grunts and shouts coming from the yard instead of the now familiar sound of play. Benedikt was standing by the gate, watching, along with three other ertling carers further along the fence.
‘What is happening?’ I asked, as my pace quickened.
Benedikt looked back at my approach.
‘There was an argument,’ he said, standing aside. ‘See for yourself.’
You were on your back, unable to move. Lukas, sitting astride your chest, had pinned you to the ground by your wrists and now loomed over you with a placid smile as you struggled, helpless, beneath him. A crowd of your classmates stood nervously around, biting nails and wringing hands, but hiding just as much glee as they displayed of their uncertainty.
‘Get off me,’ you squeaked, but Lukas merely broadened his smile.
I lurched for the gate, ready to spring upon the young ertling, but Benedikt snatched me back by wrist.
‘Stop,’ he said. ‘This is not your argument.’
I tried to wrench myself free from his clawed grip.
‘What do you mean? Look at them; he’s hurting him! Let me go!’
Benedikt’s frown grew dense, like wild thickets.
‘This is precisely the kind of behaviour we should be interested in.’ I followed his stare across the yard, where I saw two teachers watching from a safe distance. Benedikt leaned closer. ‘The kind of the behaviour you should be interested in.’
I finally broke free and ran to the gate.
‘Ima, wait—’
‘Stop!’
Lukas, you and the crowd of ertlings looked up at the sound of my voice.
‘Stop that now.’
Lukas’ smile slowly left his face. His attention was all on me, and as his grip weakened you saw your opportunity and wriggled one hand free. Your fingers curled together.
‘Reed, no!’ I cried, but the blow had already been delivered. It was weak, landing on Lukas’ left side with a dull thwack. There were gasps, and Lukas turned back, inspecting the spot where you had made contact. Confused, but reaching a decision, he swung his own fist high above his head.
‘Lukas.’
Benedikt’s growl stopped Lukas in his tracks, and this time he stood straight up, leaving you wheezing on the floor.
‘Come,’ said Benedikt, and Lukas obediently picked up his bag and walked to the gate. I ran to where you lay.
‘Get up,’ I said, as the ertlings backed away. ‘Are you all right? Can you stand? Can you walk?’
‘I’m fine,’ you said, shaking me off. I took a step back, and you got to your feet, shaking and glaring around the yard. You looked so furious, so small.
‘Are you just going to let that happen,’ I said to Benedikt as I shepherded you through the gate, you still flinching from my contact.
‘Why not?’ said Benedikt. ‘The argument was started by Reed. Lukas was merely restraining him.’
‘Reed, what happened?’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ you said, pouting at the ground. The other ertlings pushed past, smiling and talking with their parents as if nothing had happened.
‘Why were you fighting?’
‘It was him,’ you said, glaring at Lukas. ‘He said I wasn’t strong enough to play the jumping game.’
‘Lukas?’ said Benedikt, one hand upon his shoulder. Lukas looked up.
‘Well he isn’t, Papa,’ he said. ‘He is too small.’
‘I’m not,’ you snapped back.
‘But you are,’ said Lukas. Just a fact; no hint of malice.
‘I am not!’
I pulled you back.
‘Reed, control yourself!’
You looked up, fuming, and shrugged me off.
‘Now then, Lukas,’ said Benedikt, with an oily glance at me, ‘we have spoken about this. You must allow everyone to play your games, size does not matter. Hmm?’
Lukas looked up at him, wide-eyed.
‘Well?’
‘Yes, Papa.’
‘Good, now why don’t you two boys say sorry and we’ll forget this ever happened.’ He gave me another look as he said this, for there was no intention of forgetting these things. ‘Go on now.’
‘Sorry, Reed,’ said Lukas in a clear, honest voice.
‘Reed?’ I said.
‘Sorry, Lukas,’ you mumbled.
‘There,’ said Benedikt. ‘All better. Now run along, I’ll catch you up.’
‘Come on, Reed,’ said Lukas. ‘Let’s go and play.’
He took your hand and led you away, your trudge looking ever more dejected against his happy bound. Benedikt watched you go.
‘Eight years old,’ he said, ‘and already a slave to his own impotent rage. His body is not even fully developed yet. Just imagine how it will be when he is eleven, fifteen, sixteen, twenty-one. What happens to it all, Ima, do you think? What happens to all that rage as he grows?’
I said nothing, and he turned to leave.
‘Benedikt,’ I said.
He stopped and turned.
‘Yes?’
‘Papa?’
He curled his lip momentarily, then straightened his cloak.
‘He has to call me something,’ he said, and left.
— THIRTY-THREE —
LATER, I TENDED