Distemper Hamlet; the year of disgrace 1352

A boy sat in front of a log cabin that perched on a cliff, overlooking the hamlet, as he crafted arrows. He was the younger of two sons of a local ranger, and they called him Sebas. The glaring mountain sun scorched the back of his neck, and beads of sweat trickled down his bare skin. His medium-length auburn hair was unkempt and greasy, hanging lankly along his face, devoid of any semblance of a beard. His annoyed expression and constant grumbling bespoke his undying enthusiasm for his dull labour.

On the ground to his right lay a cloth, weighed down with stones, upon which rested four dozen short, thin wooden sticks. On his other side was a basket filled with goose feathers. Between them stood a battered table, its surface cluttered with white scraps and pieces of string that the wind occasionally whisked away. A flickering candle flame beneath a metal vessel heated a mixture of bones and animal skins, the same animals whose flesh sustained the inhabitants of Distemper.

Sebas clumsily trimmed another wing feather, applied some animal glue, and affixed it to the shaft. He picked up the string and began wrapping it monotonously around the wood.

“That’s enough,” he chuntered to himself, tying a knot and then cutting the thread with a small knife.

Afterwards, he tucked the feathered arrow, still lacking a head, into one of the two quivers on his left, which now contained the five arrows he had crafted that afternoon.

He knew well how to count, and the sight of the remaining pile awaiting his attention elicited a deep sigh. Slowly, he bent down for another arrow shaft, clutching it in his calloused hand.

“I’m tired of this,” Sebas muttered, letting the shaft slip from his fingers before starting biting his nails.

The door of the log cabin behind him opened with a sudden slam. Sebas started in alarm, quickly swivelling his head. His aunt Carlina came out, holding an empty, egg-shaped basket in both hands. She was a little over five feet tall, doing her best to balance her height with her width, which reached almost four feet. Her clothing was a brown, flaxen skirt, covering her legs down to her swollen ankles, and a faded white shirt tightened with a bodice, from which her large bosom daringly tried to escape. Sebas’ gaze travelled from her feet to her round face and lingered for a moment.

Carlina’s cheeks were flushed crimson, and she panted heavily, dripping with sweat from the muggy weather and her own weight. She had her straw-yellow hair tied in a bun, unhidden by a bonnet since she had not married and was in her mid-forties. Her water-blue eyes met Sebas’ gaze, and she opened her mouth to say something, but her nephew was quicker, as usual.

“What?” he snapped.

“I mended your shirts and put them in your chest,” Carlina replied, not expecting any thanks. Then she trudged over to the clothesline with its hanging laundry.

“Hmph, you can take them out again. Because those are not mine,” Sebas muttered irritably, gripping the small knife in his hand.

His aunt began pulling the dry garments off the line and folding them into the basket. “They’re yours now,” she responded calmly, without raising her voice. “And you should take better care of them. Clothes aren’t cheap, and your father is not a king.”

Sebas stabbed the blade into the table and gnashed his teeth. “I’m not going to wear Akles’ duds! I’m not a child anymore!” he retorted, his voice breaking unpredictably between a deep, manly tone and a high, boyish pitch. He hated his older brother, and the mere thought of Akles made him tremble with anger.

Carlina sighed, glancing over her shoulder. “If you’re a grown man, you should learn to keep your trousers clean,” she remarked in a lower voice. “This time it was not just urine, but also turds,” she added, shaking her head in disbelief at the memory of the morning laundry.

The thirteen-year-old Sebas went as red as a beetroot. “Shut your trap, old hag!” he vented his rage.

Carlina stopped dead in her tracks, but before she could respond, a man’s voice thundered from the house: “What the hell is going on out there?!”

