The Good School

Reksa, chief's-son, woke in his usual mood: euphoric, leaning toward “master-of-the-wold”. At sixteen years newly come, and a body he was only just growing into, I too would have felt as he did: every girl in the village pined after him, and well he knew it, but Reksa had eyes for no one but Herda — and more's the pity, for Herda did not return his regard, not in the least.
Young love is ever so, his mother thought, seeing her own youth again in her son, a long chain of “I love another”.
How had she ever contrived to be conquered by her husband? Ah — yes, of course! The memory made her smile, and blush.
Reksa, risen from his straw pallet, went down into the smoky room below where the cooking was done and there saw the small blackbird eggs in the bowl on the table. He sat on the stool, took an egg, and tapped its head with his nail. When the shell gave way, he pried up a shard of it, then sucked out what was within. He took another egg.
“Reksa, what will you do today?” his mother asked.
“I don't know!” the boy answered, vexed. “I don't see why I have to put up with that old dodderer every single day!”
“What, you don't know?” his mother said, patiently letting the disrespectful remark pass. “Is it possible old Wossama didn’t tell you what you are to do today?”
“Yes, mother, he tells us, but then he does something else entirely!” Reksa could not bear any longer of how Wossama — the tribe’s sage, its shaman, its mentor, its holy man — conducted his lessons. The boy and his parents had faced this same quarrel many times before, yet there seemed no way to knock a little sense into Reksa’s head.
“Your friends don't make such a fuss!” His mother repeated a phrase already worn smooth from use. “How is it that only you, the chief’s son, make so much trouble?”
“Maybe it’s exactly because I am the chief’s son!” the boy answered, with a mixture of haughtiness and insolence that would have made anyone else lose patience on the instant.
“Young master!” His mother came within a hair's breadth of boxing his ears soundly. “If I hear you say such a thing again, you will be taking your lessons among the wild boars! Being the chief’s son makes you no better than any of your friends, do you understand? I want you to apply yourself, and follow Wossama’s lessons with care: he raised your father, and me, and he shall raise you too! And if he fails, it will be your fault alone! So tonight, when you come home, I want to hear what you did, and what you will do tomorrow! Is that clear?”
Reksa had gone too far this time: rarely did his mother grow so angry, and the threat of lessons among the wild boars… He finished the third egg in silence and bid his mother farewell, somewhat crestfallen. She, hoping her son might yet come to his senses, took him by the hair and held him in a fond embrace.
“Mind me, Reksa: this matters!” She let him go.

Beautiful was the world. Beautiful was the village, with its people, its beasts… Beautiful was the sun in the fair, cool, blue sky, among clouds like tufts of cotton, puffed away by a wind fragrant with spring. Beautiful were the trees at the village’s edge, and beautiful beyond all saying was Herda — but Herda did not deign to give Reksa so much as a glance, save when Reksa sang. But Reksa was the chief’s son, not a bard! Why did Herda only look at him when he sang?
As usual, he arrived late at the clearing where old Wossama held his lessons for the village boys. The elder was just finishing his thanksgiving to the sun, with the ritual greeting to the shining orb. He turned toward the young ones and saw that Reksa, too, had come. He smiled.
“Good morning, Reksa, chief's-son”, he said. “What did you see, this morning, on your way to here?"
Reksa cared nothing that the others laughed behind their hands at this daily little performance: he was the chief's son and, when he would be a chief, the laughter would end.
“I saw the sun climb into the blue sky and light up the village. I saw the wind puff the light clouds onward. I saw the animals of the village — and I saw Herda!” The last words burst out of him before he could hold them back, but it was Herda’s own fault: she stood right there before his eyes, and was so lovely that it had seemed only natural to him to add her to the beautiful things he had seen that morning.
Herda blushed a little and turned away, so as not to betray that the thought had pleased her. Wossama smiled too, but closed his eyes and leaned upon the staff that helped him walk. “Do you not fear that naming Herda alongside the animals might offend her?”
A few of his companions could not help sniggering, and Reksa’s face went red.
“I… No, I didn't mean…” he stammered.
“Well, well, chief's-son”. In this way of his, Wossama always managed to unsettle him: he made him feel like an overgrown child, and yet without ever giving offense. At times he would have preferred his father’s cuffing — but no: the old man could make him feel even worse without even scolding him. “Next time you will do better, with a little more care”.

