"One, two, three! Again!"
"One, two, three! Again!"
"One, two—"
"Ow! That hurt!" I cried.
Viktor had struck my back hard with the sword's handle before finishing his move.
"What is it, Ivan?" Master Bianchi knelt before me, oblivious to my brother's fiendish scheme.
I remained silent.
"It hurts because you're weak!" Viktor said.
"I am not weak!" I whined, and then I pushed him. His face lit up with anger as he landed on the ground and his eyes gleamed with astonishment. He had not believed I had it in me to fight back – nor did I, for that matter. Not until then.
Viktor growled. He got on his feet quick and lunged at me like a wild beast. My limbs turned into stone.
Seconds later, I lay on a heap of dirt with my brother on top of me. He grabbed me by the shirt's collar and pulled me close to his reddened face.
"You'll pay for this, Ivan!" he said.
The smile on my face was inevitable. Viktor was taller and stronger. The odds were against me, but for a moment, I glimpsed the possibility of defeating him. And this chance –no matter how remote—made me happy.
I would have found out how the game would end, had Master Bianchi not intervened and all but dragged my brother away. Their figures diminished in the distance as Viktor's slithering heels left a trail on the dirt pavement leading straight to the house.
I laughed. I laughed so hard it hurt my belly. At nine years old, this had been the highlight of my brief life.
For the first time, I had stood up to Viktor. He was thirteen years old. And even though my rebellion had been small and unimportant, it filled my heart with pride after years of tolerating his abuse.
I was the youngest of eight children. Five of my brothers died before the age of ten –either from disease or tragedy—thus making Viktor the eldest son. Two years later came my sister Alisa, and a year after that my brother Anton but he died minutes after being born.
A year passed before I sprung into the world.
Being the eldest son, my parents regarded Viktor's future with nothing but the highest hopes. It was expected he would make an advantageous marriage since Father was a man of respectable wealth and Viktor a handsome charismatic young man.
Viktor's strength and quick wit overshadowed the darker side of his mischievous personality. He was tall, blond-haired and had Father's piercing deep-blue eyes.
Alisa and I took after Mother's looks, both of us with pitch-black hair, large eyes, and delicate nose. She had deep-blue eyes and finer lips, whereas I inherited Mother's green eyes and fuller lips. Our mother was Russian, and Father was an English tradesman.
I would very much like to fall into historical details of their romance –if indeed, there was one—but I am afraid I know not how they met or why they chose to marry and raise their family in British lands.
But back to Viktor and his dirt trail.
I followed my brother's footmarks to our house.
We lived in a small town a few miles outside of Bristol. Father's business was successful and we wanted for nothing.
We had a more than suitable home with vast lands to hunt and play. Servants took care of our every need. Tutors instructed us in geography, arithmetic's, and taught us to read and write Latin and Greek upon my father's insistence.
Mother cared little for our academic instruction.
"Nothing can prepare you for life. No matter how much you strive for its conquest, it will always strike you on the face," was one of Mother's favorite sayings, and I think she said it often because she knew it drove my father mad.
And then, of course, there was Master Bianchi. The Italian Master Swordsman who instructed us in fencing now brought my brother back into our house, vociferating loud Italian words I could only assume were meant as scolding.
The rose bushes lining the entrance were moist under my fingers. I snapped a pink rosebud and carried it in my hand.
I stepped inside.
The muselar's spiraling melody swirled in the air. Alisa practiced before it as she did every single day. And even though she excelled in the instrument's execution, I had listened to that song for weeks and I wished she would learn it already and move on to another piece.
I slipped the rosebud on the muselar's cover and watched her play.
Her musical repertoire was a vast one, though why she obsessed with that particular melody, remained a mystery to me.
"Play something else, Alisa..." Mother said as she headed downstairs. "I beg of you, child!"
So Mother had enough of it too, had she?
The clanking noise of pots blended with Alisa's scaling melody as Cook rallied in the kitchen with one of the servants.
"Come 'ere you stupid girl! You best tell me where you hid that cheese... or else!"
"What cheese?! I know nothing of no cheese!"
"What is all that noise?" Mother passed me by quick. "I will not allow such behavior in my house!"
The soft fabric of her skirt brushed my arm and pulled me away from my abstraction. She headed to the kitchen to settle the dispute.
