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Alma the Younger
The leaves above Alma shuddered as if in anticipation of the death of the deer that stood three dozen paces down the ridge.
"You'll lose control if you take the downhill shot," Aaron whispered.
"Shh! If anyone can hit it, Alma the Younger can," Ammon said in a hushed, teasing voice.
A smile pulled at Alma's face, but he kept his aim steady as he slowly pulled back on the already taut string of the steel bow. Every chance Ammon had, he made fun of Alma's "younger" title. He'd been called that since birth, since his own father was named Alma too, but only adults referred to him as the younger one.
The surge of adrenaline in Alma's chest told him that he'd pinpointed the target and it was time to release. He spent another two breaths rechecking the measure, then fired the arrow. The soft twang of the bow sounded in his ear and seemed to alert the animal. The deer moved a fraction before the arrow hit, but instead of piercing its heart, the arrow bedded into the upper chest, and the deer bolted.
Alma leapt to his feet and burst out of the line of trees.
"Ha!" Aaron called after him. "I knew you'd miss!"
At a half-run, half-stumble, Alma ignored the jibe and made his way down the steep ridge, trying to keep from tumbling.
The brothers plunged after him. Alma could hear their bickering as he ran ahead, trying to keep the deer in sight.
"It wasn't his aim, it was the bow," Ammon said with frustration. "not finely crafted. I knew that merchant was telling us a story—"
"Alma missed the other two deer we saw earlier too," came Aaron’s panting voice.
"Because you couldn't keep quiet . . ." Ammon started to say.
Alma tuned out the brothers. He had a deer to track. Ahead, the animal disappeared into the thick foliage. He was losing ground already. When he reached the spot where the deer had been hit, Alma was out of breath, but he smiled. Dark spots of blood colored the ground, creating a scant but readable trail. Now it was just a matter of time before the deer collapsed. By the position of the sun, Alma still had a good hour of daylight left in which to follow. No longer worried about startling beasts, he called back to his friends, "you better keep up, or you'll miss your supper!"
A whooping shout answered; the brothers ran faster and caught up with Alma, shoving each other in the process. Alma shook his head—they never seemed to stop, probably even fought in their sleep. "let's go!" he said and started running again, balancing the bow in one hand.
Ammon, the oldest brother, kept pace with Alma quite easily. At twenty-three Ammon was two years older and was also the more logical of the two brothers—having been trained for the kingship since birth—although he let his unruly temper get the best of him sometimes. His stride matched Alma's as they wove in and out of trees pursuing the deer.
Aaron lagged behind but not due to lack of strength. He was tall and lanky and, compared to the other two, not as tough of a fighter, yet he made up for it in intelligence and determination.
Alma glanced over at Ammon, seeing the perspiration soaking his close-cropped hair and the band of red-dyed leather he always wore around his head. "Tired?"
"Never," Ammon said with a huff and pushed a little faster. Soon he pulled ahead.
"Wait for me," Alma said, "or you'll lose the trail."
"You're not the only one who can track a deer," Ammon said. "Besides, that long hair of yours is getting in my way."
"You better watch out, or you'll trip and fall on those thirty knives you're carrying—"
"Two! I only have two with me," Ammon called back.
Alma laughed. He knew Ammon was just envious since he had to keep his own hair short—as princes, the brothers had to conform to even stricter rules than Alma. His hair was just to his shoulders, falling in dark waves, yet it was "too wild," according to his father. But that was the least of his and his father's differences.
The men came to a meadow, and all three slowed. "The blood trail is heavier here," Alma said, pointing at the ground. They started walking the tree line, looking for more signs of blood.
"Six knives," Aaron said in a mocking voice. "He carries at least six at all times, just like a little boy with his collection of rocks and sticks."
Ammon's face was dark red. "Tell my brother to shut his mouth before I use one of my knives on him."
Alma glared at Aaron, who raised his hands in frustration. "What?" Aaron said. "Why do I always have to be the one to back down first? You're older than me."
"He's right," Alma wheezed, nodding to Ammon. "Both of you need to cool down. We're already in trouble for stealing the turkeys last week." The three of them had traded a couple of the king's turkeys for some pulque, a very potent agave wine. "and now we're hunting illegally on the king's grounds."
"Well, I say these are my grounds," Ammon said. "I'm heir to the throne, after all." he threw his brother a superior look.
"That is, if I don't put a snake in your bed some night, Your Majesty," Aaron said, his voice a sneer. "The people like me better anyway."
