Bread Crumbs

She made the last stroke to finish her signature. The kitsune behind the counter she stood against smiled, then nodded. Outside the clomps of hooves drew near. She looked, and mounted soldiers in studded hide armors had rode in in a kicked up dust. One of them, wearing a long caped vest, came forward. A kitsune.

“Yava. This is Clifford,” the counter kitsune said. “Clifford Field, a bludswor. He’ll be your instructor in training. I assume you have no prior experience in riding.”

“Not a hair,” Yava admitted.

“Not a problem. You’ll learn that with all else. He’ll take you down to camp now.”

“Yava.” The kitsune called Clifford steered his steed to an angle. “You may call me Cliff. Welcome to the Ranks, darling.”

His gloved paw extended out to Yava. Yava took it. He grinned then grunted as he pulled her up, helped her onto the hind of the horse, behind him, behind the saddle. By holding his shoulder pads, she could feel muscle beneath. Cliff had a lovely musk. Mayhaps it was the horse. Mayhaps it was the shine of sun, the smell of hay, the warmth of gear. The―

The horse rose off her front legs. Neigh!

“Yip!” said Yava.

Both of her arms went for Cliff’s stomach to hold to. The front hooves of the horse paddled in the air before touching ground gently. Then they were off―the horse was off―in a gallop out from the stables, out from the quarter, out from that awful city. Those she assumed to be The Ranks followed after.

Cliff laughed. “That didn’t really scare you, did it?”

“Oh my… gracious,” her mouth open, eyes rolling, “you startled me.”

“Daydreamer, eh? You should be well-rested and full of energy, then. Fantastic!”

Oddly she lowered her guard knowing very well not to. The rest of this day would not be dreams and escorts. No.

Toffee colored tents stood neatly in straight rows. Tall alohines of peeling barks surrounded. A circus-size tent was set up beyond the toffee tents in a circular dirt clearing. They rode between tents toward that one past marching, crate-carrying, otherwise occupied-with-miscellaneous-task kirunit and kitsuret. Into it―the “Main Hall” Cliff called it―they rode. That is, Yava and Cliff did; the other Ranks drew up at the door.

It was shady inside. Shady like cool. But it was also all so busy. It was loud. A kirin with his hooves behind his back Yava took for a bludswor was counting off numbers in a shout while some-four-dozen Kitsurin did clap pushups and echoed his “forty!”, “forty-one!”, “forty-two!”. It piqued her interest, stole her attention, until the familiar voice called to her, “Yava”.

Ah, Cliff’s. Cliff’s paw was on her shoulder, now, and he was speaking. Cliff’s gaze moved from her to some surely-important kirin below. “… gear pronto. A medium may fit, but I’d place my bet on a small.”

Cliff threw one leg to the other side of the horse. Hopped off the horse. Yava was obliged to do the same.

Scanning her head-to-tail, “Eh,” said the surely-important. She already disliked him. “Large or small, we’ll fit you. This way, unit.”

“Report to me outside A-sap,” Cliff said. He rode off.

“Unit” as she was called was ushered over to a corner of the Hall where hide armors hung on poles and boots lay beneath them. Leggings lay on tables. Each piece of gear―leg or boot, glove or helm or belt or breast―was tacky, old, and/or unpolished. None of these will do, Yava thought; if not for barbarians, they were all meant for gargantuans. The surely-important strode down the aisle of poles… glided his finger over some sets… lifted it, thick with dust. Blink blink.

He concluded: “This one’ll do.”

“It’s the same as all those.”

Ignoring her he proceeded to fit her into a XXL-size gear. Showed her some straps. Showed her some buttons. Showed her what went where and which went where and why, but he wasn’t clear or specific really. He then released her. Allowed her to walk two steps in that mammoth attire. Two steps, and her leggings had fallen to her ankles. Yava opened her mouth to complain.

He interrupted: “We’ll find you a belt.”

When she trudged out of the tent looking like a shrunken doll in her armor, a mounted Cliff burst out laughing. “Oh no-ho! This is no good.”

“I told him the same thing!” Yava exclaimed.

“Ah, Adwin. It’ll have to do, for the time being.” Cliff whistled between fingers. Kitsurin who had been marching their rounds round the tent returned to Cliff. “Gather ‘round. Saddle up.” They untied their horses from ropes at nearby posts then mounted them. “Yava, I hope you’re a quick learner.” One finger pointed at a kitsuret.

She said, as if in compensation, “I’m quick.”

