Skillful Death (16 page)

When the candles burned low and sputtered out, one by one, Constantine set his work aside and found his way out into the night to relieve himself. The starlight cast fuzzy shadows of the cedar branches. The two old horses angled up on either side of Constantine and cleared their throats as if they were about to speak. The boy pet their velvet noses before returning to the barn. The stone floor of the farrier’s room was cold and the moon wouldn’t be up for a while, so Constantine found his way to the stall where Sasha’s father kept his horse. This horse, lying with his legs bunched underneath him, was nothing but a black spot in the low light of the barn’s interior. The horse mumbled a greeting as Constantine ducked under the rope across the stall door. Constantine curled up next to the horse’s warm belly and tried to make himself comfortable amidst the hard hooves and boney forelegs. He slept until the dawn light streaming through the doorway hit his face.

The horse rolled on its side, and Constantine rose from the tangle of heavy legs and brushed the straw from his fur suit. He scratched the back of the horse’s mane as he thought about the snakeskin and what he would do next. He would make some bold cuts today. Hopefully, the skin would survive his demands.

In the farrier’s room, Sasha’s father stood near the window and held the snakeskin close to his face. Constantine’s eye went to his good flint knife on the bench and his hand went to his utility blade stashed in the secret pocket of his suit. He debated rushing the man who held his precious work.

“You can’t run away again, little Connie,” Sasha’s father said. “If I have to chase you again, I’ll bring you back here in a bag and drop you in the dry well. And you must be careful with that horse. He’s likely to kill you for no reason.”

Constantine’s eyes were fixed on the snakeskin, waiting for the man to mistreat it with his hands.

“I’m sure the cobbler and many more people would love to know how you made this skin so rigid and tough around the edges, and yet kept the bulk of the scales so flexible. The man who tanned this skin said that this type of snake was too big and delicate to be of any use. He’s a man who knows his trade. We’ll see if your work holds up over time, but your results so far are quite convincing.”

Constantine exhaled as Sasha’s father gently laid the skin back on top of the cedar chest. The boy took a step closer.

“You can return to your work here when all the chores are done and you’ve had a proper breakfast.” He crossed the room and spun Constantine by his shoulders. When he’d pushed the boy out the door, he turned and locked it behind them. “Don’t worry, you’ll be able to get back to it soon. I promise. Sasha will show you the chores when he manages to pull himself from his plush covers. Oh, there’s my stout son now.”

Sasha shuffled through the barn door, rubbing his eyes with one hand and scratching his butt with the other. He smiled at Constantine and smoothed his tangle of blond hair back from his forehead. Instead of the stolen suit, he wore a supple linen shirt, and baggy woolen pants which were rolled up away from his dirty feet.

“You’re not to muck with bare feet, Sasha. How many times must I tell you that? Your feet stink of horse urine for the rest of the day.”

“Sorry,” Sasha said. He turned and walked to the door and then threw himself to the ground before reaching for boots that hung on wall pegs. Constantine’s eyes returned to the locked door.

“You show Connie all the chores and then bring him inside for breakfast.”

“Why doesn’t he have to wear boots?” Sasha asked.

“Perhaps you’d like to wrap that impertinent tongue around the horse’s oats for breakfast?”

“No, sir,” Sasha said, as he turned his eyes to the barn floor.

“Good,” his father said. He pulled a long, three-tined pitchfork from the wall and slung it over his shoulder before striding out into the field.

After his father left the barn, Sasha ran to the end of the aisle and used both hands to drag a big wooden cart down to the horse’s stall. The horse came to the rope and laid his ears flat back as the boy approached.

“This is Baron,” Sasha said. “I call him ‘Biter Baron’ because he bites everything. You have to be really careful of stallions; that’s what my dad says. They can bite your finger off before you even know what’s happening. Except those old horses out in the paddock, Grandfather’s horses. They’re too old to hurt anyone. If you throw a pinecone at them, they’ll go away, but they come right back for an apple core.”

Sasha angled the cart so that it rolled beneath the rope and forced Baron to sidestep out of the way. The boy fetched a fine rake from the wall and handed it to Constantine.
 

“You just go in there and clean up everything. He poops in that corner over there and he pees in that big spot there. That’s all you really need to do. Just get any wet straw up and put it in the cart. Don’t get the pee on you, either. Dad will smell it and get mad.”

Constantine looked at the rake and then stepped under the rope. The horse came around the cart and sniffed at the rake and then at Constantine’s head.

“Be careful!” Sasha yelled. Baron raised his head in alarm and Constantine backed up against the horse, placing his hand protectively on Baron’s chest. “He might bite you. I’ve seen him do it. Look at what he did to my arm.”

Sasha raised the sleeve of his shirt and spun his arm around, looking for a scar. When he couldn’t find it, he raised the other sleeve and pointed to a tiny mark.
 

“See?” Sasha asked.

Constantine and Baron had already moved on to mucking out the stall. The boy had never done the chore before, but the concept seemed simple enough. He cleaned the area, putting the soiled straw into the big cart while Baron hooked his head over Constantine’s shoulder and watched him shovel. The horse was fastidious, keeping his mess to discrete areas, as stallions will do. As Constantine finished the chore, Baron pressed his big nose to Constantine’s ear and whickered.
 

“Hungry,” Constantine said to Sasha.

“Who is, you or Baron?”
 

“Horse,” Constantine said.
 

“Yeah, of course,” Sasha said. “He gets three flakes of hay and a scoop of oats in the morning. I’ll get it.”
 

