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Chapter 1 – Tristan of Musgrave
The crying coming from behind the freshly painted white door made him uneasy, and before he could stop himself, Tristan Thames began crumpling up the scribbled paper in his hand. His father placed a firm, angry hand on his shoulder and squeezed enough to let him know that he was displeased. Tristan swallowed hard and nervously tapped the sole of his right dress shoe onto the top of his left.
His father stomped on the hardwood floor. “Stop it!” he whispered sharply. “Pull yourself together!”
“Can—can—” Tristan already knew the answer, but he had to ask it. The cries of the little boy in the closed room in front of them had surged into a roar, and Tristan knew what was coming.
He knew that it would be the last time he would ever see or hear of that boy again.
“What is it?” his father snapped, crouching down to rub the top of his son’s shoes with a handkerchief.
“Can we go home?”
His father glanced up and down the hallway. They were alone—the last of the line. Tristan couldn’t find his notes before they left home, and it took too long to find them, so they had to wait for three hours to have a chance at addressing the council. His father had promised that if his idea was exemplary, and the council accepted him, then he would forgive the slight and forego the punishment.
“You want to leave?” his father asked.
Tristan corrected himself quickly. “No,” he said, bowing his head in feigned shame. “I want to stay.”
“Then why would you ask?” his father asked. He raised his head towards the door and glared at the white surface. It sounded as if the ruckus inside had been resolved.
“I had a moment of weakness,” Tristan said, repeating a popular phrase of his father’s.
“You’re just a boy,” his father replied. “It will happen again. The key is to decrease the frequency with your age. I expect that by the time you reach your teenage years, it will be nonexistent.”
“Yes, father,” Tristan said.
“Take a moment and breathe. This is a big day for all of us. Your mother will be proud.”
“I haven’t addressed the council yet,” Tristan said.
“You will do fine,” his father said, patting his head. “You’re my son. You were destined for greatness, no matter what the community says. Musgrave will one day revere the name: Tristan Thames.”
Tristan appreciated the confidence, but he wasn’t so sure. He was aware of himself enough to know that he wasn’t particularly bright, or strong, and he didn’t take well to business. The jargon and detailed explanations often went over his head, but he had heart.
At least, he’d like to think so. That counted for something, right?
“You will be the first to get chosen,” his father said proudly, his eyes alight with visions of grandeur. “The bell has not rung from atop the courthouse, so we know that none have made it. You won’t disappoint.”
Tristan could already feel the tears welling up in his eyes. His destiny lay before him, and yet he already knew the outcome. He was already psychologically preparing for the disappointments—the name-calling from his father and the sullen face of his mother.
The door slammed open and a child no more than eight years old ran out with his hands planted firmly against his eyes. His cheeks were tear-stained, and he sobbed and hiccupped as his mother walked behind him with her hair purposefully placed in front of her face.
“That is what average looks like,” Tristan’s father whispered in his ear. “Commonality breeds and the world weeps.”
“But we are not common,” Tristan recited monotonously—the phrase he was obligated to repeat whenever his father spoke on the plight of the plebes.
“No, we are not. It is why I chose your mother. I understood that our union would increase our chances of superior offspring. It’s unfortunate that your sister didn’t take.”
Sister? Tristan frowned as he smoothed out the paper in his hand. He didn’t remember having a sister. “What happened to her?” he asked. “Did she die young?”
“She’s in Comida,” he replied casually, as if they were speaking of an acquaintance he had in grade school. Tristan bowed his head so that his father couldn’t see his shock.
“Tristan Thames?” an authoritative voice called out from the midst of the room—so dark that Tristan couldn’t see what was inside.
“Come now,” his father said. “We must not delay destiny.”
Tristan hesitated before taking his first step. It was a lot like walking for the first time, except he wouldn’t have the luxury of refining himself if he fell. One try was all he was afforded. One try was all anyone was afforded in Musgrave. The weak learned. The strong knew already.
