The Chronicles: Three Sisters

- "So do I." I said.

- "Obviously. But let's try to do this in a way that ... avoids conflict."

Over the next week, Branhucar met with Cenmin twice. I don't know what was said, but they were trying to prevent a quarrel that could grow into a feud. They were wise, those two men. I had nothing but respect for both.

- "Veran -" said my father. "If it came to a fight with Bacho ... who would win?"

- "Between the two of us?" I asked. "You mean - a fight over Meonwe?"

- "Just so." He closed one eye, and squinted with me the other.

- "I won't lose, Father." I said. "I would rather die than lose Meonwe."

- "Just so you know ... " said my father. "This is not her idea. Cenmin and I are trying to arrive at a solution that will not create bad blood between his people and ours. We don't want to start a bloody feud."

- "Tell me." I said.

They were two canny old men. My father, and Bacho's, worked out a solution that involved the minimum number of people.

Meonwe. Me. Bacho. Meonwe's father, Maeloc. And of course, the two Headmen: Cenmin and Branhucar.

Six of us. Nobody else was to know. No weapons. A fist fight, for the most wonderful, most beautiful girl in the world.

- "It doesn't matter." said Meonwe, to me. "If you lose, I'll run away with you - wherever you want to go."

- "I won't lose." I promised her.

Bacho was a year older, and a year stronger. He was tough, too. I had speed, and quick reflexes. We were fighting in front of the two fairest men within 50 miles of the lake. There would be no trickery. There was no one else there, except for our fathers - and Meonwe and her father.

Cenmin knelt before me, and tied a loop of rope around my left ankle. My father did the same for Bacho. We were literally tied together, with six feet of rope between us. Both of us were bare-chested, to prove that neither man had a concealed weapon.

- "Ready?" said Cenmin. He looked to me, and then to his son. We both nodded.

- "Begin." said my father.

Bacho closed with me. He swung his right fist at my face - had it connected, he might have knocked me down. At the very least, he would've stunned me for a moment. I snapped my head back, and felt the breeze as his clenched fist barely missed my face.

I realized instantly, that if he hit me once, with a blow like that, the fight would be over.

If I tried to hit him, and then leap back, out of the reach of his arm, it would be unlikely that I could get much power behind my own punch. To jab, or poke at Bacho would not bring him down. It would only put me in danger.

My plan, going into the fight, had been to use my speed against his power. I knew now that it was a foolish hope. I could not back away very far - the rope brought me up short. I could only sidle and feint, staying to the right of his powerful right arm.

Once - and once only, I feinted to the opposite side.

Bacho swung with his left hand, and clipped the side of my head. It hurt - but it was nowhere near as potent a blow as he could have delivered with his right. I ducked, and avoided a powerful roundhouse right.

For the next few moments, I stayed away from him, trying to come up with a plan. The idea that came to me may not have been particularly wise, but instinct took over, and I acted.

Instead of dancing to the left, I stepped forward.

It was exactly the mistake Bacho had been waiting for. He swung his right fist.

But I was already taking a second step forward, and I threw up my left arm, to block or deflect the bow. That didn't work very well. His right hand came on, straight through my attempted block. His knuckles connected with the side of my head.

But I had already stepped forward, so he hit the back of my head, and not my temple. Meanwhile, I bent my knees slightly, and then lunged forward - and up.

My fist caught him flush, under the chin. Bacho's head snapped back, and he stumbled backwards.

I didn't give him a chance to recover. I followed, and clipped him on the side of the head as he stumbled again. Bacho fell.

He landed heavily on his back.

I stood still, my eyes watering from the blow he had struck to the back of my head. I did not move forward - the rules we had agreed on precluded striking our opponent if he was down. But I could not back away, either, because of the rope that joined us together.

Bacho was a tough young man. He rolled over, and got his knees under him. Then he began to rise. I felt a tremor of fear. I had hit him solidly, with all my strength. If that was not enough, I didn't know what else I could do.

Cenmin's son staggered to his feet. But he was unsteady, and struggled to find his balance. The lower half of his face was covered in blood.

I stepped forward, and pushed him, with both hands. Bacho stumbled, and fell again.

Cenmin rushed forward, and stepped between us. He planted his foot on the rope.

I will never forget the expression in his eyes, when he looked at me. It wasn't anger, or even disappointment. I was probably completely wrong, but Bacho's father seemed ... relieved.

- "You win, Veran." he said. "It's over."

Bacho was struggling to get to his feet again. Cenmin put a hand on his son's shoulder, and held him down.

- "It's over." he repeated.

***

- "Proud of yourself, boy?" asked my father, as we walked home.

- "No." I said. It was the honest truth.

- "You won."

- "I know. But ... it only feels as if ... as if a great weight has been lifted from my shoulders." I turned to face my father. "I don't know what I would have done ... had I lost."

- "She means that much to you." he said. He already knew that.

A little further on, he spoke again.

"How do you think Bacho will feel, in the coming days?"

I could well imagine it. I wasn't certain that he loved Meonwe as I did, but Bacho would have to deal with the sting of losing - and he would be reminded of it every time he saw either of us.

- "He'll be angry. Maybe. I don't know."

- "Would you be?"

I thought about that for a few moments.

- "Will there be bad blood between us, do you think?" I asked. "Could this create problems for us? For you?"

My father shook his head. "Cenmin's a reasonable man. We discussed this before we even agreed to the idea of a fight. Our understanding is solid."

"But you'll have to extend your hand to Bacho. It will be up to you to make an extra effort."

- "Should I go to see him?"

- "No." said my father. "Absolutely not. Wait until he comes to you."

- "You think Bacho will come to me?"