Sebas’ heart skipped a beat, his face blanching with fear. He did not dare to look back and immediately returned to working on arrows. Carlina bit her bottom lip and squeezed the hem of the clothes in her hands. Her gaze travelled to the log cabin from where Meint, her twin brother and head of the family, was approaching. Although they were siblings, Carlina and Meint shared no resemblance. Meint was five feet and seven inches tall, with broad shoulders and a sinewy build. His pine-bark-coloured hair thinned out considerably in recent years, and his full beard was threaded with silver. He wore buckskin clothes and leather boots with laces, and a seax hung from his belt, secured by two leather thongs attached to the rings on its scabbard, positioned horizontally across the small of his back. Meint did not spare his sister a second glance. He strode over to his younger son, Sebas, and stopped beside him. The latter hunched his shoulders, carefully trimming a feather. His father grumbled like an old beard and moved a few steps to the Sebas’ left side.

“Is that all you made?” asked Meint in disbelief, a threatening undertone in his voice as he pointed to the two half-empty quivers.

Sebas remained silent, knowing that silence was his safest option.

“Well, fuck me. What a hardworking piece of shit I have under my roof,” Meint exclaimed with scorn, reaching for the quivers.

Sebas pretended not to hear him, biting his cheeks from the inside. His father pulled out the arrows, examining them with a critical eye. They were shoddily made—the feathering poorly trimmed and loosely glued. Such a result was more fitting for dabbler or lazybones than the son of a proud and renowned ranger. Meint’s bistre-coloured eyes darkened.

“Are you taking the piss out of me?” he demanded, his voice like steel.

Screw you, old geezer, Sebas thought to himself, lacking the courage to be as cheeky to his father as he was to his aunt. After all, Carlina, compared to Meint, was neither as fast as a falcon nor as unpredictable as a wild boar.

“Are you deaf-and-dumb or what?!” barked his father, grasping Sebas’ shoulder.

Carlina turned away, refocusing on the laundry. Although she was concerned, she had no desire to meddle in the father and son’s conflict for multiple reasons.

Firstly, Sebas loathed her and had made her feel unwelcome in their home ever since Meint invited her to live with them seven years ago. Carlina never expected her brother’s sons to accept her as a replacement for their late mother, nor had she ever desired to be a mother to any child. She accepted Meint’s proposal purely because it was beneficial for both of them.

She began helping him shortly after his wife’s death, visiting their cabin for nearly two years. Back then, she lived alone in the hamlet, and the constant trekking up and down the cliff in the sweltering summers or freezing winters was hard on her old bones, despite the thick layer of fat protecting them.

Not to mention, it was much easier to clean up after three messy men every day instead of once a week. Thus, she welcomed the offer to stay in the log cabin. For Meint, her presence spared him the hassle of cooking and housework, which were not his forte.

Secondly, Carlina knew her brother’s character all too well. It was partly his doing that she never married in her youth. Meint was possessive, quick-tempered, and had to rule the roost.

You were lucky, dying in your prime, Debora. The bitterness flooded her mind. At least you never had to endure the misery of growing old, knowing that your life would never change.

“Stand up and look me straight in the eye!” shouted Meint at the uncooperative Sebas, grabbing him by the hair and yanking him to his feet. The boy staggered, flailing his arms to keep from falling. In an instant, his father seized his forearm and twisted his arm. Sebas groaned in pain, struggling to escape his father’s grasp like a snake caught by an eagle. He fought the urge to punch Meint in the jaw, knowing it would only enrage the old ranger further and earn him a swift, brutal retaliation. Meint’s blows were hard and precise, sharpened by years of harsh training that the boy had no chance of withstanding.

“What did I tell you about the moves? You’re slow and stiff as a board,” Meint berated his younger son, who made him see red most of the time. “You think you’re a man now? You’re not! You’re just a piece of shit!”

“Oh, don’t be so harsh on him, father,” came a young, melodic voice from the path leading down to the hamlet.

Carlina, standing closest to the comer, glanced his way and dropped the white sheet she was holding. She muttered something under her breath and bent down to pick up the clothes.