Ammon stopped and blocked his brother, crossing his thick arms over his chest. "Is that a threat?"
Aaron stepped closer and narrowed his eyes. "Do you want it to be?"
Alma put a hand on both brothers' shoulders. "That's enough," he growled. "If you don't stop now, both of you will be sorry. Next time, I'm bringing your younger brothers. At least Omner and Himni know how to stay quiet." He turned away with a disgusted shake of his head. "Come on." Settling into a brisk walk along the edge of the meadow, he kept his eyes trained to the ground. A moment later, he heard the unmistakable tread of footsteps behind him. Their voices had fallen silent—blessed silence.
Alma had grown up in Zarahemla with the sons of King Mosiah. The two oldest, Ammon and Aaron, were as close as brothers to him, even closer than his own siblings. But some days, like today, they grated on his nerves. Today's hunt had taken much longer than it should have because the brothers, with their incessant arguing, had scared away the first two deer. Spoiled is what they were. They'd never had to work for their food, so hunting was a game to them.
Not that I've really ever had to go hungry either, Alma thought, but shook the idea away before it could fester. He hadn't gone hungry as long as he never stepped out of line. His parents gave him plenty of hard-labor chores during his youth and even sent him to work in the fields with the commoners. He could hear his father's rebuke right now: "Don't call them commoners. All men are equal in God's eyes."
Casting a quick glance behind at the princes, Alma knew that all men weren't equal, so how could his father make that claim? If God viewed all men as equal, then why were there so many divisions in society?
Not all men lived in a palace like the royalty with servants preparing food and the best masters brought in for lessons and discussions on politics, art, law, and commerce.
All men didn't wake up in beds of luxurious fur like the aristo- crats, surrounded by sturdy stone walls. All men didn't wear jewels at their throats and on their fingers or carry daggers made of the finest obsidian like the successful merchants.
No, his father was wrong. There were commoners, and there were aristocrats, and they were not the least bit equal. A child born into a poor family had no choice but to remain poor. A woman could only marry a man her own rank. The classes in society stayed separate no matter how much the Church leaders preached equality.
The problem was that he had no one to discuss it with—except for his friends, who were locked into a confining lifestyle just as he was. Don't question, Alma had been told. A good debate about a religious concept ignited the fire in his father's eyes more quickly than a single flame held against a dried maize stalk.
The blood trail thickened, and Alma turned to alert the brothers. They both nodded, their expressions saying they understood. The men moved into the trees, and Alma held up his hand for silence. The sound of snapping twigs reached them, and about a dozen paces away at the edge of the meadow, the deer staggered out. Its legs crumpled beneath its weight, and the animal sank to the ground, its ribcage heaving up and down.
"It's still alive," Ammon whispered.
The men waited a few more minutes, making sure the animal didn't try to get up to flee or to defend itself. Alma pulled his knife from his waistband and crept to the brown, shuddering creature. In a single swift action, he slit the deer's throat and put an end to it suffering.
"Bravo!" Ammon clapped. "Supper!"
Aaron snorted as he looked down on the bleeding animal. "There's a whole spread of delicacies waiting for us at the palace."
Both Alma and Ammon started laughing.
"What fun is that? Why would you trade the wild for the tame?" Alma said. "How will you lead a whole city of commoners when you don't even know what it's like to be one?"
"That's what my advisers will be for," Aaron said.
"Hmm," Ammon said. "I guess you'll have to kill off me and my advisers before you can achieve your precious destiny." Ammon turned to Alma. "And you call me spoiled? at least I can get my hands dirty." He held them up to prove his point.
Ammon grinned and started stripping off his outer robe. From his waistband he withdrew not one, but two knives, each with jeweled hilts. Another benefit of being royalty. "I made them myself."
Alma was impressed. "Let me see them." He took both knives and turned one over in his hand. The steel hilt was smooth and elegantly curved. The obsidian blades were thinner and sharper than he'd ever seen.
"I put the steel through a second smelting process. That made the hilt smoother and the blades thinner without breaking them," Ammon said.
"Quiet!" Aaron said.
"You're just envious," Ammon said, anger in his voice. "The only thing you can do with your pretty hands is—"
"Shh!" Alma said, hearing a low growl coming from just beyond the deer. Unless the deer's spirit sounded like a jaguar, they had some competition for their supper.
Ammon's eyes widened, and he yanked one of the knives from Alma's hands. "To the trees," he hissed.
