The Writer’s Corner features poetry, essays, short stories, satire and various fiction and non-fiction from SCAD Atlanta students. To submit your own work for the Writer’s Corner, email features@scadconnector.com.
“You have many tapestries. Do they have any meaning?” Tyri said. Eyes wandering about the room, he took in the red, purple, and gold blankets and tapestries strewn about. They matched the colors that both of the two wore. Tyri, the younger boy, with short black hair and thin brows, wore billowing pants and a longer tunic displaying his station rather than providing function or comfort. Andulahar, the older gentleman, black hair tied back with gold rings pierced along the length of his pointed ears, was wearing more fitted apparel to not get caught on his surroundings.
“They look pretty,” Andulahar said while crushing charcoal and soot together in a mortar. His eyes remained focused on his task while his back was to Tyri.
“Who made them?” Tyri said tapping his feet on the stone floor, sending echoes throughout the chamber. They were the only two within the space. It was lit by torches in each corner, and the smell of incense battled against the mixture being brewed by Andulahar.
“I made a few and my father made the rest,” Andulahar responded.
Moving toward the wisps of smoke coming from censers on each side of the chamber, Tyri said, “The incense smells nice. Does it have some sort of meaning?”
Andulahar turned and his voice boomed. “Child.”
Tyri froze. His gold eyes moved to look at Andulahar, then the floor, then back to the tapestries.
“You are letting your anxieties get the better of you.” Andulahar sat his pestle down on the table and wiped his hand on a stained rag hanging from his waistband. He walked up to Tyri and grabbed his left arm at the wrist, ensuring that he was not putting pressure on the bandage on the boy’s forearm. “Breathe.” His pulse was somehow racing faster than the tapping of his foot. “How could my needles hurt worse than this?” Andulahar said nodding toward the bandage.
“Uh. I suppose they probably couldn’t. Right?” Tyri said with a nervous chuckle.
Only one side of his lips formed a smile under Andulahar’s salt-and-pepper beard. “No. Now sit. Tell me what gave it to you,” He said.
Promptly following orders, Tyri sat back down on a blanketed outcrop of stone fashioned to be a seat. “Well, it was a Crawler. A small one. But still, it could reach from me to you in a single stride, and its pincers! They’re the size of a greatsword!”
“Truly?” Andulahar said. Followed by a small gust of breath from his nostrils not strong enough to be a true laugh.
“Yes! Yes. It stood twice the height of the first Ranger.” Tyri said.
Andulahar sat his materials to the side and picked up a stone stool to his left. He moved over next to a flat and long slab of stone and placed it within arm’s reach. “And you would consider that small?” He said.
“Well, small in comparison to the others. Some can get to be twice that height they say.” Tyri said. He had begun to steel himself. He flexed his hands in a fist and stood up.
“You can remove your tunic and lay here,” Andulahar said gesturing to the longer slab he just laid a thick purple blanket on. He retrieved a basket containing his tools, two handles fashioned from Antelope horns, and the mortar with freshly made ink.
Tyri once again did what he was told and removed his tunic and laid down chest first onto the blanket. Within seconds he could feel an itchy sensation creep up around parts of his exposed skin, but he preferred that to what he imagined the cold and hard stone would’ve felt like. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw.
Andulahar spoke, “Are you ready?”
“I hope so,” Tyri said.
“No. Confidence boy. I’ll ask again. Are you ready?” Andulahar said.
“Yes,” Tyri said, lying to himself in the hopes that it would help.
Andulahar grabbed a pinch of the ink and applied it to the needle on the horn. He put his hands out in front of him forming a right angle with his tools above Tyri’s back. With ink tipped needle pointed down toward his skin, Andulahar struck. He adjusted his arms then struck again, and again. The monotonous tapping of horn on horn brought on a storm of stinging pain for Tyri. Along with the sound came the smell of blood. The sounds continued for minutes until Andulahar paused and wiped his back with a clean cloth that quickly began to darken with red. Tyri grew to hate these pauses. Every pause made it harder to push the pain out of his mind. Impossibly he tried to hold it back, but a tear ran down his cheek. He scorned himself for the display, thinking that his elder would think less of him.