Meint’s countenance changed immediately. The presence of that person brought a slight smile to his grumpy face. He released Sebas, pushing him so that the boy fell on his arse. Then he turned towards his older son, his pride and joy.

Akles, fifteen years old, was returning from the hunt, bringing back something larger than a hare or a pheasant this time. Dark stains covered his deerskin clothes, and rivulets of sweat mingled with crusted blood on his skin. He had dark matted together, and dirty smudges stretched on his forehead and cheeks, resembling war paint. Yet, he wore a smile as bright as the sun.

He walked slowly, burdened by the heavy load tied to his back with thick hemp ropes. Although accompanied by a swarm of flies drawn to his prey, Akles carried himself with the majesty of a young heir who knew he would soon ascend to the royal throne. Meint raised him this way—his firstborn and talented descendant, who inherited only the best qualities from him.

The aura of Akles’ dominance, akin to a mountain lion approaching travellers in a narrow pass, enveloped Carlina. She shuddered, panting as if under its weight. The powerful scent of manly musk filled her nostrils, serving as a stark reminder that her nephew was no longer a boy. At his age, Akles stood almost as tall as his father, his muscles visibly bulging under his robes. Carlina looked at him in awe and blushed at the memory of seeing him exercise half-naked in the morning and then washing himself in the cold water. She could not stop thinking about him, even though she would never dare tell him about it, if only for fear that he would deride her. And in her age and loneliness, she needed at least something to dream about.

“Oh, how nice of you,” Akles took the white sheet from her hands, cleaning the bloody face and hands into it, “Thanks.” He returned the now dirty cloth to Carlina with a charming smile. His gesture was arrogant, and he ruined her hard work, yet she could not be angry with him.

He risks his life in the mountains and woods every day. Of course, he can’t understand such trifles as washing clothes. He is so brave for his age and will suppress his father’s skill soon. She sought excuses for his behaviour, swayed by nature’s laws stronger than her will.

Akles passed by her, and she saw what was on his back. The sight broke the romantic spell for a second. He carried the severed head of a large hog, with four long yellowed tusks sticking out of its wide-open maw. Dirt with dark blood covered its black snout, and it had one ear cut in two. Its cinnamon eyes glittered in the sun between the walnut-brown bristles, with flies swarming among them.

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Akles went to Meint and Sebas, taking the load off his back. “Sorry, I’m late. I had to deal with this first,” he said and threw it on the ground at his father’s feet.

Seeing his older brother, Sebas’ hazelnut brown eyes widened, and his hair bristled like a dog’s. He grunted as if to jump and bit his tongue hard to keep from fuming. Hatred wracked him until his stomach heaved and his hands shook.

Meint’s face lit up with pride. He nodded appreciatively at the trophy, knowing well what his older son brought home. “Where did you cross paths with it?”

“A short walk along the river close to the glade where it attacked woodcutters for the first time,” he replied, as if it were nothing.

“Damn! Too bad I wasn’t there. I wanted to see that fucker breathe his last.” Meint become excited and spat on the ground near the animal’s head.

“It really did a lot of damage and hurt many people. I’m glad I could take it down to prevent further misfortune,” proclaimed Akles with humility in his voice.

That bastard is boasting again. What does he think he is? Some hero from fairy tales? Jealousy coupled with feelings of inferiority spoke in Sebas’ head.

“It’s just a stupid pig,” Sebas blurted out, unable to control himself. Two pairs of eyes turned his way. Sebas was still sitting on the ground, frowning like hell.

“Shut your trap!” snapped their father.

“And what kind of noble deed has my little brother accomplished today?” queried Akles with nonchalance.

“That whelp?! He can’t make arrows after all I taught him,” snorted Meint, giving Sebas a death glare.

“Let me see. I’m sure he put at least some effort into it, didn’t you?” Akles grinned. He moved a few steps closer and offered his younger brother a hand. Sebas pushed his hand away with disdain and stood up by himself. Then he turned his back on his brother and headed back to the table. The corners of Akles’ lips moved in amusement. He wrapped his arm around Sebas’ shoulders in a brotherly gesture and leaned in close to his ear. “Next time, I’ll take you boar hunting with me so you can shit your trousers again,” he whispered to him in a voice like honey and hemlock.

