- OF CASTLE BLOOD -

Green and calm, deep and eternal is Riviel, the river that flows through our town. He gave her his name, which he took from a God. Not a major one, just a Sigod, but still, it was a fact of significant importance. A source of pride for us. Mirrored in his slow waters, one can see the tall walls of the town’s old castle, on the small island in the middle of the river. Built eight hundred years ago, although the people here want it to be even older. It was this castle, truly one of the first in the peninsula, that made our town one of the “old walls”, alongside those of Sipolis, Gorva, Kefir and Atis. Near the end of our town, behind the long bridge and the water mills, laid the Porkerias. A sort of hybrid between a butchery, an abattoir and a charcuterie, found, as far as I can tell, only in Riviella. The ones operating them are known as porkers, or porkies, as they call them in Volar and Prothi, and I believe, even in Kefir.

Every week, in every road of the district, they’d lay the slaughtered boars, removing their precious skin, before hitting them with vigour, in order to loosen and tenderize the meat while breaking the larger bones. Then, they’d take them animals all the way up to rivershore, where they would be washed thoroughly, their hooves and internal organs chopped off, and thrown in the river. Finally, they’d bring the clean, fresh meat back, in order to be cut, salted, stored and sold. All inside their workshops, the Porkerias.

All these workshops -no more than twenty, twenty-five at most- were made out of stone. Two floored, all of them, with large, domed entrances, so the customer could clearly see and inspect the product, built in an area spanning from the north end of Riviella, to near the Stoas in the town centre. The lower floor had small, narrow windows, like arrow slits, and was mainly a single, large room, with a tiled floor and filled with big, wooden tables. Inside these rooms, either shirtless, or covered with a large piece of cloth, to absorb the blood and sweat, is where the porkers worked. The upper floor exceeded the lower one, and had a nice view of the street below, through its large, pointed, glass windows. This was their home, connected to the workshop from the inside, through a slim, wooden staircase. The whole atmosphere around these homes was heavy, with a deep stink of old, dried blood.

The porkers always prided themselves in the fact, that they were some of our town’s oldest inhabitants, claiming that all of them were of noble “castle” blood, and the Dolvetians had thrown them out of the little island after the Viper’s Rebellion had been crushed. And truly, they’d still speak with the old Riviellan accent, considered most proper than any other found in the town. They took great care in connecting words when they could, in order to restore their old, unbroken form. Their relations with the rest of the town however, were miniscule at best. They almost never went “downther” if they didn’t have a reason, personal or professional, to do so. They’d look down with mistrust any newcomer in our town. In fact, one could say that none of them had ever been to the “Nassaryottics” –the district made by the refugees from Nassa when they first came to our town- and it wouldn’t be inaccurate. Their religious needs were taken care of within their small, local chapel, not at the main Riviel temple, like all the others. Just to be sure however, most of them had, in a corner within their home, a small, private, domestic altar. All affairs proper and in order. So, they stayed at their Porkerias, behind the long bridge, the main road and the water mills. And that was that. Another world altogether. Separate and isolated.

Finished.

A little bit further down the road from their shops were the carpenters, the lumbers as they called them. Volariotts and Prothiotts, almost all of them. People simple in their life and pleasant in their company, from way up the mountains. Their Stoa was there, the closest one to the Porkerias. The porkers had no relations with them. On the other side of the road, were the barrelers. Coopers and hoopers, all together we called barrelmen, or barrelers for short. Also, mountaineers, from the mountains near Resport. Every day one could find them at their little shops. For years and years they would hit the oak with their wooden mallets, and bend metal rings on their little anvils. A tough job. The porkers knew them well, and would greet them every morning. They had no differences with them, but no real ties either. They were, you see, “hayheads”. Countrymen. Simple-minded souls, pure and unworthy.

There were also the “Planks”, the main port of our town. It was near its centre, near the Stoas. All the river boats, fishing boats, barges and wherries were docked there. Ships fat and slow, either loading or unloading cargo, coming from all the nearby villages. Timber, turf, river fish, various cheeses, fresh butter and of course pork, fresh or salted, our town’s pride and joy. The best int the land. The porkers would go there if they needed to purchase something, but even those trips where short and to the point. They didn’t have to come downther to sell their product. Those interested in salted pork knew they had to come to the Porkerias, negotiate with them directly, and take from the district with their own means. So, even at the Planks, the porkers knew next to no one. Who was there to know? The hayheads?

Every night, the men would gather at their own tavernas and wineries, where no one else would ever go. Only some boaters from the island would occasionally dare approach. They’d come and sit with them every so often, drink a cup of wine and leave. With the boaters, the porkers shared a common passion. Hunting. Thus, they allowed them to sit by their side. These wineries were not similar to those, one could, and still probably can, find in the rest of Riviella. The common ones. No, that wouldn’t be proper. They were special, made just for them. Dimly lit, full of low, round tables, each one with a small, oil, candelabra, and a hole in the middle. Every summer, a hookah would be placed in the hole, with multiple stems, so everyone could enjoy it. Every winter, they’d place there a small brazier, to keep the place warm. The porkers would sit around the table on large, woollen pillows, and before drinking their wine, they’d put some bahar or rosemary in it, and heat it up in little copper cups over the brazier.

