Chapter 4: Walking off with just some sweat

I woke up and had the same breakfast I had been eating for the whole month, a bizarre mixture of herbs, sweet stems, and a gelatinous substance that I prefer not to remember. It wasn’t good; hell, its texture was made of nightmares. If anyone saw me, though, they would think I was full of lies. I was eagerly devouring every last crumb. Truth be told, that was far from the worst I’ve brought to my mouth. When hunger hits, cockroaches don’t seem such a bad meal. Either way, this strange combination was nutritive and filled me up with energy, so I ate it with gusto.

He waited until I finished and then kept his promise. He laid over the table a leather cloth that rumbled with the sounds of wood and metal clashing. Carefully, he unfolded two wings, one to each side, revealing a breathtaking collection of Inking tools. My practice fountain pen was like a toy next to the assortment of professional-looking instruments. The polished, bright, reddish wood that composed the barrels and shafts exhibited strange motifs made of waves and knots.

They were not weird in a traditional sense; their direction, curves, and patterns displayed purpose, as if they had a scheme behind them. It seemed like someone forced the tree to grow orderly, sprout a perfectly shaped twig, and then mercilessly collected it. One by one, he took all of them out of their pockets. I saw tips shaped in acute triangles, others ended flat and thin, a small group described curves at the end, stopping short of being a hook.

“Which one will you choose for your tattoo?” I shook my head, surprised by Spare’s voice. He was still moving some of them, and I followed his hand with the utmost attention. Which one should I choose? I repeated inside my mind. I had already been with him long enough to know that, although he once said my answers needn’t be coherent, he appreciated me taking my time and thinking it over.

“As much as I’d like to try new things, I’ll stick with this one.” I pointed towards the simpler fountain pen, discarding a bunch of quills, pens, and tools whose name I didn’t know.

“Why that one? Are you afraid of leaving your comfort zone?” His voice hinted amusement.

“I wouldn’t be if I was drawing on paper,” I said with a smug voice and shrugged my shoulders, “but we are talking about my skin. Suddenly changing the nib wouldn’t do me any favor. I’d have to adjust to a new weight and shape for the barrel. Maybe the Ink would flow differently.” I tried to think of more reasons but failed. “Overall, I think the key today is being consistent.”

“I’m glad you said that; otherwise the experiment would have ended right here.”

Before he got a chance to say anything else, I brazened myself and asked a question. “Were you tempting me with all that display?”

For the first time since he rescued me, he heartily laughed. It took him 10 seconds to calm down and articulate the first words between forced exhalations. “Yes! Of course I was!” He took a deep breath and continued. “But I also wanted to show you what tools you’d be working with if you ever continued down this path.”

I was short of words, stunned by the unexpected turn. “You me-mean…” I stuttered briefly; I was a bundle of nerves. “I could become an Inker? Live a decent life? I-I cou-”

“Yes,” he cut me short, probably saving me from some embarrassment. “You are on the right track. Now,” he pointed to my finger while his eyebrows and head moved towards my body, “it’s time for your first work.”

I obediently picked up the tool I chose and brought the Inkpot closer. Where should I carve it? I could have thought just to myself, but I considered it convenient to do it out loud. “It’s my first work, and it could go wrong, so it shouldn’t be anywhere vital. It being a simple and useless ring, it would make no sense to take a handy space, like my back, torso, arms, legs, and such. Using a hidden place, like the sole of my feet, would also be a wasted opportunity.”

Ink can be invoked through thin layers of cloth and even armor, I walked back to the book’s lessons, but it incurs a higher cost. The Ink will fade out faster than if you made actual physical contact. This means you could use places where nowhere should look, like your soles, if you were to hide, say, a dagger. It would require high-quality Ink, and then again, it would be useless after a few materializations, but the surprise element must never be underestimated.

“Considering I don’t mind it wearing down and that I’ll have to draw it myself, I believe my elbow would be a good place.” It’s not as easy to reach as the forearm or arm, and its skin constantly retracts and expands, making it unsuitable for long storage purposes. I looked at Spare, seeking his approval, and got a nod back. It won’t be the most accessible canvas to draw on, but I can make it.

I tamed my nerves and controlled my shaky hand; I needed the precision and composure of a surgeon. I felt the cold ignoring my skin and reaching the bone. A slight jab announced the tip had fully landed on my elbow. I saw the charcoal black Ink expanding through the microscopic wrinkles and creases on my dermis. I felt the urge, the call, the desire to complete the drawing. It was the Ink, dying to leave its mark behind, craving to move my hand in gorgeous yet imaginary illustrations.

I controlled my impulse, just like I did every other day. This is just like the paper, I tried to convince myself. I was so used to drawing this ring that I swear I could have just closed my eyes. Of course, I didn’t dare to. I could hear an agitated breathing, and upon closer inspection, I found out it wasn’t mine. Drawing feels like an out-of-body experience, like I was commanding someone else’s hand, so it was perfectly natural that I didn’t know if it was mine.