Sebas twitched. Akles’ words stung him like a hornet, and his face turned red with anger. I’ll kill you, arsehole! The desire for revenge darkened Sebas’ mind. He wrenched himself free from Akles’ hug and leapt over the table. Without thinking, he pulled out the knife he had left, stabbed into the table, and started turning back. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Carlina sinking her fingers into dirty clothing with a dreamy expression. Then their father filled with pride, feasting his eyes on the dead wild boar.

Wait! Where did that prick go?! As Sebas turned half his body, he realised Akles was not waiting for him. In the next second, a hand whose clasp was almost as strong as their father’s gripped Sebas’ wrist.

“You don’t want to go this way, believe me,” hissed Akles, who had manoeuvred around him and pressed harder on his veins, forcing him to lose the weapon. The knife fell to the ground, and Akles quickly kicked it under the table.

“You try this on me ever again, and dirty trousers will be the least of your problems,” he warned his younger brother in a low voice of death.

The tone was like a cold shower that woke Sebas from his rage. He started shivering like a leaf, overwhelmed by the premonition of some horrible punishment awaiting him.

Although resembling Meint, Akles did not share the same character. He was much worse. Their father had a hot head and usually acted faster than thought. In comparison, Akles rarely got angry; however, he did not forget or forgive. He was a collected and calculating bastard wearing the mask of Prince Charming.

“Hmph?” came from their father’s mouth as he noticed the heavy atmosphere and Sebas in a cold sweat. He could only guess what words his sons had exchanged, but Meint did not bother dwelling on it. He knew them both well enough to foresee their actions. And if anything worried him or rather gave him a headache, it was rebellious Sebas.

They say a man’s seed is rich only with the firstborn, just as a miracle never happens twice. There seems to be some truth to that, Meint thought as he curled his lip and looked at his sons through narrowed eyes.

Akles, still pressing Sebas’ right wrist, reached with his other hand for the hunting knife attached to his belt and unsheathed it. Sebas noticed the movement, petrified as he saw the sun glint off the blade.

“Like I said,” announced Akles aloud to draw attention to him. “I shot most of the arrows into it and then finished it off with my hunting knife.” He showed his brother the cold weapon by holding it just a few inches away from his face.

The blade was wiped clean, yet the smell of blood lingered on Akles’ clothes and skin. Sebas looked in his dim reflection at the metal. His previously crimson face was as pale as the ghost’s.

The buzzing of the flies suddenly sounded distant to him, and the blazing sun failed to provide enough heat to keep him warm. A shiver ran down his spine.

“It took me a while to cut its head off,” recounted Akles with an emotionless tone, turning the knife slightly to show his brother the sharp edge. That look chilled Sebas’ blood. “And even more to bring it here,” continued Akles. “You couldn’t imagine how much work it takes to deal with one stupid pig, Sebas,” he laughed amusedly, then pulled the hand with the weapon away and released his brother’s wrist.

Sebas could not move; his legs felt like they cast in lead.

“You’ve proved an unbelievable feat, Akles,” said Carlina, her voice trembling with emotion. “You deserve a reward for your hard work. I bet you’re hungry, aren’t you?” she suggested the one thing no one else could provide for him.

“Oh, yes. I’m hungry as a hunter,” chuckled Akles, giving Aunt one of his best smiles.

“I’ll make you something right away,” she said, grabbing the basket and hurrying to the log cabin.

Meint sent his sister off with a frown, then turned back to his sons.

“We have to drink to your victory,” he declared, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Of course, father,” replied Akles, not arguing with his father, knowing it was pointless. Instead, he used a different method to get his way.

