(Part I) - Zarek ben Nadin Chronicles - Chapter #8

    After a few hours of sleep, Zarek woke and found himself unable to rest more.  Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, swaying slightly.  His body was still tired, its exhaustion had been the only thing that had enabled him to sleep for even a few hours.  Stiffness in his limbs caused him to move a little slower than usual, his body must have been jostled and bruised from yesterday’s fight.

      Gathering his thoughts, he glanced around the hut.  It was empty, besides him.  He also noted that his father hadn’t been there.  Arrod would still be out with the men who had been chosen to scout for any lingering enemies.  Lifting the fur from the doorway, he stepped out.  The morning air was cool, and snapped against his skin as he began walking.

    His steps were heavy, and his spirits weighed down upon him like a suppressing hand.  He wandered aimlessly through the village, avoiding the section where they kept watch over their prisoners.  They had captured nearly a hundred of the nomads, but it didn’t dwindle the fact that they had lost many of their own men, men who couldn’t be replaced.

    It would seem more fitting, if life was to pause, if only briefly to honor the memory of the slain.  Zarek’s shoulders slumped further, he knew that it was impossible… life went on.  It took things without considering if one could make do without them or not.  In this case, they would have to.  The remaining men would be hard pressed to continue fishing and providing for the newly made widows and orphans, but it would be done.

     At last, he found himself on a rocky hillside.  It was the same one that he had often sat on to watching the fishing boats leave for the day of work.  However, there were no men on the beach now, and none of the fishing boats would be taken out to sea today.  The men would all be in the council’s lodge, deciding on a new chief.  

     It was with this acknowledgement that he had expected for the hillside to be vacant as well; so it was with some surprise, that he noted his friend’s presence.

    Natan rose to greet him, offering him a piece of bread as he did so.  “I thought I would find you here this morning.  You always rise early.”  His friend’s gaze lingered on him, “It doesn’t appear that you rested well.”

    Zarek took the offered crust of bread and chewed on it   “You couldn’t have either if you are up this early.  What ails you?”  He moved to sit on the rock beside his friend.  His legs moved slowly, why did he feel unbalance?  He wondered at his detachment, but dismissed it as his being tired.

    “You are stiff this morning,” Natan observed.

    There was a tightness across Zarek’s chest.  Paint tugged at him suddenly, and he remembered his injury from yesterday.  He was surprised he had forgotten, and then realized that he had brushed aside the stiffness earlier that morning, attributing it to the battle.

    “Just a little,” he admitted, though the pain in his chest protest against his words.  “So why are you waiting for me?  I haven’t ever known you to pass up a minute’s worth of sleep before.”

    Natan grinned at his friend’s comment and shrugged it off good-naturedly.   “I thought I would walk with you to the council meeting.”

    A feeling of dread grew in the pit of Zarek’s stomach.  He glanced at the sky and noticed that the sun hadn’t yet risen, though it did cast a faint glow on the horizon which spread over the waters.   He looked back at his friend.  “The meeting won’t be for some time yet.”

    “I know.  There are waiting for the scouts to get back.  They want all of the able men to be present.  Your father went with the scouts, did he not?”

    “Yes,” Zarek said, declining to comment further.  He hadn’t seen his father but for a brief moment after the battle, before he had left with the others to scout.  Their paths had crossed briefly.  His father eyes had been dark and unreadable.

    From past experiences, Zarek found his father’s silence to be the worst.  He couldn’t know what his father was thinking.  Two years ago, when he had saved Ciara’s ship from sinking, his father’s eyes had been dark and thoughtful.  But whatever his father had been thinking, he had kept to himself.  However, the look in his father’s eyes had changed.  Zarek knew that whatever his father was planning would be brought to light soon.

    “My father is guarding the prisoners.”

    Drawing his thoughts away from his own father, and focusing on what Natan was saying, Zarek settled into the part of an impassive listener.  He allowed the next few hours to be passed in the company of his friend. 

    With his eyes constantly flitting over his surroundings, he noticed the sun’s appearance in the morning sky before Natan did.  But during the time that passed, he had become even more bone weary, which made him reluctant to interrupt Natan’s chatter.  Zarek wasn’t even sure if he wanted to go to the council meeting.  He had a dark feeling in the pit of his stomach, about the choosing… a feeling that he couldn’t seem to lose.

    As it was, Zarek didn’t have to debate long.  Upon realizing the position of the sun, Natan leapt to his feet, “We must walk back to the village, we will be late for the meeting!”

     Zarek sighed and got to his feet, before following Natan down the hillside.  His body had stiffened further, and the pain was stronger.  His breath caught in his throat as he followed Natan’s quick pace, at last he couldn’t push his body further.  “Natan,” he panted.  “Can we slow down a bit?  I am a little stiff for sitting so long.”

    Natan slowed immediately, concern making his brows furrow.  His friend didn’t say anything, probably knowing that Zarek wouldn’t appreciate the fuss.  Still, it took them a little longer to arrive in the village at the lodge where the council was taking place.

