OF CASTLE BLOOD

  Green and calm, deep and eternal is Riviel, the river that flows through our town. He gave her his name, which he took from a God. Not a major one, just a Sigod, but still, it was a fact of significant importance. A source of pride for us. Mirrored in his slow waters, one can see the tall walls of the town’s old castle, on the small island in the middle of the river. Built eight hundred years ago, although the people here want it to be even older. It was this castle, truly one of the first in the peninsula, that made our town one of the “old walls”, alongside those of Sipolis, Gorva, Kefir and Atis. Near the end of our town, behind the long bridge and the water mills, laid the Porkerias. A sort of hybrid between a butchery, an abattoir and a charcuterie, found, as far as I can tell, only in Riviella. The ones operating them are known as porkers, or porkies, as they call them in Volar and Prothi, and I believe, even in Kefir.

  Every week, in every road of the district, they’d lay the slaughtered boars, removing their precious skin, before hitting them with vigour, in order to loosen and tenderize the meat while breaking the larger bones. Then, they’d take them animals all the way up to rivershore, where they would be washed thoroughly, their hooves and internal organs chopped off, and thrown in the river. Finally, they’d bring the clean, fresh meat back, in order to be cut, salted, stored and sold. All inside their workshops, the Porkerias.

  All these workshops -no more than twenty, twenty-five at most- were made out of stone. Two floored, all of them, with large, domed entrances, so the customer could clearly see and inspect the product, built in an area spanning from the north end of Riviella, to near the Stoas in the town centre. The lower floor had small, narrow windows, like arrow slits, and was mainly a single, large room, with a tiled floor and filled with big, wooden tables. Inside these rooms, either shirtless, or covered with a large piece of cloth, to absorb the blood and sweat, is where the porkers worked. The upper floor exceeded the lower one, and had a nice view of the street below, through its large, pointed, glass windows. This was their home, connected to the workshop from the inside, through a slim, wooden staircase. The whole atmosphere around these homes was heavy, with a deep stink of old, dried blood.

  The porkers always prided themselves in the fact, that they were some of our town’s oldest inhabitants, claiming that all of them were of noble “castle” blood, and the Dolvetians had thrown them out of the little island after the Viper’s Rebellion had been crushed. And truly, they’d still speak with the old Riviellan accent, considered most proper than any other found in the town. They took great care in connecting words when they could, in order to restore their old, unbroken form. Their relations with the rest of the town however, were miniscule at best. They almost never went “downther” if they didn’t have a reason, personal or professional, to do so. They’d look down with mistrust any newcomer in our town. In fact, one could say that none of them had ever been to the “Nassaryottics” –the district made by the refugees from Nassa when they first came to our town- and it wouldn’t be inaccurate. Their religious needs were taken care of within their small, local chapel, not at the main Riviel temple, like all the others. Just to be sure however, most of them had, in a corner within their home, a small, private, domestic altar. All affairs proper and in order. So, they stayed at their Porkerias, behind the long bridge, the main road and the water mills. And that was that. Another world altogether. Separate and isolated. Finished.

  A little bit further down the road from their shops were the carpenters, the lumbers as they called them. Volariotts and Prothiotts, almost all of them. People simple in their life and pleasant in their company, from way up the mountains. Their Stoa was there, the closest one to the Porkerias. The porkers had no relations with them. On the other side of the road, were the barrelers. Coopers and hoopers, all together we called barrelmen, or barrelers for short. Also, mountaineers, from the mountains near Resport. Every day one could find them at their little shops. For years and years they would hit the oak with their wooden mallets, and bend metal rings on their little anvils. A tough job. The porkers knew them well, and would greet them every morning. They had no differences with them, but no real ties either. They were, you see, “hayheads”. Countrymen. Simple-minded souls, pure and unworthy.