As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could make out three silhouettes sitting at a long table that was situated at waist length. The identities of the proctors were purposefully unknown, as to belay bribes from overeager parents. The assessment was to be held to the highest standards and integrity.
“I will say nothing from this point on,” his father said, patting him on the shoulder. “It is your show now.”
“Tristan Thames,” the mysterious man in the middle barked. “You will present to us your proposal on how to improve Musgrave and maintain its standing amongst the three communities. You are allowed three questions before you begin. A warning: every question from the moment I cease speaking will count towards your three. You may ask now.”
“Has anyone passed the assessment?” Tristan asked. He already had that question prepared.
“Yes, last year,” the man on the left said. “Ferris Muttly. You may have heard of him.”
“I have,” Tristan said, taking great strides to not form a question with his words. Ferris was constantly praised by his father on his ingenious proposal. What that proposal consisted of was a topic of great debate among the children, as it seemed as if only the adults were privy to the particulars.
“You have two more questions,” the thin man on the left said.
“What will happen to me if I fail the assessment?” Tristan asked.
“At worst, you may be transferred to one of the other communities. At best, you will be allowed to live in Musgrave with a stigma attached—an understanding that you are not a leader or a visionary, but merely a number designed to ensure that Musgrave is not overrun by larger populations in Comida or Hearth.”
“That sounds harsh,” Tristan found himself saying. His father placed a firm hand on his shoulder and squeezed it to the point that he winced.
“Is that your final question?” the thin man on the left asked.
“No. No. Merely a statement.”
“Please keep your next sentence in the form of a question so that we may move forward with the assessment.”
Tristan took a deep breath. “What do I have to say that will let you pass me?”
“Tristan!” his father shouted, but the thin man held up a hand to stop him.
“You are to remain silent, Mr. Thames,” the thin man said. “Do not speak out again or you will be removed.”
“I apologize,” Tristan’s father said.
“Now,” the thin man continued, “that is an interesting question. Are you asking me to give you the answers?”
“Exactly,” Tristan said, trying to stifle the smirk appearing on his face.
“Do you fancy yourself clever?”
“I may,” Tristan said. “I bet no one asked you that question before.”
“This is true, and one may argue that your inquiry is a stroke of genius. However, I personally view it as laziness. Instead of developing a plan of action to advance Musgrave, you have opted for tricks and the games of politicians. Is that all we are to you?”
“No, of course not,” Tristan replied. He swallowed hard and fidgeted with the paper in his hand.
“Then you do, in fact, have a proposal for us. That final question was merely to set yourself above the competition—to be memorable. Wasn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then please, proceed. Your assessment starts now.”
“I...I...” Tristan glanced down at his paper, with the few words blurring between the crinkled lines. The room was so dark...how could he read it?
“Young Thames?” the man in the middle asked. “Please proceed.”
Tristan exhaled loudly and cleared his throat. He slowly lifted his head again. “I propose integration,” he said. The three men before him sat up in their seats.
“Excuse me?” the thin man replied.
“Integration,” Tristan said more boldly. “The three communities are one unit. We came together long ago to assist one another in survival...but ever since the Lasting Wall was built, Musgrave has fallen away from its purpose. Comida provides our food. Hearth provides our strength against outsiders should they ever dare to come, but Musgrave offers nothing but commands, while it takes and takes and takes. Musgrave will perish one day in its current state. Either the other two communities will rise up against it, or it will cease to be useful...and future generations, scorned by ridiculous assessments such as this, will leave their parents to become farmers and soldiers and common folk, determined to forge their own destiny rather than be forced into stifling suits and boring business meetings about nothing of substance.”
Tristan threw his paper to the floor, and instinctively slapped his father’s hand away.
“You are the politicians. You talk, and never act. Musgrave has the opportunity to advance our collective and expand outward, perhaps even adding another community or building another town. We should be inspiring Hearth and Comida to follow our lead and be greater, but instead we’re satisfied with full bellies and idle talk. So, yes, integration. True integration is my proposal, and it’s a damn good one. Far better than a theater in the center of town, or demanding Comida to develop non-essential consumables. As a matter of fact, if you do not accept this proposal, you will only be proving my point.”
