The story for children

Stanislaw Barszczak, How little John became a magician. 

Today in our African village we have sports competitions. I belong to the so-called a large family, and those in Ghana. In our country there are many boys, eagerly awaiting the happy moment of entering the finals of the competition. – Mom, choose me. I have to hold back so I will not scream. I stick nails into a wooden stick, I squeeze it tightly to sit still. Drops of sweat trickle down my back, I do not know if it’s from the morning heat, or because my heart is banging over my ribs. I was skipped a month in a month. Today it must finally be different. I push the snow-white curl behind my ear and try not to move. Agba’s mom, as usual, has no mercy, he looks at each of us for a long time, until we know where to look. Her eyebrows draw in concentration, deepening the wrinkles on the shaved head. With dark brown skin and an inconspicuous caft, Mom Agba is not much different from the rest of the village elders. It would never occur to anyone that a woman of this age could be so dangerous. – Ekhm … – grunts in front of Paul, in a very subtle way reminding that he has already passed this test. He sends us a smile and turns the hand-carved stick in his hand, as if he could not wait to find out which of us will defeat in today’s exam. Most of the boys are afraid of a duel with Paul, but I do not feel fear. I practiced and I’m ready. I know that I can win. – Little John. Agba’s grumble voice interrupts the silence. There is a collective sigh of fifteen boys who have not been elected. The name bounces off the woven reed walls ahéré, until I finally realize that it’s about me. – Really? – I’m asking. Agba’s mom is impatient. – I can choose someone else … – No! – I jump to my feet and immediately send her a bow. – Thank you, Mom Agba. I am ready. The sea of ​​brown faces diverges from me. Going, I focus on my bare feet rubbing against the reed floor, I check her grip, to increase my chances of winning a duel and passing the exam. Paul is the first to bow to me on the black mat. He waits until I do the same, but his eyes only stir up the fire of anger. He stands in a nonchalant pose, testifying to disrespect, as if I was not a worthy opponent. As if he thought I was worse than him. He thinks I do not have a chance with him. – Bow down, little John. Although there is a clear reprimand in Mom Agba’s voice, I can not overcome it. Standing so close to Paul, I see only his lush black hair and coconut brown skin much brighter than mine. It’s the complexion of those around Accra who do not know what work in the sun is. Paul owes this privilege to silent support of his father, whom he does not even know. Aristocrat, who got rid of the unlawful son by placing him in our village. I tilt my shoulders back and instead of bowing, I proudly bend my chest. Paul stands out from us with snow-white hair. From local boys who are constantly forced to bow to him like him. – Little John, do not make me repeat myself. – But Mom … – Bow up or get out of the ring! Do not waste our time. With no choice, I grit my teeth and bend my head. On Pawel’s lips, an unbearable smirk flourishes. – Is it so hard? – He bows again, although he does not have to. – It’s better to lose with honor. There are muffled chuckles among the boys. Agba’s mom silences them with a firm gesture. I give them a sinister look, then focus again on the opponent’s character. We’ll see who will laugh when I win. – Places. We both go back to the edge of the mat and lift our sticks. A mocking smirk meets Paul’s eyes, and his eyes narrow into slits. It’s a deadly instinct. We look at each other and wait for a sign. Agba’s mother drags this moment to endlessly, finally she calls: “Fight!” And I have to defend myself right away. I did not even have time to think about leading the attack, and Paul is already jumping at me with the speed of a cheetah. He takes the swing with his stick, aiming at my neck. But even though I hear muffled cries of boys behind my back, I do not lose cold blood for a moment. Paul is fast, but I can be even faster. I avoid the blow, bending backwards. Paul is not waiting for me to straighten up – he is leading another attack, this time cutting his staff from top to bottom with the strength of a boy twice his size. I throw myself to the side and roll over the mat, and the stick hits the reeds with a bang. Paul is already taking the next swing. – Little John! “Agba’s mom warns me, but I do not need her help. With one smooth motion I go into squatting and pull the stick up, parrying Paul’s impact. The reed walls were shaking with a loud crack. My weapon still trembles when Paul swings again, this time aiming at my knees. I bounce my legs forward, make a goat in the air over his outstretched stick. Here is my first chance to go to the attack. Using the momentum, I