Here are the last two of six installments of the novel Mud.

Could I walk away from Renth a thousand miles, and become fully a man? And if I died trying, how much worse could that be? There was nothing to tie me to Renth. My last sibling had died of the cough, I never knew my father, and my mother was a walking skeleton who would not last much longer.

I would become a warrior, secretly. I would train my body. I would find a hiding place in the swamp where no one would see me and practice at arms as I has seen the warrors do.

It was not easy, and it did not procede quickly. At twelve, I was responsible for a full day of work every day, in the streets night and morning, in the fields most days, and cleaning out my master’s cesspit every third day. Chamarana are not slaves, exactly, but the difference from a slave’s point of view, or a Chamarana’s point of view, would be too small to notice. It took weeks of time snatched from sleep to find a clearing in the swamp that was far enough away to be hidden but close enough to reach quickly when I could find a free hour.

My body responded slowly. I was young and strong, but to become stronger requires effort, and effort requires food. A hungry warrior is a weak warrior, and I was hungry all the time. I could not steal food from non-Chamaranas – for a Chamarana to touch food that has been blessed by a priest after leaving the fields where the Chamarana grew it would pollute the food. That affront to the dignity of non-Chamaranas was punishable by death.

I was too proud to steal from my fellow slaves.

——————–

I learned to hold a wooden sword as I had seen warriors in the common. I learned to swing it; then I weighted it, to be more like a sword of steel. My forearms screamed in pain. I sweated, and panted for breath, and at times fell to my knees too exhausted to rise.

I vented my anger on unoffending reeds and on the knotted limbs of the rybhal tree. I learned of the shock to the joints that comes with every blow. Then I would stagger back to my sleeping rags under a tree on the Renthian side of the Renal. The next morning I would force myself awake and go through my day’s work with gritted teeth, unwilling to show any sign exhaustion.

Three years passed and I had gained some skill when I was discovered.

*****

Here the story ends, for now. Unlike Voices in the Wall, over in Serial, I can’t tell you what will happen next because I don’t know.

Some stories come from the head, some from the heart. This one came from the gut. I only feel what will happen, I do not know. I have ten single spaced pages of notes which may become an outline, but I don’t know yet which of several paths the novel will take.

If that seems strange to you, so be it. It is part of the reason it takes me so long to write a novel.
Monday, some silliness after six weeks of serious posts.