Lapvona(13)

Jacob sat down in the spot of shade under the oak where Marek had found the cool air a moment ago, and Marek sat to the left of him, the humble side, where the sun shone down and made Marek hot and dizzy again.

‘So you like my shoes?’

‘They look like cliff birds,’ Marek said.

‘Do they?’

‘Red and blue. You must be so happy.’

‘Because of my shoes?’

‘You deserve fine shoes, Jacob. You’re fine yourself. You’re a prince.’

‘I’m not a prince.’

‘But you seem like a prince.’

‘Whatever,’ Jacob said, bored of Marek’s flattery. ‘Where can we find some of those cliff birds?’

‘They have nests at the top of the mountain, on the outcroppings, where the trees branch out over the cliff.’

‘I want some,’ Jacob said simply. ‘Take me to them.’

‘Are you going to eat them?’

‘No, dum-dum. I’m going to break their necks and gut them and stuff them and put them in my room with all my other stuffed animals.’

Marek liked birds because he felt they were liminal creatures between heaven and Earth, and by liking them he was aligning himself with ascension. Jacob liked them for the way they looked.

‘Do you really want them, Jacob? It’s hot out, and at the top of the mountain, the sun can burn your skin.’

‘Are you in bad shape or something?’ Jacob asked. ‘I see you are sort of bruised up. What happened?’

‘I fell,’ Marek said.

‘Clumsy,’ Jacob said, knowing full well that Marek’s father beat him. Nobody had ever laid a hand on Jacob. He liked to think that if someone did, he would have a great time fighting back.

In front of them, a little starling with spring plumage landed on a patch of sun-warmed grass and pecked at the pink head of a worm.

‘Come on, Marko,’ Jacob called.

Marek complied. He got up and led the way to the mountain, still woozy from Ina and the sun like a weight he carried on his back. Jacob moved lithely, with confidence, as though nothing in the world could ever get in his way. He had a further advantage as he was not hindered by carrying his bow and arrows. Marek volunteered for that.

Hearing Marek wheeze, Jacob offered him a sip from his canteen, but Marek refused. He had never taken anything Jacob offered. Marek knew that God took pity on the poor and hungry. He would rather faint than give God any reason to suspect him of indulgence. Jacob drank freely and whistled a song as he walked steadily up the mountain. Marek didn’t care about Jacob enough to warn him against extravagance. Jacob’s father was very close to the priest anyway. Marek guessed that Villiam could use his wealth to influence God’s will. That was the way things worked, Marek thought. If you didn’t have money, you had to be good.

‘What are you whistling?’ Marek asked. Jacob’s song had a quick rhythm, like a joke. It made Marek nervous as he scanned the path up the mountain for snakes and sharp stones. The soles of his shoes were thin and wet, the leather eaten away under the ball of his right foot because he stepped more heavily on that side.

‘Do you like the song?’ Jacob asked.

‘It’s funny,’ Marek answered.

‘This guy my dad knows comes to visit sometimes, from the south. They have good songs there, so he sings to us after dinner.’

‘Why are the songs so different?’

‘Because the people are different.’

‘But why?’

‘People from the south are more relaxed. They have a sense of humor because they don’t have to work as hard. They take more time to think about things.’

‘If they don’t work hard, how do they survive?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe they’re rich, and rich people have more time.’

‘You’re so lucky,’ Marek said, not understanding himself.

‘Even if I sat still and did nothing,’ Jacob said, ‘I’d get all my father’s money when he dies.’

‘I hope your father doesn’t die.’

‘Pff,’ said Jacob. ‘How much further to the cliffs?’

‘We’re halfway there,’ Marek answered.

‘I don’t care about riches,’ Jacob said. ‘I’d rather run away.’

‘Where would you go, and who would take care of you?’

‘I’d go to some strange land where the people don’t know me. Everyone knows me as Villiam’s son here. It’s boring. If I ran away, I would change my name.’

‘What new name would you choose?’ Marek asked.

‘I’d choose your name. Marek.’

Marek blushed. It was the most flattering thing Jacob had ever said to him.

‘Because they’d think I was a nobody,’ Jacob explained. ‘Your name has no dignity. So people would treat me like a normal person. You’re the lucky one, Marek. Nobody expects anything of you. I’m going to be married next year to my cousin in Kaprov, and I’ll have to sit around with her father so that he can do more business with mine. It’s all so stupid. I don’t care about any of it. If I had my way, I’d live like you, like a beggar.’

Marek didn’t defend himself, but he knew he was not a beggar. Everything he ate came from the land, and what Jude bought in trade for his lamb milk. The money he made selling his flocks to the northerners paid for the taxes he owed to Villiam and the monthly dues at the church, though they never attended, and the rest went for things like shoes and clothing, tools, rope, although there was rarely much left. Neither Marek nor Jude had ever begged anyone for anything, except God for His mercy and blessings. There were no beggars in Lapvona. Everyone had a skill and a purpose.