The harpsichord's cascading notes faded behind me as I approached the parlor, and Master Bianchi's voice filtered into my curious ears. I did not dare enter without Father's permission, so I remained behind the door and peered inside through its crevice.
"What now, Master Bianchi? I have pressing matters to attend and must be off to Bristol immediately," Father said. "Those damned slave traders demand the use of my ships for their detestable dealings...I will not have it! So if the issue can wait—"
"This cannot wait, Mr. Lockhart. Viktor must be disciplined! I will not abide such dishonorable conduct. The boy must learn that true courage lies within honesty in battle!"
Father gave a short laugh of amusement.
"Nonsense, Master Bianchi," he argued. "If there is anything lacking in all battles it is precisely that: honesty. Viktor is smart enough to seize every opportunity. He must take the advantage and win, always win!"
Father laughed, delighted by Viktor's shrewdness. He moved towards him and patted his head with a forgiving gesture while he smiled.
Master Bianchi's head hung low for an instant as he pondered his following words.
"Then I am afraid I can no longer instruct your children."
My eyes widened as I stood still in my lurking spot. Master Bianchi could not leave! This was my fault. Had I kept my hands off Viktor none of this would be happening!
Before I had any time to devise a plan to stop this madness, Master Bianchi opened the door. I took a few steps back as I stared at his towering figure, unable to restrain my astonishment. My lips parted but no sound came through.
He closed the door behind him and gazed upon my innocent prying eyes. He knelt before me and held my shoulder. "Heed to my advice, Ivan," he whispered. "Take care of your heart, little one. It is much too pure, and tainted hearts will always claim advantage over yours. You must sharpen your senses from now on."
He patted my back and left.
My mind went blank, numbed. My young brain could not fathom the extent of this loss. And once again, I turned into stone. But this time, it was not out of fear. It paralyzed me to realize Master Bianchi's absence would change everything. Its repercussion in my life remained a mystery.
The door creaked as it opened once more.
Viktor came out of the parlor with his chin up and an air of triumph. He passed by my side and shoved me against the wall, and only then did he lay eyes upon me.
"Tick-tock, little brother," he taunted. "Tick-tock..."
Tick-tock.
Viktor made use of those words to remind me that my days were numbered. Since five of my brothers had perished before reaching ten years of age, what was to make my case any different? This knowledge frightened me enough, without my brother's bothersome hints.
"Your time is running out, Ivan." He sneered and went upstairs.
I believed Viktor's prescient words as if they were Holy Scripture.
Far from lowering my spirits, such awareness instigated my passion for life. It drove me to perilous lengths to experience what life had to offer to an adventurous boy such as me.
The crackling sounds of crumbling firewood lured me to the kitchen. Mother sat before the oak table; her gaze fixed on Cook without an ounce of expression.
She was a woman for whom discipline remained the motherly language of love. Detached and calculating, she single-handedly ran the entire household and even took care of Father's business whenever he went abroad on one of his trading expeditions.
Her analytic green eyes narrowed as she stared at the pantry's wooden door.
"... Master Bianchi left," I mused. "He's not coming back." Mother showed no reaction to my words.
"He did it again, did he?" she mused while opening the pantry's door and looking inside. "Viktor cheated."
"Yes. He did." I grabbed a loaf of bread, warm and soft as it came out of the oven smoking hot. I broke it in half with my small dirty fingers and sunk my nose deep into it before taking a bite.
Mother said nothing of my bold deed, not a word of reprimand, which seemed odd at the time but I didn't make too much of it.
"I stood up to him," I mumbled with my mouth full, proud of my small accomplishment.
She closed the pantry's door and turned back. Mother locked her eyes into mine, cold and expressionless. "Good," she said and carried on checking drawers and boxes of food. Cook seemed quite upset at her perusing about in the kitchen, nevertheless, she remained silent.
"He said he would make me pay, but it doesn't matter. I'll be dead soon, either way." I said with an air of indolence as I sat on Cook's favorite work chair, my feet dangled in the air.
Cook's eyes almost popped out of their sockets as she heard me say those words. She opened her mouth and was about to intervene when Mother gave her a compelling gaze, urging her to abstain from offering any input.