lead the first blow. A grunt sounds from my throat. Paul counters, interrupting my attack before it started for good. – Patience, little John! Agba’s mom calls. – Do not rush. Follow and react. Wait for the attack. I suppress the groaning groan in my chest and nod my head. Patience, I repeat to myself. Wait for a better opportunity … – Yes, Jan- says Paul quietly, so that no one else will hear me. – Listen, Mom Agba. Be a polite gentleman. Well, I could have expected it. This word. This nasty insult. Uttered like casually. Wrapped in an arrogant smirk. I throw the stick straight ahead without thinking. Paul’s belly passes by a hair. I am waiting for a terrible spanking from Mom Agba, but it was worth it anyway. The reward is the frightened look of my opponent. – Hey! – Paul looks towards Mom, expecting her to intervene, but he has no time to complain. He looks with big eyes as I turn the stick to the next attack. – This is not a workout! – he calls, jumping before the blow to his knees. – Mom … – Can not you handle it yourself? – I ask with a laugh. – Come on, Paul. It’s better to lose with honor! Anger flashes in Paul’s eyes. It looks like a lynx ready to jump. He is furiously clenching his hands on the stick. The real battle begins. The walls of the hut We Agze rustle when our clubs hit each other. We exchange a blow for a blow, looking for a chance to counter that will determine everything. I see the opportunity and then … – Uh! Pushing my shoulders, I stagger backwards, a wave of sickness comes to my throat. For a moment I’m worried that Paul broke my ribs, but the pain in my stomach dispels that fear. – Stop! – No! – I’m interrupting Mom Agba with a hoarse voice. With effort, I draw air into my lungs and support myself with a stick and straighten my back. – I’m fine. I am not done yet. – Little John… – Mom begins, but Paul does not let her words be heard. He is already running towards me with fire in his eyes, his outstretched stick almost touching my head. When he takes the swing, I jump to a safe distance, and then, catching Paul at the edge, I stab him with all my might on the bridge. – Uh! – Paul staggers back with his face twisted in pain. Never Agba has been hit by anyone during the fight in His hut. He does not know this feeling. Without waiting for him to recover, I turn around and hit him in the stomach. I am about to give a final blow when the reddish covers at the entrance to the hut open up and Zbyszek, panting, with a flown white mane burst in. He looks after Agba’s mom. – What happened? Zbyszek has tears in his eyes. – I’m sorry – they were calling quietly. – I fell asleep. I … I … – Get it out of yourself, child! – They’re coming! – he finally screams. – They’re close now! The terror of this moment sucks all the air out of my lungs for a moment. Not only me. We are all paralyzed by fear. The survival instinct, however, prevails. – Quick! – Mom Agba throws. – There’s no time! I’m lifting Paul off the floor. He’s breathing heavily, with a whistle, but he has to pull himself together. I grab his stick and collect the others. There is a lot of confusion in the hut. Everyone is blurring. The meters of bright fabric fly in the air. An army of reed mannequins is formed. Will we make it? It’s hard to say in this mess. I’m doing my thing: I’m hiding sticks under the ring mat so that nobody will see them. I barely finished, Paul pushes a wooden needle into my hands. I run to my position when the sheets are opened again. – Little John! – Agba’s mom cries sharply. I’m freezing. All eyes are now looking at me. Without waiting for me to speak, Mom gives me my head, until I feel hot ants on my back. – Get back to your seat! – throws raw. – You still have a lot to learn. – Mom Agba, I … She leans closer with the gleam of truth in her eyes. Distraction … Trying to gain more time for us. – I’m sorry, Mom Agba. Forgive me. – Get back to your place. I bite my lip, not to smile, and hang my head apologetically, peeking out of the corner of my eye at the guards who entered the hut. The lower, like most of the surrounding soldiers, looks reminiscent of Paul: coconut bronze topped with black hair. Even though they are surrounded by nastics themselves, he holds a hand on the hilt of his sword. His fingers are clamped on it, as if he expected one of us to attack him. The second guard, tall and serious, he is much darker than him. He stands near the entrance, his eyes fixed on the ground. Apparently he has a bit of shame in himself. They carry the sign of King Saran proudly on their iron armor. Just looking at the ornate white leopard, the symbol of the monarch who sent them here, makes me squeeze my stomach. With an ostentatious pouting, I return to the reed dummy. I feel so much relief that my legs almost give way under me. The place, which was just a ring before, is now quite convincingly