  There were also the “Planks”, the main port of our town. It was near its centre, near the Stoas. All the river boats, fishing boats, barges and wherries were docked there. Ships fat and slow, either loading or unloading cargo, coming from all the nearby villages. Timber, turf, river fish, various cheeses, fresh butter and of course pork, fresh or salted, our town’s pride and joy. The best int the land. The porkers would go there if they needed to purchase something, but even those trips where short and to the point. They didn’t have to come downther to sell their product. Those interested in salted pork knew they had to come to the Porkerias, negotiate with them directly, and take from the district with their own means. So, even at the Planks, the porkers knew next to no one. Who was there to know? The hayheads?

  Every night, the men would gather at their own tavernas and wineries, where no one else would ever go. Only some boaters from the island would occasionally dare approach. They’d come and sit with them every so often, drink a cup of wine and leave. With the boaters, the porkers shared a common passion. Hunting. Thus, they allowed them to sit by their side. These wineries were not similar to those, one could, and still probably can, find in the rest of Riviella. The common ones. No, that wouldn’t be proper. They were special, made just for them. Dimly lit, full of low, round tables, each one with a small, oil, candelabra, and a hole in the middle. Every summer, a hookah would be placed in the hole, with multiple stems, so everyone could enjoy it. Every winter, they’d place there a small brazier, to keep the place warm. The porkers would sit around the table on large, woollen pillows, and before drinking their wine, they’d put some bahar or rosemary in it, and heat it up in little copper cups over the brazier.

  The stories would always revolve around the same topics. Old feuds, the latest omens read by the priests, hunting, any good deals made with the merchants from Gorva, that kind of stuff. Raised as porkers should be, tough and proud, they would never talk about their home affairs in public. They were above such things. And they couldn’t talk politics either. You see, they had no one to argue with and nothing to argue about. All of them were fierce localists. Riviellotts strong and proud, as was proper for old noblemen of castle blood. They stubbornly refused to call their town Res, as per Dolvet Empire’s decree. They’d always support any Riviellott against any outsider, no matter if they were right or wrong. They’d strongly urge each Belir to have only Riviellott advisors at his palace, and each Despot to ordain only Riviellott priests and scribes to the temple. And just like that, they were done with politics. Pride, self-reliance, loyalty to the family. All as they were taught. As they should be.

  That loyalty extended to their profession as well. None of them ever took up another trade, and no outsider had ever become a porker. Such was the tradition of their guild. One of, if not the, town’s oldest, as its leaders always loved reminding everyone, and had no desire to change. The only difference one could find since its founding, at least at the time of writing, was that, not only did everyone knew, but had also become, at least kind of, relatives with each other over the decades. And since that was the case, and there were so few of them left, it was now common to see them, not just working at their own shop, but in every shop in the district, as partners. Masters and students had become one -they were all masters now- and, truth be told, were now a single, big family.

  That’s the only thing that changed. Everything else stayed the same as it was when the Porkerias were originally created. Very little did these people care to learn if and how the techniques of skinning, washing, cutting, and salting the meat had changed over the years. How their trade had progressed in other parts of the world. Even their old cleavers, when they got blunt, or broken, they’d repair them themselves, on a small, metal table in the back of their workshops, with next to no tools and a makeshift forge. And the meat hooks and the salt, as they knew them, as they found them. And all other things, as they knew them, as they found them.

  These everyone knew about the porkers. These, one could say, were the porkers. In every sense of the word.

  A porker, in every sense of the word as well, was Nirer. His father, a porker, his mother, a porker’s daughter. In that district he was born. In that district he played with other kids, of other porkers. Played races, wrestling, long jumps, swimming, and war. In that district’s chapel he attended heard the word of the Gods for the first time, learned to read and write, to hunt hares and foxes, and go fishing for river trouts. And in that district, he grew up. He took up his father’s trade. He got married, and made his own family. And always kept his soul filled with this secret pride. This subtle arrogance of the porker, and relentless resentment for anything new.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  At some point, one of them, did the rarest thing. He emigrated. He moved far away and stayed away for many years. When he finally returned, wore a small, round, fur hat -unlike the long caps with the feathers on the side, like the rest of them porkers- and also a vest with a golden chain on it and had lots of money in his pockets. And because one can choose their friends but not their family, he once again began walking around the Porkerias every day, and go with the rest of them at their special wineries every night. And why wouldn’t he? He was still a porker after all.