"Leave us," she said with a commanding tone of voice. Cook went to the back door, both hands wet, wrinkling her apron with much haste on her way outside.
Mother sat on a stool beside me. She dipped the white linen in her hands into a pot of hot water and wrung out the piece of cloth until it turned almost dry. She held my hands, and this warm gesture overwhelmed me because seldom had I witnessed such heartfelt care coming from her for me or any of my brothers.
She wrapped my hands with the warm linen and cleared the dirt from them, first the palms and then she moved to my fingers.
"If I know anyone in this world who can beat death, it is you."
Her words shocked me.
"Me?" I said. "Why do you say that?"
"Because..., you have done it so many times," she whispered.
This priceless moment of intimacy with my mother I would forever cherish; however, I had no clue what she meant with those words. And if her aim had been placed on confusing me by them, she had managed it quite well.
"You were too young, Ivan... but I remember." She folded the piece of cloth and put it away. Mother's hands landed on her knees and she returned to her composed and detached demeanor.
"The first time it happened, you were but six months old," she said. "Your brother Viktor carried you outside to play, he later returned home, leaving you behind.
"By the time I realized your absence, two hours had passed and it was nightfall. I had little hope of finding you alive. I prepared myself for the worst." She stopped and lost her gaze in the hearth.
A bit of Mother's suffering surfaced as she confronted the loss of her children. However devastating it must have been for her, she showed but very little of her pain.
"As darkness grew deep, I almost gave up my search. But then, you cried, loud enough for me to find you. Your tiny body trembled over a heap of snow, under a tree. I took you in my arms and you fell asleep."
"I was a baby," I shrugged off.
"Yes, you were. And you knew exactly when to call for me. Make no mistake believing otherwise... your cry saved your life, Ivan," she said while raising her brow.
Mother's story amazed me, then. And at the same time, it appalled me to learn my life had been in hands of my brother at such a tender age. No wonder my other brothers had met their end prematurely, perhaps by Viktor's own doing? I entertained the idea for a brief moment but knew it was untrue. My brothers had died of disease and at childbirth –or so I had been told.
"It happened again when you were three years old. That wretched cat that belonged to Cook, Ms. Claw, she got stuck between the balcony's railings. You came to her rescue, but the creature fought through every minute, scratching and biting your small arms. By the time you set her free, Ms. Claw charged against you and you stepped back, falling from the balcony several feet down until you hit the garden.
"I found you, bruised, your head bleeding. I carried you to the kitchen, unconscious. With my heart constrained in worry, I cleaned your wounds, thinking I had lost you for certain. But then, you opened your eyes and stared into mine, and you giggled. In time, your wounds healed, Ms. Claw went away for good, and nothing more came from that terrible accident, no complications from such a blow to your head... or so I believed," she said with a hint of mischief.
I broke into laughter and my mother joined in with a quiet laugh. I had never seen her laugh; she was beautiful.
"I can't believe it! I don't remember a thing!"
"Of course, you do not. But this you might recall. Three years ago, the blood moon?" She raised her brow. "Against my warning, you decided to leave the house at midnight because you wanted to see the blood moon... and what happened then?"
I pressed my lips and lowered my chin. My young brain retained that vivid memory.
"The wolf...," I mused.
"The wolf," she repeated with a knowing smile. "Your stubbornness prompt you into the woods, alone..."
"I wandered far inside. A branch cracked behind me and when I turned... there it was."
"Standing inches away from you, and yet it did not touch you," she rubbed my nose with her finger. "When that was over, you ran into the house making such noise that I caught you quick and punished you right then!"
I remembered the wolf. I remembered staring into its fierce blue eyes, so close I could almost touch him... The possibility of this encounter was rather slim, for wolves had become almost extinct, which made this moment even more precious.
The white-furred beast ran away before my bold fingers ever reached him, and I returned home running –not out of fear, but excited beyond belief! My joy had been such that I had forgotten everything about Mother's rules.
"So you see Ivan, you have engaged death more than once. And you have won every time."
I smiled. Her words granted me a strange sense of relief.
"You needn't worry my son," she added. "Let Death be the one to worry about you."
I wanted to believe Mother's words were true, that perhaps when the time came, I could cheat death after all.
Saint Stephen's Church surged in the distance. Its imposing bell tower stretched high above Bristol's crowded buildings as I followed Father's steps on the quay.