tailoring workshop. After a while I looked at the mannequins made by the girls from the village decorated with bright materials in the characteristic patterns of Mom Agba. And I reminded myself that the girls from our village are hemming the edges of their native shirts with these beautiful designs for many years. Agba’s mom walks between the rows of boys and looks at their interest in the mannequins now. In spite of my nerves, I smile as I see him ignoring uninvited guests. – How can I help you? – he asks finally. – We collect tax – a darker guard takes over. Agba’s mom lengthens her face. – I paid last week. – It’s not a trade tax. – The second guard looks around the white-haired pleasant teenagers. – The fee for the paddles has increased. You have a lot of them, so it will cost you. Yeah. I squeeze the mannequin shirt with such force that my fingers ache. It is not enough for the king to oppress the inhabitants of the village. He must punish anyone who tries to help us. I grit my teeth, trying not to think about the guard, about the pain that this word caused me, ‘the worms.’ It does not matter that we will never be given magicians. In their eyes we are still worms. And we will not be anything more. Mouth of Mom Agba change into a thin line. He will not shake that money out from under the earth. – You have already increased the tax on the residents of our village last month. And two months ago. The brighter guard takes a step forward and reaches for the sword, as if to show that he will not be sticking with anyone. – Perhaps it would be wiser not to deal with worms. – Maybe it would be smarter not to rob us. I do not know why I said that. I did not have time to bite my tongue. Everyone in the hut holds their breath. Agba’s mom stiffens, her dark eyes pleading with me to keep silent. “You can not raise taxes without end,” I declare. – Ibavici do not earn more than before. Where should we get so much money? The guard approaches in a leisurely pace. I am tempted to reach for the stick. I could knock a man off one leg with a precise stroke; with one precise thrust I would crush his throat. It takes me a moment to realize that the guard’s sword is not an ordinary sword. A black blade shines in the sheath, metal more expensive than gold. Mayacit. Stop prepared by King Saran before the raid. A weapon created to weaken our magic and burn holes in our bodies. Just like the black chain they had hung on Mom’s neck. A powerful magician can overcome his power, but most of us are powerless against this rare metal. Although I do not have any magic myself, I get goosebumps when the guard approaches me with a real blade. “I would keep my tongue in my place, Teh. He is right. I should be silent. Hide your pride in your pocket. To live tomorrow. But when we face it so much, I have to fight with myself not to stick a wooden needle into this shiny beer eye. Maybe I should be quiet. Or maybe he should die. – Hold it yourself … Agba’s mom pushes me so hard that I fall over. – Please. – He hands him a handful of coins. – Mom, no … – I’m talking, but I’m dying under her threatening gaze. I close my mouth, lift up and grab the patterned dummy shirt. The guard counts the buzzing brown coins in his hand. In the end he clears his throat. – Not enough. “It must be enough,” says Mom Agba with a hint of desperation. – That’s all I have. The hatred is brewing inside me, it burns me from within. It’s not right that Mom Agba has to beg for mercy. I raise my eyes and come across the gaze of the guard. Error. I did not manage to turn around and hide disgust. The man grabs my hair. – Au! – I’m screaming in pain. The guard throws me on the face and knees down to the ground with his knee. I lose my breath for a moment. “Maybe you do not have money,” he says. – He grabs me brutally by the thigh. – I’ll start with this. It makes me hot, I catch my breath with my mouth, I clench my hands into fists so that I can not see that I’m shaking. I want to shout, I want to break all the bones, but I’m weakening with every second. His touch humiliates and destroys me. For a moment, I again become a mloco, powerless as when the soldier dragged his mother out of the house. – Enough! Agba’s mom pulls the guard away and takes me to my chest, snarling like a lion cub that defends the young. – I gave you money, do not count on more. Away from here. Irritated by her boldness, the guard reaches for the sword, but the darker companion grabs his arm. – Come. We must get around the entire village before dusk. – He utters these words calmly, but as if clenching his jaw. He may have seen his own mother or sister in our faces, maybe we remind him of someone he would like to protect. His companion briefly freezes in an ominous stillness. Finally, he takes his hand off the sword and only cuts us with his eyes. “Teach these cockroaches, humility