Raesh grabbed Pandit by the shoulders, showing ferocity of the kind no one in the village had ever witnessed in the man, not even when his wife had remained childless for three straight years.

“Tell me everything.” He said with a bite to his words, eyes reddening by the second.

Pandit found his legs shaking. Even the snake hadn’t scared him so much!

“I-I, we,” Pandit couldn’t say two straight words. Raesh knew it was not the boy's fault, but he couldn’t help it. He squeezed the boy’s shoulders and Pandit started squeaking out everything he knew. “Me and my mother, we were there— I ca-caught a boar for Mannat and we, we were going to cooking it. I, I was helping my mother. It wasn’t me. I promise. She, she, I don’t know what happened! She was so proud —even told me Mannat wouldn’t have found a better friend. Then, then she collapsed. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Pandit rattled on until a sharp clinking of metal against the hard floor brought him out of the trance. When he finally managed to raise his head the beast was gone, and so was Raesh. How long had been speaking into the void? He was shaking like a leaf blown by the storm. This was not how the day was supposed to go. They were supposed to have a feast at night! Just what went wrong?

He saw Mannat standing confused near the forge. His friend noticed him too. Pandit could see the white of Mannat’s eyes from the other side of the workshop. He was refusing to move.

“—Mannat!” He yelled in a hoarse voice, and his friend came into motion. Mannat ran toward Pandit and then went past him without sparing him even a glance. Pandit went right after him.

None of them saw the charred black knife that had fallen out of Mannat’s hand. It had fallen flat on the floor, but it continued sizzling and sending smoke into the air.

It was only when the cold wind hit Mannat’s face did reality dawn upon him. His lovely mother was sick and he was not beside her. If Pandit hadn’t been there they wouldn’t have found out anything until it was too late. He hoped it wasn’t true. Were her coughs that bad? He couldn’t think; his mind was blank. It was the first time that his mind had failed him.

His legs felt too tense. The dirt road wasn’t aiding either. Why was it suddenly so hard to run? The streets were as familiar to him as the back of his hand. He had been running up and down on them since he was seven years old. The two had run enough laps on the road to have their feet etched into it. SO why was it suddenly against him?

Was this panic? He couldn’t really feel anything.

People were starting to realize that something was wrong —but why couldn’t he? For some reason, the tears refused to come. Ah, Mannat remembered: he had never cried before.

“What happened?”

“Why are you running?”

“Did you see the blacksmith? He looked like he was out for blood earlier, too.”

People talked.

Mannat kicked the road harder to get away from them and figured out the reason for the constraints he felt: he was still wearing the leather apron. He removed the apron, but his heart refused to throw it away. It was his father’s first gift to him. He looked around in increasing panic, and then remembered he was not alone. He looked back and surely, Pandit was right behind him.

“Catch,” He yelled to his bewildered friend and threw the apron at him. Pandit, unlike him, didn’t fumble the catch. Mannat wasted no more time and sped up, faster, as fast he could go and faster still. But everyone has a limit. With a Constitution of 7 and dexterity of 4, he could barely run at his top speed for a minute before his lungs caught fire and his eyes started watering. There was no other reason for his eyes to tear up, absolutely not.

He felt his blood-curling, urging him to go faster. He could hear his heart beating like a drum inside his chest. Where was he going? He was not going to make at it this rate. His home was on the other side of the village, and he still had a long way to go.

There was a scream at his throat and a crowd on the road. He could almost see his father running up ahead. He was growing distant with every passing second, becoming a mere silhouette on a dirt canvas. There was a bull cart on the road lauded with passengers leaving for the town. He passed it by as scantly clothed kids stared at him through the planked walls of the cart. Their mothers pulled them away from him as if the mere sight of him would destroy the kid’s innocence.

Mannat knew the reason. The scream had managed to free itself from his throat.

There were potatoes fallen on the road up ahead. An old woman was hastily collecting them and putting them back into the basket on her back where they had fallen out from. There were people helping her. Pathar was among those helping her, and he stopped what he was doing as Mannat dashed past.

The boy gave a shout behind him, but Mannat couldn’t hear him over the sound of his heartbeat ringing in his ears.