It was my first time in the city, and the sight of many sailboats filled my hungry eyes with endless possibilities of adventure.
Tales of new lands and discoveries of chests of gold dwelled in my mind as I saw those sails flying with the wind's fury. I fancied myself boarding one of those vessels, navigating deep into the Caribbean seas, battling naval wars for treasure and coming out victorious from those combats. And in those stories, I was always the pirate.
"Keep up, Ivan!"
"I'm coming, Father!"
The stench of sweat and wood and oils lingered in the air.
The reason for our journey revolved around Father's business, naturally; but also, his intentions were set on Viktor's introduction to his affairs. Father wanted him to learn his trade quick and expected he would soon take charge of his dealings in the trading of fish, butter, and cheese.
My presence in this trip had been Mother's design. She knew that stories of pirates and sailing across the raging sea in search of glory flourished in my imagination... not the makings of a prodigal businessman, I am afraid.
"Go with them, Ivan." She had told me as we said our goodbyes at the doorway.
"But I want to stay," I argued.
"A larger world lies beyond this little town... " she whispered. And knowing I cared nothing for trades, exports and such, she hinted the one thing that was sure to persuade me. "There might be pirates on the quay... It could be dangerous."
I accepted immediately.
And here I was.
While Father and Viktor took turns reviewing the ship's inventory, I spoke to an old sailorman. I badgered him with questions, and he allowed my inquiry much leniency, perhaps knowing I was his Master's youngest son.
"Have you traveled far, old man?" I asked.
"...Farther than you, lad. That's for certain," he mumbled as he fixed his boots.
"Have you been to the New World?"
"Aye, many times."
"I want to go too..."
"Well, what yer waiting for, laddie? Hop on, yer old enough!"
The man turned and fixed his brown eyes on me. With a tilt of his head, he showed me the deep scar spread across half his face. Frightened at the sight of it, I stepped back.
"That is enough, Gallagher..." Father said. "Come on boy, we're leaving."
He grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the quay, but I stared back and saw the old man wave his goodbyes as my father all but dragged me further away from the platform.
I jumped into the carriage. Viktor was already inside, fast asleep.
Father removed his hat, stepped inside the coach, and sat before me. He tapped the roof and the carriage began to move. And so our journey back home began.
I drew back the curtain and saw Bristol's towers fade behind us.
"Father?" I mused.
"Yes?"
"Can I be a pirate?"
"You most certainly cannot be a pirate!" he said. "Is that what Gallagher filled your head with? I will hear no more of it, Ivan."
"Yes, sir."
Father took out two apples from his jacket and tossed one to me. He half smiled. I took one hard bite at my piece of fruit and peered through the carriage's window once more.
"Father?"
"Yes, Ivan..."
"Am I going to die next Saturday, when I turn ten years old?" I asked.
He raised his brow in wonder; perhaps startled by the talk of death coming from someone so young.
"Why on earth do you say that?"
"My brothers died before then," I added while tilting my head and giving him a knowing gaze.
"I will tell you one thing, Ivan. Your brothers died because they were weak. Nature chose to pluck them off this good Earth for a reason, and that reason was that they lacked the strength of character and fortitude to face the harsh world we live in."
And there it was. Father's concept of natural selection applied to his offspring.
Of course, at the time, I could not quite understand what he meant by those words. But I pretended to, nonetheless.
"So the answer to your question is another question, son. Do you have what it takes to keep living? Are you strong as your brother Viktor or are you weak as Anton, or any of your other deceased brothers?"
His answer shook the floor beneath my feet.
I knew Father thought me weak because I wept when faced with Viktor's abusive schemes. I had only decided to stop tolerating his mistreatment a few months ago –since I was about to turn ten years old and die, anyway.
Then the dreaded day came.
I turned ten years old.
Nothing happened.
The following day, I counted myself as a survivor. And once it became clear to me that lightning would not strike me on my birthday –or any other day soon—the most liberating sense of power overcame me.
As years passed, my gripping fear of dying vanished little by little. I realized death would not chase me down the street when I least expected it to come –or at least this notion concerned me less as I grew up. Life offered too many beautiful distractions for someone as curious as me; they left little time to ponder about my defiant nature against premature death.