#it was july 31st though

Tristan attends what he thinks is a typical day at school. He does something atypical and pays the price for it with his blood. A small scratch, but enough to leave a lasting impression.

~5400 words

Trampled paths carved through a thin layer of snow in two opposite directions, converging on an old, small schoolhouse. The wider, well-trodden path of footprints led between a pair of farms to a road that led eventually to the village proper a several miles off. The smaller path consisted of only one set of very large tracks, boot prints of an unusual size, that led to the small stream beside the school and back to the door. Tristan eyed his large tracks as he closed the schoolhouse door and hoped the midday sun might melt the snow enough to obscure them.

The school stood in that spot, by the thinnest part of the river, for a number of years. The most recent coat of paint faded on the building to a dull and muddy green, a project started and enacted after one of the older students tested a new magical mixture shortly before graduating to the capital’s college. The newest addition to the building a replacement window after one of the younger, more rambunctious of the students broke the glass with the tool brought from his father’s smithy.

Tristan backed away from the door and turned slowly, careful not to bump his large horns on the doorframe or any of the other students. The villager children paid him no mind, hanging their heavy woolen coats, hats, and other cold weather gear on the hooks in the mudroom. Stains marred the mudroom benches, the wood slightly bowed from years of harboring rain-slicked coats and melted snow. The floorboards creaked with every shift of weight, every step through the one-room schoolhouse. The whole building smelled faintly of smoke from the small firepit in the center of the main room and the aged wood of the old building.

Several of the girls seemed happy to see each other, giggling and shrieking with glee, leaning to whisper conspiratorially as they headed to their seats. Evelynn lead the group, fussing with her hair as they walked, making sure her ringlets survived the morning. Tristan noted that the group appeared smaller, but the little herd never had the same numbers, its members dependent on Evelynn’s whims.

The younger ones, the calves, moved awkwardly, as calves do, and climbed onto the benches to hang up their hats and scarves. Some preferred to stuff their things into the bins below the benches. After the removal of their hats, one of the calves became surrounded. Tristan just barely made out their young pronunciations of shock and amazement at the nubs protruding from the center one’s scalp. It would be several years for the nubs to turn into anything even resembling horns, but with the arrival of the nubs, that calf become the coolest and most mature among their little herd. He reflected on his brief moment of approval when his nubs arrived at a surprisingly young age. And struggled to forget the subsequent frustration and terror from his peers as the nubs grew larger and longer than normal at an alarming rate.

Tristan frowned and dropped off his gear on his half of the mudroom. Despite moving to the furthest corner of the mudroom, none ever dared cross beyond the door. This left the boys of the class to wait to remove their gear. Ladies first, as the manners say. And the calves have little sense of propriety. Having doffed his gear, Tristan gathered his materials for class, plus an ancient-looking leather journal.

“We didn’t think you’d make it today, Jorgus. Are you okay? What happened to your father?” Tristan’s ear perked up at the voice of one of the other boys.

“Doesn’t really concern you, does it, Seamus.” A thud sounded as Jorgus threw his bag down on the bench under his hook. The adolescent bull had yet to grow properly into his limbs, gangly and long, his shaggy ginger hair left to grow over his eyes.

Tristan turned and watched Seamus, a sturdy young bull with brown hair and a square jaw with the slightest bit of stubble, furrow his brow. “I’d think it concerns all of us! The attacks have been happening more often, yeah? And with all our grandparents-”

Jorgus spun and growled at the older bull. “Seamus, I said drop it.” The tan and white splotched young bull tilted his head pointedly to his little herd of younger brothers.

Four young calves of varying ages and colorings sported red and puffy eyes. The oldest of the group glared between the older bulls and moved into the schoolhouse’s room. The other two sniffled, the older of the pair grabbing the younger by the shoulder to lead him to their desks. The youngest’s shoulders lifted and jerked in the obvious signs of barely contained sobs.

Seamus watched the calves, then shared a look with the other boys in Jorgus’s usual group. “We’ll… catch up on the way home, then?” He did his best to sound optimistic.