The stories would always revolve around the same topics. Old feuds, the latest omens read by the priests, hunting, any good deals made with the merchants from Gorva, that kind of stuff. Raised as porkers should be, tough and proud, they would never talk about their home affairs in public. They were above such things. And they couldn’t talk politics either. You see, they had no one to argue with and nothing to argue about. All of them were fierce localists. Riviellotts strong and proud, as was proper for old noblemen of castle blood. They stubbornly refused to call their town Res, as per Dolvet Empire’s decree. They’d always support any Riviellott against any outsider, no matter if they were right or wrong. They’d strongly urge each Belir to have only Riviellott advisors at his palace, and each Despot to ordain only Riviellott priests and scribes to the temple. And just like that, they were done with politics. Pride, self-reliance, loyalty to the family. All as they were taught. As they should be.

That loyalty extended to their profession as well. None of them ever took up another trade, and no outsider had ever become a porker. Such was the tradition of their guild. One of, if not the, town’s oldest, as its leaders always loved reminding everyone, and had no desire to change. The only difference one could find since its founding, at least at the time of writing, was that, not only did everyone knew, but had also become, at least kind of, relatives with each other over the decades. And since that was the case, and there were so few of them left, it was now common to see them, not just working at their own shop, but in every shop in the district, as partners. Masters and students had become one -they were all masters now- and, truth be told, were now a single, big family.

That’s the only thing that changed. Everything else stayed the same as it was when the Porkerias were originally created. Very little did these people care to learn if and how the techniques of skinning, washing, cutting, and salting the meat had changed over the years. How their trade had progressed in other parts of the world. Even their old cleavers, when they got blunt, or broken, they’d repair them themselves, on a small, metal table in the back of their workshops, with next to no tools and a makeshift forge. And the meat hooks and the salt, as they knew them, as they found them. And all other things, as they knew them, as they found them.

These everyone knew about the porkers. These, one could say, were the porkers. In every sense of the word.

-

A porker, in every sense of the word as well, was Nirer. His father, a porker, his mother, a porker’s daughter. In that district he was born. In that district he played with other kids, of other porkers. Played races, wrestling, long jumps, swimming, and war. In that district’s chapel he attended heard the word of the Gods for the first time, learned to read and write, to hunt hares and foxes, and go fishing for river trouts. And in that district, he grew up. He took up his father’s trade. He got married, and made his own family. And always kept his soul filled with this secret pride. This subtle arrogance of the porker, and relentless resentment for anything new.

At some point, one of them, did the rarest thing. He emigrated. He moved far away and stayed away for many years. When he finally returned, wore a small, round, fur hat -unlike the long caps with the feathers on the side, like the rest of them porkers- and also a vest with a golden chain on it and had lots of money in his pockets. And because one can choose their friends but not their family, he once again began walking around the Porkerias every day, and go with the rest of them at their special wineries every night. And why wouldn’t he? He was still a porker after all.

The only problem was that Luvir -that was his name, Luvir Mandrit- would sometimes forget where he was, and let his mind slip away, back where he had been. Unfortunately, his tongue would follow suit, and then he’d only talk about his travels, the dozens of places he visited, and all the wonders he’d witnessed. The rest of them, at first, simply looked away. After a couple of times, they bluntly told him to stop, but the man, stubborn as a mule, always refused.

Then came that one, hot, summer afternoon. As the porkers stepped out of their shops for a moment, taking a break before continuing their work, he was there. And as he, at some point, tried once again to say something related to his travels, Nirer stood up.

“Please, tell me…” he interrupted, and slowly began walking towards him “… tell me, did you, by any chance, learn any languages at those places you went?”.

He was shirtless, and full of sweat.

“Of course, I learned a thing or two” said the man, blissfully unaware.

“Then, why don’t you read me these right here?”

Nirer turned around and loudly slapped his ass with both his palms, pointing at the letters of the foreign stamp on the fabric of his pants.

All the porkers around began laughing uncontrollably, making fun of the poor man. The women pointed from their windows, berating him. And Nirer wouldn’t stop loudly slapping his ass, with a wild, feverish passion.

“Come on! Come on! Read them! Why won’t you read them?”

From that day the man, it is said, took off his fur hat and his vest and golden chain. Never once did he ever again talk about his travels and his foreigners. At least not in the Porkerias. One couldn’t joke with these people.

But time flies, as the commons say. And in this, as in many things, they are right. No matter the time or place, people tend to grow a bit older year by year. Those living beneath our old castle’s walls were no exception. And with time, comes change. Everything changes, and one doesn’t feel a thing. Nirer never felt a thing, and his hair began turning white. His feet, after years of carrying the heavy boars, began to hurt, seemingly at random, during the nights. His wife, like a rabbit, would give birth to a new child every couple of years. And taking care of a dozen kids is no small feat. They need to be properly fed and dressed. They need shoes and beds and blankets. And time of work to learn to read and write, as he had. A process that takes five years at least. And the scribe, of course, needs to be paid for his time and patience. All these came and went, and Nirer didn’t feel a thing.