“What about we make a small toast here first, and then a greater celebration down in the hamlet? People saw me on my way home and offered me to buy a few drinks or make a feast, you know,” he paused, waiting for Meint’s reaction.

Their father nodded, his expression reflecting that he was already imagining the situation.

He surely pictures himself guzzling a tipple in my name like he did all the work, crossed Akles’ mind, but he did not show any displeasure.

“I couldn’t turn them down because that beast caused problems for many of them, and it would be rude of me not to celebrate the victory with them. After all, we need to keep a good relationship with them,” he reminded his father with the modesty of a saint.

“That’s true. You are the gift of Gods, Akles,” Meint said, patting his shoulder, his satisfaction filling the air like a morning light in a dark room.

“So, do you agree with that?” Akles wanted a straightforward answer to prevent any later trouble. Given their father’s nature, problems were an everyday reality.

“Yes, I do,” replied Meint, touching his hirsute face.

And he’s probably also fantasising about groping that redheaded gal, Akles thought, recognising his father’s unconscious gesture.

“Sweet,” he smiled at Meint, keeping silent about his own interest in the young, reddish widow. Then he turned back to Sebas. “I’ve used up a lot of arrows today, but luckily, I have my awesome little brother to make a bunch of new ones for me, right?”

Sebas struggled to nod. His knees felt weak.

“Make sure you have it done by tonight,” Meint added.

“I’m sure he will,” said Akles and smiled broadly, as his father put an arm around his shoulder.

They turned their backs on Sebas and headed for the log cabin. Fear’s claws released him only when the door slammed shut behind them.

Sebas silently returned to the table, barely breathing. His mind was as blank as Aunt Carlina’s linen clothing. He could not think straight, yet emotions burbled beneath his skin like a slowly cooking meal.

He was aware his older brother was capable of cold-blooded acts, but Akles could wait for the right moment and strike when least expected. The terror of the hunting knife at his throat was fading, but the foreboding of an insidious attack lingered like a dark cloud.

The flies swarming around the boar’s head were rollicking off the blood and began taking an interest in Sebas. They buzzed incessantly around his ears, crawling over his sweaty face, back, and shoulders, which started showing the signs of sunburn. He tried to swat them away with his open hand, but in vain. Despite the irritation, he continued working on the ammunition, the insects’ persistence grating on his nerves.

Sebas snarled, swinging his knife at them, but his movements were too slow. He wailed in frustration, shaking his head repeatedly. The flies kept invading his nose and ears, some even daring to enter his mouth or get into his eyes. Infuriated, he attempted to pin them to the table with his knife, but his attempts were fruitless, only adding to his mounting exasperation.

Determined to complete his task, he crafted a dozen arrows, placing them into the second, now almost half-filled quiver. By this time, the heat had taken its toll on him. He felt dizzy, his throat parched, and his skin crawled with the sensation of the flies’ tiny legs. He desperately needed to quench his thirst and cleanse himself of the creeping, invasive presence of the insects.

In a lurching walk, Sebas gave the boar’s head a wide berth and entered the shadow of the cabin with a sigh of relief. Sebas wiped his sweaty forehead with his arm and leaned against a pillar supporting the covered porch. He breathed out and shook his head, sending drops of sweat flying in all directions like a dog shaking water from its coat. Then he rubbed his eyes to stave off the black spots clouding his vision, then pulled the handle on the wooden door and entered the cabin.

Meint’s family dwelling consisted of two large rooms—a bedroom and a kitchen, each with its own fireplace. The bedroom belonged to the head of the family, while Carlina had her bed in the kitchen’s corner. The boys slept on simple berths made of trimmed evergreen branches.

Inside, a new wave of oppressive heat hit Sebas, radiating from the roaring fireplace. He sniffed the air, recognising the unmistakable scent of pretzels mingling with the acrid smell of burning wood and smoke. His gaze fell on the hewn table where Meint and Akles sat, sipping mead from wooden cups and eating the pastries, while Carlina tended to a second batch on an iron griddle over the fire. Saliva gathered in Sebas’ parched mouth. Swallowing hard, he headed for the large stoneware tank they had filled with fresh water from the nearby mountain stream a week ago.