Tristan winced as he said his last sentence, but he was only channeling what he had seen his father do countless times in business. This was the language that Musgrave spoke—power and authority, and if he was to set himself up as a contender for leadership, there was no point in being sheepish now. It was all or nothing.
“I will say this once,” the thin man said, leaning his elbows into the table. “Your proposal is asinine. It’s insulting, pretentious, and unrealistic. It is officially denied. You will be placed into the lottery pool with the rest of the failures and your fate will be determined by random draw. For the sake of your freedom and your back side, I pray that your father has mercy.”
“Why have the lottery at all?” Tristan huffed, trying desperately not to cry. “Just place me in Comida or Hearth and be done with it.”
“And cast you out of my net?” his father said from behind. “Not a chance. At least at home, there is hope for you.”
“Hope,” the thin man sighed, leaning back in his chair, “is what I wanted to be granted today. Alas, it is not so. Begone...oh, and Mr. Thames? Do try not to punish him too harshly. It is my professional opinion that the boy suffers from some sort of mental illness. Perhaps a parasite has begun to eat away at his senses. To suggest that we are equal to those wayward souls is akin to blasphemy.”
“I understand,” he said, grabbing his son by the back of the neck with a firm, meaty hand. “I will keep your advice in mind.”
“Thank you,” the thin man said, and Mr. Thames ushered his son out of the room.
Nothing was said, but the grip on the back of his neck spoke louder than words.
As they stepped into the horse drawn carriage waiting for them outside, his father sat across from him and stared out the window. Tristan watched him carefully, waiting for a cold word, a move to strike, a sigh—anything to commence the hell that was sure to follow.
But it never came.
His father spoke sweetly to his mother when they made it back home, and he told her that their son had not passed the test. Then, he simply went into his study and closed the door.
There was no punishment, but there was no consolation or love either. As hours passed, and it was clear that dinner was to be had by only him and his mother, Tristan turned towards her for guidance. She was no help. She maintained the same stoic, statuesque face, as if he were a ghost screaming at her from another realm. He served himself as usual, but there was no conversation to add warmth to the lasagna.
The hours turned to days.
Incredulously, he began acting out, throwing vases and expensive dishes to receive a scolding, but to no avail. The maids cleaned up the mess as if it was a common occurrence.
The days turned into months.
Tristan found himself dreading the loneliness. Fear had faded like a passing season, and he now longed for companionship. He stretched out his arms towards old friends and classmates, but they rejected him mercilessly. He had a stigma attached to him—not only for failing the proposal and pissing off high authority in their community, but for also being a lottery winner. Despite his failure, he would get to stay in Musgrave and enjoy its succulent fruits.
He was a number.
Not a name.
Not a person.
He was not one of them.
The months soon turned into years, and Tristan Thames lost his confidence as quickly as a child loses a toy. He yearned for it to return, he longed for its comfort, but soon even nostalgia eluded him. Left alone, estranged, and socially deprived, he wandered the streets of Musgrave and the halls of his home like a specter, waiting for something or someone to set him free.
He had unfinished business in this world, and he would not be at peace until it was resolved. Though he longed for companionship, friends, family and love, above all he longed to prove his worth—that he was a being of value too, and that no one—whether they were of the common folk of Comida, or the broken and wounded of Hearth—should be cast aside. For better or worse, they shared their substance and homes with one another, and it was time they started acting like it.
Still, his appeal to logic and common sense could not sustain him forever, and eventually, even that faded into obscurity. Until...until one day...he absent-mindedly picked up a newspaper and began to read the front page. Scrawled upon its wrinkled and fading pages were more than mere words, it was destiny calling out to him, like a Siren’s serenade, prompting him to steer his ship towards the jagged rocks that would surely have him meet his doom.
The ship be damned—the song was beautiful, and even if he was being led to destruction, at least something in this existence had noticed and acknowledged him.
“An expedition,” he said under his breath. It felt like a ticket to paradise.
