to your wounds by the stove. Lukas’ restraint, though outwardly non-violent, had left red, raw welts upon your wrists, which I dabbed with Payha’s ointment.
‘You must learn to control your temper,’ I said. ‘It is not pleasant for others to see you in such a fury.’
You stared at your stockinged feet, dangling from the chair.
‘Lukas was right,’ you said. ‘I wasn’t strong enough for the jumping game.’
‘Reed, don’t say that.’
You looked up, eyes glistening.
‘But it’s true. There’s no way I could have kept up.’
‘That is no reason not to join in the game. They are supposed to be fun, are they not? There, all done.’ I straightened your cuffs. ‘Better?’
‘They’re not fun when everyone’s bigger than you are. And stronger.’
‘Well, perhaps they should not have been showing off.’
‘They weren’t. It’s just me; I’m weak.’
I gripped your shoulders.
‘Reed, that is not true. You are strong, you are. Strength…’
You looked back at me, eyes wide and waiting for the advice that would carry you through the pain. I struggled. I knew what strength was. Strength was superior muscle structure. Strength was a sophisticated skeletal system fortified by an ever-evolving carbon fibre mesh. Strength was flesh that repaired itself, arteries running with nano-mites, an intelligent immune system and skin that did not require ointment to rid itself of a few scratches.
Then a memory appeared, like a page falling from a dusty book.
‘Might,’ I said, ‘is not always right.’
You blinked. I withdrew my hands in embarrassment and stood swiftly.
‘Do you enjoy fighting?’
You shook your head.
‘Then do not do it. Do the things you enjoy instead, that come naturally to you. Find the best part of yourself and be that thing around others.’
This brought a small smile, the first I had seen since the morning.
‘Now go to bed.’
I watched you run to the sink to wash, thinking of the two pieces of advice I had, somehow, just imparted. I knew exactly where that first piece came from. I remembered the page number, the line, the shape of the words, the weight of the blue, aged tome in my hands, the scrawled image of that skinny boy gripping the giant sword.
But the second piece of advice—I had no clue where that had come from. No clue at all.
IT DID NOT take you long, however, to put it into practice.
The following week I approached the school gate to another new sound, though not a fight this time.
Benedikt was there by the gate as he had been before, only now he was gripping the wood and glaring into the yard, teeth grinding.
‘What is happening this time?’ I said. ‘Papa.’
He grimaced at me.
‘Your child. Again.’
You were in one corner of the school yard—not pinned, not struggling, but sitting with your legs crossed. Your ertling classmates surrounded you, sitting in a similar fashion and watching, entranced, as you hummed. It was a simple, wordless melody with four distinct pitches, and they were humming it softly back at you. I recognised it instantly.
‘His tune,’ I said. ‘He’s teaching them it.’
I looked along the fence, at which other parents of the ertlings now stood, watching the scene with smiles upon their faces. Only Benedikt seemed perturbed. He called out to one of the teachers, who was gazing at the small choir with a similar look of enthralment to the parents. He glanced up from his reverie and wandered over.
‘Are you going to let this continue?’ said Benedikt.
The teacher—a slight-built, fifth generation male with thinning hair who, for some reason or other, I had marked as having had expertise in sanitation—drew himself up under Benedikt’s shadow.
‘Why ever would I not?’ he asked.
‘Singing?’ said Benedikt. ‘Does this really represent a profitable use of time?’
‘There is no harm in it, no words, no fiction, and the ertlings seem to enjoy it. Besides—’ he turned to the still-humming crowd, smiling again—‘I don’t want to stop it. Not just yet, anyway.’
He drifted back to where he had been standing. I’m sure he began to sway.
‘Lukas,’ called Benedikt sharply. ‘Come.’
Lukas, who had also been in the crowd, turned to look, but did not stand.
‘Lukas,’ warned Benedikt. The child finally got to his feet and hurried across. ‘Home, now.’
‘What is wrong, Benedikt,’ I called after them. ‘This is precisely the kind of behaviour we should be interested in, is it not?’
He did not look round, which brought me immense pleasure.
JORNE STARTED VISITING us again, which pleased you no end. He collected you from school on the days I could not and took you on small expeditions. On these evenings,