Tristan watched the boys offer support and turn away one by one. The youngest, probably one of Jorgus’s brother’s friends, lingered, fussing with his pale splotchy fingers. Jorgus tilted his head down, the only indication on his shrouded face that he noticed the calf, and waited. A light thwack from another broke the calf’s resolve and he scurried through the room to his desk near the front. Jorgus started to turn back to removing his winter gear and caught Tristan’s prying eye. He sneered and tilted his horns at him. Tristan started and jerked back to his own preparations.

Part of him wished he could walk home with those boys, to make a group of friends and… do whatever friends do together. He wished he could talk about the orchard with them, about the plants along the path, about their crops, and the state of their land. He wanted to make friends his own age. But he knew how he looked, how they all looked more like his children than friends. Not just because of his incredible size, because as the older Lunars told him, those that heard the voices from beyond, he had aged far too quickly, gaining a few years in a few months as a babe. Blessed by the Spirits, they called it. He called it a curse.

He took the last bench at the table in the back left of the small open schoolhouse. This area in the back typically held the eldest students, the ones closer to the front reserved for the younger calves, or most in danger academically. He held the bench in the back for years simply due to his size, too large to sit anywhere else in the room. He might block the view of the other students was the official reason, but mostly he took up a desk and a half on a good day. He tried not to think of the bad days.

Unbidden, he remembered vividly the pain in his chest the day the girl he typically sat next to, perhaps eight at the time, had complained before class that he had crushed her hand when attempting to use his ink and bone splinter pen. He barely remembered swinging his arm out far enough to even touch her. The teacher had simply calmed the girl down and offered him the bench in the back. As he moved, he watched the girl’s best friend eagerly move up to take his seat with no objections from the teacher. He sat in the middle of the bench and spread out comfortably over the two-desk wide table. He felt his size for the first time and tears stung at his eyes. He looked up as Miss Shaunessy moved to the blackboard and continued with class, though not without offering an apologetic smile. That remained his table for the following seven years.

He enjoyed the space the longer table provided, a protoype desk for the others that had survived the years. In the early days of the schoolhouse, students normally shared one large desk, the top able to lift to reveal a compartment below. It eventually became deemed impractical, forcing the village’s carpenter to redesign the furniture for single use. Tristan preferred the width, able to hide plenty of things in his desk that the others had to keep in the mudroom, under their desks, or in the river’s banks.

The aging Taurus woman, the pale splotches covering more of her dark skin every year, walked down the center aisle of the classroom. Wrinkles threatened at the corners of her eyes, a few locks of silvery hair escaped from the hair buns under each horn. She assessed the youngest calves first and shot harsh glances to the group of gossiping girls as she walked by. She nodded a warm and silent “Good morning” to Tristan and turned back. At the head of the room once again, she smiled to the class and listed off her plans for lessons that day. Calves first, as their attention span dwindled as it grew toward lunch, then the higher education lessons for the older children.

“This morning will be the next chapter of history for the calves. After that, a bit of arithmetic as a class. After lunch, we will be going over the essays I assigned you last week, then we will work on our spells and rituals together before the end of the day.” Miss Shaunessy’s face pulled together slightly. “Please, please look over the essays of your friends and neighbors. Some of you are very good with prose and could stand to share your skills with others.”

No names, but she stared very pointedly at a few of the students on the other side of the room. A warm smile found Tristan, then an encouraging nod, all as she swung her attention back to the calves.

“All righty, little ones. Who can tell me what we went over yesterday?” A bright and happy smile took her face, her whole aura changing to matronly and polite.

As a calf, Tristan coveted her to act as his mother at home. When he brought the suggestion to his father, the bull fell into a melancholy. He remembered the oppressive silence that filled their small house for days afterwards, hating every tense and silent second. When his father finally broke the silence, he promised to tell Tristan more of his mother and encouraged him to seek out the journals and diaries she kept around the house. At his young age, Tristan did not understand all the words in the books he found. It became a nightly ritual to read the books together before bed, at least until he could read them on his own.

“We talked about the Bindings, Miss Shaunessy.” Aishling, Evelynn’s youngest sister and lookalike, waved a hand in the air.

“Very good Aishling!” Miss Shaunessy clapped and started to pace as she lectured. “A very brief recap: The Bindings are what led to our ancestors, the Unbound, starting to evolve and change into what we are today. The result of these changes came in the form of the separation of what we now call Constellations. All of us here are called Taurus. But there are eleven others. Can anyone tell me what the other eleven are?”

