Master. Henry Lion Oldie

      Henry Lion Oldie

      Master

      "The Great Square has no angles"

      Sprained ligaments vibrated under Master’s careful fingers; he worked until the man, lying on a rough wooden bench, groaned and opened his eyes.

      When seeing the gloomy, bearded face bent over him, the man shuddered convulsively and closed his eyes again.

      "Don't be afraid,” said Master. “The day's over. It's evening now. Don't be afraid and lie still."

      He was not used to talking in long phrases, and it cost him a lot of effort.

      "You, torturer…" the man muttered.

      "Yes, I am,” He agreed. “And a master."

      "A master…" It looked like the man tasted the word with his swollen tongue. The word was absolutely out of place here in a small hall with within blackened walls, low ceiling, massive door and no windows.

      "Tomorrow you will get whipped,” Master warned. “Hang quiet, don't strain yourself. And scream. It will be easier for you."

      "You are going to kill me," cold indifference sounded in the man's voice.

      "No, I'm not. Not tomorrow, anyway."

      ‘I'm talking too much,’ he thought. ‘Maybe I’m growing old…’

      The man moved his shoulder, which Master had set in its place, first with caution, then with more confidence.

      "Master…" the man whispered, following the stooping figure, which disappeared at the doorway, with his eyes.

      The next day he got whipped.

      A stocky, sullen youth knelt before a metal tank filled with sand; he methodically punched it with his hands, his fingers wide apart. The sand was damp and caked, and there were pebbles and rusty fragments of metal in it; the youth's fingers were cut all over and bleeding.

      Master stood behind him, as the apprentice rocked back and forth, and watched the regular rhythmic movements for some time.

      "Don't tense up your shoulder,” He said. “And bypass the stones."

      "Oh yeah, bypass,” the youth muttered, while raising his arms for the next blow. “Easy to say… Those damned stones, there are too many of them, like in a…"

      Master pushed the frowning lad aside and thrust his hand into the sand with a subtle and well-measured movement. The tank vibrated. When his hand appeared out of the sand, there was a little pebble pressed between his little finger and his palm.

      "Easy indeed,” He agreed. “To say it’s easy. Now, the sword."

      They walked to the far corner of the yard where two swords were thrust into an oak log. One sword was huge, almost of a man's height; its cross-like hilt was one third of its full length and filled with lead to balance the massive dim blade, with a deep and wide groove. The second sword was a smaller copy of the first one.

      Master pulled the large sword out of the log and with unexpected dexterity raised it over his head. Silently the weapon cut the air and a fresh notch appeared on the pole dug into the ground beside the fence.

      "Two inches higher," He said.

      The youth swung the sword. The upper end of the pole fell down. Master eyed the distance from the cut with drops of resin on it to the notch.

      "It's two and a half,” He looked at the youth who was rather upset by his failure. “Don't tense your shoulder!" He slashed at the pole with his sword, without turning towards it. The extra half of an inch fell to the apprentice’s feet.