UC Riverside UC Riverside Electronic Theses and Dissertations Title The Boy With Green Eyes Permalink https://escholarship.org/uc/item/9kq930dg Author Johnson, Tyrell Timothy Publication Date 2011 Peer reviewed|Thesis/dissertation eScholarship.org Powered by the California Digital Library University of California UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA RIVERSIDE The Boy With Green Eyes A Thesis submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree of Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing and Writing for the Performing Arts by Tyrell Timothy Johnson June 2011 Thesis Committee: Mark Haskell Smith, Co-Chairperson Mary Yukari Waters, Co-Chairperson Laila Lalami Copyright by Tyrell Timothy Johnson 2011 The Thesis of Tyrell Timothy Johnson is approved: __________________________________________________________________ __________________________________________________________________ Committee Co-Chairperson __________________________________________________________________ Committee Co-Chairperson University of California, Riverside The Boy With Green Eyes 1 PART I The Boy with Green Eyes –CHAPTER 1: Compass– “No doubt about it. He’s dead all right.” Erron blinked. “Face white an’ cold as snow. How’d he go?” “I don’t really know. He was dead in his bed this morning.” Erron looked on as the man lined the body with red and blue azaleas, hand-picked from Kyra’s northern and southern forests. He looked so peaceful, like a different person. Like his Grandfather had died and this was a lump of old flesh carved in his likeness. “Don’t make sense. Course, I never knew ‘im personally, but he seemed a healthy ol’ man.” Erron watched the wooden lid close over his Grandfather’s body. The man was right. His face was white and cold as snow. You were supposed to be sad when a family member died. Instead, Erron Laine watched the ocean, captivated by the distorted shapes twisting and folding over small 2 ripples. The reflection of the torches and the men standing on the dock like stone pillars glided over the surface. The Priest stood close, watching the sky, looking for stars. It was said that a falling star was a soul passing to The Islands. Erron turned toward the Priest, or more formally the Kadosh, and thought about how easy it would be to push him in–a most holy offering to his Grandfather’s death. Erron didn’t bother looking up; the clouds were dark and purple, blotting out the light of the stars and the moon. It was not a good night to die. Blood Men walked out into the water, pushing the casket, with thin ribbons of red trailing from their wrists like snakes. From blood you come, from blood shall you go. Erron never understood who would choose the life of a Blood Man. To be bled for the gods and live in the cold White Temple, your only hope in life to become a Kadosh one day. Erron would prefer shearing sheep, and he hated sheep. “He was a good man.” Erron heard the deep voice, felt the pudgy hand on his shoulder and turned to see the silhouette of a large man with a thick beard and an even thicker stomach. Anyone who’d ever been to any festival, town gathering or even the great room in Townhall, would have seen his portrait, and would have known it was Brenden Murray, chairman of the High Council outlined against the glowing torches. “Yes,” Erron said, eyeing the wolf pelt lined across the shoulders of Brenden Murray’s coat. He imagined the animal suddenly coming alive. “Yes,” Brenden said, looking at his feet, “a good man.” Erron nodded and looked out at the casket floating on the cold ocean. 3 “His voice will be missed on the council; he and I saw very much eye to eye on most matters. Not that his money hurt anyone either.” Brenden chuckled softly, and gave Erron’s shoulder a squeeze. Erron looked at Brenden Murray. He watched the man’s breath slither from his mouth and rise into the cold winter air. Erron inhaled and smelled roast meat. A few women were cooking a pheasant on a spit just off shore. His stomach rolled as a splash disturbed the silence. The men began throwing offerings into the water. Some brought flowers that broke apart in the air and glided down to float on the surface like little boats. Others brought knives, pieces of armor or jewelry. But most just brought a coin or two to drop to the bottom of the sea, forgotten like the body in the casket. Brenden Murray looked at Erron as if trying to say something else, but in the end he just patted him on the shoulder again, dropped a healthy amount of coins into the water and left. Erron looked down at the small golden compass he had brought to give for his Grandfather’s send off. He moved it about in his fingers and tried to be sad. Erron couldn’t help but think, oddly enough, about the first time he had tried to ride a horse. Kyren, a newly hired stable boy was out training the two stallions when Erron approached and told him that his Grandfather had requested that he teach him to ride. Erron’s Grandfather had strictly forbidden it, of course, but Kyren was too new to challenge any sort of order from Erron’s Grandfather. 