Estuary 8

Day one of the village festival brought me to the stance of a capricious knee hug. Before the fires were lit and the matches began, I met Pumala. He smiled a lot but was uncommunicative. He was older than I, and a couple inches shorter, but he had thirty pounds on me and muscles like they'd been plucked from a butcher's meat locker. His long hair was beaded into one fat ponytail that bobbed on a treestump neck. I attempted one block that Malu showed me, and when it failed the blow of pain caused me to forget the rest. I went limp, caught in a hold. Pumala's hands on my shoulders, stomach acid driving on a Spartan charge into the back of my throat, and then myself the plate at a Grecian celebration. The spectators began to sing.

Someone helped me to my feet. Afraid it wasn't over I asked for a shield and an insurance policy. I was led to the side. A bit rudely, I thought, my torso became homesick for the ground and tried throw itself upon it.

Malu leaned into me. "It is important that you stand," he said.

The villagers finished their song and the next match began. I realized I was supported by a man I no longer trusted.