the seams. They did not like to be ignored.
A hideous guffaw
issued from next to Heath-cliff. "Did ya hear, that, 'ear that, 'eath? It
ain't our business! Well, I think we'd better make it our business, then! Turn
around, Smithy!"
Nathanael began
scraping the inside of his earthenware bowl. "Nah. I'm not done eating.
Let me finish first, okay?"
"I think not,
boy." Heath-cliff grabbed Lionel's untouched bowl of porridge and said to
Bradshaw: "Let's let the boy finish Scrawny's breakfast, too, shall
we?"
By this time the
small crowd of twenty twelve-year-olds had gathered around the table that
Lionel and Nathanael were sitting at. Some were yelling at Nathanael to fight,
or Heath-cliff to fight, or both to fight.
Timothy Over-Bridge was smirking in the corner. He didn't like being
called a liar.
Bradshaw picked up
Nathanael by the scruff of his robe and turned him so that he faced
Heath-cliff, who promptly flung the bowl so that, porridge and all, it
splattered with a sickening squelch squarely on Nathanael's face. His cheeks
flushed; his robes were spotted with flecks of grain.
A cry, a mixed
"Ooh!" and "Get 'im, Smithy!"rippled from the boys as
Nathanael kicked Heath-cliff in the jaw. A trickle of blood fell from his
cheek. Lionel crawled under the table. Bradshaw was about to punch him but
Nathanael bit him on the hand. A howl resounded as Bradshaw of the Wood threw
him on the ground. Heath-cliff, savage with fury, ripped across the room and
smacked Nathanael so hard that he stumbled backwards, pushing the table back.
"Throw Cook's
mush at him, Smithy!" the Marksman brothers, Jared and Calvin, hooted.
Harry Cooper lobbed a chunk of porridge at Bradshaw. It made a starburst of
pale grains on the black cloth.
That's when it was
all over.
Bradshaw hit Harry
so Brandon Bennett clouted him back. Porridge ended up in Brandon's hair, so he
attacked everyone he saw, not knowing who threw it. Timothy Over-Bridge was
catapulting spoonfuls of porridge at random heads (mostly Nathanael's). There was
a three-way fight going on between Bradshaw of the Wood, Robert Mason and Harry
Cooper. Lionel was blindly trying to stumble out without getting trampled (he
was the shortest of the bunch) but was being chased by Marcus Ashdown because
he was being mistaken as Will Johnson whose yellow uniform was similar to
Lionel's. Somehow Jared Marksman got pulled into a fight with Brandon Bennett
and in the middle of it was Nathanael catapulting himself at Heath-cliff Baker, biting and kicking and
delivering blows with a kind of fire in his eyes like nothing ever seen before.
The doors to the
cantina flew open. Margret Ferry, the Law and Justice instructor, strode in, her smoky dress flowing behind
her; cold grey eyes peered out from under equally silver brows on an elegant
yet serious face. Silence for naught but Ferry's buckskin slippers captured the
room. Scurrying behind her was Lucas Flinch, the hunched discipline manager at
Hardy Hall. His eyes glinted cruelly, an expression that even Bradshaw of
Heath-cliff couldn't pull off.
Ferry stopped in the
middle of the room. Her expression remained still; nothing passed on it to show
her emotion as she examined the tangle of benches and stools and bowls with
Cook's muck gluing everything stiffly together. "So," she calmly breathed.
"Who began this?"
The boys cleared to
make a straight aisle to Nathanael and Heath-cliff. The larger boy let go of
the smaller one; they pointed at each other. "Him ma'am," they simultaneously muttered.
"What was
that?"
"Smithy,"
Heath-cliff said, then added, "Ma'am."
"No!"
Nathanael exclaimed. "Baker struck first!"
"But you struck
back." Ferry's voice was steely and even. "So you are equally
guilty."
Lionel crawled from
under the table. "Ma'am- Miss Ferry-"
"Yes,
Carpenter?"
"Heath-cliff
came and threw porridge at Nathanael."
Bradshaw stepped in.
"But that's because Smithy was being disrespectful, Ma'am!"
"How?"
"He called
Timothy Over-Bridge a liar, Ma'am!
"He did, did
he? Nevertheless, that was to be settled between Over-Bridge and Smithy. You
didn't need to step in."
Nathanael grinned
triumphantly at Heath-cliff.
"But,"
added Ferry, "that did not make it passable for the rest of you to follow
through with this barbaric activity."
Nathanael's smile
faded.
"I will leave
Mr. Flinch here to deal with this. I have work to do." Margret Ferry fixed
each boy with a metallic stare. "I am quite disappointed in all of you.
You all deserve expulsion, but that is not my position to decide." And with
that, she swept out of the room.
The few boys who
looked remotely guilty to have been caught had it melted off their faces and
all looked fearful as Lucas Flinch approached, his hands wringing themselves
with repellent glee.
"So," he
rasped. "So, who would like to begin cleaning?" His eyes fixed on
Nathanael. "Misters Smithy and Baker, perhaps? And Bradshaw of the Wood?
Mops and rags are in the closet," Flinch gestured to a nearby door. As
they rushed to retrieve the tools, he grabbed Nathanael by the scruff of his
cloak. "And boy," he added, "feel free to take your time."
Nathanael wrenched his arm away and stormed to the closet.
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