Pafifas

Pafifas

by Xyan

We should not make fun of fat men. It was not really their fault that they had parents who feed them with more food than the other kids. They did not choose to be fat, sweaty and to be out of breadth every time they had to climb a long flight of steps. And maybe they did not really want that fattest and most tender chicken for lunch when many other children had to make do with unfamiliar roots dug up from the ground for dinner.

But fat men were in general, a pitiful lot in times like this where everyone in the country were looking at the empty throne and thinking that maybe they deserved to be sitting there. It was because at times like these, there was a lot of fighting. And we all know fat men cannot run away as fast if they were losing a fight. And those who fail to run away in times like these will no longer fight anymore. Besides, the King of the neighboring kingdom of Tudor also saw that the throne of Dalan was empty for quite a bit long, and decided that maybe he should expand his empire.

But this particular fat man in the front of the Town Hall needed no running. He was winning his fight. He had to, since his opponent was tied to a singular pole with his hands behind his back. His henchmen stood haughtily behind him cheering him enthusiastically. But the most important factor was that the fat man had a whip, and he knew exactly how to use it.

Hamas remembered the whip. It was a different whip of course and the man who used to whip him was not fat either. But he imagined that the pain would be same. It was in the House of Damok where Old Grikas worked. When the young master Ecid Damok was of schooling age, his father, Lord Damien Damok had requested that a boy of similar age among his staff be recruited as a schooling attendant. Old Grikas was quick to volunteer his nephew Hamas as he saw it as the perfect opportunity for Hamas to receive a proper education he never had. That was when Hamas learnt to read and write. He was enjoying his education when he made his first mistake. He demonstrated that he had learnt his lessons better than young master Damok. Jealousy about the nobles was a frightening thing and it got Hamas whipped for the first time.

But he was not the one being whipped now. The fat man was merciless in his swings as lashes after lashes landed on the back of the Pafifas. Hamas knew Pafifas. He was the one of the bards at the Golden Crown Art House. Just a month ago, Pafifas was a favorite among the nobles, singing wonderful enchanting songs to entertain them. He was a talent. But war did not agree with him. Pafifas was a man who loved, among many things, the peace. And he loved his many friends in Tudor. But when the King of Tudor declared war on Dalan, it was a bad time to be a Dalanians with many Tudorians friends.

The sun did not help. It was scorching hot. The fat man continued his whippings. There were hardly anymore places on Pafifas’s skin yet to be sliced open. Flies are already gathering around Pafifas where some wounds were showing signs of infections. It was a cruel sight but throughout the entire torture, Pafifas hardly let out a single cry. “A man of steel,” thought Hamas.

The fat man, taking a break from his physical exertion eventually, took a step forward and growled, “So, bard, am I lacking in strength now huh?”

Pafifas sighed. Physical strength was not on his mind when he called the obese Lord Makolas Tenne a ‘slow runner’. He was merely pointing out that it takes more courage to resist a war with Tudor than to fight one, and the failure to see that was the result of Lord Makolas not thinking fast enough. But the Master of the House of Tenne did not take criticisms easily. Besides, he was rather sensitive of people making fun of his excessive weight and calling him a slow runner was certainly not the best way to make friend with such a person. In his rage, he had his henchmen tied Pafifas to a pole in the middle of the Town Hall and had him whipped personally just to demonstrate his power, or maybe to mask his bruised ego.

“You had just demonstrated another weakness, my Lord.” The word struggled to escape from Pafifas’s lips. He licked them in a desperate attempt to bring moisture back before striking another brave retort. “You are a terribly insecure man.”

Lord Makolas stared at Pafifas hard in the eyes. But he decided not to pursue this verbal sparring with a man famed for using his tongue, ceased all activities shortly and stormed back to his castle with his henchmen leaving Pafifas alone baking in the Sun. For the moment Pafifas was simply ignored. He was right in the middle of the Town Hall, bleeding and dying. There were many who witnessed the bullying in broad daylight, but none dared to incur the wrath of the House of Tenne.