  The only problem was that Luvir -that was his name, Luvir Mandrit- would sometimes forget where he was, and let his mind slip away, back where he had been. Unfortunately, his tongue would follow suit, and then he’d only talk about his travels, the dozens of places he visited, and all the wonders he’d witnessed. The rest of them, at first, simply looked away. After a couple of times, they bluntly told him to stop, but the man, stubborn as a mule, always refused.

  Then came that one, hot, summer afternoon. As the porkers stepped out of their shops for a moment, taking a break before continuing their work, he was there. And as he, at some point, tried once again to say something related to his travels, Nirer stood up.

  “Please, tell me…” he interrupted, and slowly began walking towards him “… tell me, did you, by any chance, learn any languages at those places you went?”.

  He was shirtless, and full of sweat.

  “Of course… I learned a thing or two” said the man, blissfully unaware.

  “Then, why don’t you read me these right here?”

  Nirer turned around and loudly slapped his ass with both his palms, pointing at the letters of the foreign stamp on the fabric of his pants. All the porkers around began laughing uncontrollably, making fun of the poor man. The women pointed at him from their windows, berating him. And Nirer wouldn’t stop loudly slapping his ass, with a wild, feverish passion.

  “Come on! Come on! Read them! Why won’t you read them?”

  And from that day the man, it is said, took off his fur hat, and his vest and his golden chain, and never once did he ever talk again about his travels and his foreigners. At least not in the Porkerias. One couldn’t joke with these people.

  But time flies, as the commons say. And in this, as in many things, they are right. No matter the time or place, people tend to grow a bit older year by year. Those living beneath our old castle’s walls were no exception. And with time, comes change. Everything changes, and one doesn’t feel a thing. Nirer never felt a thing, and his hair began turning white. His feet, after years of carrying the heavy boars, began to hurt, seemingly at random, during the nights. His wife, like a rabbit, would give birth to a new child every couple of years. And taking care of a dozen kids is no small feat. They need to be properly fed and dressed. They need shoes and beds and blankets. And time of work to learn to read and write, as he had. A process that takes five years at least. And the scribe, of course, needs to be paid for his time and patience. All these came and went, and Nirer didn’t feel a thing.

  So it happened that Nirer, alongside all the other porkers, who also never truly felt a thing, suddenly found himself in a world that, almost like magic, felt completely foreign to the one they knew when they grew up. All of them, without really understanding what was it that had actually changed, gradually found themselves becoming more and more poor.

  Luvir Mandrit deciding to get back in business was the town’s talk for almost the entire summer, yet it was met with complete indifference by them. They were done with him. Then, he started acting somewhat unusually, for a porker that is. He began buying out every pig farm, from the ones around Riviella to those way up the surrounding mountains. Nothing else, no wineries, no olive farms, just the pig farms. One by one, big or small, he didn’t care. About their condition or cost, he didn’t care. In the end, only a handful of farms remained outside his hands, those strong and large enough to resist his expansion.

  In the Porkerias, they began to notice. There noise around the man had now become too irritating to ignore. Yet, they would only discuss him sparingly, as an amusing rumour that made their work go by a bit faster. And they would go on and on about how he had lost touch with the trade, and how he apparently wanted to go up the mountains, and become a farmer. A few of them had an explanation. They told the others not to worry, that all of them should expect to see Luvir again, and that he’d bring all the pigs that he now owned to the Porkerias, and all would be better once again. For a while, that theory was accepted, in quiet unanimity.

  Then Luvir began building his own, foreign porkeria. He made it outside of town, in a field he’d bought. None of the Porkers ever saw the place, but they knew what it looked like, they’d heard the rumours. It was large, larger than any of theirs and made of metal sheets instead of stone. And it had machines, lots of them. People thought only an insane man would live in a place like this. Once again, they were right. After abandoning his father’s house in the Porkerias, barring its doors and closing its windows, Luvir made for himself a new home. It was directly facing the Belir’s palace, so he could, in his own words “waive him good morning every single day”.