They were bound for the forest, as often happened, but this time Wossama truly had given no hint beforehand of why. Indeed Ulrich, the kid who often looked upon Reksa as a hero to be imitated, called out loudly: “So what shall we do this morning, Wossama?”
Nitur, the old man's apprentice, answered: "Steady, Ulrich. You will see soon enough. In the meantime, Reksa, why not sing us something?”
The young man was embarrassed by the request, as had happened often of late. Oh, Reksa loved singing, loved it well! He would have spent the whole day at it, and he had a fine voice besides. When Reksa sang, everyone fell silent; even Herda watched him with different eyes.
“I… I don't know,” the boy faltered. He had just made a fool of himself, and singing seemed out of place, just then. And it seemed out of place, too, for a chief's son to sing without some occasion worth celebrating.
Old Wossama must have read his very mind, for at once he proposed: “Yes, chief's-son, sing! Make ready the song of victory!”
That one, yes! That was a fine song! That one suited him! Reksa began to sing with full voice, while everyone listened, delighted, to words of valor and glory won with fearless courage on bloody fields of battle against pitiless foes. The other young ones remained so spellbound by Reksa’s singing that often — Wossama had noticed it before, more than once — they forgot the weariness of a long march, or the cold, as though the world itself had come to a stop.
For sure the world did not stop, but their feet trotted on all the same, and so the whole company, some twenty girls and boys of every age from ten to sixteen, pressed on into the thick of the wood with the elder and his apprentice, as far as a ford across a wild, rushing stream.
There, as he had done before, the old tutor took up a long rope he always carried slung crosswise over one shoulder, bound a stone to one end of it, whirled it swiftly above his head, and cast it across to the far side of the torrent, where the cord wound itself several times about a branch. The old man pulled on the other end of the rope to make sure it would not come loose, and told the smallest of the group to make her way to the far bank. “Go on, Freyda; it's your turn today!" and made his way to the rear of the group with the other end of the rope, looking for something to make it fast to.
Freyda did not need to be told twice: being the lightest, after all, had its advantages too.
For Reksa the scene was by now familiar, so that he did not take his eyes off Herda for so much as an instant: he gave no thought to his own turn — he would cross when it came round to him. Ulrich, by contrast, was utterly absorbed; had his little voice not still been too childish for it, he himself would have shouted out every needful warning: “Stork, help Freyda! Pass the rope through her belt! Keep it taut, don’t let it swing!” Stork was the tallest of the young ones: big, strong, as docile and sharp-witted as a calf, and with a heart every bit as big.
The others repeated warnings already heard many times over; Freyda gripped the rope and, moving with the skill of a caterpillar upon the stem of a flower, reached the far bank, took hold of the rope’s end and made it fast to the branch so that it could not come loose; then the rope was lowered, and she set her feet upon the ground. She rubbed the palms of her hands upon her little frock, and waited for the others to follow her.
Herda stepped forward. She too passed the rope through her belt and began crossing. Reksa followed her with his eyes, moonstruck: as Herda drew the belt tight about her waist, he could catch a glimpse of her slender ankles, which seemed to beg him to sing so that she might dance.
Herda gripped the rope and pulled herself several arm’s-lengths out over the water, and suddenly fell into it with a loud Splunf!
Only three people reacted at once: on this side, Ulrich cried out in his ringing voice, “Reksa, no!” — but it was too late, for the boy had already flung himself instinctively into the swift, icy water; on the other side, Freyda seized the rope and tried to pull it, hoping to bring Herda to safety, but the little girl was too small to fight the strength of the current, and soon began to weep in despair.
Reksa had not understood what had happened: he had seen the rope slip away, and had managed not to let it slide from his grasp by flinging himself forward at once, but that had not kept him from ending up in the water, nor had it helped Freyda — quite the opposite! The little girl, on the far side of the current, was jerked off her feet by the sudden weight of Reksa upon the rope, and fell hard, hurting herself. Reksa’s lunge did not help Herda either: with her belt knotted about the rope, the boy’s weight dragged her under, and she began to swallow water, unable to breathe.
Ulrich understood that there were now three companions to be saved, but he did not lose heart: he shoved Stork with all his strength and shook him to his senses: “Move, you great ox! We must make a human chain! You will be first!”
Thus spurred on by the little boy, his companions little by little entered the water, trying to reach Herda. Stork's bulk kept him from being swept away by the current, but the bed of the torrent was cursedly slick, and the water damnably cold. A long chain of young ones crossed the wild, rushing water little by little, trying to reach Herda, who did not resurface. Reksa, farther downstream, would not let go of the rope for fear of being swept off who knew where, but he managed to stay afloat.
Freyda got back to her feet, but there was little she could do besides cry out warnings: with two people caught on the rope, Herda now unconscious and Reksa battered by the current, it was impossible for her to pull it so much as an inch. Ulrich, who had placed himself halfway along the chain of children, ordered her to guide Stork from outside the water, so that he would not stumble on stones or into submerged pits.
In a span of time that felt like an eternity, but which was in truth very brief, Stork at last reached Herda and pulled her out of the water by her belt. Farther downstream, Reksa saw her lying senseless, and it seemed to him that his heart would burst within his chest. “Herdaaa!” he cried, stretching out his hand — and lost his grip on the rope. The current carried him away.
Ulrich shouted to everyone: “Leave him! He’s gone! Think of Herda, now!” His voice betrayed him with a broken sob.
Stork was spent: he had fought the current, had fished Herda out of the tumultuous water and hoisted her onto one shoulder, had watched Reksa vanish, carried off by the waters, but he too was only sixteen; he turned to stone, unable to take another step.
“If you stop now, we’re finished!” Ulrich said, trying to rouse him. It was not the moment to lose heart, but Stork was lost, all faith in himself gone: they would all end up like Herda and Reksa.
“Damned ox! Use the rope! The rope is still fastened to the tree!” Ulrich shouted again, and at last Stork realized that safety was, quite literally, within arm’s reach.
Stork had never been the sharpest-witted of them, but as that placid pachyderm began to haul himself from the water by the rope, dragging all his friends along with him, he also began to turn over certain oddities in his mind: the rope had not come loose on Freyda’s side, but on theirs! And where were old Wossama and his faithful Nitur, now? They, perhaps, might have kept Reksa from… No, he must not think of that! Now the others depended on him; Ulrich was right. But the rope… the rope had given way just where the elder and his apprentice had stood! How could that be?
Slowly, pulling on the rope, urged on by everyone, Ulrich foremost among them, Stork reached the far bank of the torrent; he set Herda down upon the grass that fringed the muddy, steep-sided shore.
“Now hold fast to the rope, and help the little ones first!” Ulrich ordered him.
What would they have done without him? The little fellow was right: the youngest were suffering from the cold of the water, and it would be easier for them to get out with his help. Stork wound the rope around his right forearm and waited for the children, at the far end of the chain, to make their way along its whole length to safety on the bank. When Ulrich passed close by him, he threw his arms around him, looked him in the eye with admiration, and thanked him: “You were truly great!” he said, and set foot on land.
As the young ones reached the bank one by one, little Freyda helped them along: she, the smallest of them all. At last it was Stork’s turn, and he simply rolled himself onto the bank, spent and chilled through, stretching out on his back.
“What in the world happened!?” he asked, wanting someone to vent his frustration on.