Hamas spitted, “how could someone so vile have so many followers?”

“Do you not know, Smithy?” remarked Jakimas the barkeep. “That fat one is the master of the House of Tenne. The House of Tenne was one of the most powerful houses in Dalan, easily commanding in excess of five hundred fighting men. Enough of these politicians! Have some beef and since you’re eating here, I would like to order a dozen kitchen knives, can I have them in three days?”

“Bah! Forget the knives! Get me a cup of water!”

“What do you intend?” asked Jakimas as poured some water from a kettle as requested.

“I never worry about any of that. I only know that the bard was a brave man. He deserved at least some water and sympathy.”

Snatching the cup from Jakimas’s hand, Hamas marched confidently towards Pafifas. His stride was strong and sure. There were many eyes watching him. Some with fear, other with curiosity, but none would want to stop a marching man with broad shoulders which looked like they could lift a full-grown ox effortlessly.

“Bard, have a drink.”

The wounded man twitched his eyes in surprise and attempted a smile, then coughed, “Thank you. Who might you be?”

“I am Hamas, a blacksmith. I hail from Aosun and arrived here a ten-day ago answering the call for more blacksmith in this region. I had heard much about you since.”

“Ah…,” exclaimed Pafifas. “A maker of weapons…. Why do you do so?”

“I had to make a living. They pay better here than Aosun.”

Pafifas nodded. “It is the reality. But I hated arms. They feed the violence in soldiers. The ministers would tell us that an army is to deter the enemy from attacking us. But who are we and who are us? Nations are just fuzzy concepts in our minds!” Pafifas was clearly agitated. It was known throughout Dalan that the bard Pafifas was a campaigner against the raising of an army. But a huge army was conscripted under the instruction of the late King because Tudor had done the same. He was afraid. But eventually, he died without an heir but with many armed lords peppered around the country. When Tudor declared war on Dalan, the lords made a call to all the blacksmiths throughout the country, offering high monetary rewards for quality weapons to supply their armies.

Pafifas looked up. Hamas was listening intently. He loved a good audience. Despite his pain, he ploughed on with his views. “The idea of deterrence, to prevent your enemies from declaring war with you is totally hypocritical. It is no difference from holding daggers at each other’s throats and then just because blood has not been shed, it does not mean that we have peace. We are just lying to ourselves and living constantly in fear. It is a sad way to live.”

He paused for breath.

“Drink a little more,” offered Hamas.

The idea attracted Hamas. There was more to Pafifas than he initially thought. This was a man with wisdom, and Hamas enjoyed learning from such men. It was then that he did something he may regret, or may regret not doing if he did not. He cut the ropes and freed Pafifas.

“Thank you,” said Pafifas as he tried to massage life into his wrists, then looking up at the younger man, he asked, “Smithy, why did you choose to create weapons?”

Hamas laughed. “That was the first question you asked? When I had just put both of us in danger from Tenne’s henchmen?”

“Aye, I knew from the first that you had courage.” The two men grinned.

“Look bard,” said Hamas as he fished out a piece of Aosun coin. “This is money. It can be used to buy me food or shelter, or I can gamble it away, or I can hire some an assassin to eliminate my enemies, but if stays in my pocket, it will just be an extra weight for me to carry about. This coin has no value in itself. It has value only depend on how I choose to use it.”

Hamas returned the coin to his pocket. “You see my point?”

Pafifas nodded in understanding, “your weapons are just weapons. It depends on how you use them. You can choose to defend the oppressed or to bully the weak.”

Taking a moment to digest this thought, Pafifas added, “I like the way you think, Hamas. It is just the same with our lives. If we just move along with the crowd, we are just another mouth to feed. We can do good evil and hurt our fellow men or we can do good deeds and prevent wars. Our values as men will depend on how we use our lives.”

There was a sparkle in Hamas’s eyes. “I like the way you think too. Come on now! Let me get us to safety and to tend to your wounds.”