Once upon a time, a widow, whose
family had come from the kingdom of Ermani, settled with her daughters in the
south of the Alli region. She thought that life would be nice there, but
natives always reminded her that she wasn’t from “around here”, and they never
showed her any respect.
The widow was sad, but she didn’t
complain.
Her daughters were like her… except
one. One of her daughters had left to work at the King’s court, and she’d come
to hate the natives’ village mentality.
In the area around the widow’s
house, there were several families from the alien kingdom of Denalow. Since Allians and Denalows had
often been invading each other’s territories, that wasn’t such a surprise. What
was a disappointing fact was that the Denalow people living in the village were
more welcome than the widow (and just after a few months, even the widow
admitted sometimes that the natives treated her poorly because she was a woman
who’d lost her husband and she had no son).
The other daughters were as meek as
their mother, but the daughter who spent most of her time away was not.
One afternoon, as she was visiting
her mother, the non-compliant daughter heard an awful sound coming from outside;
it sounded as if a thousand pans were banged together whilst ducks and geese
were being slaughtered in the most inhuman ways. It was atrocious.
She went out to investigate, and she
was the only one to do so because all the villagers but her and her mother, who
didn’t want to make a fuss, appeared to be far away, working in the fields.
As she walked towards the sound, the
daughter realized that the noise was coming from the house on the corner of
their street. She’d never been curious about (or even just interested in) the
neighbours, and so she had to check the name on the front door: Ronal Denas. Ronal
was a name that most tribes had adopted, but the surname was probably from Denalow;
she didn’t mind, because she had no grudge against aliens, and she’d learnt to
speak their language. In consequence, she could go see that man and ask him to
stop attempting to play the trumpet under the archway between his house and his
barn, for that was what he was doing.
She turned the corner, the sound
getting louder and more painful. In the courtyard, she could see an old man,
and she waved at him to come to the street, which he did.
‘Could you please ask whoever’s
making that racket to stop?’ she asked politely.
He waved towards the archway and
grumbled, ‘That’s Ronal playin’. Go see ‘im. None o’ me business.’
She was disappointed in his
reaction, but she wasn’t deterred. With one look at the native man, wondering
if he was deaf, she walked towards the catastrophic amateur musician. In the
courtyard, a Denalow horse, one completely unlike the horses that the natives
had, was saddled in the Denalow fashion.
She walked to the owner of the house
and had to manage to catch his attention: he was engrossed by his feeble stabs
at music, and he was probably as hard of hearing as the native man who was
working for him.
She saluted him and asked him as
politely as possible to stop that awful noise. She explained that the archway
carried the sound in such a way that it was unbearable.
The way he acted made her think that
he had trouble understanding her; and therefore, she repeated everything in his
own language. He still looked somewhat lost; thinking that he might be from a
different Denalow tribe, she asked him where he was from exactly in order to
adapt her vocabulary and make him understand that his awful racket was excruciatingly
painful to hear.
Yet… in spite of his unmistakable Denalow
accent and oh-so-particular horse, he told her that he was a native. Right then
and there she realized what she was seeing in his eyes: contempt for an
unmarried girl who wasn’t worthy of his time.
‘All right. Whatever,’ she said
coldly. ‘Just don’t wake up the dead with your music. Thanks beforehand!’
And with those words, she left. On
her way out, she checked the tribal symbols on the horse’s saddle, and they
were definitely from Denalow.
The daughter had been cursed with
very good ears (and the acoustics was on her side, carrying Ronal and his local
friend’s voices), and she heard the following exchange.
‘Do you know the lass who just
left?’ Ronal inquired.
‘Nope. What did she want?’ the
native man said.
‘She ordered me to stop playing my
beloved trumpet,’ Ronal exaggerated.
‘The nerve o’ that bitch! She’s
probably from the other side of the village. Well, ya can play all ya wan’, as
loud as ya wan’; t’is yar ‘ouse and no bitch is gonna tell ya what ta do!’ the
other man spat.
‘You’re right!’ Ronal exclaimed,
obviously delighted with his friend’s display of male solidarity.
The daughter hurried to her mother’s
property and she hid behind the garden wall; she wanted to listen to the rest
of their chat, without being seen. She realized that she’d been lucky because,
she heard Ronal, on the road, calling her ‘Oi, Missy!’ and whistling to call
her like a dog.
She was properly furious… and she
knew the local laws. She stayed hidden until Ronal headed home, and she didn’t
mention the incident to her scared siblings or to her mother.
The next time she visited, she
brought a pigeon (one of the birds all citizens were allowed and encouraged to
borrow from the castles in order to send vital messages).
The instant Ronal started his little
fun with the trumpet, she tied a note to the bird and freed it to fly home… to
the soldiers of the local lord, just on the other side of the hill. It took the
bird five minutes to reach its owner; the soldiers galloped to the location
mentioned on her anonymous message in just five minutes after being given the
message.
The soldiers made it clear to Ronal that
they had nothing against alien residents – as long as the local laws were
respected. Ronal was severely chastised for playing so badly and in such an inappropriate
location.
‘Who told you?’ Ronal spat. ‘Was it
the young bitch? I’ll make her pay!’
‘Wait a minute! We don’t know who told
us, and it’s irrelevant! We could hear your infernal racket the moment we
passed the hill. I don’t know how you do things in your tribe, and seriously,
mate, I don’t care. All I know is that we have laws – laws that the local
constable explained, the way he does for all new residents since it’s his duty
– and no one’s above the Law; that means you, too!’ the sergeant barked. ‘I’m
going to give you a warning this time, but if we hear from you again, you’ll
have to pay a fine, and we’ll take you to gaol. Clear?’
Ronal nodded, but he was furious,
and he was sure that he knew who’d sent the incriminating message. He swore to
get revenge.
The sergeant was no fool; he knew
that Ronal was about to do something foolish. He left with his men, but he
stopped down the road when he could no longer see Ronal’s house.
He looked at his men and said, ‘Half
of you, keep riding home; the others, dismount, tie your horses to trees and
follow me in silence.’
When they turned the corner of the
street that led to the widow’s house, they saw Ronal, armed with a log; he was
yelling at the widow and her daughter. Ronal broke a flower-pot that was next to
the gate.
The sergeant and his men arrested Ronal.
With just one look at the daughter,
the sergeant knew what she’d done to protect her family. He smiled and winked
before leaving; she smiled back and nodded.
Wherever you live, wherever you’re
from, being decent and nice to your neighbours is the only thing that
guarantees that you’re not going to behave like a plonker raised in a barn.
Keep in mind that you’re not alone in this world, and without stooping to
spying on one another, living in a way that takes into account the people
around you is the only thing that’ll make you deserve to be called civilized.