The road divided into three up ahead. Straight it went to the town, right toward the market, and left to the residential area with narrow streets. A pair of cows blocked the only road leading to the market and a merchant in vibrant clothes was yelling at his servant to clear the road. The animals didn’t care for his temper and were busy chewing feed. The people standing around were laughing, but Mannat didn’t find anything funny about the situation. It only made him realize how one’s suffering was another’s delight.

Pandit joined him just as he turned away from the lot. He didn’t say anything, but stayed beside him, keeping pace even though he could have rushed ahead of him.

The dirt road had never seemed so endless before. It was like he was in a nightmare, and the destination was getting distant instead of getting closer.

Only when he saw the familiar pond did panic finally start settling in Mannat’s heart. The birds swimming in the pond chirped at him, telling him to hurry. But he was hurrying! Or maybe he wasn’t. He must have slowed down some while ago because his feet barely moved a few feet in a stride. He was still running, but not at his best.

The panic grew into something physical and heartbreaking when Mannat saw the crowd gathered outside his house. His neighbors were murmuring and talking to each other. Some were even trying to get inside the house. The murmurs grew louder when people saw him approaching. Their words were no more than whispers to his ears. He saw all kinds of eyes on the way in, but no one tried to stop him.

He didn’t speak to anyone, but the people and the murmurs made the pain official.

He dashed up the stairs and barged past the open front door, only to stop in the lobby. His father was there, standing stiff and straight at the mouth of the corridor. Mannat could almost feel the storm brewing inside him. Gande, Pandit’s mother, was talking to him, but he looked lost in a daze. It was sadness. His face had lost all color.

If Mannat still had some hope remaining, it cracked and broke into a thousand pieces at the sight of his father. There were fewer people inside and they all stood around the two. Gande was the one who noticed him. She told his father and he abruptly turned. Their eyes met and suddenly Mannat’s sight grew hazy. He rubbed his eyes and the hands came away wet. The tears had finally found a way to come out.

Mannat’s didn’t see it, but the sight of him crying made his father horrified.

Mannat had never cried before. Not even when he was little and dealing with migraines painful enough to make him unconscious, or when he had gotten lost in the woods all alone at night or the time he had accidentally cut himself while helping his mother and bleed all over the table. He had remained strong during his endless training, and even when he failed in the smithy.

So when Raesh saw the tears streaming down Mannat’s face he couldn’t hold himself back, either. He had been holding himself firmly, but at that moment all his resistance melted.

His eyes reddened to the point they looked as if he had popped a blood vessel. His knees buckled. He put a hand on the wall for support, gritted his teeth, and pushed the tears back. How could a father let his child see him crying?

But he knew he couldn’t let the boy crumble into pieces either. He kneeled in front of Mannat, pulled the boy closer, and threw his arms around him. It was the only thing he could do.

Mannat dug his face into his father’s chest. The man reeked faintly, but he grew conscious of his own odor. He felt warm there, almost to the point of falling asleep. He didn’t; he couldn’t! Not until he had seen his mother. He threw his head back and looked up; his father was staring right at him.

“I want to see my mother,” Mannat said and noticed a change in his father's demeanor. He seemed… reluctant to let him go. “Father, I want to see my mother,” Mannat repeated himself and grew fearful when his father didn’t release him.

“Let me go, father.” Raesh tightened his arms around him instead.

“Father, let me go!”

“Let me go.” “Let me go.”

“LET ME GO, RAESH!”

Suddenly, the arms loosened. Mannat pushed out of his father’s arms. He felt guilty seeing the horror on Raesh’s face but didn’t apologize. He’d do that later after he’d seen his mother. Instead, he turned toward the corridor and rushed past the adults as they shouted behind him.

The corridor was empty, almost devoid of life. It was cold there. Someone had closed the garden door, filling the house with overbearing darkness.

Mannat stopped just outside his parent’s room. The door was closed, but he could see lantern light leaking in from the cracks. He stood there long enough for Gande to get behind him. She put a hand on his shoulder, as if trying to protect him, but didn’t stop him like his father. He was thankful for that.

He pushed and the door opened with a creek. The dark opening looked like a beast’s maw. He steeled his heavy heart and entered, not daring to close the door behind him. There was a single lantern on the window sill, filling the room with a pale yellow light. The window was closed and shaded. The room wasn’t cold, but he found his hands shivering and legs shaking --so weak and fragile.