  In what felt like no time at all, carts full of Mandrit’s products began arriving in Riviella, so many they’d sometimes clog, not only the main road, but the side roads as well. The people of our town, used to eating nothing but salted pork, hunting and river trouts, were now surprised to find not just salted, but also smoked pork appearing in the Stoas and on the Planks, alongside chicken, mutton, turkey, and pheasant. A couple of the oldest and most prominent pork buyers from Gorva, found it much easier and faster to negotiate directly with Mandrit, instead of navigating their way through dozens of porkers down at that smelly district. Some of them even began loading the boars at the barges still alive, and taking them away, to Mirtha, or Trouterri, or even Kefir, and have them slaughtered, salted and packaged there, by machines.

  So it began, bit by bit, and every night in the wineries at the Porkerias, a large, dim shadow of bleakness could be seen hanging above heads that would not dare lift their eyes from the table. No matter how hard they tried, no solution appeared on the horizon. One of them tried to ask the priest for advice, he didn’t have any. Another had gone even higher, at the Despot. He’d told him to pray, then find Luvir and beg. He did neither. He went back to the wineries with the others. Some of them were now working just a couple of days a week. Some knew they’d left nothing at home for dinner. And everyone knew, their wives were talking to each other. That they were drinking this poison alongside them, without a word, not even to their relatives outside of town, if they had any. Among themselves however, among the men, no one cried about his misfortune, or complained about his loss. They felt too ashamed in the eyes of the others to talk. And none of them ever turned away, and took on another trade. Such treason, none of them would dare commit. They all held together the Porkerias. They held them like a castle. Like their ancestors. Like nothing had changed. And every hunting day during that winter, their muskets echoed through the river, like a proud roar. Proof, they were still alive.

  That most manly of their passions. Hunting. During the large encirclements -when the hunter’s boats circle around the birds from both sides of the river, so they’d fly away and one could shoot them down- when every hunter in town was present, they were always in the front rows. The first and the best. They’d managed over the decades to earn, and hold, the right to be the ones who started every large hunt. The porkers were always the best at shooting down the wilducks, the small waterbirds with the white beaks, and even the prettiest and rarest of birds, the proud wild geese, those so beautiful and harmonic, that underneath their long, tough, outer feathers, one could find a second coat of feathers, thick and smooth and soft as silk. The women of our town called them imperials, and kept them for coating the inside of a good hat, or for treating a flesh wound. A valuable treasure.

  In those large, town hunts, as well as his own, small, private ones, Nirer would still experience those old longings and desires that his proud soul called so desperately for. From back when he was young, until now that he was old. That he was poor. That he had fallen. Now, when he’d return home every night, his whole body would hurt. His legs were swollen from the constant standing and moving those heavy boars. His clothes dripping with dampness and sweat. He’d open the narrow door by pushing it with his back, and threw the days hunt on the floor in the middle of the room. Then, he’d lie down on his chest near the housefire and ask his kids to get on his back, all of them, and step on him. Step on him really good. Step on his back that hurt so much. The kids would yell and laugh. They’d dance on his back, and press him down with their feet, and he’d yell and laugh too. Their dog would go crazy trying to figure out to whom it should bark first. It was one of the few truly happy moments that remained inside the bleakness that was descending upon the Porkerias. The only one who wouldn’t join them was his wife. She’d be on her knees, in the middle of the floor, counting and recounting the ducks. Four for them, a pair for her sister, another one for grandma – what if they sold the rest?

  This thought she wouldn’t dare to even suggest.

  The boaters, the islanders, and all the other poor folks around town would always hunt, have their fun, eat all they wanted and then go down to the Stoas, or send their wives, or their children, and sell whatever birds were left. A little extra cash, on the side. A porker would never do such a thing. Not for the Gods themselves.

  And so, a week finally came for Nirer, when his workshop didn’t work at all. Not a single day. It stopped completely. The rest weren’t doing much better either, they mostly pseudo-worked. His wife did the best she could during those days to provide by herself. She turned the house upside down, she borrowed from other women, some say she even sold, in secret, some silverware to the Nassaryott scrap dealer, who had, for some time now, taken notice of what was happening in the Porkerias.