Chapter 7, Biedi Keke (The Trial of Pain)

Note from the writer:  

This particular event is taken from Radeeks own experiences during this part of his Trials of Manhood.  Not all Tehir clans use the Trials of Manhood and of those that do the individual trials and rites can vary greatly.  This is by no means what all young men of the Tehir go through and should not be considered a common practice among all Tehir.

The linen sack over my head is tightly woven and stifling, making it very difficult to breath.  The leather thongs binding my wrists are painfully tight, leaving no room to attempt to free myself.  I hear the soft tread of a footfall approaching me, and suddenly I see stars behind my eyes, as I am struck upon the side of the head, hard.  I hit the floor, falling off the small stool I was occupying, and the kicking begins.  I try to curl into a ball, making myself as small as I can, but this only leaves my back open for assault.  I hear a sound that is eerily similar to a stick snapping and a sudden, intense pain in my side tells me I have at least one broken rib.  It’s nearly impossible to concentrate through the pain of the seemingly constant blows.  It goes on and on… and on.

I regain consciousness; I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious or how many times I’ve been beaten senseless.  My entire body is in protest, but I make no sound; to do so would only bring on more punishment, as I’ve found out before.  I hear voices, Tehir voices.  “He’s awake," one says.  A burst of fear goes through my mind.  I know the pain will begin… again.

Strong hands grasp my arms and pull me to my feet.  I groan at the movement, I can’t help it; it hurts so badly.  I am struck in the head with what I assume to be the fist of one of my tormentors; it brings on a wave of dizziness.  “How many are in your camp?” a voice asks, in Tehir.  I remain silent, knowing all too well what my silence will bring.  “How many?  TELL ME!”  I grit my teeth together, which hurts like hell, but I will not speak; I must not allow myself to be broken.  I will not bring death upon my people by giving up this information.

It begins again, the beating, the kicking, the torment… the unbearable pain.  I hear screams of anguish, pain, and agony; they sound so very far away, is someone else here suffering as well?  It takes me a moment to realize the truth… the screams are my own, and they sound so sad, so forlorn, and so helpless.  Mercifully, I lose consciousness again.

I wake, spluttering; someone has doused me with water.  My hood has been removed and I squint against the feeble torchlight in the room.  We seem to be in some sort of cave or small cavern, very dimly lit.  My captors, there are five of them at the moment, all garbed and veiled in sanguine, are in the small room with me.  Though I can see them, I cannot see them clearly, for my eyes are swollen nearly shut from the beatings.  I have been placed back on my stool and the thongs that bound my hands behind me have been removed, though my wrists are now tied securely to the small table before me.

One of my captors places another stool across from me and sits upon it.  “Your camp, how many raiders are there?”  He asks me once again, for what must be the thousandth time, his voice strangely reasonable.  I attempt to spit at him but my mouth is too dry, so I grin at him, my lips split and bleeding; he understands the intent though.  He grabs the index finger of my left hand and gives it a savage twist.  I hear a loud CRACK and I scream; I can’t help it, my finger is broken, bent in a direction it was never meant to go.

“We can do this all day, or rather, I can,” says the Tehir across from me.  Fear courses through me.  “You could save yourself a lot of pain, only tell me what I wish to know,” he says to me.  Knowing the outcome, I shake my head slowly, almost imperceptibly.  I am afraid to try to speak, my voice, I am sure, would betray my fear.

The seated Tehir sighs and says  “Another finger, or something different?”  His fingers drum nonchalantly upon the table as he ponders this question.  He nods to himself as he reaches his decision, “Another finger, I think.”  Terror claws at me, deep within my guts, as he reaches for my hand.  I try to curl my hand into a fist, anything to keep him from those precious digits, to keep him from breaking another one. 

I can’t manage it though; the one broken finger I already have keeps me from being able to clench my hand.  I know what is coming as he grasps the middle finger of my left hand.  “One last chance” he says, his hand wrapped around my finger.  “Tell me, and this will all be over.  We’ll get you cleaned up, fed, and healed, as good as new.”