The right was taking shape, with all its imperfections and boring details. That scratch it had? Check. The dent from when I accidentally dropped it? Present. One by one, the whole bunch of faults and defects composed the entire picture.

I raised my hand and brought the back of the palm to my front, swiping it and realizing I was drenched in sweat. It was not a physical effort, and until now, it had neither been a particularly excessive toll on my mind. Today, however, I was exhausted. I audibly exhaled, as if I had contained my breath this whole time. “Phew... “I looked around and saw Spare’s spellbound face. “How long has it been?” I worriedly asked.

His hands rubbed against each other, suddenly stopped and tensely hugged each other, and then repeated the whole process over and over. His eyes, the same that usually had that cunning and self-sufficient look, seemed to be lost in the horizon. Is he out of himself? “S-” I doubted for a second, “Spare?”

I had to call his name four times, the last one shouting, until I got any kind of response. He jumped back, scared by my voice, raised his arms above his chest, and quickly formed two punches while adopting a defensive stance. “Spare,” I softened my voice, “it’s just me, Tarar.” I was afraid of getting close, unsure if I had caused this situation, terrified that he would dump me.

“Ah!” He focused his eyes on me. “Do you still have energy?” The question caught me so by surprise that I forgot to answer. “Invoke that Ink.”

What the hell is going on? My body felt rigid, but pressured by his order, I touched the tattoo with my right hand’s index finger. I felt a soft tickling, and the cold kiss of the metal surrounded that same finger. I slowly moved it above my head and showed the result to Spare.

He nodded once and closed his eyes. A smile appeared on his face, followed by a massive sigh of relief. “You’ll have to forgive me.” He said in an apologetic voice. Today, it seems, is a day of firsts. First laugh, first apology, what else does it have in store? “Not everyone can carve their first tattoo. And not everyone that does necessarily succeeds in doing so.” He paused briefly but continued soon afterward. “Some faint during the process. I’m sure you have noticed that it’s nothing like drawing on paper. Ink might be magic, and you are solely its tool, but it requires sacrifice, energy, substance. Out of those that remain intact, both physically and psychologically, some are so distracted by the experience that their tattoo is, at best, ruined. And then, there are those who must abandon the craft with a trauma that will forever pursue them.”

“And you hid all of that from me?” My voice sounded unbelieving, harsher than I’d have wanted to.

“I saw potential in you, and that’s why I took you as my student. But potential means nothing when faced with Ink. You had to go through it, and it was better if you didn’t know what could happen.”

“Maybe.” I replied, affronted by his words. “Why did you say psychologically intact? What exactly is that trauma you are speaking about?”

“Some pe-”

“Don’t get me wrong,” I dared to interrupt him, something I knew I shouldn’t have done but couldn’t for the life of me stop myself. “Even if it meant being a vegetable for the rest of my life, I would have risked it.” I defyingly held his stare.

He inhaled and sighed. “Some people,” he emphasized his previous words, “can’t cope with the experience of a magical being invading their mind. When you-” my mind completely abandoned the conversation there and then. Magical being invading their mind? Isn’t that precisely what happened yesterday with that book? “-diminished by the quality and purpose of that Ink.” I barely caught the last part of his explanation.

“I’m sorry, could you repeat that last sentence?” I abandoned my rebellious facet and went back to being the young and obedient pupil.

“I said that the effect and strength of that entity are mostly determined by the tattoo. If you were to draw a complex spell, a representation of a foreign and abstract concept, you might lose your mind in the process. Instead, low-quality Ink used with the sole intention of drawing a useless ring… well, that’s another story.” I nodded, processing this whole batch of new information. Why didn’t ‘The way of the Ink’ talk about it? It seems vital for the survival of the very same lectors it tries to instruct. I forcefully pushed the memories of those glyphs away, casting them to the depths of my brain.

“Honestly,” he continued, “I was astonished by your reaction. I’ve seen a lot of people test their resolve for the first time, and it’s the first one I saw anyone walking off with just some sweat and a perfect drawing.”

“I… thanks?” I managed to put together a quick answer that, hopefully, would hide the real reason I performed so well.

He didn’t answer and instead turned around and went to the kitchen. A moment later, he came back with two glass jugs the size of four of his fists put together, filled to the brim with a yellowish liquid and two fingers of foam. It’s a mystery how he managed to hold both of them with a single hand and without dropping a single drop.

“Do you drink?” He asked me. First, I thought it was a joke; who would ask a 10 years old boy this question? But I saw his eyes penetrating on mine and was forced to shake my head from side to side. Of course not, I thought. “Good!” He laughed while dipping his beard in the foam and taking a good gulp of the liquid. “That’s more beer for me!” My incredulous look took effect, and he reluctantly added one more phrase. “Yes, yes!” he waved his free hand, “And kids shouldn’t drink!”