or I will,” warns Mom Agba. Then he looks at me. And although sweat is pouring out of me, I feel frost inside. The guard looks at me with defiant eyes. Just try, I want to bark, but the language has dried on me. In silence, we look at how men come out, we listen to how the sounds of hobnailed shoes disappear in the distance. The strength leaves Mom Agba; now resembles the candle flame blown by the wind. Supports the manikin so that it does not fall. She is no longer a deadly warrior I know, but an old, inconspicuous woman. – Mom … I want to help her, but I get from her on my paws. – Go away! Stupid. That’s what she called me in Akan, the language of magicians forbidden since the great raid. I have not heard our speech so long ago that a moment passes before I remember what the word means. “God, what’s wrong with you?” Again, all eyes in ahéré turn to me. Even Zbyszek looks with reproach. But how can Mom Agba scream at me? Is it my fault that the guards are thieves? – I tried to defend you. – Defend me? – Agba’s mom repeated in disbelief. – You knew you did not do anything with your talking. It did not lack much, and we would all die because of you! I take a step back, surprised by the harsh assessment. I have never seen such deep disappointment in the eyes of Mom Agba before. – If I am not allowed to oppose them, what are we doing here? – My voice breaks, but I stop my tears. – Why train for us if we can not defend ourselves? – For God’s sake, little John, think a bit! About others, not just about yourself. If you hurt these people, who would defend your father? Who will save Thomas when the guards come to seek bloody revenge? I open my mouth, but I do not know what to answer. She is right. Even if I managed to defeat a few guards, I can not deal with the army. They’ll find me sooner or later. Sooner or later, they will break the people I love. – Mom Agba? – says Zbyszek with a thin voice. He stands with tears in his eyes, clinging to Paul’s loose trousers. – Why do they hate us? Mom bends under an invisible burden. He stretches his arms towards Zbyszek. – It’s not like that, my child. They hate what you were supposed to become. Zbyszek cuddles up to Mama, his robe muffles his sobs. Agba’s mom looks around the room, looks into the eyes of other boys who stop crying. – Little John asked what we are doing here. This is an important question. We often talk about how to fight, and never why. Mom sits on the floor and nods to Paul to bring her a stool. – You must remember that the world did not always look like that. There was a time when everyone stood on one side. Agba’s mom is sitting on the seat, and the boys who are interested in her are gathering around her. Every day, Mom ends her classes with a story or fairy tale, a science from ancient times. I usually sit in front and absorb every word. Today I stick to one side because I’m ashamed. Mom Agba rubs her hands regularly. In spite of what happened, a faint smile flashes on her lips, a smile that can only evoke one story. I can not resist, I come closer, I squeeze between the boys. This is our story. The story of us. The truth that the king tried to bury with our dead. At the beginning, Orisha was a happy land of sanctified magicians. Each of the ten clans was blessed by the gods with a different power. Some ruled with water, others controlled the fire. Others read in their minds and even looked beyond time! Although we all know this story well – from Agba’s mom, from the parents we lost – it does not cease to impress us. With face-baking, we listen to magicians who have the gift of healing and causing disease. We lean closer when Mom Agba talks about the tamers of wild animals, about magicians holding light and dark in their hands. All mages were born with white hair – it was a sign that their finger touched the gods. They used their gifts to serve the people of Ewe and Orisza, and in return they were respected. But not everyone came to the world with a gift. Agba’s mom rolls her hand around. – And that’s why the birth of the new magician was celebrated, the white curls were enjoyed. These little ones until the end of the thirteenth year were not able to use magic. Until their powers appeared, they were called “divine.” Zbyszek raises his beard with a smile: because he already knows that he is an inhabitant of the wonderful land of Orisza. Agba’s mom grabs a strand of his white hair between his fingers, a special sign that has been taught to hide us from the world. – Mages became the first kings and queens of Orisha country. These were times without war … However, peace did not last forever. When the rulers began to abuse magic, the gods deprived them of their power for punishment. White hair has disappeared with magic … In subsequent generations, admiration for magicians gradually turned into fear of them and fear of hatred. Hatred