Henry Lion Oldie
Master
* * *
"The Great Square
has no angles"
The strained ligaments vibrated under the carefully touching fingers; and the Master had to work hard until the man stretchced out on a rough wooden bench groaned and opened his eyes.
Seeing the gloomy bearded face bent over him, the man shuddered convulsively and shut his eyes again.
"Don't be scared, – the Master said. – The day's over. It's evening now. Don't be scared and lie still."
He wasn't used to say so many words at a time, and it cost him much effort to finish the phrase.
"You, torturer..." – the man muttered.
"I am, – he agreed. – and a master too."
"Master..." – the man pronounced the word as if touching it with his swollen tongue. The word was utterly out of place here, within the smutty walls of the small hall with low ceiling, massive door and without any windows at all.
"Tomorrow you'll have the whip, – the Master warned. – Hang quiet, don't strain yourself. And cry. It will be easier for you."
"You are gonna kill me," – cool indifference sounded in the man's voice.
"No, I'm not, – said the Master. – Not tomorrow, anyway."
"I'm talking too much, – he thought. – It is age..."
The man moved his shoulder, with caution at first, then with more confidence. All bones appeared to be in place.
"Master..." – the man whispered following with his eyes the stooping figure that disappeared at the doorway.
On the next day he had the whip.
A stocky sullen youth kneeled in front of a metallic tank full of sand and methodically immersed his hands into it keeping his fingers widely apart. The sand was damp and caked, and mixed with rusty debris and pebbles; and the youth's fingers were covered with cuts and bleeded.
Master stood behind his back that was rocking back and forth in the repeated effort, and for some time watched his regular rhytmical movements.
"Don't strain your shoulder, – he said. – And bypass the stones."
"Oh yes, bypass, – the youth muttered raising his arms for the next blow. – It's easy to say... Those damned stones, there's too much of them, as in a..."
Master pushed the frowning lad aside and entered into the sand with a slight well-measured movement. The tank vibrated. When his hand emerged out of the sand there was a little pebble pressed between his little finger and his palm.
"It's easy indeed, – he confirmed. – Easy to say. Now let's try the sword."
They went to the far corner of the yard where two swords were thrusted in a oak log. One sword was huge, of a man's height, with a cross hilt. The hilt was filled with lead to balance the massive blade, dim and wide, with a deep groove; the second sword was a somewhat lesser
copy of the first one.
Master pulled the big sword out of the log and raised it over his head with unexpected dexterity. The weapon cut the air without usual whistling, and a fresh notch appeared on the pole digged into the ground near the fence.
"Make it two inches higher," – he said.
The youth stroke a blow at the pole. The upper end of the pole fell down. Drops of tar covered the cut. Master measured at a glance the distance between the cut and the notch.
"It's two and a half, – he looked at the youth who was very upset by his failure. – Don't strain your shoulder!"
He slashed the pole with his sword even without turning to it. The excessive half an inch fell down to the disciple's feet. The youth cast an envious glance at the Master's sword:
"Oh, yes, – he said reluctantly. – With a weapon like this..."
The Master didn't answer. He came up to the pole and marked three more notches.
"It's for today. Make it and go to have your dinner. And as to the sword... I'll let you have it. When you are finished with your learning."
The youth flushed and stepped up to the pole squatting a little on his legs put widely apart.
Caustic ointment with strong smell was rubbed into the swollen scars, and the man on the bench hissed like a snake biting his lower lip.
The man twisted himself with an effort trying to see his own back. Only his third attempt was successful. A look at the polished hilt of the whip that lay near the bench, carefully rolled up, made him feeble.
"How strange, – said the man hardly moving his parched lips. – I thought it was all bloody..."
"Why?" – Master was surprised.
"Really, why?" – the man smiled.
"You can kill with a whip, – the Master noticed in a mentor's tone. – You can only let one's blood. And you can loosen one's tongue."
"I'd loosen mine gladly, – the man signed. – But I'm afraid it won't save me. Am I really guilty that they continue to come to me?"
"Who's "they"?" – Master lingered in the doorway.
"People. I even moved away from the town, but they are still coming and coming. And everyone has a concern of his own. They tell me, and they feel better. But the town seniors complain to the Supreme: people began to cheek, to ask unwanted questions, they follow the Heresyarch, and he's an impostor, the Lodge hasn't accepted him. "Him" means me. But I'm not a Heresyarch at all! I'm simply a collocutor. One old man had named me so. I lived at his home when a kid."
"A collocutor? – The Master rattled the bolt. – Well, see you tomorrow... collocutor."
"See you tomorrow, Master."
The judge's quadrangular little cap tried again and again to slip onto his brow tickling his cheek with the tassel, and the judge with a vexated gesture threw the tassel back.
"Do you plead yourself guilty, you the verbiage man, incited by your immeasurable insolence in tempting the simple-minded? Do you admit your teaching the mob in the forbidden craft of composing words into invocations, the above-mentioned invocations, or so-called "stain-glasses", having the power over the Elements, and do you admit your attempt to push aside the law..."
"They are gonna kill him, – the Master thought suddenly. – It's clear as day, they are gonna kill him... Look how the judge is singing! The man's a collocutor indeed, everyone begins to talk freely in his presence, and he listens... He's listening even now, on the rack... But when they kill him, who would be listening to them? It's only to talk that we all are able..."
He realized that he wasn't right: some people are unable even to talk, and those who are masters in talking are unable to listen to anybody...
He squatted near the hearth and put the pincers into the fire. He didn't like to work with pincers. It makes much dirt, many cries and little sense. Nothing but stink. His late father used his own fingers instead: you don't need to heat anything, it's not hot, and you can feel where's the truth and where's mere convulsion... Dad worked with his fingers and he taught me, and I'll teach the lad in my turn, never mind he's not my kin. But who other needs our skill? The red-faced judge? The scribble? The man under tortures? Oh, this one needs it in the last place. Well, they won't finish the case today, we'll have time to talk in the evening...