I awoke the next morning to a quiet house. It had been four months since we lost my mother but the silence was still an uneasy feeling to me. For fifteen years I had woke to the sound of my mother preparing breakfasts, and lunches for the day. I think I was at the point where I was no longer shocked by her absence, I grasped what had happened. I knew she would not be walking back through the door ever again. Now with just my father and myself there, we basically prepared our own food nearly every meal, usually not even eating together. I left bed and dressed quickly, I checked the small sayl tree that was floating in a bowl of water in the corner of my room, the water level was good so I made way for the door. Eyeing over once again the things I bought the day before, taking only marginal enjoyment compared to the temporary bliss they provided the day before. I left my room to find my father at the table hunched over a letter. Hearing my entrance he quickly yet precisely folded the letter and tucked it away. “You’re up early for a change. Maybe you’ll change into a responsible young man sooner than I thought,” his tone was in jest but I still became defensive. “I’m responsible!” I protested. “I get up early all the time,” this was a blatant falsehood. My father knowing the absurdity of my statement felt no need to argue his point and dismantled the tension by simply replying “Sure son.”
“Have a seat” he insisted. I cautiously sat, fearful that he wished to finish our conversation from the day before about the way I behaved at the execution. The fear was due to the fact that although I intended to meditate on what my father had said the day before in order to pick apart his every statement and use my promised turn at speaking to completely decimate what he had said, all these intentions were nothing more than unfulfilled ambitions. What I actually did yesterday was change from my sobering execution garb of the morning immediately when we reached home and spent all my time throwing iron out of my pockets to any merchant I saw with Carus. The thought of our conversation had not crossed my mind since I left home. I was woefully unprepared.
This was the first time my father had ever afforded me the opportunity to speak my case and I had thrown it all by frittering my day away. I want to be clear that my resolution the night before was not in vain, but it would provide me no help in this conversation. Not only was I not prepared, but almost in an effort to complicate matters for me, I feared my father had every intention of resolving our conversation at sunrise. I had only been awake for moments, my mind still half dazed. “So..” he said expectantly, “did you think about what I said yesterday? Is there anything you would like to say?” Truthfully he was right about what he had said the day before, which I know now. When I agreed with him that morning however, it was merely me folding under the pressure. I weighed my options and the appearance of having considered every word he said and humbly submitting to his opinion far outweighed the display of me fumbling over my thoughts as I tried to defend myself, which would inevitably reveal the fact that I had not thought at all about what he had said. I can say this was a very wise decision that I stumbled into, in the moment though the words were bitter as they left my mouth.
“Yes sir. You were right, I was acting unbecomingly. I will try to control myself more in the future,” I lied. My father said with contentment, “That’s good to hear son. I’m really proud of how you are growing up.” I was skeptical he had believed my sorrowfulness and I was pleased when he left the table and made way to the kitchen seemingly satisfied with my feigned repentance. Trying not to become too overconfident, I reasoned with myself that he bought it so easily due to his own overconfidence, and it was in no way related to my ability to sell my lie.
My father returned from the kitchen with two plates holding cooked eggs in addition to bread and butter. At least this morning had one pleasant surprise; it had been months since I had had a good breakfast. Usually, I had slept in too late or was just too lazy to commit time for meal preparation in the morning. We contently cleared our plates, my father happy with my compliance, I happy that the conversation which shadowed my day with dread had been so quickly addressed. But then, he asked yet another question.
“So have you thought any more about in what field you would like to prentice?” I choked hard on the mouthful of bread I had in when he asked this question. I had finished my tenth year of classroom studies. I now had at least two years of real life observation and experience as a prentice before me if I chose to pursue an educated occupation. If I simply wished to do general unskilled labor I could start my life’s work any time, but grunt work was the last of what I wanted. My father expressed no desire to get me out of his home. He had sold my mother’s token for a good sum and gave it all away, not even caring what I spent it on. My father had the iron to feed the both of us without issue so I knew I would not be a burden financially. Rather, I knew he would much prefer my company now that mother was gone. All this led me to believe that I could bide my time and complete at least a two year prenticeship without issue, if not a second two year prenticeship. The only matter that remained was in what field would my pursuits be. It was a sensitive subject that I only discussed with great care and grace. I felt no calling to the standard skilled trades, but my father would be unrelenting until I offered him something.