For the first few years, Tristan eagerly engaged in the lectures about history and the Constellations and whatever else the teacher taught. But as the years moved on, he grew tired of the same information. And then banished to the back of the room. After that, his interests became focused on a different kind of history.

As the drone of teacher and student buzzed into the back of Tristan’s ears, his mind drifted to the work left in the orchard. Wasps had moved into a section of the trees that he would need to discourage from the area. An increasingly common occurrence, but nothing difficult. Fruits and flowers had been scattered under a few trees, easy enough to clean up and add to the compost bin or salvage for his jams and jellies. He still had several jars to fill. It might behoove him to check if any of the fruits and nuts could stand to be harvested. With the shorter days of the season, he pondered how much light he would have to work with.

Old leather straps creaked under the strain of turning pages after so many years, the thin leather binding on the outside flopped open with a soft slap on the table. Tristan glanced up to find a few of the older students near him turn at the noise as they quietly “discussed” their papers. Their curiosity sated, they returned to their work. He focused his attention on the journal and the detailed diagrams with disproportionately scribbled but familiar handwriting.

The almanacs that littered his family’s home formed the physical connection between his father’s memories and his mother. Each one held notes in the margins, ink splotches, paints that bled through to the parchment beneath, and the same handwriting throughout. Their sister journals contained a language so old not even Miss Shaunessy recognized it, though his father understood a few phrases. His father always dodged questions on how he knew those phrases and Tristan learned to limit his curiosity to what remained in the text.

Thumbing absently through the pages, scanning the detailed diagrams as they passed, he paused on a page and studied the flora depicted. It had to be the flower that appeared at the edge of the grove a few days ago. He tugged a sheet of parchment out of his bundle and dipped his bone into the ink well on his desk to scribble the page number down.

At midday, Valerie, the village’s Postwatch, visited. Not a rare sight, as she seemed to be best friends with Miss Shaunessy, but the pair engaged in a bit of whispers. Miss Shaunessy’s normally warm and grounded cadence shook slightly as she encouraged the students to take lunch outside, the sun shining brightly for long enough to raise the temperature a few degrees. The class cheered and headed eagerly to the door. Tristan hesitated in the mudroom as the others filed out with their bundles and their herds. When no chuckles or insults found their way to him, he peeked outside and found the ground glistening with melted snow. He heaved a small sigh of relief, forced into a sharp exhale as Jorgus elbowed him out of the way. Tristan straightened up to allow the boy and his friends passage.

On his way to his things, Tristan caught sight of the Mayor’s daughter, Isolde, watching him from the other side of the mudroom. He furrowed his brow to her, a simple unspoken question. She stiffened, blushed, and turned back to her things to hastily throw her scarf over her head. It caught in her little female horns, the movement too fast or the girl still not used to her horns’ length. The flush moved to her ears as she untangled the knitted muffler to drape around her neck. He chuckled quietly, despite himself, as she hurried outside with her wrapped bundle of food. Tristan returned to his desk to eat his salad in peaceful loneliness.

The calves normally spent the afternoon free to play outside as the older students took their lessons, but Miss Shaunessy provided them with some harder math problems to focus on, a topic to discuss amongst themselves, and permission to borrow a few of the easier books from the bookshelf in the closet. She had to approve it, of course, but they all had to remain inside. While the calves groaned, the older students shrugged it off easily enough, distracted by their own lessons.

Dismissal marked an explosion of relief among the students as they darted from their desks and gathered their things. Today, however, the girls from that morning gathered together to whisper again, pointing to Jorgus occasionally. Tristan slowly gathered his books and papers and lifted his inkwell to stopper it.

“I told you to drop it!” Jorgus’s voice filled the small building, startling and quieting the girls for a moment.

Seamus and the herd of boys, all friends of the Jones brothers, shrunk away from their friend’s outburst. Tristan looked down to his desk, dotted with splatter from his inkwell, made by his jump at Jorgus’s shout, and pressed the stopper in. A bin under the bench in the mudroom held the spare cloths to clean spills with. He lifted his eyes back to the scene as the girls’ whispers grew again. Jorgus unceremoniously scooped up his things before Miss Shaunessy could approach him.

Seamus and the herd followed Jorgus and his brothers to the mudroom. Tristan rounded the wall that separated his desk from the mudroom and crouched down to seek the box of throwaway cloth under the bench.