Reksa had lost his grip on the rope, and the current had swept him away, making him swallow a little water and tossing him about dangerously. Perhaps Herda had drowned — what use was there in resisting fate? The chief's son gave himself over to the violence of the waves.
Then, all at once, a powerful arm seized him by the scruff of the neck and fished him out of the water as though he had been a kitten fallen into a washtub. “What the devil do you think you’re doing, chief’s-son?” a voice scolded him.
“By the spirits!” the voice cursed again. “Do you have any idea how foolish and reckless you've been?”
Even as he said this, the man was dragging him back upstream, but Reksa did not truly grasp what he was saying: Herda had drowned — why had this intruder saved him? He lurched aside to throw himself back into the water, so distraught was he, but the same arm as before seized him again and forced him, overbearing, to resume the march.
“What do you think you're doing, now? And you call yourself the chief's son? You look an utter fool!” the voice scolded him again, and Reksa could bear it no longer: he turned, wrenching himself free, and recognized Nitur!
“Easy, Nitur!” another voice spoke calmly, from further ahead. “Can you not see he understands nothing, just now?” Reksa turned again, and there was Wossama, the sage, leaning upon his staff.
The boy ran weeping to the elder and fell to his knees at his feet: “Wossama! Herda…”
“Up! Up on your feet, young Reksa!” the shaman said, trying to hearten him. “Let us go and see: no one truly knows what he only believes he has seen. We will bring what help can be brought. We will weep, if weeping is called for.”

