Blood Loss: The Chronicle of Rael Read Free

Jame slows his gait when he sees his son, Rael, watching the other boys with interest as they fight with their stick-swords.  Rael has almost black hair, not unlike the average Westerner, but his skin is deathly gray.  The boy is neither pale nor fair.  He is truly gray all across his body, face and hands without blemish or variance.  Jame stops in the village’s road, really just a dirt track well compacted by the passage of feet and wagons, and watches as his boy finally moves toward the others.
    “Orf, can I play?” Rael asks.
    “Play?” repeats the bigger boy.  “We’re not playing .  We’re training .  One day, Tigoleans are going to invade this island of ours, and we’d better be ready.”
    “Can I?” Rael asks again.
    “Don’t let him,” says one boy, and in chimes the other, “We’ll catch whatever he’s got.”
    “It’s not catching,” Rael replies hotly, and the anger shows on his face.  “Please, Orf?”
    “I’ll tell you what.  You can play with us any time you want, if you can beat me,” says Orf.  He takes a “sword” away from one of the other boys and tosses it onto the ground at Rael’s feet. 
    Rael steps back once as it lands in the dirt, and then bends over to pick it up enthusiastically.  He steps forward, the bit of split plank gripped firmly in his hand, and Jame as to stop himself from stopping what is about to happen.  As Rael nears Orf, it is so readily apparent that he has no chance against his opponent.  It’s not that Rael is small; in fact he is most normal in every way for a nine year old excepting the tone of his skin.  Orf is simply huge in comparison.  Rael weakly swings his sword in a sidearm fashion toward Orf’s ribs, and the bigger boy smacks the blow away.
    He laughs and says, “You better do better than that.”
    Rael brings his weapon down in an overhead stroke, and the swords crack as Orf blocks, his own parallel to the ground.  Rael grimaces with the impact as the rough split wood begins to dig splinters into the flesh of his palm and fingers.  His opponent has no such concern, for he is wearing the gloves he uses when working with his father’s crab pots.  Rael stays on the attack, gritting his teeth every time Orf blocks or parries, and he cannot seem to break the older boy’s defense. 
    Jame’s concern that Orf isn’t even trying is confirmed when he finally strikes for the first time.  Rael has no experience with a weapon of any kind, and rather than use his own to simply block the attack, he swings his own sword wildly aiming for Orf’s.  The attempted parry misses by at least a foot, and Orf pokes Rael hard in the ribs.  Rael grunts and his face screws angrily, though whether he was angry at himself or Orf, Jame isn’t sure.  He brings his stick around in a hard, backhanded swipe which Orf easily avoids.  As the sword passes, Orf brings his own sword down hard onto Rael’s forearm.  Rael screams, drops the stick and clutches at his forearm, cradling it as he begins to cry.
    “Cry, baby, cry,” Orf sneers cruelly, and he pushes Rael by the shoulder hard to the ground.
    Jame decides that it is enough and begins to move toward the boys, but Rael then surprises him.  His son scrambles to his hands and knees, jumps to his feet and launches himself into Orf’s midsection.  Surprised by the attack, the larger boy loses his balance and falls backward, but a handful of pickled-fish barrels save him from crashing to the ground.  Rael continues to drive with his legs, but he doesn’t realize that it’s getting him nowhere.  Orf pushes him back slightly with one arm and then brings a hard upward punch right into Rael’s stomach.  Jame’s son goes down into the dirt again, tears streaming down his face, and now he is gasping for breath from the force of the punch.  He begins to cough.
    “Stupid kid.  You can’t beat me!” Orf proclaims, and his cohorts laugh.
    Jame is only perhaps fifteen feet from the boys.