The cook bangs his pots louder than necessary. “Morning slop, hot and ready,” he shouts. His dark beard quivers over his supressed laughter. The boys’ necks shorten with each clang. It is the first time I see bowls left behind with food stuck to the edges.
Our company reports for javelin drill wearing their slotted goggles to avoid the intense sunlight. Rapion sprawl listless in the icy, gleaming sand.
The Javelin Govern’s booming voice rumbles and puffs out his moustache. “Is the morn too bright for you? Remove your eye gear, you infants, you breast-sucking babes!”
My face scorches at the words. Despite wearing my winter layers, first thing this morning I tore long sheaves from the yi plant and bound my chest. Thankfully a patch grows by the latrines, so it was easy to gather. Now the strips tighten with the govern’s comment.
Groaning, everyone tosses their goggles aside. I am thankful the sun doesn’t bother me. Mirko hums quietly on my shoulder.
The govern slaps his mittened hands. We begin the memorized movements, but he stops us frequently to inspect our positions. “Lift that weak arm! Shift your rapion’s tail! Raise your javelin higher! Turn your face to the sun and pray to the Four-Winged Condor, because you will need divine help to endure this drill!” His wide grin shows dark pockets where several back teeth are missing. Here is the Madronian punishment: higher demands in our usually monotonous drills while the patrollers are in a weakened state.
Out of the side of my eye, I see Desl, the boy who bunks next to me and Ratho. His face pales, and he sways in the pose. “Continue!” yells the govern.
In the front line, Creo, usually with the best form in drill, heaves his breakfast. Ratho mentioned he passed out before the party ended last night.
“Hold!” The govern stalls our current position: javelin in the air, legs in a deep lunge. Creo’s rapion helps him sweep sand over his slop, and they stumble back into position.
The govern whisks behind them and kicks the boy in his back. Crack! Creo falls into his barely covered vomit. His rapion cowers beside him. “Get up!” the govern yells. The boy is too slow and is kicked again. Whimpering, Creo stands, and I see his poncho is smeared with stomach mess. He faces the sun and takes our pose.
The govern smirks and continues to walk among us, looking for error. He flicks between our formations.
My legs begin to tremble as murmurs against Creo slip through the air. Here is another way the Madronians work to make us hate one another. This is idiocy! So they overdrank. It was a celebration. Isn’t their discomfort enough?
“You swallow mash like a man,” says the govern, “you work like a man the next day.” He keeps us in the pose several more minutes. Shiz and Ratho hold steady on my right. The leaves must have settled their stomachs; most of the boys waver in their weakness.
Finally the govern calls, “Continue!” I move through the steps, and the shakes melt out of my legs. I wonder how many will touch the mash after the next sandstorm. Word of the glino plant may circulate, and there will be those who risk that the leaves will work. But so many Carterea look unwell. I can’t believe they’ll shovel into the mash as quickly. Now if it was Father’s potato ale, that would be harder to refuse. My mouth waters for the taste.
When our drill ends, Mirko joins the rapion leaping into the air. I bow to the sun, whose yellow rays warm my upturned face. I’m ready to do the work of a man today. Thank you, Creator Spirit, for my life. Even for life as a man. After the sandstorm, at least I am alive.