Wossama, Reksa, and Nitur covered the short stretch that separated them from the rest of the group, prey to doubt. Reksa followed his tutor, overcome by the man’s venerable authority, though he would rather have thrown himself to the ground to starve himself to death. Herda, his Herda…
Nitur did not look very cheerful, or at least his scowl gave no cause for hope, but grown folk know how to hide their feelings.
Wossama was unreadable, as always. At moments, did he even smile? A faint trace of worry shadowed his expression, but nothing more. So did he feel no fear for what might have befallen the young ones placed in his care? But he was Wossama the sage, whose powers had been proven so many times over: who would have dared raise any complaint against him? So Reksa thought, in his still-childish way of seeing grown folk and their dealings with one another.
But Wossama was worried, greatly so, though he let nothing of it show. Reksa too would have noticed it, had he taken heed of the swiftness of their steps just then: the elder knew there was not a moment to lose, and his great age was no good excuse for lingering.
They reached the group in a short time, and their appearance cheered the young ones. Some huddled close together to gather warmth after the icy water; others, like Stork, lay flat on their backs on the damp ground, spent; Ulrich, on his feet, was shouting at the few who still had energy enough to try everything to revive Herda, who lay motionless. Freyda, who went here and there trying to help everyone, was the first to spy the elder returning. “Wossama!” she cried, and ran to meet him, weeping tears of relief. Everyone turned to look that way.
The little girl reached him and clung to his legs, hiding her face in the folds of his tunic. “Wossama, it isn’t my fault! The rope didn’t come loose!” She wept, and in her terror spoke only in broken, half-finished words.
“I know! I know, little Freyda,” the old man soothed her, stroking her short, raven-black hair. “It was I who loosed the rope!” he confessed, to free her of that burden. “You did well, you were very brave. But now tell me: are you all safe?”
“Herda! It's Herda!” the little girl sobbed.
“Nitur!” the elder commanded, and the apprentice darted to the girl lying upon the ground. Reksa found himself at her side without even realizing he had run as he had never run before in his life. He knelt and kept out of the way, but he could not tear his eyes from the girl.
Herda was deathly pale, her pallor all the more frightening for how sharply it stood against the gold of her long hair. Nitur pressed hard upon her belly, again and again, and a gush of water came from her mouth, then another, then nothing more. The man slapped her, pressed upon her chest, began to rub her whole body hard to bring the warmth back into it, but Herda did not stir. A shadow crossed Wossama’s face.
Ulrich had watched the whole scene, studying the faces: the worry, the dismay, the grief, the surrender. He refused what everyone else seemed to take for a verdict already settled, and shouted loudly at Reksa: “Stop it! Don’t cry! Do something!” He shook him hard.
“What can I do?” wept Reksa, on his knees. “What can I do?”
“Sing!” was Ulrich’s surprising and peremptory answer. “Sing her that song you were composing for her!”
Reksa looked at the boy, stupefied by the request. Song… Perhaps it would be one, someday. For now it was only two stanzas held together by a rough, shaky rhyme. It should have been the fairest thing Reksa had ever imagined, the fairest thing Herda had ever heard — and now she would never hear it at all. With his eyes he searched Ulrich's face for some explanation of the request, and read there only the plea: Do something, anything! Reksa began to sing.
But the rhythm of what should have been a joyful wedding song was broken by sobs and weeping, for Reksa could not master his grief, and now it seemed to him he had imagined those verses only to torture himself.

We’ll heat each other up in our love, a sun so sweet,
the fire in your laughter will be our drinking mead
we’ll drink to make each other beloving company
and when we grow white darling, I’m growin’ old with thee…

The stanza ended on a high note, but the boy could not bring the song to its close, for the final words should have been hers to sing. He flung himself down, his head upon Herda’s lifeless body, weeping and sobbing, inconsolable.
No one had the courage to go near him, for they knew what the young man felt for his friend. Reksa wept without restraint, giving no sign that he meant to part from the girl’s body.
Then, as though hesitating, the slender fingers of Herda’s right hand contracted, imperceptibly, began to move, reached little by little for Reksa’s hair, and wove themselves into his locks — and she whispered, singing.

…and I, with thee.

