By: Caitlin Moloney
Man-making
The moon was hiding tonight. Balbo’s mother had always told him that the moon only hides when children do bad things. Now that he was older, he realized that his mother had only said that to see if he would come in with a guilty face on a dark, mischief making night like this. Balbo’s mother had been a smart woman. He hoped she was watching over him tonight.
The bark of the tree Balbo was sitting in was rough and rubbed against his bare skin. It didn’t hurt very much because Balbo’s skin was tough. But he tried not to move around too much. It was best to stay as quiet as possible. He wanted to be able hear the prey approaching.
Balbo flexed his hand around the dagger he had made early that morning. It was sharp and easy to hold onto. He remembered how it had hissed like an angry snake when he’d plunged it into the water. Since then, he had not let it go. He had been holding it for so long now that it felt like an extension of his own body, like his own arm or leg. Huyt and Falan had told him that was good thing and it would help him kill cleanly. He hoped so.
He wished that the waiting would end soon. It had been long enough waiting for this, his fifteenth year. The hours sitting in the tree were like torture, but not because his back was stiff, though it certainly was. Balbo was itching to become a man. Huyt and Falan had already had their man-making ceremonies earlier this year. Balbo remembered watching with envy as each had returned to the village with the blood of their kill painted in thick lines across their body. Huyt’s kill had brought praise from all the villagers for being so large. Even Chief Elder had remarked that the meat would be enough to feed the whole village, and he was not supposed to show any favoritism.
So, Balbo was ready. It was his turn to win praise and a place of belonging among the men. With this kill, he could finally join the fire talks that Huyt and Falan had told him so much about. He wanted to prove himself as a man. He wanted to prove that he was worthy to keep the village’s secrets.
Hoot hoot.
Balbo heard it echo from down the path and his spine straightened as if jerked by a string. It was the signal. His quarry was here. He peered down into the forest and strained his ears. Balbo could hear the crunch of leaves underfoot, slowly growing closer and closer. He flexed his knife hand once again and his lips silently mouthed a prayer to the Mother.
The prey stopped right beneath him to inspect the bait Balbo had laid out. Was it really going to be this easy? he thought. His body was as tight as a wire and he took a deep breath to release some of the tension. He needed to be limber for this. Balbo watched the prey investigate the bait and waited for the right moment. Just a bit more, he thought, and then he was a panther leaping from the tree.
“What the–” the prey said, and Balbo’s dagger narrowly missed the glide against his white throat. The white-walker jumped back and met Balbo’s eyes with his own. They were a night sky opened wide in terror.
Balbo was surprised. From what he’d heard of the white-walkers, they were supposed to be feeble. He’d expected it to be over in two quick slashes. But Balbo was determined. This was his night.
“Don’t hurt me!” the white-walker said. Balbo stared into his night sky eyes and tried to make himself cold as steel.
“The Mother will take care of you,” Balbo said. “Don’t worry. It will be fast.”
The white-walker screamed. He scrambled to his feet and began to run, but Balbo did not let him get far. Balbo leapt forward and grabbed the white-walker’s legs, bringing them both crashing to the ground. The white-walker flailed his limbs and one of them connected with Balbo’s skull, dazing him. He could taste the sharp tang of blood in his mouth. His face stung and blood ran into his eyes. Another blow caught him in the ribs. Balbo tried to focus, but the fight was too frenzied. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t see. The white-walker kicked again and his foot sunk into Balbo’s stomach. Balbo started to panic. It was supposed to be easy! He struck out blindly with his dagger, hoping that he would hit the white-walker and end this. Please Mother, he prayed, and then felt relief when the blade found its home in flesh.
The white-walker cried out, and the sound was dreadful and full of pain. Balbo sprung back, pulling the knife out. The white-walker curled up into a ball, moaning and keening like an animal. Balbo had stabbed him right in the belly. It was a death wound.
“I don’t want to die,” the white-walker cried. “I don’t… please…”
Balbo looked down at the white-walker and felt a terribly heavy sadness creep into his heart. He sliced the white-walker’s throat open with a quick motion and his cries turned into gurgles. Balbo looked into his night sky eyes and watched the life slowly leave them forever.
Balbo was still sitting next to the cold body when Huyt, the one who had given him the signal, arrived.
“Balbo,” Huyt said. “What’s wrong? Why haven’t you done the ceremony?”