“Oh, and students! Please do not forget to travel in a herd as you head directly home.” A few of the students groaned. “I’m just telling you what I’ve been told, sweetings. They also emphasized not being out after dark. Winter has shorter periods of sun, which means you will have less time to dally. And there is always safety in numbers.” Miss Shaunessy sauntered the length of the classroom as she spoke to fix Jorgus with a particularly intense gaze. He sneered. She turned around and caught sight of Tristan. “Oh, Tristan, I noticed you weren’t paying very close attention during lectures today. Did you need help with anything I covered?”

Heat found Tristan’s cheeks. Miss Shaunessy noticed far more than he gave her credit for. He rarely gave her anything to pay attention to, after all. He shook his head in answer and grabbed a cloth stained with spots of paint and ink from the scrap bin. He brandished the cloth at her with a hopefully gentle smile by way of explanation.

As he stretched to his full height, she leaned back slightly to keep her eyes on his, but she did not show any fear. She merely smiled back and patted his arm. She shifted out of his way and walked with him the few steps back to his desk. A small gasp drew his attention. “You don’t have anyone to head home with, do you, dear?”

He shook his head absently as he cleaned off his desk. A silly question.

A soft yet wrinkled hand lifted to tap her fingers against her chin. “You do live alone on the other side of those woods…” She paused, her eyes darting through her thoughts before focusing on him again. “Would you like me to go ask for an escort for you from town?”

His expression darkened immediately with all the heavy and unhealthy thoughts his father attempted desperately to cleanse him of. She pulled back slightly, eyes wide, and he tempered his reaction to a gentle shake of his head.

An uneasy smile crossed her face. “No, I suppose you’re big enough to handle most things on your own. But you’re still just a boy, despite outward appearances. I just want to make sure you’re taken care of, is all.”

His breath hitched.

“You mean someone was attacked last night!?” A brown-haired girl with the smallest horns in the group lifted her fist to her chin, brow knit with concern.

Evelynn, the ringleader of the girls and owner of the largest horns, nodded as she made her way to the mudroom. “Isn’t it just awful? And the attacks are getting more frequent. That’s why they want us to walk in herds now.” She gestured to a pair of girls, both younger, as they scrambled for their things. “You heard that right, calves?”

The two girls, Flora and Aishling, chorused a “Yes, sissy!” and proceeded to haphazardly don their layers of clothing. The youngest children moved quickly, faster than their teenage counterparts, thanks to the small growths on their heads not yet formed into horns. Evelynn rolled her eyes and continued on to her hook to don her own set of weather gear. Miss Shaunessy smiled absently at the children and patted Tristan on the arm before wandering back toward her desk.

“But my father told me it was-“ Evelynn glanced at the group of boys across the mudroom and whispered loud enough for them to hear. “-Branach Jones that was attacked last night.” The girls shared a gasp with varying reactions of surprise. “Jorgus’s father-”

“You keep my family’s name out of your dirty mouth, Evelynn!” Jorgus burst through his group of friends, finger pointed sharply at the pale, splotchy ringleader of the gossipers.

Miss Shaunessy stopped in the middle of the building by the firepit. She shared a look with Isolde still at her desk as she turned to the commotion. Tristan dropped the rag on his desk and moved into the mudroom. He had no intention of intervening, but his size intimidated most folk, forcing cool heads to arguments.

Evelynn swatted his hand away as she crossed her arms, big brown eyes glaring daggers into him. Her friends and sisters fanned out around her to cross their arms at Jorgus, though not all of them had their heart in it. One girl stayed behind, the brown-haired one, and glanced at Tristan.

Jorgus narrowed his dark eyes at Evelynn, his head tilted to brandish his longer and sharper horns at the girls. His friends, too surprised at his actions, hesitated before stepping in beside their friend to brandish their horns, smaller than Jorgus’s but still as harmful if used properly. Though the youngest Joneses did not involve themselves in the standoff, their friends brandished their nubs as well, eyeing the older bulls for correctness.

Evelynn did not appear fazed, though the tremble of her voice betrayed her. “My father told me that yours was injured last night while they were hunting. He said they had to take him to the doctor because his injuries were so severe.”

