Lip Curling Disgust

Torc’s placidly numb protective shell warps every movement of his face, his body language, even the croaks and cracks of his adolescent voice. Walking through the village with two empty wooden bowls stacked he must constantly remind himself of the expectations for a Chief’s son without showing his resentment for it. He has confidence, he has anger and pride, he has a will of his own, he even still has tears of sorrow hidden somewhere deep. But not here, not within reach of his father. Here he must play that role.

When the people of the village look at Torc they want to see a vicious warlord being groomed to lead fighters on hunts and raids. Not the indignantly angry boy that believes their way of life is not worth living. If he isn’t careful they might see the plan forming behind his eyes.

Arriving at his Aunty’s hut he finds it easier to glare than speak and she, believing or wanting to believe that he would actually strike her for perceived disrespect, simply gives him what he always comes for and bows her head deferentially. Three times his age, and cowering because of his gender and birth. His jaw flexes and his teeth grind at the control he shouldn’t have.

Keep. Your. Shell. The girl needs food.

Leaving his Aunty’s hut with a bowlful of smoked meats and mushrooms with some berries added in Torc stops at the leafen water funnel outside of his father’s home to fill the second bowl.

The sounds coming from the hut ward him away, out of earshot at least. So Torc waits watching the entry-skins, and eventually Chief Alba of the Ardipii stomps forth from his hut. Bone trophies clink and rattle with each of that hateful spirit’s steps off into the jungle-muted bustle of the village. Torc’s father has always worn that smirk of pride after hurting somebody. Doesn’t matter the type of pain, just that he was causing it; and once done he’d smirk and stomp and dare someone for another opportunity.

That poor girl is just their latest captive and she’s getting more attention than any others because she’s different. Because her people are different. They only started coming ashore in the last few moons and its the Ardipii way to take anything the jungle can’t give. The jungle has never given this kind of polished sharp rock or people with so little hair on their bodies.

The Ardipii, Torc included, have light skin but a whispy layer of hair from finger nails to lips, hips, and toes. These sea-people have dark skin that is smooth most everywhere except the tops of their heads where great clouds of tight curls sprout. Rather than bone jewelry denoting successful hunts or victims they wore shining rocks pried from the earth and fashioned into hooks or circlets.

The raid on this girl’s people was brutal. None of them survived except the captives, who were all girls around his age. Old enough to conceive. That lip curling disgust breaks through his practiced protective shell.

Don’t show it. You are Ardipii, for now; blend in!

His heart races and his head swirls with panic. Nobody is here to see his face aside from the trees, and yet the fear of his father’s abuses loom darkly over him.

Recomposing his shell he gathers the covered wooden bowls and steps into the girl’s secluded chamber of his father’s otherwise overlarge and well kept home. Torc mentally grips his self-control and submerges fully in placidity.

She stirs at his presence and he can’t help but see her body. She moves quickly to hack and cough up a volley of spit and congestion that splatters his chin, cheek, and throat.

She should do worse. To all of us.

Setting the bowls down near where her bonds are secured to the wall he gathers one of the softer furs that was meant to make up her bedding and tosses it into her lap. Backing away slowly and carefeul to only make eye contact Torc is equal parts relieved and ashamed that this part of his day is over. Relieved that she is alive, relieved that she was still willing to spit at him. Relieved that he wouldn’t have to see her again for many hours. Ashamed that his mind is so prepared to escape thoughts of her torturous existence.

You are Ardipii, for now.

Torc moves tensely to his own chamber built onto the far side of father’s hut. Once inside his shell evaporates and his face rips through so many emotions at once that it just seems to quiver instead. Flexing his fists and silently screaming at his powerlessness he wipes his face clean of worthwhile punishment and tears.

I’d rather die. I’d rather kill. I should kill that monster. I will. I will kill him.

Torc falls into his first peaceful, restful, complete night of sleep since his mother was alive.

Torc’s eyes snap open hours before the sun and without a clear idea of why he gathers some rations, darts, his small handknife, and a length of rope to go for a hunt. Instead of any established hunting ground, though, he weaves a route to the edge of the trees. From here great seas of green and yellow grass wave at hip height rolling off into the horizon.

The plains people would be camping somewhere out here this season, so Torc keeps low and aware while picking a path that gets him farthest from the Ardipii while hoping to avoid any signs of those nomads. With an unlucky hare that had crossed his path darted and retrieved Torc now has his excuse for being gone and he could focus solely on finding a suitable place to take the girl.

After more than half of his water is drunk and all of his mushroom meat is eaten Torc comes to a rocky outcropping amognst a copse of trees. Enjoying the shade, sipping water, and moving to the far side of the small copse his breath catches in his throat. A vast canyon opens up before him, this rocky outcropping and group of trees like some sort of crown atop the the highest edges of this long finger of red rock walls that curve out of sight.

Had Torc been running he may not have stopped in time to avoid the long fall. As he scans the majestic land before him Torc’s eyes catch a person-figure moving in the shade beneath an overhang of rock at the bottom of the canyon. A nomad!

Torc drops low and drags his belly in the dust crawling up to the edge of the canyon to watch. These nomads look more like Torc than they do the sea-girl, hair everywhere and even similar black color but the hair atop this one’s head seemd to be woven. The boy must be only a year or three older than Torc judging by his height and build. Carrying pottery hung from a wooden yoke the boy seemed to have made this trek to gather water from the spring below.

Watching the boy trudge back up the canyon bottom Torc decides to follow him and make sure he knows exactly where the nomads are camping.