Balbo looked at Huyt and then back at the white-walker. He stared at the body. Then, using careful motions, he began to strip the white-walker of his clothing. He treated the corpse gingerly, as if it had been not an enemy, but a lover who had died. Balbo placed a hand on the white-walker’s face and looked him in his dead eyes as he made a slow slice down the pale, freckled chest. He dipped his fingers inside and with white-walker’s blood, he began to draw the ceremonial patterns.
“With your death, I am a man,” Balbo recited, shakily. His fingers trembled as he painted the lines on his skin. “May you live in my skin and protect me from my enemies’ blows. Your spirit is free to walk with me. Together, we are one.”
Huyt nodded in approval. “Well done.”
Balbo stood up quickly and his vision grew dark. He threw out an arm and leaned against a tree. He felt sick.
“What is it?” Huyt said. He looked worried.
Balbo sucked in air through his mouth. He didn’t think he could breathe in the scent of death right now. “He begged me for his life.”
Huyt looked at him with a face of stone. Then he began to take notice of Balbo’s injuries. “He fought you? He resisted?”
Balbo nodded.
“We must tell Chief Elder,” Huyt said.
#
The Chief Elder was a big man. Beyond the air of authority that he carried around like a cloak, he was a man of fearful stature. Before he had been named Chief Elder, he had earned the nickname Bear based solely on his ability to bat men away with his giant hands. One looked up to the Chief Elder in more ways than one.
He stared down at Balbo now and it made him feel like a tiny gnat.
“Huyt tells me that your man-making went slightly awry,” said Chief Elder. “Is that right?”
“Yes, Chief Elder,” Balbo said. He felt shame in the way that the Chief Elder said this, like it had been Balbo’s fault. He couldn’t stop thinking about the white-walker’s eyes and how sad they had looked as he died.
The Chief Elder rubbed his beard and continued to stare at Balbo. It made Balbo feel like his skin was too small for his body.
“You are a man now, Balbo. That entitles you to certain truths,” he said. The Chief Elder looked Balbo in the eye. “If you are ready to hear them.”
Balbo nodded solemnly. “I am, Chief Elder.”
“Very well,” said Chief Elder. He sat down across from Balbo and lit his pipe. He took a few puffs before beginning. “The white-walkers are from a neighboring tribe, we have always told you this,” he said. “But they do not live in the forest.”
“Then where do they come from?” Balbo asked.
The Chief Elder’s lips quirked up in a small smile. “I don’t think you would understand even if I explained it to you. In simple terms, let us say that the white-walkers make a journey to this place as a sort of… final pilgrimage, we could say.”
“Is that why they are usually old?” asked Balbo.
“Yes,” Chief Elder nodded. “That is part of it. We came to name them white-walkers because of the whiteness of their skin and hair.”
Balbo nodded. He was following so far. “But why are they usually so large?”
“That has something to do with the nature of the pilgrimage,” Chief Elder said. “They come to the forest for one of two reasons. The first is to try and reconnect with their own selves. They hope that by being near the forest they can regain control of their bodies.”
“And the second?”
The Chief Elder laughed. “Why, to die, of course. And that’s what we help with, Balbo. We send them to the Mother,” The Chief Elder paused to puff on his pipe. “Now, your white-walker may not have wandered into the forest in search of his own death, but the Mother decided it was his time. Do not regret it, Balbo. It was what the Mother wanted.”
“Thank you, Chief Elder,” said Balbo.
“Go enjoy the feast now son,” he said. “Your kill may have been small, but there is still plenty of meat!”
Balbo thanked the Chief Elder again as he left his tent. He knew that he should feel better, but he still felt that heavy sadness around his heart. The village was gathered around the fire eating his kill, and Balbo knew he should go join them, that he would be expected soon. But he couldn’t face his friends and pretend that he was proud of what he had done tonight. So, he began to run. The forest was soft under his feet as Balbo ran and ran and kept on running.
His feet carried him there without thinking. The ground was still dark with his white-walker’s blood and his clothes were still folded in a pile next to the tree. Balbo placed his knife between his teeth and started to climb the tree. The bark was rough under his hands, but he took every splinter as penance. When he reached his branch, he straddled it and craned his head to look into the moonless sky. His white-walker was up there now. He was somebody’s son and Balbo had sent him there.
As the wind howled in his ears, Balbo began to cry. He couldn’t be sure, but with each howl it sounded like a mother frantically calling out her child’s name over and over again.