in violence, in the desire to exterminate mages. The room got darker now. We all know what happened next. A night that we never remember and which we will never forget. – As long as the mages had their powers, they were able to defend and survive. But eleven years ago, magic has disappeared. Only gods know why. Agba’s mom closes her eyes and makes a heavy sigh. – One day the magic was alive, the next one died. Only the gods know why? Out of respect for Mom Agba, I bite my tongue. He speaks like all adults who have seen a great round-up with their own eyes. With resignation. As if the gods had taken away our power to punish us, and perhaps under the whim. In the depths of my soul, I know the truth. I guessed it when I saw the magicians of other villages in chains. The gods died with our magic. They will not come back. “That unfortunate day, King Saran did not hesitate,” Mom Agba continues. – He used the moment of weak magicians and attacked. I close my eyes, put tears down. I see the chain they threw on Mama’s neck. Drops of blood landing in the sand. The memorial of King battle in our village overflows with the reed hut, saturates the air with sadness. That night we all lost loved ones who were magicians. Agba’s mom gets up with a sigh, she gains strength again from which she is known. He looks after all the boys in the room – like a general looking at his army. – I teach the art of a stick to anyone willing to learn, because there will always be people in this world who will want to hurt you. But here I am training the fallen mage boy. Though you no longer have the power to become magicians in the future, you still suffer from hatred and violence. This is why we are here. This is why we train. Mom abruptly draws her own folding stick and strikes him against the reed floor. – Your opponents wear swords. Why do I teach you how to wield a stick? We repeat with a chorus a mantra which she instilled in us: – He strikes instead of wounds, hurts instead of mutilating, mutilates instead of killing. The stick does not annihilate. – I teach you fights in the garden, so that you would not be like gardeners on the battlefield. I give you strength to fight, but moderation is also a force that you must possess. – Mom turns to me: – You have to defend those who will not defend themselves. Here is the truth of the stick. The boys are nodding and I look at the ground. I almost brought the tragedy again. I let everyone down again. – Well … – Agba’s mother sighs. – Enough for today. Collect your things. Continued tomorrow. The boys come out one by one with relief. I want to follow in their footsteps, but Mom Agab’s wrinkled hand grabs my arm. – Mom … – Silence – cuts off. The last boys give me sympathetic looks. They claw at my ass, as if they were counting in my mind how many lashes I would get. Twenty for disobedience … Fifty for speaking without asking … One hundred for almost killing us all … No. A hundred lashes would be too lenient punishment. I hold my breath and prepare myself for pain. It will not take long, I tell myself. It will end before … – Sit down, little John. Mom Agba gives me a cup of tea, then pours herself. A warm dish warms my hands, the sweet aroma of the drink fills my nostrils. I frown. – You added poison? The corners of her mouth twitched, but she hides amusement under a harsh face. I hide my own in a mug of tea, take a sip and enjoy the taste of honey. I turn the mug in my hands, I lead my fingers through lavender beads along the shore. Mom also had such a cup, only with silver beads – in honor of the goddess of life and death. Memories for a moment allow me to forget Agba’s disappointment, but when the taste of tea disappears, bitter guilt overwhelms me again. Agba’s mom should not have to endure such harassment. Not because of me. – Excuse me. – I nibble the beads on the edge of the cup so I do not look up. – I know … I know I’m only getting you in trouble. Agba’s mom, like Paul, is Orishan member, in which no magical powers are dormant. Before the King battle, we thought that the gods decide who is born a happy citizen of our village, and who is not; now that magic has disappeared, I do not understand why this distinction really serves. Mom Agba does not have white hair like us, she could blend in with the rest of Orishan and avoid persecution. If she did not ask us, the guards would probably give her peace. Some part of my soul would like Agba’s mom to leave us and save herself from suffering. As a good seamstress, she could probably sell clothes and live a good life. – You’re starting to remind her more and more, you know? Agba’s mom gets drunk tea and smiles. – Especially when you shout, the resemblance is frightening. You inherited her anger. I do not believe my ears. Mom Agba does not like talking about those we have lost. None of us like it. To hide my surprise, I