The three men moved as a cohesive unit to the tree line and crouched to watch. Another low growl filled the clearing. Alma could almost feel the excitement emanating from Ammon. "We can't let it get the deer," Ammon whispered.
Aaron shushed his brother again.
"Let's wait to see how big it is first," Alma said. He'd killed jaguars before, but with an arrow from a distance, not one that could see him before an attack. A black speckled head appeared through the trees on the other side of the meadow, close to the deer. It looked young, maybe two years old. Alma reached for his bow, then carefully nocked an arrow. The jaguar moved toward the deer, looking around as if he were confused at the various scents. Alma kept his arrow trained on the large cat's neck. It would be harder to kill a moving target, but he wanted to hit the beast before it touched the deer.
He glanced at Ammon who was gripping a knife in his hand. One signal and the prince would probably try to single-handedly wrestle the cat to the ground.
The jaguar walked past the deer, then turned around, sniffing the air. It knows we're here, Alma thought, his pulse hammering. He made the adjustment with his bow. Then he noticed the cat's sagging belly. A nursing female. As he held his position, sweat began to bead along his forehead, and he relaxed his hands.
"Take it," Ammon whispered.
The jaguar turned its head toward their hiding place.
"Now!" Ammon whispered louder. "it's either him or us."
"Her," Alma corrected, lowering the bow. Ammon was at his side instantly, jerking the bow from him and taking aim. The movement warned the cat, and it retreated a few steps until it was standing behind the deer. Ammon released the arrow—too fast, without careful precision as Alma would have done. The arrow hit the deer, and the jaguar bolted.
Ammon turned to Alma and stared at him in disbelief. "Why did you let it go? You had him."
"Her," Alma repeated. "a nursing female. Did you see how her belly sagged with milk?" He looked to Aaron for support. The prince just shook his head and started for the clearing.
Ammon threw the bow to the ground at Alma's feet. "This thing is nothing but bad luck." he turned his back to Alma and followed after his brother. Over his shoulder he called out, "I can't believe you were afraid to shoot it. Could have had a nice fur cape to impress the women with."
"I don't need a jaguar coat to impress women with," Alma retorted. But inside he was embarrassed. He'd gone soft over a female cat. If this story got back to their other friends . . . he had to make up for it somehow. He left the shade of the trees and hurried to catch the brothers. "I'll clean the deer, and you both get the fire ready."
Aaron turned, squinting at him in the fading light. "The smoke will attract too much attention. Someone will spot us."
"What? Are you scared now?" Alma said. "I thought this was your land. We shot it, and we should be able to cook it where and when we want to. Just because this is the king's land doesn't mean he should get a share. He had nothing to do with the hunt." He hesitated, looking from Aaron to Ammon. "We're still together on this, right?"
Ammon gave a half-nod. "I'm just glad we're fast runners."
Alma grinned. "Get the wood." He borrowed one of Ammon's knives, then set to work cleaning the deer. He ignored the proper order of preserving the best parts for the temple priests—there were no priests hovering over him here. He'd dry and preserve those parts for himself, later. He didn't want to beg food from the princes or return to his parents' home. Besides, he'd eaten without following all of the rules many times and nothing had happened to him yet. That was one of the questions his father didn't seem to be able to answer, other than it was God's will. What did God's will have to do with preparing supper?
When the fire was laid, Ammon helped Alma finish cleaning the deer. Alma filleted several pieces to be cooked over the fire. Aaron paced nervously, as if watching for a king's guard to appear at any moment.
Alma placed the filets on the rocks next to the fire. "I'm going to find a place to wash," he said.
"I'll come too," Ammon said.
The two of them left Aaron behind to watch the fire, and they set off downhill. "let's go to the pond just below here," Ammon said, shaking his head. "I still can't believe you let that jaguar go. Since when do you care whether it's male or female?"
Alma shrugged. "it was a mother, and we want her babies to grow up, right? More coats for us later."
Ammon laughed, slapping Alma's back. "You're right. You should have been born a prince. You're far smarter than both of us—just don't tell Aaron that."
"Don't tell my father, either," Alma said in a quiet voice. "I'm just a lowly scribe to him."
"Have you talked to him lately?"
"Not for a couple of weeks," Alma said. "Every time I show up, he has a long list of complaints. He wants me to work from sun up to sun down copying manuscripts in a cell-like room. I'll be gray and bent over with age before I'm able to make my living. The only one I really feel sorry for is my mother, but she's obviously taken my father's side."
