Chapter 4 - A Smile, and Broken Stone

Ato laid in the bird coop, his small body sinking into the bed of blankets and hay that was usually occupied by their dog. On his chest sat a choco hen, its fat round body vibrating with soft and low warbles as Ato petted its back absentmindedly, his face a mess of cold tears and snot. He stared at the roof of the coop, feeling the quiet hum of notes coming from wooden logs and planks. Ato closed his eyes. From out in the fields, he sensed The Song: many notes, from little things that skittered and crept, and larger things that walked among the brush. And below it, so loud that it almost drowned out everything else, was a great big note from the grass itself. Ato's face twisted, almost as if in pain. He felt his throat close again.

"Ato?" Ato's eyes opened, and he tried his best to stop his sobbing. "...Yes, apa?"

"I made dinner, Ato-ti. There is some meat, if you'd like." Ato could not remember the last time he'd had meat: such a meal was usually reserved for holidays, or the aftermath of a big hunt. On any other day, he would have rejoiced. And yet, he could not find the strength to rise from his bed: at every thrum or whistle from the world, he found himself sinking further into the hay.

"Apologies, apa… I do not feel hungry." A moment of silence followed, before Ato heard the footsteps of his father as he approached into the dark interior of the coop. He felt a warm hand on his forehead, a thumb stroking his brow.

"You do not have anything to apologize for, Ato-ti: if there is one thing we are owed, it is the right to feel. But, every day, we must still rise, for those around us, and for ourselves." Ato sniffled, his eyes opening to see his father's usual tired smile. "Your body is owed food. Now—I can bring you your dinner here, and we can eat with the chocos, or we can eat in the house. Whatever you choose, I will not judge." Ato stared up at the ceiling once again. Gingerly, he moved the cooing hen from his chest and sat up, grabbing his father's hand.

"I...think I can go inside now, apa."

Ato's father smiled a tiny bit wider. "Let us go then."

It was as they both exited the coop, that they found the large figure of the old warrior standing in front of their home's door. He turned towards them, his hand extended to knock, a sheepish smile on his face. "Greetings, Palio." Ato looked towards his father, seeing the look of confusion, mixed with fatigue, cross his features.

"...Hello, honored one. What brings you to our home?"

Kenri moved a hand to scratch his head nervously. "I apologize to come at such a time... but I must ask to speak, if you and the little one would allow it." Ato looked at the warrior, and noticed the long white bundle of fabric strung to his back. His breath caught in his throat. He stared at the bundle, his chest empty, his breathing still. Deep inside, Ato felt something foolish, hopeful, begin to bloom. Ato nodded at his father, who, after some hesitation, motioned for the old warrior to enter.

If the warrior had seemed like a giant when they had been in front of the tree, he seemed like something altogether more colossal within their small clay hut. He sat on a mat on the other side of their table, his vast frame seeming to fill a third of the room, his expression uncharacteristically awkward as his gaze switched from Ato's father to Ato. "Honored one...erm...may I ask what business you have?"

The man looked at Ato's father, sitting next to Ato. "I...would like to propose something to you both, if you would be interested."

"...May I ask what it is?"

The warrior hesitated, his eyes slipping towards the low table between them before meeting his father's. "I would like to test Ato...to see if he may be a warrior's apprentice." Ato's eyes widened. Once again, he was breathless. Between Ato's father and the man, there hung a silence.

"No." Ato felt his heart drop. He looked at his father, whose face was one of stone. Ato could not read him, but he knew what that expression meant. If he had been a different child, he might have protested.

The warrior looked at Ato, then turned to his father. "I believe...your son may have—"

"No."

Finally, Ato could not stand it. "Apa—"

Ato's father turned to him. His face was different now, it betrayed an emotion Ato had rarely seen: anger. "Ato. I am your father, and until you are of age, you will listen to me. I say no, and it is final. We shall not speak of this again."

Ato looked from his father, who stared at him with unusual sternness, and at the warrior, who seemed almost ashamed. He gazed at the floor then, his hands shaking as they rested on his knees. After a moment, he found himself sobbing, tears falling to the packed dirt floor beneath them.

Ato heard his father sigh. "Ato-ti...please, understand—" At last, Ato found he could not stand it. He rose to his feet, and ran from his home, to the dirt path that split their village. "Ato!"

Ato ran, and felt the sting of shame from his disobedience. He had always been a happy boy, a good son—and sorrow had always been a temporary burden, something he could forget. But in his ears, on his skin, screaming through his vision, Ato sensed The Song: the one thing he could not forget. And so Ato ran, knowing that he had to fight, had to at least try. He could have never done anything else, after all.
Ato looked at the dirt path in front of him, and saw one of the mud brick posts that lined its sides. He remembered the moments in front of the tree, of being tested as a mage. He thought of when he stood in front of the old warrior, waiting for the axe to swing downwards, and how he sensed The Song in his arms. Ato understood then. All he had to do, was prove he could do the same as a warrior.

Ato's eyes focused on the post, and he charged for it. Behind him, he noticed the sound of his father yelling, his pounding feet gaining on him quickly. Ato closed his eyes, and sensed the same sensation, the same need, as in those moments in front of the tree, and like before, he urged them to his arms, his hands. This time, though, he had no staff to meet his Song. It was only his body, vibrating with such an energy that it felt almost like he might begin to burn. At last, he reached the post, and he made a fist, and with everything in him—every hope, fear, dream—he punched it.

Later, when his father reached him, and—for one of the few times of his life—yelled at him, would Ato understand why what he did was one of the worst things he could have done, and what he could have lost, had he not been fortunate enough to be such a poor mage. Later, when he did lose an arm, would Ato cry to his father for forgiveness. But, those moments were not now.

Now, he was staring at the post, a crumbling mess of shattered stone splayed out over the ground, as his arm burned with a fatigue he had never felt on even his worst day in the fields, and a smile burst upon his face so bright, that his cheeks ached. Now, his father was standing behind him, silent, then looking over his arm with a terrified attentiveness, then hugging him, crying. Now, Kenri was standing before them, a smile on his lips, as he unwrapped the bundle, and presented Ato's staff, and Ato saw the large hooked blade now fastened to its end, the silver chimes hanging and twinkling softly in the breeze. Now, Ato was a warrior.