drink another sip of tea. – Okay. – Agba’s smile disappears from the face of Mom Agba, and a look of concern appears on her face. – During the King battle in the village you were still a child. I was afraid you would forget. – I could not, even if I wanted to. How could I forget this face like the sun? I try to remember this face. The face itself, not a delay with a trickle of blood on the neck. – I know you’re fighting for her. Agba’s mother slides her hand over my white hair. – But the king is ruthless, little John. He will sooner murder all subjects than turn a blind eye to the revolt of the village. When the opponent has no honor, you have to choose other, wiser fighting methods. – Like covering these bastards with a stick? Agba’s mom laughs and wrinkles her skin around the mahogany eyes. – Just promise me that you will be careful. That you will wait for the right moment to fight. I grab Mom Agba’s hands and bend her head in front of her as a sign of respect. – I promise, Mom. I will not let you down. – That’s good because there’s something that I’m going to show you, and I would not like to regret it later. Agba’s mom reaches for her bosom and extracts a short black rod from under her robes. He shakes his wrist and the rod lengthens and turns into a shiny metal battle stick. I am jumping back instinctively. – Oh, gods! – I’m tearing myself. I have to fight with myself not to take this masterpiece. Black metal is covered by ancient symbols, each of them reminiscent of one of the lessons given to us by Mom Agba. My eyes, like bees lured by nectar, stop first on the acorn: two crossed blades, war swords. “Courage does not have to thunder” – I remember her words. “Fortitude does not have to dazzle.” Beside the swords, there is an akoma, the heart of patience and tolerance. That day … I would give my head that I got spanked that day. Each subsequent symbol refers me to another science, another story, another wisdom. I look expectantly at Mom. Is this a gift or rather a tool that will punish me? – Please. – He puts a smooth rod on my palm. I can feel his power immediately. And this weight of iron … Here is a weapon created to crush skulls. – Is this really happening? Mom nods affirmatively. – You fought like a warrior today. You passed the exam. I get up to spin the club to enjoy his strength. The metal cuts the air like a knife. None of the wooden stick I had cut out was so deadly. “Do you remember what I told you when we started training?” I confirm with a nod and mock the tired voice of Mom Agba: “If you are going to fight guards, learn to win. I get it from my head, but the reed walls of the room echo with her hearty laughter. I give the stick, and Mom Agba hits the ground with the end and the weapon folds back into a short rod. – You already know how to win – he says. – I just hope you’ll know when to fight. When he hands me a stick again, pride mixes with pain. Fearing to open my mouth, I embrace her waist, sniffing the familiar smell of freshly woven fabric and sweet tea. Agba’s mom stiffens for a moment, but he hugs me tightly, soothingly. Then he pulls away to say something, but at the same moment the sheets at the entrance will open again. I automatically grab a black rod and only after a second I recognize my elder brother Thomas. He is tall, heavily built, in his presence a reed cottage seems suddenly much smaller. The muscles are tense, the tendons are clearly under the dark skin. A lot of sweat trickles down from black hair. When I meet his eyes, sharp anxiety pierces my heart. I heard only the last words: – “Home …” Dad was waiting for me at the entrance to the cottage. He was late in the evening, and I still talked to him. He finally told me the long-memorable words: “I’ll show you mountains …” And you remember, Dad, our song. And once again, go to sleep together we sung the song we know: – Hello my friend, I have not seen you for so long. – Hello my little, time spent with you is always beautiful. – Tell me, friend, in your homeland, how is it? – Surely it’s different, as you know it from home … We sing together: – Come, I’ll show you mountains, and an eagle in the wind … – And I’ll show you tulip flowers, which are everywhere. – And then we will sing songs about longing and something more, about what I am doing when I am very joyful. – Hello, my friend. You know, sometimes I even dream of the moon … – Hello, my little one, you dream about him, because his light has been praised more than once and it was worth it. -Oh, that I was just as big today as adults … – And sometimes I want to make you wonder how it had been when I was a child – that I would be like an eagle in the wind. Together we repeat: – Come, I’ll show you mountains, – And I’ll show you tulip flowers, which are everywhere … And our exalted and joyful songs, we will sing always and everywhere.
(the story end)