His eyes resisted the darkness, but he soon saw his mother laying stone still on the bed. She was covered in a mountain of blankets and bedsheets, and only her face was visible. Her skin had an unhealthy dark-yellow tinge under the lantern light. Mannat was afraid to get close, but the rise and fall of her chest and the faint rumbling of her breath drew him closer. She was alive. Relief washed some of his sorrow and he found strength in his legs. They stopped shaking once he realized Noor was only sleeping.

His eyes grew wet once again at the sight of Noor’s dry face; it had shrunken so much. The shadows covered half of her features, making her look lifeless. But she was alive; Mannat could sense it. He wiped his eyes and nose with the sleeve of his shirt and took a seat on the stool by the bedside; it was warm to the touch. Someone had just been sitting there, most likely his father.

Just what had gone wrong? He couldn’t fathom why his mother would hide the state of her sickness if it was so grave. Coughing blood and falling unconscious? There had to be signs of it; her illness couldn’t have sharpened its claws so suddenly. Had she been lying to them? No, his father most likely also knew. They simply didn’t find it necessary to tell him. Once again, he understood the reason. A little voice in his head told him they did it to protect him, but he could not help but feel betrayed.

Mannat clutched the blanket with both hands and cried silently. Once his heart settled a little, he snuck his hand under the blankets and grabbed Noor’s hand knowing it might be the last time. The cursed thought only made him sadder.

The ice-cold hand made him jump on the stool. He didn’t let go, instead started furiously rubbing some warmth into the hand. Only when he felt it heating up did he calm down. He rubbed his head on his shoulder to wipe his eyes and looked back at his mother’s face. There was no change. She remained still as a doll.

He wanted to scream, but bit his trembling lips and started talking. “I did it, mother.” He said, his voice weak and quivering. It was not his fault. “I’m an apprentice now. You were right to yell at me when I doubted father. Now it is only a matter of time before I become a master and have my own workshop.” He smiled, and kept smiling, even though he was also pinching his eyes close to resist the burn. “I made you a knife, you know.” He squeaked out. “I made it small and light. I know you love the knife that father gifted you, but I hope you use it. I promise,” he stopped to breathe and continued after a short while. “I promise we’ll frame the old raggedy thing and hang it in the kitchen to commemorate its service to you.” His voice trembled, but he kept on. “Father will understand. He will. We won’t throw his knife away. So won’t you wake up and take the knife, mother. Wake up now, please. Please, wake up.”

Mannat couldn’t hold himself still and fell on top of the blankets. He dug his face into the blanket and wailed like the time when he was a baby having a migraine.

Sometime later, he released his mother’s hand after the tears stopped and his throat started hurting. He then leaned over her and kissed her forehead. He waited for a miracle, but none came to pass. So he stood up and turned to leave when suddenly, Noor grabbed his hand.

He inhaled sharply, and swirled on his feet believing his mother had woken up, but no. Sadly, Noor was still unconscious. That was it: no more hopes. A demeaning smile grew on his face. He rubbed a thumb over his mother’s dry, small hand. However, he couldn’t free his arm. Noor had a surprisingly strong grip for someone in her condition.

“You want me to stay, mother?” He asked and sat back down on the stool. That’s when he noticed a few dark spots on the sleeve of her tunic. He ignored them at first, but grew conscious of them with passing time and ended up taking a closer look. They looked like grease stains. He thoughtlessly tried to scratch them out, and some of it got stuck in his fingernail. He rubbed his finger with the thumb to get it out and saw his thumb getting painted red: It was dried blood.

Mannat chocked.

As if pulled back in time, he remembered the morning when his mother had coughed into her hand. She must have coughed blood. No wonder she had tried to hide from him. She must have washed her hands later, but not noticed the bloodstains on the sleeve. How long had this been going on?

She didn’t even hide it properly; he simply hadn’t paid attention! His face went pale and goosebumps erupted all over his body. A single tear rolled down his left eye and fell down from his chin. She knew it was his big day and had lied to his face. What a mother he had.

He freed his hand, stood up laughing, and left the room. He could no longer stay there in her presence. It was too much for a boy so young. He saw his father standing at the door and something just popped inside him and his mind simply gave up. The last thing he remembered was his father and Pandit running toward him before he fell into darkness.