All the posturing broke. Whispers of “The Doctor?” moved through both groups, each losing their members to gossip, conjecture, and fear.

“He’s fine. He’ll be home by dinner tonight and tomorrow we’ll work on tilling the land.” Jorgus cracked his neck.

Evelynn’s lip curled. “I’m sure the Doctor will also finally let the Lunars go home, too? I haven’t seen my Mamó in so long. But I guess if you say so, it has to be true. But, then again, your family has been saying every harvest will be their biggest yet. Until counting day comes and you show up with barely a cartload.” She grinned, confident in her victory.

Jorgus tilted his head the other way, alone in his threats. “The doctor told me himself that Pa would be back by tonight.”

Miss Shaunessy stepped slowly down the center aisle toward the two little herds of teens. She caught Tristan’s eye and nodded at him to step down. He lowered his shoulders and stepped back a bit, but remained ready in case Jorgus made the wrong decision.

Just as Miss Shaunessy entered the mudroom, the energy between the herds changed. Evelynn rolled her eyes. “Whatever. Young bulls and their posturing.” She grabbed her things and stormed out the door into the chilly winter air. “Come on, girls!”

Most of the girls shot hateful looks as they grabbed their things quickly to follow Evelynn. Maeve, the brown-haired one, moved slowly to grab her things and hesitated at the door. Jorgus relaxed slightly and straightened his head to glare at her. Maeve squeaked and disappeared through the door.

Jorgus growled and stalked back to his desk. His small herd of friends and brothers stayed in the entrance and moved to begin dressing in their jackets and scarves. Isolde hesitated, but returned to packing up her things. Miss Shaunessy heaved a small sigh and trotted down the center aisle back to her desk.

Tristan furrowed his brow. Only Miss Shaunessy, Jorgus, and Isolde remained in the schoolhouse building. He hoped, despite his own solitude, that Jorgus or Isolde had a group to walk home with. Especially if the monster sightings proved to be true. He hoped that Jorgus’s father recovered and that Evelynn’s gossip proved to be only that. But in the case that Tristan’s hope had no basis in reality, he knew the only tangible thing to do. He knew the only thing he wanted his whole life.

“Uh, hey, Jorgus.” Tristan lifted a large hand to wave awkwardly to the young man.

Jorgus jumped at Tristan’s low timbre and backed away, eyeing him up and down as he jammed a few scraps of paper in his bag. “What do you want, cull bait?”

Tristan’s brow furrowed despite being used to the insult. “I just… uh, wanted t-to tell you that… um, I-I’m sorry about your father. I know how… how difficult it is to-to worry about your f-father and, uh… I guess you’re the-the man of the house while he’s injured. A-and at least you still have your-your mother and your little siblings-“

Jorgus’s mouth lifted in disgust as Tristan rambled, his cheeks lifted to squeeze his eyes into narrow slits, his brow furrowed. “What are you rambling about?” He thrust the last of his items into his satchel.

Tristan lifted a hand to the shaft of his horn to grip it and rub absently, a habit from when they had hurt growing in. “If… If you need any help-“

Jorgus spun on the larger boy. “Help!? From you?” He dropped his satchel on the desk. “I can’t believe you haven’t gotten it through that thick skull of yours that nobody even wants you here.” He scoffed. “We’d want your ‘help’ even less.”

Isolde tightened the leather strap on her stack of books and papers. “Jorgus-“

Jorgus shook his head and turned to her, poking a finger at her face. “No, not even from you. Mayor’s daughter, as if that excludes you from suffering just like the rest of us.” Something imperceptible crossed Isolde’s face. “I heard your father is sick. From that plague. The one from before. That it’s coming back.” He looked back to Tristan. “I also heard it’s your fault. You and that foreigner father of yours. Your mother knew about it and cast a spell to protect your land, but nobody else’s. That’s why you’re safe. And we’re not.”

Tristan’s arms quivered. He shouldn’t have said anything. He should’ve just gone home, alone, like he did every night. He closed his eyes and gripped his horn tighter, his other arm lifted to cover his torso. He should disappear.

“And then you have the nerve! You continue living here, coming to this school, as if you have any right!” Jorgus tilted his head down to brandish his horns again. “You and your father should be driven out of town!”

A sharp pain on his arm startled Tristan. Blood blossomed on the sleeve over his torso.