“It will pass. As all things do. Find your oasis,” Andulahar said.
Tyri not only found that hard to believe, but he found such a task would be absurd. Even worse, he found it hard to detach the tapping sounds from their similarity to the clicking of the Crawlers. Their similarity to the sound of an imperfect crack of a maul against their chitin. Which led him to remember the sounds that followed. Screams from elves his senior falling to acid burns, or the crunch of a crumpled form run over by their scuttling legs. He snapped out of it when the tapping momentarily ceased.
“Do you know why we apply these tattoos first?” Andulahar said.
Throughout the fog of pain, Tyri found it hard to speak. “Not… particularly,” he said.
Touching above where he’s been tattooing, he spoke. “Here we depict the Mother. She comes first because she brought us into this world. Then since you are now born anew as a warrior, I will complete the son here.” Upon finishing the sentence, he moved his hand to Tyri’s right shoulder blade. “Once those are complete, I will give you your mark on your wrist.”
“So, you’re saying we’re nowhere near done?” Tyri said through a false laugh.
“While I am not close to finishing, there is a portion that is done, and it will never have to be done again. You have chosen a view of pessimism. Stop letting your mind defeat you.” Andulahar said touching two clean fingers to Tyri’s temple. “Dictate your own path.”
Tyri thought to himself, I was just making a joke.
“I will continue,” Andulahar said.
The waves of pain were brought on again for another series of minutes. A rise and fall of memories to go with them. Tyri considered giving up. He could deal with the shame if it meant putting this pain behind him. He thought about what Andulahar said. Dictate your own path. Tyri determined the least he could do is push the pain down. The shame of leaving these tattoos uncompleted would hover as a cloud over him for centuries while this pain would subside in hours or days.
Andulahar continued for an hour and a half. He sat up and stretched his back then sat his tools down in his basket. After retrieving a new clean cloth, he wiped down the blood and excess ink off the back of Tyri. “I am at the halfway point, take a break,” Andulahar said.
Without hesitation, Tyri sat up and took a deep breath. The momentary silence reminded him of the aftermath. The numbing silence of the sands, littered with corpses of crawlers and elves alike but mixed with the pain of an injury from the battle.
Andulahar moved to prepare more ink but noticed Tyri’s thousand-yard stare. He straightened his back and cleaned his hands on his rag. Having seen these looks before he moved the stool in front of Tyri, grabbed another clean cloth, and sat down. “What is it, boy?” Andulahar said.
Fumbling for his voice Tyri only spoke in a whisper, “oh, uh, nothing.” How could he have explained everything he saw? Should he have explained how the smell of the blood was the same? Or how the tapping sound would never leave his mind ever again? It was best left as nothing.
“Nothing.” Andulahar nodded. He knew what that meant. He handed the cloth to Tyri. “Go ahead,” he said. If the boy didn’t let out his emotions now, he would be scarred for life. These tattoos couldn’t be a memory of fear. They had to be a memory of acceptance and perseverance.
Tyri looked up confused. “What?” He said.
“There’s no shame in it. Let it out.” Andulahar said.
Tyri’s emotions became harder to control. The dam he had built to hold back the waves of physical and emotional pain broke and he sobbed. It only took a few minutes before the snot began to follow his tears. A liquid form of everything he had been feeling the past two weeks.
“That’s what the rag’s for,” Andulahar said, assisting in lifting Tyri’s own hands holding the cloth to his face. It hurt to see another child broken from the battlefield, but he was determined to give them solace.
Tyri wiped away the mess but continued his cries for some time. He shed a tear for each of his friends that didn’t make it home, and even those he wouldn’t have considered friends too. All the while, Andulahar waited. He watched the twin red suns chase each other toward the horizon. He would wait until the boy was done. Just as he did for all the Rangers during his centuries of service.
When Tyri’s finally sat in silence Andulahar spoke, “Good. Now get up. I will walk you home. You will return here at first light. Is that understood?”
“Yes.” Tyri wiped the last bit of snot from his face. “Thank you,” he said. Andulahar helped bring the boy to his feet. He gave Tyri’s shoulder a squeeze as they descended the hill while the moons watched over their passage.