- "Of course he will. You won the fight - he'll have to show that he's the bigger man, by coming to show you that he bears no grudge."

- "And I should let him?"

- "That's right. You won the fight - and the prize. Let Bacho gain some respect." said my father. "It's not that complicated, Veran. Never mention the fight again - but if he does, or someone else refers to it, you say that you can't believe he got to his feet after that uppercut."

"Or you say that your head hurt for days - and that after he only grazed you with his fist. Say that you would rather fight a bear bare-handed, than face a rematch with Bacho."

- "I understand."

- "You can be fair with him - but never solicitous. If you want my advice - ask him for help."

- "What?"

- "It's a fact, Veran. You know that I helped Tremistas repair his boat. And then I gave him half of my catch."

- "I remember that." I said. My father was always the first man to reach out to those in need. Tremistas' father had fallen ill, and he wasn't able to provide for their large family. It was Branhucar the Blessed who came to his aid.

- "Tremistas can barely look me in the eye, these days. I don't know if he's afraid that I'll ask him for a favour in return ... or if he simply resents me for knowing that he needed help."

I found that very interesting. I knew Tremistas, but it had never occurred to me that he might resent being in my father's debt. It was the opposite of what I would have expected. By all rights, he should have been enormously grateful.

But ... perhaps that was precisely what annoyed Tremistas - the feeling of being indebted.

I was also thrilled that my father was deliberately sharing his wisdom with me. One day, I would have to take his place - and I hoped that I could be half the man he was.

***

Maeloc accepted my formal offer for his daughter's hand. I gave him two sheep and three goats - which was nothing - but I also agreed to build him a house next to the one I would build for Meonwe and me.

Meonwe was demure, and distant, until I took her across the lake, to Red Point. It was directly north of our little settlement. There were some large stones, streaked with red stripes - hence the name.

I beached the boat, and turned to her. It was our first moment alone, since before the fight. Meonwe fell into my arms, and buried her head against my shoulder.

- "I was so frightened." she said.

- "So was I." I admitted, as I stroked her hair.

We consummated our marriage on Red Point - just us, the rocks, the wind and water - and the sky. Every year thereafter, we would sneak away, and cross the lake to spend a night alone, on the Point.

***

My father was something of a prophet. Bacho did come to see me, before the wedding. His face was a bit of a mess. When I hit him, I had somehow driven his teeth through his lower lip. The skin below his mouth was badly torn. He would be scarred forever.

- "I'm sorry, Veran." he said. "I was a fool."

I let him speak. I didn't know how to reply to that opening statement, in any case.

"I suspected that she loved you more." he continued. "But my pride ... it got in the way."

That couldn't have been easy to say. I didn't interrupt him. Better, at this point, to say nothing, than to say the wrong thing. Bacho wasn't finished.

"It's just ... I've gotten into the habit of competing with you - for everything. I didn't know where to draw the line. I should never have made you fight. I shouldn't have been there."

He paused then, and lowered his head.

- "It takes a big man to say what you just did." I told him.

He snorted. "Would have been bigger of me not to be there at all."

- "I don't know." I said.

- "I realized it the moment they tied our ankles together. I was there to win a fight ... you were there for the woman you love. That's why ... that's why I wasn't quite ... I wasn't at my best, that day."

I didn't respond. That claim rang false, to me. Bacho had been trying to take my head off - and had very nearly succeeded. Maybe he needed to tell himself that he had been holding back, somehow. I decided to let that little untruth pass unremarked.

"I don't want to fight you anymore, Veran." he said. "I mean, I'll still race you, and compete any way you want ... but I don't want to try to hurt you. In fact - I hope that we can be friends ... like our fathers."

"I have the feeling that we could do great things together - you and I." he said.

Bacho took a step towards me, and extended his hand.

I took it.

- "You're the bigger man today." I said. "It took guts to come over here and say that. I appreciate it."

- "Ach." he said, shaking his head, as if it was nothing.

Three months later, he married Abrelda, Meonwe's sister.

***

I don't know for certain who talked about the fight. It was most likely Maeloc, Meonwe's father. Branhucar wouldn't have said a word, and I can't imagine that Cenmin did. It had to be my wife's father.

Somehow, the tale spread - that I had felled Bacho with a single blow. People in Asphodels began calling me 'Hammerfist'.

At first, I asked them not to call me that. That didn't help. Finally, I turned to my father.

- "What should I do?" I asked him.

- "Nothing." he said. "There are worse nicknames. Look at poor Trano."

Trano was an unlucky soul who had slipped - both feet at the same time - and landed heavily in a large pile of sheep dip. The poor bastard was immediately named 'Trano the Turd' - and it stuck.

- "Bacho won't like it." I predicted. I was thinking of the gashes on his faces.

My father looked me in the eye. "Whenever someone calls you that, tell them that Bacho got up - that you had to hit him again. He'll hear about it, eventually. And he'll thank you for it."

Branhucar was right. It might have irked Bacho, to hear what people were calling me. But he soon learned that it was none of my doing, and that I was praising him instead.

I didn't think of it, but when someone called Bacho 'the Bear' - the nickname stuck to him. He was a hairy bugger, and big enough. People could well imagine, too, that a bear couldn't be knocked out by a single punch. But I like to think that it was because I followed my father's advice.

- "I'd rather fight a bear - with my bare hands - than take on Bacho again." I said.

I never asked Bacho if he was pleased with his nickname. But I'm sure that his father was there to tell him: 'the Bear' was significantly better than 'the Turd'.

*****

[1] The bloody flux = diarrhea with blood mixed in the discharge (possibly from a hemorrhage).

[2] The Uplander term for Lowlanders