Reksa raised his head and met her gaze — her eyes were open, and they were looking at him.
“Why are you crying, Reksa?” she said to him.
And he began to laugh through his tears: something had burst open inside him, an ungovernable madness. “Who, me? Crying?” he answered her, wiping his eyes and sniffing. “It must be from joy — can’t you see I’m laughing?” And indeed he was laughing and weeping at once, like a sudden downpour breaking loose beneath a shining sun.
Everyone answered Reksa’s laughter with a shout of joy: Ulrich threw his arms around Reksa’s neck, Freyda hopped about, tugging at Wossama’s belt, Stork spread his arms wide, at peace with the world — his effort, indeed, had not been in vain. Nitur remained kneeling on the ground, relieved, and tired at last; old Wossama leaned upon his staff as though he had just finished an exhausting walk, and his smile told all the joy he felt in that moment.

* * *

Reksa awoke even more euphoric than usual: he was no longer the “master-of-the-wold” of the day before, but even at my age, with this new self of his just discovered, I would feel exactly as he did. And besides, Reksa had Herda, and now Herda returned his regard.
Young love is ever so, thought Reksa's mother, seeing her own youth again in her son, in the end, they blossom.
Reksa went down into the smoky room where the cooking was done, and saw the small blackbird eggs in the bowl on the table. He took an egg, broke its head without much ceremony, and sucked out what was within. He took another egg.
“Well then. What will you do today?” his mother asked.
“We’ll go to school, mum!” he answered, full of enthusiasm. “We’ll learn something, I suppose.”
“Something…” his mother said, doubtful. “Isn’t that a bit little, for Reksa, the chief’s son?”
"No, mum, it isn’t little at Wossama’s school,” he shot back, sure of himself. “And besides… enough of this talk about being the chief’s son: to be chief, one must have qualities that no school can teach you. The good school is not the one that teaches you to do what you are not and cannot be, but the one that teaches you to be what you were born to be.”
His mother looked at him, astonished: how mature her Reksa had become in a single day! “So you don’t think ill of Wossama, then, for yesterday’s trial?”
“Ill? Why would I?” the boy answered. “It’s true, he risked a great deal, and the thing very nearly slipped out of his hands — but above all because of me: he had taught us every way to help one another and, when it mattered most, I forgot them all, starting with being careful. If things had gone badly, it might have been I who drowned Herda! So why should I think ill of Wossama?”
“In the past,” his mother answered, “many have asked the old man to be a little… softer, and less imaginative, with his trials.” Clearly she was recalling unpleasant moments for their small community, for her tone had darkened.
“I thought we went to school to learn how to get by!” Reksa observed. “What sense would it make, otherwise? We will never be ready for the worst, if all we do is hope the worst never comes! And it would be no good thing for the village, if the worst found us unprepared!”
It seemed a sound piece of reasoning, but his mother wanted to test how solid those words really were, and make sure her son was not speaking this way only out of the fright he had lived through the day before. “Then tell me: if not you, the chief’s son, who will be chief?”
“You needn’t worry about that!” Reksa answered, sure of himself. “Young Ulrich has shown every quality needed to make an excellent chief! When yesterday…” The memory stirred back to life in all its drama, and made him feel helpless and desperate once more. Ulrich had roused him from that very state! “He thought of everyone’s safety! He decided what to do and how to do it! He was ready and active, and did not yield to fear, but led the others! I cannot imagine anyone better suited than him!”
“And you, then? What will you do?” his mother asked, as though some point of pride had been taken from her.
“I shall be a bard!” He looked her in the eye with a mixture of feelings — the certainty of having understood who he was, the fear of no longer being accepted by someone he loved, and the uncertainty of not knowing exactly what a choice of life demands.
“Wossama, too, told me I could do well at it. He says I have it in me, even if I cannot see it yet myself. And what happened with Herda…”
He had woken her with nothing but a song, when all had seemed lost. To try that path — new, never even imagined before — was certainly more exciting than limiting himself to being merely Reksa, the chief’s son.
“So be it!” his mother answered him. “But whatever you do, do it well — understood?” She kissed him on the forehead and embraced him, her great boy. “And give my greetings to Herda. Tell her to come and see me sometime.” She wore a strange, knowing little smile as she said this to him.
Beautiful was the world. Beautiful was the village, with its people, its beasts… Beautiful was the sun in the fair, cool, blue sky, among clouds like tufts of cotton, puffed along by a wind fragrant with spring. Beautiful were the trees at the village’s edge, and it was the first time in a long while that he would not be arriving late.
And beautiful beyond all saying was Herda, who now looked at him, whether Reksa sang or not.

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This short story is translated by the original La buona scuola, published on BraviAutori.