My mind perused the mental list of jobs I had compiled since my youth, searching for something to appease my attentive father. Woodsmith, jailer, judge, cobbler, record keeper, each career seemed less appealing than the one before it. I answered truthfully for a change, “I have, but I haven’t settled on anything yet.” He inquired further, “Like what?” I answered sheepishly, “Oh, the usuals.” He pleaded “Come on son! Give me something!”
My mind retreated to the one profession that I truly treasured, the one I had tucked away in the back that I kept hidden from the world. The profession I so desired I was afraid even to say its name for fear that someone might hear and scoff at the ridiculousness of it. It was mine, for me to know only, my little secret that nobody knew about. “Woodsmith” I offered hopeful it would placate the proddings of my father. My father scoffed at my answer, then said, “You’re not as good of a liar as you think. You’re just like your mother. She had these tells that you somehow picked up,” he said with a smirk. A shocked and defensive “Uh” was all I could muster in a bewildered defence. Was he right? Surely not, mother was a bad liar but I knew that just as much as him. Surely I did not pick up on her habits when I knew they were flawed and so apparent. “Come now,” he said. Then his voice shifted to a higher pitch when he mimicked me, “Yes sir. You were right, I was acting unbecomingly. I will try to control myself more in the future.” Back to his normal tone he continued, “Demos, did you really think I bought your sincerity? You can’t hide from me with your words. Out with it son! What do you want to do?!”
I believed with all my heart my father had bought my answer, I thought him fooled. My father played me like a harp, each string struck with perfect timing and just enough pressure. I was utterly dumbfounded and it was about to get worse. With utter disbelief my inner thoughts changed into outer dialogue, and of all outer dialogues this was the truthful kind. I felt the words on my mouth, bouncing about, ready to leave safety at any moment. I knew they were there, yet I did not know how they got there, or who put them there. Somehow my father had so startled me that I lost all self-control and my body subconsciously reacted in forming these words while my mind was distracted in racing around my father’s deceptions. “I want to be a jugar,” I said in disbelief that my own words were betraying me.
My father’s face fell blank, while my mind repeated incessantly “idiot, idiot, idiot, idiot..” For every bit of surprise I felt when my father revealed he saw through me, he now felt ten times more by the six words I had just uttered. “You’re not joking are you?” he explained yet somehow still honestly questioning. “You’ve already proved today you see through me with full clarity dad, why question yourself now?” I responded defeated. My father was quiet in his reflections of his son’s aspirations. While I waited for his response I sat dejected at the table. “Have you thought this through?” he inquired. I nodded my head without making a sound. “So you know this means you will never marry right? That little girl you’re always chasing around, Carus is it? It has to end, are you ready for that? No girlfriend, no wife, no children Demos. Who will I pass my token to? Our house will end! Are you just going to sell my token as soon as I’m gone? You’ll never be a father, grandfather. You’ll live your life alone. You..” my father stopped his yearnful pleads when he looked at me seeing my red eyes and tear streaked cheeks. He observed me for a moment, then turned forcefully to face the corner of the house and huffed in frustration.
He shuffled to the corner he faced and contemplated while leaning against a wall in the kitchen. He spoke softly while facing the kitchen wall, it was barely audible, I found myself holding my breath to fight the chance of drowning his words with my subdued breathing. “I’m sorry, let me start over here son... jugar is a very respectable position, perhaps the best job there is. Jugars are men of honor, heroes among commoners. I’m upset because our house right now is just you and me, and son, my days are much shorter than yours. If you become a jugar, you can’t start a family. Our house is done,” he explained somber. The hand he braced himself against the wall with came down and his shoulders slouched as he turned from the wall and walked towards me taking a seat at the table across from me.
He sat at the same spot at the head of the table he always did, staring at a knot in the grain that was several tones darker than the rest. When he spoke his tone was muted regret, yet laced with fondness for his own aspirations, “I guess I wanted your life to mimic mine. Marry a girl from your hometown, settle into a good home, get an honest job in town, and have two kids someday. If you’re a jugar… all you have is the job, it’s your life. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I feel like you are abandoning the way your mother and I raised you.” His mention of mother and my possible failure of her expectations and hopes stung, but it was eased as he continued, “but to be fair, what kid your age doesn’t want to take a different path than their parents?”
