Amazon Raiders

Martin sat in his monk’s cell. They called the rooms where the monks slept “cells” like a prison, but they weren’t so bad. A plank bed with a straw-stuffed bag stood in one corner. He had a wooden desk with some books. The cell was tall, with a vaulted stone ceiling, and a tall window allowed sunlight in through the glass. The worshippers of Sol were frequently monastics, but many monks simply entered the monastery for better opportunities in life.

Martin was short for a boy his age. Very short. He was parrot-chested with narrow shoulders, no body hair to speak of, and very pale. He had large, curious green eyes and black hair that came down to his shoulders in curls. Presently, he wore a monk’s habit and sat at a desk, looking pensively down at an open scroll held in his thin, soft, white hands.

When he had reached the age of majority, his parents had immediately sent him to the nearest monastery. They were farmers, and a weak, slender kid like him was not much help around the farm. They had noticed this when he was a young kid and allowed the monks of Sol to teach him letters, which he had learned with uncanny ease. Once he was an adult, they’d allowed him to take his vows. Of course, “adult” was a bit relative: he was chronologically an adult at 18, but physically, he still looked a few years younger than that. He was quite beardless, with only the shadow of a mustache on his upper lip. A nervous, fidgety young man, he walked with a limp.

Martin looked up when he heard the gongs ringing for supper. He stood up and walked out of his cell, his sandal-clad feet slapping softly against the smooth stone floor. His stride was irregular. A problem with his hip that had been there since infancy. He pulled his hood up and shivered. The monastery was on top of a hill where the already-cold climate of his homeland was even more severe. His breath frosted on the air as he passed windows that opened out into the cold autumn day. The hallway had doors on either side to the cells of other monks. Those doors opened, one by one, and soon Martin was part of a crowd of monks headed down the corridor. They took a vow of silence. Outside of certain areas of the monastery, none of them spoke, and there was no speech while eating.

As Martin entered the refectory, he noted a few monks sitting cross-legged on the ground, meditating silently. They were archons, tasked with watching the junior brothers. Their eyes never seemed to move, but they watched everything. Examinations by an archon were held frequently with neophytes. They happened seemingly at random and were never pleasant.

Martin took his supper in silence. There was precious little speaking at the monastery, and none was allowed while eating. The monks all around him were bent over the table, heads down, some with their hoods pulled up, silently dining. There was only the clatter of wooden spoons on wooden plates, the chewing of food, the occasional muffled belch. None of them made eye contact with the others. All were pale in this accursed northern clime, which seemed to suck all the color out of people. Martin did not dare look at any of the older brothers or the archons. He was a neophyte, and even the acute monkish mind was prone to hazing and territoriality. They could be horrible to the neophytes when they wanted, which was often.

Martin finished his meal and stood up, wiping his mouth on his sleeve and ready to leave. As he approached the door, however, one of the archons got his attention in the standard way: by dealing him a sharp blow to the back of his head with a staff. Martin‘s head snapped forward and he yelped in pain. The use of his voice earned him another blow, to the back this time. Mercifully, he didn’t yelp again. He turned to face the archon, a clean-shaven man who had to have been at least eighty years old, with piercing dark eyes and a gaunt face. The archon beckoned him to follow, saying nothing.

He felt his gut tighten as he followed the archon. This would not be pleasant. It never was.

The archon led him into one of the side offices. It was later in the day and the light outside was growing red.

“Neophyte,” said the archon.

“Archon,” said Martin, bowing his head ritually.

“Recite the evening sutra.”

Martin nodded and began: “Truly a most excellent theme! As you affirmed, I preserve in the faith, and instruct in the Law, this illustrious assembly…”

He continued like that for a while. The evening sutra was far too long for a neophyte to completely memorize. The point of these examinations was to draw knowledge out of you that you would inevitably fail to provide, and then beat you with a stick for not doing it perfectly. The moment you forgot something or even hesitated, they’d smack you with that stick. But Martin was diligent and his intellect was acute. He recited the whole evening sutra without a mistake.

“Now the morning sutra,” said the archon, without missing a beat. Martin felt his chest tighten. Of course, this would continue until he made some kind of mistake. He went over the lines, recalling each one just in time. He could feel the disruption coming up soon. He had perhaps two more stanzas left before he made a mistake. It came sooner than he thought. He fumbled a line that he was meant to recite, and then…

There was a sharp cracking sound as the staff impacted the side of his head. His head snapped sideways and his neck popped painfully. He yelped again, which earned him another blow going the other way.

“Wrong,” said the archon, “And this tells me that you have been lax in your duties, and in your memorization. You will sleep only three hours tonight. After the third hour, you will be awakened by another archon to commit to learning the morning sutra fully. Your arrogance in your memory is apparent, but you will learn humility.”

The archon spoke in an even, level tone. Martin felt the goose-eggs growing on top of his head and suppressed a grimace, because making a face would earn him more beatings. It was unfair, so very unfair. This wasn’t right. No matter how well he did, he’d be beaten more. Eventually it would ease off, once he took permanent vows, but that was years in the future. What was the point of all this? He was diligent in his studies. Why did it have to be so harsh? The archon had accused him of arrogance. Arrogant? Arrogant how? What had he even done? Work too hard? He was trying, dammit.

By the time the examination was over, it was evening. Martin walked out of the office and down the hallway, one hand on the wall in the near pitch-darkness to find his way. He knew how many doors there were between this office and his cell, and he could feel the doors under his hand as he walked. When you were not allowed to speak, it was amazing how clear your mind could become. He remembered tiny details like that everywhere he went. He walked slowly, counting the doors that he could feel pass under his hand, until he came to his cell. He limped inside.

He stripped off his habit and tossed it on the cold floor, shivering in the dark. Naked, he crawled under the ragged cover over the straw mattress and lay down. Arrogant? How was he arrogant? He was doing his damndest to be an exemplary monk, and what did he get in return? A beating?

He teared up a bit. He didn’t cry (he never cried, and prided himself on that) but he was a bit misty. Was this all a mistake? Would it be better to be at home, on the farm, shoveling manure. He squeezed his eyes tightly shut to stop himself, and exhaled slowly

He awoke that night to the sound of screams and the smell of smoke. A hellish red light flickered through the window. There was clash of steel and wild shouts. He sat up out of bed, panting, and looked wide-eyed at the window. Was something on fire? Was the monastery burning? He pulled on his habit quickly. Either he’d try to defend the monastery, or make a break for it.