I want to, so badly, anything to stop this, but I can’t.  I try to steel myself for what is going to happen, but I only manage a forlorn look into my tormentors’ eyes.  “Go to hell” I mumble, so softly I doubt he heard me.  It’s the most defiance I can muster.

It seems he did hear me.  “SNAP!” as he wrenches my finger straight up and backward, but he doesn’t stop there.  He keeps his hand tightly gripped around my finger as he twists it, bending it back and forth, the broken ends of the bone grinding together.  Blinding agony courses from my hand and up my arm, searing itself into my brain.  My screams, continuous now, sound so pitiful to me.  Tears flow freely down my cheeks as the man continues working on my finger, I can’t control them; my agony is all encompassing, it is the only thing I know, this is now my reality.  I realize, just before everything goes black once again, that I have become pain.

I slowly come to my senses out of a haze of agony to find myself suspended from a rope tied about my wrists.  I don’t know how long I’ve been here.  I now have three broken fingers on my left hand and one on my right, and I have no idea what other injuries I have, but I know there are a lot.  I have at least four broken ribs; I know this because every breath is a new adventure in pain.  I can only raise my head high enough to make out the feet of my tormentors across the small room.  The last round of torture proved that I can’t even scream now, my throat is so raw from what feels like uncountable months of it, that I can only manage feeble whimpers, pitiful animal sounds, mewling... begging.

I am broken; I can’t stand any more.  The same question over and over.  Did I answer it?  I can’t remember; hell, I can’t remember who I am.  What was the question?  Who am I?  How long have I been here?  I lift my head higher, pain coursing through me.  Dizziness assaults me, my vision clouds and then I see a woman robed in crimson with long dark hair and grey eyes; she is trying to tell me something… I know she is; I can feel it.  I can’t hear her, what is she saying?  Please, tell me my name, woman; who am I?  She steps closer and reaches her arms out to me.  I can see viridian swirls in her twilight grey eyes and many thin scars criss-cross her hands and arms.  Those eyes, those scars, they seem somehow familiar; I’ve seen them before.  I can’t remember.  Please, tell me my name.  Who… am… I?  Her lips move and one word echoes in my mind with the force of a thousand voices.  Radeek!  That is my name; my name is Radeek! 

My captors see me raise my head and start towards me.  As they approach the woman in crimson fades away into nothing.  I know her…somehow.  Who is she?  I hurt; I hurt a lot.  I am beyond caring, but at least I’ll die knowing who I am.  The woman is gone and in her place stands men, men who will hurt me.  I laugh; well, I try to laugh.  Instead, I cough up blood, and bone-wracking pain comes with it.

A small but wicked looking knife flashes in the dim light.  I see it coming closer, nearing the left side of my face.  Damn them, they’re going to take my eye!  Fear courses through my body and mind.  I try to struggle, but I barely moved.  I have nothing left, nothing at all; I am broken and defeated.  A burning pain as the knife carves into my face, deep into the flesh, from my temple to my jaw line.  It seems to go on forever, twisting, turning, and spiraling, like a snake of fire, a burning selshis.  I feel the blood streaming down my face.

After the knife-wielder inspects his work and nods in satisfaction another man then takes my chin in his hand and rubs something into the wound.  It burns, fiercely; it doesn’t matter, I will die here, I know it; they can do nothing else to me except end my torment.  “Cut him down” I hear one of the men say.  That voice, I know that voice; I know I do, but my pain-addled brain can’t process it.  “Get him to the healers, quickly!” the so very familiar voice adds.

As the rope is cut two of my captors hold me up, they are strangely gentle with my broken body.  Just before I lose consciousness the man who wielded the knife leans over and whispers into my ear.  “Well done Radeek.  Your scar has been well earned and you have resisted with honor and strength for these past eleven days; you said very little and revealed nothing that would seriously betray your clan.  I am proud to be your father and to have taken you as my son.  You are Tehir.”