We spent at most one more hour discussing some concepts of my reference book, but soon his answers stopped making much sense, so I decided to give him some well-deserved holidays. I went back to my room with some paper and Ink and resumed my drawing exercises. I wanted to do something new, but I promised him to wait until he told me I could switch, and a day more wouldn’t make such a difference.

I don’t know if I finished my third painting and then fell asleep or if I actually finished it in my dreams, but the fact remains that I woke up with three rings drawn on the paper. I had internalized the process so deep inside me that the second option didn’t sound as surreal as it should. I yawned a few times, stretched, and found my way to the table. Sparse and my usual breakfast were waiting for me, blind to the events that unfolded yesterday.

The pile of books was smaller, some of them had disappeared, and others had been replaced. I felt genuine relief when I noticed the example of ‘Ink Formations’ gone for good. He must have followed my sight, and seeing my longing look, he grabbed the first book of the stack.

“Advanced Inkery.” his eyes went blank and his head shook. “Setting aside the name, the author is pretty eloquent and manages to transmit the message. Don’t expect to end the book knowing the secrets to the craft, but you should be able to exert some of your imagination.” I nodded in understanding, not bothering to hide my smile and exhaling some air from the nose.

“If I’d let you choose one more tool, which one would it be?”

I was used to his sudden topic changes and questions, so I somewhat coped well with the question. My eyes excitedly traveled through all the gleaming wood while I couldn’t help but be excited with the prospects of a new toy. I didn’t know what those hook-ending nibs were for, a clear sign that they weren’t made for me. There were several copies of the instrument I was currently using, with varying widths and lengths, but none of them seemed particularly interesting. I was ready to turn to the quills when something caught my eye. “Can I touch them?” I asked, unsure if I was just supposed to look.

“You may.”

I didn’t even raise my sight, the words entered through my ears, and I immediately stretched my arm. If you saw it from a distance, you could mistake it for a fountain pen, but you would have been immensely wrong. It would be akin to confusing a turtle for a tortoise. Yes, they look alike. Yes, they both move slow. But don’t throw the latter to water.

Seemingly, the tool I held in my hand could draw with Ink. It could be used to trace straight lines. But, and it’s a big but, upon closer inspection, one would discover it was not designed for small details. Unlike its brothers, I wouldn’t call a nib the two parallel, squared, and thin layers of metal at its end. I am sure Ink flows from between them, but how? I had to turn it around a few times until I discovered a hidden plug the size of my pinky finger.

“Interesting…” I could hear the metaphorical gears of Spare’s mind turning. “You’ve chosen the Drak’gath Calligraphic Pen?”

I didn’t know what that was, and I made it clear on my following phrase, “Dra-drak… what!?” I exclaimed.

“Come, I’ll show you.” I carefully, almost with adoration, rested the pen on his extended hand. While the other hand opened the plug and placed a funnel that I had somehow overlooked, he repeated. “Drak’gath, from the Drak'ga. They were a tribe, dwellers of the north of the continent, well beyond Karal.”

“Were?” I noticed he said the word with a hint of sadness. It couldn’t mean anything good, but I still had to ask. He was slowly pouring some of the remaining charcoal Ink from my tattoo inside the pen, making sure it wouldn’t overflow.

“Were…” He repeated, desolated. “Some say they are wandering the earth, others speculate they died in a war…” the pause that followed not only his words but also his actions made me listen even more attentively. “Or perhaps we should trust those who proclaim they are a myth, a bedtime story for children.”

I knew he wasn’t one of those; the bitterness of his words and the anger on his eyes told me that much. “Which do you think it is?”

His hands busied themselves again, storing the funnel and clearing enough space for a sheet of paper. “What I think doesn’t matter. What is it that you think?”

I was about to answer, but he stopped me in my tracks by raising a finger in front of the line that formed his lips. “That’s something you will have to discover by yourself. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a long time. Look.”

My eyes followed his and landed on the paper. His hand held the pen and was already moving, leaving Ink wherever it passed. Unlike my fountain pen, the rhythm of that pen was frenetic; it rushed and pushed the Ink through the metal, danced with the paper’s veins, and filled the air with the characteristic aroma of Ink.

I could hear its music; it announced it didn’t like straight lines. It demanded to swing, requested arcs, waves, circles, and impossible shapes. With every pause and every silence, it grew thinner and thinner until a sudden turn in its direction, an uptempo in the song, made it progressively recover its original size. It exulted, drooled in ecstasy. The paper was a cacophony of pleasure.

And so was I, bewitched by the melody of the mermaid that was this pen.

I let my tired hand rest. It had been a whole evening of endlessly writing. I cherished the day my memories would be completed, written in a lively green Ink, but they could wait for a few more hours. And I still have so much to tell, isn’t it right? I looked over my right forearm. Drak’gathari is the most passionate being I have ever let invade my mind.