Sasha rolled up his sleeves carefully before handling the hay, and then tossed it over the short wall of the stall into the horse’s trough. He followed the hay with a scoop of oats which he dumped on top. Baron tossed his head and set about the careful business of nibbling the oats out of the tangled hay. Constantine wheeled the cart out of the stall and parked it near door while Sasha jacked himself up on the wall to watch the horse eat.

“He needs a bucket of water, too. You can get that. You have to prime the pump first with that little cup of water.”

Constantine studied the device, looking at it from several angles, before he made a move towards the pump handle. Sasha beat him too it. He dumped the cup of water into the hole and then jacked the handle until well water poured from the mouth. After refilling the primer, he showed Constantine how to hook the bucket on the pump and fill it up.

“Now we have to take the straw over to the mushroom patch, feed Grandfather’s horses, and do a bunch of other little things before we go inside for breakfast.”

Constantine wondered how long he would have to wait before he could get his hands back to work. He felt the pads of his fingers itching for the feel of the snakeskin, and regretted that he hadn’t woken with the moon so he could have worked through the night. If he’d known all the morning demands, he would have gladly given up sleep to work on the skin.

“I
WANT
TO
LEARN
how to swim,” Dom said.

“Are you certain?” Denpa asked.

“Yes, right away,” Dom said. Dom waited for Denpa at the side of the lake and admired the way the blue sky reflected off the water. The old man took forever to climb the steps to the lake, but he wouldn’t accept any help from Dom. He wouldn’t even allow Dom to walk with him as he lifted his old feet for step after ponderous step. So, Dom went up without him and waited at the edge of the water.
 

As he sat, Dom thought about his last swimming lesson. When he was smaller, he’d admired the way the other children laughed and played in the water, and he’d expressed his admiration. Denpa had brought him to this same spot and told him what to do.
 

“Once you learn that you cannot sink, you will be able to float,” Denpa had said. The man, not yet so old, had removed his robes as he waded into the lake. He paused and grimaced when the cold water reached his knees, and then paused again when the water crested his crotch. After acclimating himself to the water, Denpa had leaned back and fluttered his hands gently while floating on his back.

“You return to this position whenever you become anxious. You try.”

The younger Dom had tested the cold water on his feet and then run to Denpa’s side. The boy threw himself back and fluttered his hands. He immediately sunk. Denpa had pulled him back to the air, choking and coughing up water. That first lesson had been Dom’s last. He didn’t wait for Denpa, but ran all the way back home.
 

Now, as Dom waited for Denpa, he decided to try the lesson again on his own. He waded out to where the water was waist-deep and he sat down, until the water came up to his mouth. He exhaled, and tilted his head back. His head went under and his nose filled with water. Dom thrashed to his feet and coughed his lungs clear.

“Take a deep breath, and hold it,” a voice said from the shore.

He looked up and saw Denpa disrobing.

“Hold it?”

“Yes,” Denpa said. “Fill your lungs with air. This is what I should have told you so many years ago. Air will not sink, but your flesh will. As long as you have lungs full of air, you will stay afloat.”

“Fill them,” Dom said to himself. He lowered himself back down and tried the old man’s advice. Denpa arrived at his side as Dom settled into the water. The gentle waves lapped over his mouth and threatened his nostrils. Dom began to thrash his arms and pull his feet back underneath himself, but Denpa put a calming hand on his shoulder.
 

“Once you learn that you cannot sink, you will be able to float,” Denpa said. “This is how my father taught me.”

Dom took a tiny experimental breath through his nose. When it worked, he breathed deeper, feeling himself sink and then bob back up when he pulled in fresh air. He tested, raising one foot from the rocky bottom and then the other.
 

After counting to a hundred, Dom worked himself back to his feet.

“What’s next?”

“Next, you do the same thing on your stomach, instead of your back,” Denpa said. “I’ll hold you up at first.”

Dom did as he was told and he found himself with only his head and shoulders out of the water. In the course of minutes, he understood how he could keep himself afloat through forward motion. The act was nearly as natural as walking. He and Denpa moved deeper into the water, so he could practice his paddling without accidentally aiding himself by touching his feet to the lake bottom.

“You’re a natural,” Denpa said.

“I don’t know if I’m learning, or remembering,” Dom said.

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose it doesn’t,” Dom said. He practiced, paddling back and forth in the chest-deep water as Denpa watched. His legs burned with the unfamiliar motion and his lungs felt heavy.
 

“You can allow your nose to go under water and then lift it when you need to breathe,” Denpa said. The old man crossed his arms against the cold water.

Dom pushed his limbs aggressively, losing efficiency but still gaining speed. He turned and swam towards the depths.

“You don’t have to swim the whole lake today,” Denpa said. “Save a challenge for tomorrow.”

“I’m trying to learn,” Dom said, gasping to keep his head above water as he spoke.

“So you are,” Denpa said.

Dom paused his forward progress and tried to tread water, as the women often did near the ledge on the hottest days. His dexterity was not up to the task and his head dipped below the surface. Clawing at the water, Dom struggled and breached, pulling in a tortured breath. He paddled frantically back over to Denpa, who shivered in his own embrace.

“How do you tread water?” Dom asked.

“You have to push the water down with your hands and kick with your feet. Remember to fill your lungs, like you did when you learned to float a few seconds ago.”

Dom tested the depth with his foot and bounced deeper until the water was just above his head. He comforted himself with the idea that he could always push off the bottom and come back to the surface if he couldn’t keep himself afloat. Denpa demonstrated by waving his hands in the air, and Dom tried to reproduce the motion of pushing the water down to produce upward thrust. His arm muscles now burned too, and his legs threatened to cramp as he finally found the technique.

Denpa was puffing out his lips and shivering as he looked at the sky.