- A GOOD MAN -

It wasn’t until the evening began to set in that he got up. The candles and street lights blinded him for a moment. None of them had returned yet. He unlocked the big chest, and took out the musket. He looked at it, carefully, from every angle, again and again. A different thought crossed his mind for a second. He shook it away.

Holding the empty musket firmly in his hand, he got down the stairs. If he was quick, he could maybe find him tonight.

“What’s wrong with-it brother?” said the Nassaryott, and tried taking the gun. He called everyone brother, no matter if he knew their name or not. No other Nassaryott did this.

Nirer didn’t respond. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, especially not with him.

He was one of those “new” refugees, the families of whom had come to Riviella after the Dolvetians had burned their island to the ground –the “Second Rout” from Nassa, something like that they’d call it. They were struggling to make ends meet in their new home, and that man seemed like the pure embodiment of that struggle.

A poor, pseudo-repairman, he had a small shop, more of a hole than a shop actually, in the most southern part of town, near the copper smiths. One of the few Nassaryotts who dared to leave their precious district on the other side of the river. He'd sometimes repair the muskets of the poorest hunters for next to nothing. In the evenings, he’d leave. He’d go with the rest of the Nassaryotts to their temple, the Communal, for their blessings.

He was going there now. But Nirer was lucky, spotted him right when he was about to cross the bridge. He still held the musket.

“I want to sell it.”

He handed it over. His voice was dry.

“I will buy a new one.”

It was a truly beautiful musket. Made overseas, in Mippor, from good steel, and in pristine condition. He had to make a special order to Setha Kabi to bring it to Riviella. The Nassaryott knew it well, and had his eyes set on it for months now. No need to check. The value was apparent. After taking a good, long look at Nirer, he shook his head.

“No, don’t give your gun away brother.”

“What?! You are refusing to accept my musket?”

“That’s not it. I’d happily take it off you. Yes, I’d take it no question. And for good money as well, very good money.”

“Do not start with these nassaryottic tricks of yours! How much for it? Simple!”

“I know…” he didn’t pay attention to the insult, he was used to people calling him out for what they thought he was.

“…I know you won’t buy a new one… Times are hard, no work, and the kids… Don’t sell it brother, it’s not worth it.”

The man wasn’t bartering. He refused to even negotiate.

“I know… Other porkers came as well, many porkers, a bad sign, an omen. If I knew they had only one, I wouldn’t take it. It’s been so many years brother, so many years I’d repair your guns… And now, that you’re a wreck… I can’t… Give it to someone else, I won’t dirty up my hands…”

He lowered his eyes; he lowered his head. A Nassaryott refugee had just called him a wreck. And that he wouldn’t dirty up his hands with a gun that was his. Yet, this wasn’t what bothered him, it barely crossed his thoughts. It was just that, for one more time during that day, the unfairness came to his mind. And you left the kids like this? Do not start with these nassaryottic tricks of yours!

Hadn’t the Nassaryott taken out his pipe and offered him tobacco, he would have left that very moment, a tail between his legs. He felt so ashamed.

“You are right…” he said after a while, without raising his head. He took the offer and lit his pipe. Then raised his eyes and looked at him.

“You are a good man.” He said it like it was something he owed him for years.

The Nassaryott smiled, and when Nirer turned to leave, he stopped him.

“I know” he said again, “Times are hard, but don’t give it away. Don’t give it to anyone. You’re a porker, it’ll hurt you more.”

He took out his pouch and gave him some silver coins.

“When things get better you… you’ll give them back…”

He took them. He took them and felt no shame at all. The Nassaryott left to for his temple, and he began walking down the road. As the small silver coins jiggled in his palm, he felt a string of happiness passing through his soul. Eventually, he felt it throughout his body. It warmed him in the cold night. Not because he’d return home with some money. It was mostly about this new discovery he’d made. For the first time in his life, he had met the “wretched”, as the Nassaryott had said. He had met himself. “You are not a bad man. No Nirer, not you…”

As he kept walking down the main road, taking a stroll before going to his favourite place, something new and alive was silently dancing in his head. Something warm, like pure light. A beam of happiness in this never-ending bleakness.

It must have been proper midnight when he realised, he’d crossed the road. He was now passing through the Roasters District. Here were the homes of the lumbers and the barrelers. Confusing place. He heard someone shouting his name. It was a barreler, one of them from Resport. They’d say hello to each other on occasion. A rosy and round fellow, with a huge, swollen back from all that constant lifting and hammering.

“Good evening.”

“Where you going, in the middle of the night with the gun?”

“Oh, nowhere really. It just had a little dent and I took it to the Nassaryott. Good man.” That last part slipped out.

“I don’t know him,” said the barreler “but he’s done us no harm. Come, sit. Have some honey!” He poured some golden liqueur in a small glass. A sort of mead, made from thyme honey. Resport was famous for this drink. The spots near the barrelers always made sure to have lots of it available.

Nirer stood sceptical. He’d never before been in a taverna outside the Porkerias. In reality in was more of a combination between an inn and a winery. One for the lumbers, the barrelers, the roasters, their families, and maybe some local mountaineers and wanderers to sleep in when they were forced to spend a night on the town. The barreler paid for the drinks, and started telling him about the problems at home and the shop.

“I hear it hasn’t been easy for you these days either” he said all of a sudden.

“No, it has not…” Nirer responded. He wasn’t at all ashamed to admit it. “…We are not good. Not good at all.”

“And what are you thinking? What’s the plan?”

“I do not know… nobody knows…”

“That’s not good” said the barreler.

Nirer however wasn’t listening. Inside him, at that moment, he felt something once again. This time it felt like a waterfall, overwhelming him with a desire to stand up and get everyone a drink, right then and there. A gift to all of them. The locals, the wanderers, the poor folk, all of them.

He did no such thing however. It was enough that he paid for his table. For his barreler. He said goodnight with a smile.

“He is a good man as well.” He said it to himself again and again. He wanted to feel it, he couldn’t get enough of it. Good people, good people. Where in God’s name they'd been hidden all this time?

As he returned to the Porkerias, he stumbled upon one of the kids. He called over the girl and gave her the coins in secret. He told her to give them to her mother, along with the gun. He was too ashamed to go himself. He didn’t return until later at night, when he was sure all of them were asleep.

Only a few hours later, with the sun’s tip barely over the mountains, he got up. As quietly as he could, he once again took the musket and some bullets and went down the stairs. She didn’t even flinch. He got out of the house and headed “downther”, to the Planks. He took a small boat and went up, towards the open, deep part of the river, near the shore and the cabins. Nature herself was still asleep. He headed for the reeds on the other side, sinking the rows half deep in the water. He was in a hurry.

It was proper morning when he came back. A cold, sunny, winter morning. He stood at the door and called the kids down. They were by his side in an instant, admiring the great hunt. He took the gun off his back, unloaded it and gave it to them, alongside four wilducks and two waterbirds.

“Give these to your mother.”

That’s all he said.

He took the rest of the birds -about ten in total, and left, without looking back at his house. He knew behind the windows laid her tears. Now, it was just him, drawing a straight line to the Stoas. Straight through the Porkerias. In front of the workshops. Walking proudly, with heavy steps.

This is how the first porker went to the market and sold his hunt. After him, many followed. Behind him, that fateful day, trumpets of a new age were dismantling the invisible walls around the Porkerias. The castle had fallen, in a pandemonium of silent screams and noise. The end of winter.

When spring came around, the new year came with her. The first day of spring was Dolvet’s festival. Above the river, flocks of wild geese could be seen. They were flying further up the mountains.

As if scared, like the rest of us.