“Tristan!” Miss Shaunessy bolted for the scrap fabric Tristan left on his desk.

Jorgus, stunned, raised a hand to touch his horn. It came back red. He shook his head, he muttered something, and grabbed his satchel. Isolde hurried around the desks and stumbled as Jorgus pushed past her to run from the building.

“Come here, poor child.” Miss Shaunessy pressed the fabric to Tristan’s arm. “That boy… He may be a handful but ever since his horns grew out the way they did…” She looked to Tristan’s face. “Don’t take it too personally. Like you said, he’s having a rough go of it. It was nice of you to try to connect with him and offer to help out.”

Isolde hovered by the edge of the row. Tristan looked to her, chest empty. He never should’ve tried. He knew what the town thought of him and his father. He knew better. Tears welled in his eyes and he pressed his hand to the cloth. Miss Shaunessy released him with the promise of salves or something, but Tristan had to get out. He had to go home.

He moved back to his desk and found Isolde holding his satchel, all packed and tied and ready. He barely registered the act, how she had moved so fast, and accepted his bag. He dropped the fabric and satchel to slip into his weather gear. A stray thought reminded him to be careful of the wound bleeding onto his jacket as he only had the one. He growled. All because the town hated him. All because of a stupid rumor.

He grabbed his bag and ripped the door open. A few groups of kids lingered and chatted as they headed back toward the village. Jorgus’s brothers and their herd had waited for him, despite his protestations, and crowded him to point at his bloodied horn.

Tristan’s blood. He stomped down the short stairs. “All I wanted was to help, Jorgus Jones!”

Jorgus spun around at the voice. Terror pulled at his features at the massive bulk of Tristan charging toward him. He whipped back around and moved swiftly for the path that led back to town.

Tristan growled. He wanted to stop him, to make him understand, to hold him responsible for injuring him. So many emotions threatened to split him open. “Everyone should be allowed to help each other! We’re a community! That’s what it means to be a community!” In his frustration, he looked to the rest of the students that have lingered to gawk.

A loud thud drew everyone’s attention. All eyes turned to Jorgus, groaning on the ground, a large root split through the soil at his feet. He writhed a bit and got to his hands and knees. A shrill chuckle came from further up the path. Tristan caught Evelynn through the blur of his tears, hand in front of her mouth, as she laughed at the unfortunate bull. The rest of her group chuckled, one by one, with varying degrees of mirth. The laughter spread through the rest of the students, including Jorgus’s little herd, even his brothers. He grunted as he stood and bolted down the path, past Evelynn and her friends.

Tristan sniffed and continued to wipe his face, the cold winter air unpleasant on the slight moisture around his eyes. He slipped his satchel over his shoulder and checked the sleeve of his coat. A chill wind whipped past him and his hands hurt. He left his other accessories in the building. He turned around to head back inside and almost bowled over Isolde.

“Oh! Excuse me, Tristan.” She smiled brightly to him, in an uncomfortable way he could not place.

He barely nodded and attempted to move past her.

She gently placed a hand on his arm. He froze, eyes on the contact. He recognized her mitten, knitted by his father some winters ago and sold by the village seamstress Ciara. His brow furrowed. Her other mitten lifted to offer him his forgotten accessories; mittens similar to hers, a long scarf knitted by his father with a less intricate design, and a warm knitted cap that he tied around his horns. He muttered a thank you and dropped his sack on the ground to don the accessories.

She held his items as he donned them individually. “I agree with you, by the way.” He lifted his wet eyes to her. “We should be allowed to help each other, as a community. I think it’s just awful that we are so discriminatory to those that are sick and injured. Or who have been in the past.”

He nodded absently. Paranoia and fear shook his fingers. He looked up to the rest of the students, those that lingered, and found hateful glares. Isolde, the mayor’s daughter, held high regard among the town, high enough that even her father’s illness did not dull her priority among them. To find her speaking to him? He snatched his scarf and easily tossed it over his horns to drape from his shoulders.

Before she could continue, he hurriedly wandered away from her, down the path to the thick row of trees that separated his orchard from the school. He barely heard Isolde sputter after him, the crunch of dead plantlife under her boots with a few steps. He heard the whispers of the other students, however, and quickened his step. He should know better. And so should Isolde.