When he came back to consciousness, night had fallen outside. He was on his bed and wrapped in a blanket like the cabbage roll he had eaten in the morning. The door was closed, but he didn’t sense anyone standing outside. Then he remembered everything that had happened and a chill went down his spine.

“Mother!” he shouted and sat straight up after kicking the blanket off. He sat there without moving as his mind recollected his hazy memory. He remembered hugging his father and then falling unconscious in his arms.

“A lie,” he mumbled clenching his fists. “All my life was an elaborate lie.” Why though? He thought hard, and it didn’t take him long to see their reason. He didn’t like it but knew he would have done the same, maybe. He wasn’t a parent yet so there was only so much he could analyze and reason with.

Anyways, he could always ask his father.

Mannat noticed a stool by the bedside and an oil lamp softy glowing in scone near the door. He put a hand on the stool’s seat for no reason; it was still warm. Someone had just been there. It couldn’t have been his father. The man preferred to stand if the option was available, or if the chair was not comfortable, which was true in this case. His father was too large for it. It could only be Pandit. After all, it was he who had insisted Mannat to buy the unbearable... but fairly useful pieces of furniture. The warmth he felt inside was more than he expected in the situation. He didn’t think he’d sigh, but he did, and the waterworks almost started again. He promised to pay back the favor and stood up.

He almost walked away without wearing his slippers, only to be stopped by the habit that his mother had drilled into him. He then kneeled by the bedside to find his slippers under the bed, only to see them neatly lying by the wall, where they always should be but never are.

There was a foreboding silence all around the house that Mannat didn’t like. He knew he was delaying the inevitable, but there was only so much he could do. There was no getting over the anxiety growing thick and stubborn in his heart; he had to see for himself what happened to his mother. He grabbed his right arm to stop it from shaking and stood back up. Calm was what he tried to be, and he soon found himself rushing to the door with his heart thundering in his chest.

He blasted the door open and only slowed in front of his parent’s room. He stopped right outside the door, afraid to peek inside. He tried to lift his hands but found them exceptionally heavy.

Then he heard the sound of a chair scraping against the wooden floor and his heart skipped a beat. There was someone in the lobby! It was most likely his father, but he was not sure.

It was only when some Incoherent whispers from the lobby reached his ears could he rest his thoughts and push away from the door. The whispers were a distraction. He knew it very well, yet he decided to be distracted.

For some reason, he sneaked through the corridor —paying attention to the usual squeaky floorboards— and stopped just before the lobby, consciously staying inside the shadow. Even though he could only see the front door and a part of the covered window from his hiding spot, it was actually the perfect place to eavesdrop on the conversation, since he was close to both the kitchen and the dinner table.

His father was in conversation with Pandit’s mother, Gande. As for his friend, he was sure the secretive adults had sent him away; they wouldn’t have been openly talking, otherwise.

Mixed between the words was the shallow clink-clank of a pot boiling. Maybe Pandit’s mother was cooking for his father? It was highly likely. Mannat’s stomach buzzed politely to his thoughts, but it was their conversation that caught his interest.

“The witch agreed to see you,” Gande whispered from the kitchen—at least she tried; his father would never do that. “But you will have to take Noor to her hut. She won’t come here.”

There was a bang on the table, and something hollow and wooden fell to the floor with a thud. Mannat almost jumped on his feet, but he did slide back deeper inside the shadow to hide. The object rolled toward him and stopped just in front of the corridor. The chair scraped against the floor and Raesh suddenly appeared in front of him.

Mannat held his breath and watched his father reach down and pick up the empty cup. “I told you we don’t need the witch’s help.” He said without trying to lower his voice, before straightening his back and returning to the table. He didn’t look at him.

It was only when Mannat heard his father sit on the chair did he release the breath he had been holding. That was far too dangerous —not that he was almost found out, but him holding his breath. And why the hell was he hiding from his father? Did he fear the two adults would change the topic if they knew he was listening? It was exactly the reason why he didn’t show himself actually.

“Raesh—” The sorrowful voice came from the kitchen. “I was there when the doctor shook his head and gave his ultimatum. He said no one can save her, but the Witch promises otherwise; or do you really want to see your wife die? At least think about that poor kid—”

“God damn it, Gande!” Raesh smacked the table again. “Do you think I haven’t considered it? But the Witch is evil. You don’t know—“

Gande interrupted him. “You of all people should know that is not true.” And suddenly she gave up on whispering, too. “I know the villagers call her a Witch because of her looks, but she is not evil. My boy only is alive because of her. If she wasn’t there when the beast attacked, my poor boy would not be here with us today. And don’t forget about Mannat.”