4 Erron remembered the feel of the powerful animal between his legs; he remembered kicking the horse like he’d seen done before and he remembered the earth and the sky rapidly exchanging places as he fell. The next thing Erron remembered was his Grandfather carrying him in his arms back towards the estate. Erron had felt wetness on the side of his face and ear. But what he remembered most was seeing his Grandfather’s face, feeling his arms tight around him, and watching his eyes, wider than normal, in something that might have been concern. But Erron also remembered the dark nights, the fear, and the bruises on his sister, Taylor’s, face. He thought about her, back at the estate, alone with their tutor Olyen. Was she sad? Relieved? The truth was, their Grandfather had been their guardian for all their lives, but the man had been as cold and angry as the winter moon. Erron thumbed the compass in his palm and slid it comfortably back into his jacket. He looked down at the dock and saw a small pebble perched on the edge. “Perfect.” Erron kicked the pebble and the water welcomed it in with a sucking sound and it disappeared into the murky darkness. The White Priest – the Kadosh – the Holy one – the bald skinny man who smelled perpetually of incense, looked down at Erron between thick eyebrows and cleared his throat. “I think it’s time to say your prayers boy.” He addressed Erron without meeting his eyes. Erron’s eyes made him uncomfortable, they made everyone uncomfortable. 5 “I’ve said them already,” he lied–wanting nothing to do with the distant gods and their cold statues and sanctuaries. “Of course you have.” His lips smiled, “but not in the Temple.” Erron exhaled. It would look bad if he refused to say the prayers for his Grandfather. After all, no matter how horrible a person, the man had fed, clothed and housed him for fifteen winters. Erron nodded. He had to. The wagon, a large enclosed black thing led by two silent stallions, was past the beaches, on a small rise overlooking the docks and the few fishing boats anchored dangerously close to one another, moored out of the way for the death rites. There were still quite a few men on the docks paying their respects, and even more women and children just off shore, waiting, praying or pretending to pray. Erron passed faces he didn’t know and smelled meat roasting somewhere further down the beach. The two Blood Men were outside the wagon, bandaging their cut wrists, perhaps even praying to the gods that they would survive the night, that the cuts weren’t too deep. Erron thought it odd, almost funny, to think of a man dying for a death rite tradition, but it had happened before. “Therin, Wade, where is your faith? Into the wagon, if the gods are willing, your wounds will heal,” the White Priest said, sounding calm but waving his arms toward the wagon door. He gurgled phlegm in his throat. 6 The Blood Men rushed inside and the Priest held open the door. “If you please,” he said. Erron stepped in, carefully planting his foot on the Priest’s toes. He’d been doing it all day, and the old man hadn’t said anything yet, but Erron knew it was wearing on him. As the door closed behind him, Erron sat down on the seat draped in velvet and watched the two Blood Men on the opposite side. Their pale faces glanced nervously at their wrists. The wagon was cold, and smelled of incense – why wouldn’t it? The White Priest thumped on the door once it was closed, and looked down at Erron. After a few moments, and a yell from the driver, the wagon jolted awake and the wheels rattled and vibrated beneath them. Erron looked out the clear blue window at the sky and couldn’t help feeling a sense of freedom. Life with his Grandfather was over. He saw a small break in the clouds, revealing a thin patch of stars as through a dark tunnel, and he watched. It wasn’t a matter of hoping to see the soul pass; it wasn’t even a matter of owing anything to his Grandfather, more than anything Erron was just curious.