    Despite the slower pace, Zarek was out of breath when they pushed aside the skin from the doorway.  He refused to allow his exhaustion to show, but when he moved to sit, the pain made him draw a quick, jagged breath.  When the pain ebbed away, he was aware that nearly every eye in the room was on him.

    Even Arrod was looking at him.  Zarek forced himself not to flinch.  Whenever he had managed to catch his father’s attention before, nothing good had come from it.  The flashing anger that smoldered in his father’s eyes, heightened his senses, and it took him a moment to realize that the anger wasn’t being directed toward him.  But then where was it being directed?  He glanced around the room.

    Old Mala, the village elder, approached him first, “Zarek ben Nadin.  We have discussed who should take the place of our chief, who was slain in battle.  The men have chosen you.   Will you accept the responsibility to become our guide and ruler, giving wise council and protecting the village against attack?”

    Zarek breathed sharply, the pain forgotten.  He had thought it would come to this, but it still didn’t take away the uneasy feeling that swept over him.  His eyes squeezed shut.  He couldn’t be chief!  He didn’t want to take their old chief’s place.  He couldn’t ever measure up.

    His temper often got the better of him, and he was too resentful and too bitter to make a good chief.  He acted too rashly.  If someone offended him, he answered with his fists.  If he was questioned, then Zarek never passed up the challenge.  No, he would not make a good chief, a good chief would put his people first and Zarek wasn’t sure he could do that.

    All he could feel was anger, hate, bitterness… and fear; blinded in a storm of so many emotions that never ceased to end.  But he was a warrior, he had proven himself in battle, and it was a warrior’s duty to set aside his emotions so that he could serve.  He must control his thoughts, and clear his mind.

    With effort, Zarek opened his eyes and was struck with a flashback of their chief being slain.  He had to be honest.  He forced himself to meet each of the gazes of the men in the council.  Taking a deep breath, he spoke.  “I do not know if I am worthy of such honor.  I failed to protect our chief, and I failed to save him.”

    The room was cloaked in silence for several moments.  At last, the village elder bowed his head, before lifting his eyes to meet Zarek’s.   “The blame is not yours,” Mala said.  His voice was quiet, and his gaze was sincere.

    Perhaps a desperate need for confirmation made Zarek scan the room for Natan.  His friend was sitting in the back, nearly hidden in the shadows.  Yet, he was able to see the nearly imperceptible nod of his friend’s head.  His eyes shifted to Mala again, “If it is the wish of the council, I will be honored to serve.”

    There was no cheering, but Zarek didn’t miss the nods and murmurs of approval.  It was official, he was chief now.  Old Mala stepped forward and draped the slain chief’s amulet around Zarek’s neck.  The villager elder spoke again, “My chief, with your permission, we must oversee the burial of our old chief.”

    Zarek blinked in surprise at the address, but quickly regained his impassive expression and nodded, “Present his body to the priests, that they might prepare it for burial.”

     Old Mala nodded and he and the other men receded from the lodge.  Only a few men remained, and Zarek recognized them as three of the chief’s body guards.  The head guard, Sargon, stepped forward.  “What does the chief command us?”  Sargon took his responsibilities seriously, and was a very grave and imposing man.  He looked no less grave now.

    In fact, the three men looked very solemn.  Zarek’s skin prickled as he remembered: it was the custom for the body guards to present themselves to the new chief.  If it was decided that they had failed in any way to prevent the death of the old chief; he could command them to take their lives.  Otherwise, they would be allowed to continue in their service to the new chief.

    He couldn’t lay the blame on their shoulders, not for the death of their chief.  Not when there was something that he could have done to prevent it himself.  He looked at them, not unkindly.  “You will serve me, as you have served our chief.”

oOo

    The day passed in preparation for the burial, and as the sun began to set, the whole village proceeded to the sacred inlet where a funeral pier had been constructed.  The body of the slain chief was placed thereon and the priests began chanting and offering sacrifice so that the old chief would find favor in the afterlife.

    The setting sun wove bands of red and gold across the sky as the first stars appeared.  A cool breeze from the sea caused Zarek to shiver.  At last the chanting ceased and the priests began to beat on the drums, a slow and somber beat.

     Zarek accepted the torch from the head priest, Rarrok, and stepped up to the funeral pier.  He looked at the quiet face of their deceased chief, one last time before he gently touched the torch to the kindling.  The wood ignited and soon flames leapt to the sky.  Zarek turned to 

where Soma, the chief’s son, stood close by.

     Soma was no longer pudgy, though his face remained as flat as ever.  The young man’s eyes were wet as they blinked, though his face was drained of emotion.  He nodded his head in acceptance of Zarek’s leadership.

     Before Zarek walked past him; he laid a hand on Soma’s arm.  The simple gesture was to reassure the young man that Zarek intended to treat him fairly.  A look of gratitude flashed in Soma’s eyes, and then both of their gazes returned to the smoking pier. 

     At last, the funeral was over.  One by one, the mourners drifted away, until only Zarek remained.  He watched the smoke lift to the stars and turned.  As he walked to the village, he was aware of Sargon and another guard shadowing him.  It would take some getting used to.  His mind drifted to tomorrow, and the burden of leadership settled more firmly on his shoulders.  It would be a trying day.