He stopped studying the knot in the table and looked at me. He processed something silently then said in apology, “I’m sorry, I don’t intend to minimize your ambitions. Just knowing that you will not have any children and that our house will effectively end with us is unexpected.” “I know dad, but I really feel like this is what I want to do,” I stated, trying to lessen his pain. At the risk of sounding naïve, I explained further, “I need purpose dad, I need to change things. Eret needs heroes, I can be the hero. The rebels aren’t going away… I don’t want any other family to go through what we have gone through.” Tears pooled on the table in front of my father. The sound of them falling hung in the air in concert with the sobs of my strong as a bear father. The sight ripped at my heart and I joined with my own renderings of music, mine joining with my fathers made for a sorrowful duet from two broken men.
I cannot say whether the thought of our house ending or the thought of my mother made my father cry, but something told me it was pride he felt for me. Whatever the truth may have been, I was uncontrollable to the tears while they fell from his face. Our song had played its entire length and was now fading in the final lines until the house was silent again.
He wiped the tears that still hung onto his face then with watery reddened eyes asked, “what fields would you study then?” I knew the question was coming, and this time I was prepared. “Weaponcraft and Justice” I said emphatically, my voice seemed foreign with its youthfulness and cheer. I was fairly convinced that whle it may not have constituted the sum of the reason, his pride for me was at least part of the reason for his tears. “You’ve spent time on that question I see,” he said with a somber tone. I continued, “I was hoping you could teach me a bit of Woodsmith with my free time.” I said hopeful to brighten his mood. My father was the best woodsmith in town and I genuinely wanted to learn from him, but I intentionally left it for last for dramatic emphasis. My father gave a half-hearted laugh and smirked as he said, “Well played son, well played.”
“Dad, I know it’s a long shot. I have a long path ahead of me and I won’t even be guaranteed a jugar position. But if I don’t get the position I will have three full prenticeships completed, finding a job won’t be an issue.” I stood from my chair and began to ramble as I was moved by the excitement I felt. I was oblivious to my father, “if I don’t get jugar I can graciously take a different job without issue. It is a long shot, with a lot of work, but just think of how much the prenticeships will mature me, which I know you want. It’s a situation in which I don’t really think I can lose. I can help you with woodsmithing to supplement your income to offset the added expense of me living here the extra six years. That’s also why you have to approve this; I’m living on your iron in your house.” There it was, all laid out in the open. My entire case for jugar wrapped up in a few sentences. My words cowered before my father, his reaction determining my future. My rambling ended and I glanced to my father; he bore a smile of admiration.
“So, will you be starting with weaponcraft or justice?” he questioned smiling. “Weaponcraft” I enthusiastically answered. “Well then, I guess we need to talk to the weaponsmith then dont we?”
A six year plan, unfurled before me like a gilded scroll and at the end my prize, jugar. Jugars were the heroes of Eret, the law incarnate, the men every little Eretian boy wanted to be. Two years of weaponcraft prenticeships, and two years of justice prenticeships stood before me and eligibility to apply as a jugar prentice. If I did not get accepted as a jugar prentice at the end of my studies, I would go to work with my father, marry Carus, and have children when we received our parents’ tokens. If I did get accepted as a jugar prentice though, I would put in two years with the jugar as a prentice, then work for my father until a jugar position opened in one of the cities. Carus and children would have no place for me, mandate of the Iron Code. When my father passed I would just sell his token, I did not care about the money. Perhaps I would donate it to a charity or a needy family. The thought of our house ending saddened me, but a hero, a savior, is defined by their sacrifice.
“Theres just one last thing I want you to do for me son,” my father explained. As he did so I felt instant dread settle into me as if I had swallowed the entirety of my iron coins. “The girl son, you need to let her know. You’re young and chances are that you two wouldn’t stay together until marriage anyway, but it’s still the right thing to do. You can’t keep her hanging on to a false hope of a future with you. If you want my support, you will settle old ties in preparation for jugar, starting with the girl.” The dread inside me doubled after hearing him. I had planned on keeping ties with Carus until I knew if I would become jugar. If I did not become jugar, I wanted to be with her, but if I did become jugar, she would have to be dead to me. The thought had never occurred to me that my six year plan would be a six year struggle for her with no promise of a future. The whole time I would be openly pursuing my desire to become jugar, the very thing that would end our relationship. It would be an impossible situation with constant tension if our relationship continued. She would have never agreed to a six year commitment with no guarantee of marriage. Once again my father was right, and I hated what I had to do.