Free Skillful Death by Ike Hamill

piece of flint. It wasn’t as hard or long as the one the blond boy had taken from him, but it was better than nothing. He picked through his suits until he found the one he wanted.
    Today, he dressed in the finest. The back and arms came from a summer wolf’s fur—silver and brown. The chest was the dappled skin of a fawn. His leggings were marked by the dorsal stripes of donkey hide. Constantine pulled on his suit and donned the wolf’s fur hood, walking towards the Harvest Festival.
    When the general din of the voices resolved into individual words, Constantine turned north and walked until he was amongst the bamboo. The sharp leaves and splintered stalks of bamboo bordered the town on all sides. Everyone knew not to venture too deep into the thick green weeds. At least once a year, they lost someone to the bamboo. The men said that the roots of the bamboo gave off a smell that would make you lose your sense of direction. The women claimed that ghosts roamed through the stalks; ghosts who would drive you mad. Everyone agreed that those lost in the bamboo would eventually be eaten by rats.
    Constantine only penetrated a few paces into the bamboo. Moving silently, he stayed hidden by the bamboo leaves as he paralleled the festival. He was close enough to the edge so that he could see the running forms of children enjoying the activities. The adults grouped in the shade of the walnut trees, exchanging wares for guarantees of service.
    When he got close enough to the playing children to make out their faces, Constantine paused and crouched. Most of the children were less than twenty paces away. Constantine pulled his second-best flint blade from his pocket and passed it from hand to hand as he watched. He looked for the blond-haired boy.
    The town held their Harvest Festival on the side of a hill near at the outskirts of their population. People talked about moving the festival to the center of town so people wouldn’t need to haul their goods so far. Inertia proved stronger than the complaints. Besides, the hillside was very pretty. At the top, sturdy walnut trees capped the hill. This was another source of contention amongst those who hated the location of the festival. The bed of walnut leaves beneath the trees was poisonous for the horses. They said that if a horse was led through those leaves, it would simply walk out of its hooves. Down the side of the hill, pretty maples spread out—big ones near the top, and smaller ones down near the bamboo—casting everything in a beautiful green glow. These trees ran with sap all year round. During the festival, the adolescents would cart bucket after bucket of maple sap to the top of the hill. There, it was boiled and reduced until thick enough to make candy.
    This day, a sweet breeze blew through the maple leaves. It made the light sparkle on the children’s faces.
    Most of the young boys ran in a tight clump, kicking a ball in between the trunks of the scrawny maples. They kicked up tiny clouds of dry maple leaves with their dirty summer shoes. The older boys hung from branches of the walnut trees. Some picked the sticky green husks, but most tried to eavesdrop of the conversations of their parents. The girls were scattered in groups of two or three, and busied themselves with activities. Some girls worked on crafts, some played games, and others sang songs and braided hair. Constantine had never been this close to such a large group of people. His breathing slowed and his shoulders hunched as he watched.
    When he finally saw the blond boy it was like suddenly spotting a snake you almost stepped on. He’d been there the whole time, kicking the ball with the other boys. Constantine didn’t recognize his own suit from a distance. The plump blond boy, covered from head to toe in tight fur, looked like a big friendly dog romping with the kids as they played. Then, with a spin, he suddenly looked mean and fierce. Constantine admired his own suit as he watched the boy