C. P. Cabaniss Writing Project discussion

Three - Calan Age 20

There is a ring of steel on steel as my sword meets that of my opponent. Our strength is nearly equal, so I hold him at bay as I duck down and twist, dropping my sword from one hand to the other. The maneuver causes Meklin to stumble and I use my empty hand to slap him in the shoulder.

His sword falls to the ground as I hit the pressure point in his upper arm. Instead of retaliating, he stands upright and grins.

“That’s a new one, Cal. You have to teach me.”

The admiration in his voice makes me uncomfortable and I lower my sword as I take a deep breath and wipe the sweat from my brow.

“I don’t know how to teach you, Mek. I did it instinctively.”

The sword sits heavy in my hand. Tala has been perfecting the process and this one is lighter, easier to wield, than the other versions. Surprisingly, it hasn’t lost the strength of those either. I make a mental note to report the test–she will want every detail.

Meklin shrugs. “We can recreate the fight like we always do. Is anyone else training today?”

I shake my head. It’s been years, but Tala and I are still outcasts in the minds of the tribe. Those who train with us–like Meklin–are not shunned as severely. We were the ones who had listened to the voices. It was us who started making swords–a weapon designed to kill men. Although the scrolls talked of swords, even gave some details Tala has been able to use in their manufacture, our people had not known them for a thousand years.

“I wanted to try out the new swords, make sure they wouldn’t fail, before putting them in the hands of the others.”

Meklin grins again. “Tala trusted me with one of the first swords?” He glances down at the weapon on the ground, fingers flexing as if he wants to retrieve it.

“Don’t get your hopes up. She trusted me with them. Asked me not to pick an idiot for the test.”

His smile changes and there's a gleam in his eyes. “So she doesn’t think I’m an idiot, then.”

I shake my head, toss my sword into the cloth wrapping at the edge of the clearing. “I don’t think you’re an idiot. Tala wouldn’t be able to pick you out of a line of all the boys our age.”

“Oh.” His shoulders slump and I shake my head. Aside from me, I don’t know that my sister could pick any of the boys out of a line.

Boys.

I still think of myself that way. A boy–inexperienced, naive, stupid. But we’re twenty now and have officially been recognized in the tribe as men. At sixteen, when I went to the Bone Wood, I thought I felt like a man. Now I feel younger than ever.

“Do you think it’s really going to happen?” Meklin asks after picking up his sword. “War?”

Even the word war was practically foreign to our ears. We knew of the battles of the tribes from long ago, but it’s not something anyone living remembers.

The hair on the back of my neck prickles when Meklin says it. Not from fear of the conflict, whenever it comes, but the longing in his voice. My friend wants this. He turns the sword this way and that, admiring the craftsmanship. The potential for destruction.

I wish I could blame his scrutiny of the weapon on his admiration for my sister. But the gleam in his eyes tells me that she is far from his thoughts now.

“I wish it weren’t,” I tell him as I reach to take the sword from his grip. It takes him a moment to relinquish it.

A new weight rests on my shoulders as we trudge back toward home. What have I done to my people?