"At least you have a choice," Ammon said.
"A choice? How? My father told me that I had to live by his rules if I stay in his house. There's no choice in that. So I left. Hunting feeds me and brings a little extra income to improve my hut."
"You can stay with me if you want," Ammon said.
"Sure. How are you going to sneak the vagrant son of the high priest into the palace?"
"You wouldn't be the first person I've sneaked in," Ammon said.
"I enjoy living in a village of idol-worshippers. Life is much more interesting. Besides, it's the last place my father would look."
Ammon shook his head.
Alma smiled, then stopped walking, listening. "Did you hear something?"
"Is it back?" Ammon asked, reaching for his knife.
"No—not a jaguar—someone's laughing."
"Maybe it's Aaron."
The high-pitched laughter sounded again.
"Unless Aaron's laughing to himself like a girl, there's someone else at the pond."
They slowed their pace to stay quiet. Within minutes, they could see the pond, the low moon reflecting off the dark water.
"Oh!" Alma said, too surprised to whisper. Two girls . . . women. . . were wading along the shoreline, their robes hiked up to their knees. He felt a quick stab of warmth as he recognized the taller one.
"Hey," Ammon said. "What's my sister doing here?"
Cassia. Alma started to backtrack, his heart pounding even harder than when he'd faced the jaguar. "Don't let them see us like this—we're covered in blood."
"Good idea," Ammon said as they crept to a group of trees.
Laughter floated in their direction again.
"Who's the other one?" Alma asked.
"Aaron's betrothed, Ilana. The daughter of Limhi," Ammon said.
Alma peered at both the women. Ilana was shorter and looked quite a bit softer and more shapely than Cassia—but then again, Cassia was practically still a girl. Practically. They'd been friends until about two years before. Around the time Cassia turned sixteen, her father forbade her from spending time with him—another wrongful injustice. They'd grown up as playmates, all four of them: the brothers, Cassia, and Alma.
"Is Ilana the one who broke down and cried when she found out she was to marry you?" Alma asked, trying to hold back a laugh.
Ammon punched him in the arm. "It wasn't like that. She thought Aaron was the oldest, and when she discovered I was, she was confused . . . and quite emotional."
"So, the second brother gets married before the crown prince? I'm surprised your father, the supreme rule-maker, would allow any sort of error," Alma said.
"There was already an agreement for Ilana to marry me. So when she requested to marry Aaron instead, my parents couldn't very well back out and maintain their good relationship with her father."
Alma shook his head. "But what woman in Zarahemla doesn't know the difference between you and Aaron? Yes, you are both annoying, but you don't look much alike."
"Is that a compliment?" Ammon asked, his eyes glinting in the dark.
"Not really," Alma said. "But you can take it as one."
"Only if you admit I am the more handsome one."
"Oh no. I'll admit nothing. I'll let the poor sap of a girl who has to marry you pay the compliments. Hopefully she won't be a crier like Ilana."
Ammon elbowed Alma in the ribs, and Alma sprawled on the ground with a moan. "That really hurt!"
"Try seeing your ‘used-to-be-betrothed' around the palace every day. Ilana came a whole month before the wedding to live in the palace," Ammon said, shaking his head in disgust. "Aaron isn't supposed to officially spend time with her until the welcoming ceremony tomorrow night."
"And has he?" Alma said.
"What do you think?"
Alma chuckled quietly. Aaron's sense of entitlement to everything and anything in Zarahemla would have propelled him to arrange secret meetings with his wife-to-be. Especially one who had chosen him over the crown prince. "So what does he think of her?"
"Oh, he likes her well enough," Ammon said. "he's keeps hinting that he's glad he is marrying before me. I don't know why. He won't be able to spend as much time with us anymore—he'll have to spend time with his wife." he started laughing.
Alma nodded absently, no longer paying attention to Ammon. He watched the two women leave the shoreline and walk along a path that led back to the palace. They had linked arms and conversation and laughter seemed to flow easily between them. Cassia was definitely extending the warm welcome to her new sister-in-law. A deep jab of loneliness flooded through Alma, but he shook it off as he stood. He'd grown up; Cassia had grown up. Things had changed. He couldn't very well show up at her palace door and ask her to have an archery contest like they used to.
"We'd better clean up and hurry back to eat—assuming Aaron hasn't absconded with supper."