He took a wooden mug standing nearby and immersed it into the tank. The cold water splashed his fingers, and he fought the urge to rinse his face right there. Sebas raised the cup to his lips and took a deep gulp. The cool liquid spread over his tongue, refreshing his body like a cold compress on a feverish forehead. But as soon as the initial relief washed over him, a wave of sweat broke out across his skin again, more intense than before. His sweat began dripping into the vessel, rippling the water. Sebas closed his eyes in fatigue, and an uncomfortable memory from three years ago surfaced in his mind.

Their father had been training them to track animals that day, a crucial skill for any ranger. Of the wide range of ranger skills, it was the only one Sebas had learned quickly, and he was better at it than his older brother. Determined to prove himself, he left Meint and Akles behind and hurried along the animal’s footpath through the woods, intent on winning this race.

It was a hot day, and the terrain was difficult to traverse. Drenched in sweat, Sebas’s clothes sticking uncomfortably on his skin. He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached the mountain stream, about three hundred feet above the spot from which they always drew their water supply for the house.

Sebas knelt between the stones and submerged his hand in the cold flow, cupping the water to his parched mouth. He drank deeply, the cold liquid reviving him from the oppressive summer heat. The shadow of the pines and the mountain breeze offered a pleasant chill against his skin, and for a moment, he felt completely at peace.

Sebas rinsed his face twice and started getting up when he caught a strange movement in the corner of his eyes. Turning his body, his gaze fell on the rocks and continued upstream. Then he saw it. A carcase of deer, bloated and rotting away, was crossing the patch of the stream. The once graceful creature was now a grotesque sight, marred by rot and disease. It looked down at Sebas through empty eye sockets pecked out by the ravenous birds.

The wind shifted, carrying the stench of decaying flesh to his nose. The water, once so pure and alluring, suddenly felt tainted, carrying the death and pollution of the miserable animal into Sebas’ mouth. He froze in horror, the urge to vomit spreading from the memory of the past to the present.

Sebas wanned and put away the wooden mug, barely able to hold it. He glanced at his reflection in the stoneware tank, seeing the image morph into the ghostly visage of a deer’s bloated corpse. He shuddered at the smell of the severed boar’s head outside and the sensation of buzzing flies mingling with the recent memory. The taste of the tainted water from that day came rushing back, and he could almost feel the rot sliding down his throat. His stomach churned, and the water he had just drunk seemed to lose its coolness, replaced by a sickly warmth. He staggered back, clutching his midsection as nausea overtook him.

From behind him, the laughter of his father and brother pulled him back to reality.

“Drinking water, really? Are you sick?” Akles asked with mock concern.

Sebas turned around, facing his brother’s grimace.

“You’ve been sitting in that sun for a long time, haven’t you?” snorted Meint.

Sebas did not respond, but his heart was racing. He looked at the mead in their wooden cups. Even he knew that water meant life, yet ale and mead, brewed and fermented, were safer for humans and other bipeds.

“The beer is in the cellar, half-wit!” Meint pointed to the half-covered trapdoor on the wooden floor.

A fear fell upon Sebas as if he had stepped into a void on the stairs in the darkness. He suddenly felt the urge to put on warm clothes and huddle close to the fireplace.

“Are you still scared of the bogeyman, milksop?” laughed Akles, his voice coloured by the golden of mead.

Sebas bit his bottom lip. His brother’s triumphant smile and his father’s proud eyes felt like daggers, and he knew that admitting his fear would only bring more scorn.

“Get back to work, Sebas,” Meint growled, noticing his hesitation. “Get those arrows finish by tonight.”

Sebas gulped and nodded with difficulty. He turned away from the table and headed back outside, the image of the deer carcase still haunting his thoughts. The desire to be far away from the dark cellar pushed him onward.