She was talking about him? Mannat grew curious. What about him? How had the witch helped him?

“You asked her help and she listened when God didn’t.”

Suddenly the chair toppled off and fell to the floor with a loud thud. “DON’T—” Raesh barked, but held back before he said anything damning.

He lowered his voice and almost growled, “Don’t ever speak of this again: Not ever; to anyone!” He ordered. “And, and you think I didn’t ask for her help? I have been going to her hut ever since Noor first showed signs of poisoning,”

Mannat couldn’t believe it. His mother was poisoned?

“Did the witch tell you what she wanted in return for her help?” It was not a question, but a statement. And Raesh didn’t stop to hear Gande’s thoughts either. “Of course, she didn’t. Who do you think it was who refused her? It was Noor. She told me she’d rather die, and now she’s dying. And there is nothing I can do.” He emptied his chest out without remorse.

Mannat heard him lifting the chair and setting it back in its place, and falling into the seat with a grunt.

“Is it something I can help you with?” Gande asked, unperturbed by his burst of emotions.

“No, no,” Raesh said slowly, tired. “If it was something I could give I would have already. And I’m sorry for yelling at you. God knows you have done more than enough for us, and I haven’t even thanked you properly once. Please, forgive me.”

“No. I understand better than most. I wasn’t any better when I first saw Jawan after the beast had mauled him. He looked nothing like a human and I—”

Mannat clearly remembered the blood, the screams, and the anguish. It was the day Pandit’s older brother, the one who used to call him a little freak, became disabled and Pandit decided to become a hunter.

“Anyways,” Gande continued. “I don’t know what the Witch asked from you, but you should still think about it. No price is big enough if the boy can have his mother around.”

“I would have given the Witch anything, but she asked the one thing that I can’t --no matter what.”

“Alright, I won’t disturb you further on this account. But you should eat something. You haven’t eaten since you came back from the town. And god knows, you will need your strength tomorrow. Torturing yourself over this is not going to change anything.”

“All right,” Raesh said. “And thanks for everything. You know I—”

Suddenly, there was a loud bang cutting his father off, and Gande started speaking. “That’s it. No more talking. Wait right there, and I’ll be right back.”

Not even five minutes later, Gande passed though the area visible from the corridor carrying a bowl of steaming soup and a plate stacked with thick slices of steaming meat and bread loaf. Mannat heard her setting the cutlery on the table, and then pulling the large stool from underneath to sit.

“Now, eat,” Gande ordered. “And don’t leave anything behind.”

“I can’t possibly eat this alone. This is too much food.” Raesh said timidly.

“You can, and you will. Now, don’t make me force-feed you. God knows I have enough babies on my hand.”

Mannat felt a tinge of remorse for his father, but only a tinge. He was used to her eccentric feeding issues being Pandit’s friend; it was time his lying father had a taste of it, too.

Mannat found his anticipation rising as the slurping sound filled the lobby. His father had just sipped the soup. “It’s good.” He praised, and Mannat almost laughed out loud. He could imagine his father’s face twitching and it made him feel quite good, liberated actually.

Even Gande snorted. “I have never been good at making soup, but I’m a fair hand at cooking meat. Try the boar. You will find it to your liking.”

Mannat slipped closer to the lobby and carefully peeked over the corner. There was a thick piece of meat on the plate in front of Raesh and the knife was easily cutting through it. Steam was rising from the meat, and the luster of the gravy on top surely had Mannat’s approval.

It looked delicious from where Mannat stood. He didn’t’ however want to disrupt his father's dinner, though his body had different thoughts. The mouthwatering odor of cheesy gravy and melted fat hit him right in the gut. His stomach, which had been acting up for some time, growled out loudly. The sound was amazing enough to scare Mannat and get his father’s attention. He didn’t have to peek over the corridor to know that both the adults were looking in his direction.

Mannat thought of running away for an instant, but then his stomach growled again, louder than before, and he walked out into the lobby with a face flushed red with embarrassment.