“Quick-footed or quick-witted?” he asked. “The former won’t do you here.” The kitsuret fetched her a horse, brought it over. “Now, here’s a female mare. Try saddling ‘er by yourself. We’ll see if the latter holds…

“True?”

Awkwardly―almost having fallen off, frankly―she mounted the mare. Pulled herself up by the reins. Tugged the reins and hiyah!ed. The mare kicked off with a scream, then ran recklessly at an angle; and Yava woahed!; and she tugged a second time. Da-da-dut da-da-dut da-da-dut went the horse’s hooves; flying went Yava; and “armff!” went Yava as she ate dirt head-first. Her body ached. She spat leaves. The rest except Cliff hoorahed, clapped, paced their steeds round her.

“Too good to be true,” She mumbled, smiling, staring up at Cliff with her face all twigged and dirty.

Cliff stared silently. Suddenly his tone was not so pleasant. “Too good won’t do you any good, it seems… Stand up Yava. Take your seat on that horse. And try to last more than ten seconds this time.”

Dreams and escorts were done with.

At midday they did drills: marching, routine exercises, courses. Courses consisted of hollow tree stumps, vine ladders, ladder bridges, thorn bushes, and wooden swords. Yes, wooden. Cliff and the kitsuret who had “credits” had the heck of a time slashing at whichever kirunit came by, were hidden behind alohines and shrubbery. These kirunit had “blades” of their own but seldom parried the attacks. Each time they did not deducted a point from their credits. (Credits could be spent on nuts and berries during meals of the day.) Yava must’ve had negative twenty. She wasn’t counting on nuts or berries.

“Aiiiyee!” she cried in frustration.

A wooden sword had stricken her breastplate. It bruised her actual breast. The strike sent her stumbling backward and tripped her off a ladder bridge. She fell with flailing arms and pedalling feet into a folfilya bush. Leaves puffed out. Her head surfaced. More leaves puffed out. Her head had a leaf on top. “This armor is killing me. Where’s the Yava size?”

“You’ll grow into it,” a wood sword wielding kirin said. He was hid behind the bush. “You’re thin like needle. Ranks make you big. And strong.”

His voice reminded her of a nasally bear’s. She brushed her shoulder pad off as she shook a second leg free from the bush. “Gee, I sure hope so.”

Yava considered the leaf on her head… blew it off.

Some of that big-and-strongness could help me about now, she thought that night.

She was curled up. Was wide awake. Some sheets that she’d been given to cover herself with were tossed over the mattress’ edge. Sweat had made her restless. So rather than rest (as Cliff insisted she’d done all day anyway), she lay awake thinking of her mother. Thinking of bread loaves. Of bread crumbs. Her stomach growled. Meant “thank you for the stew tonight”. A burp in reply. She caught a clump of belly fur between her fingers then stroked upward. One scoop of stew. It was the fullest it had been in months. Some complained of food here. Of stew here. Boo hoo tears. It was delicious to her. And so Yava stayed; not because of how delicious it was, but because it would turn crumbs to loaves.

* * *

At 05:00, Yava woke.

Aside from the bludswor she was the only Kitsurin out and about this hour. She made her way through the grid of tents and past that, then toward the trees to take a piss. Take a stand behind a stump. Take a sigh of relief. Take in the silence. Take in the morning air; she would need that for drills later. Take in―

Taken note of by a kirin in a long cape vest who stood no more than a yard away to her left. She screamed.

“Takin’ a piss?”

One long snaggletooth in the right of his mouth flashed in her eye as he snickered.

“Bastard!”

He stopped snickering. If she thought the stare Cliff gave her yesterday was unpleasant, well…

“I’ll be sure to mention to Cliff how you talk of bludswor, Yava Lapis.” That was the bastard. Her jaw fell. A nasty smirk on the bastard’s face. “Roll call’s at 06:00. Horn sounds at 05:50. Best not stroll too far hon; you’ll be tardy.”

It did not occur to her her eye was twitching. Would she not stop eying the bastard even though he strode further and further away? No doubt en route he’d bastardize the morning of some other kirunit, perhaps with other bastards, perhaps while they took number twos. Tell her instructor his bastard lies.

Strolls. Who needs ‘em, she thought gruffly. “Bastard.”

Around 05:55 Yava found her place in line. Filed behind “Labby, Miles” a kirin after minutes of last-name interrogations. Roll call was done by 06:05. The rest of the day began: Hiking Thorny Hill; racing back to camp; failing forty clap pushups, which Miles corrected her on afterward; riding into town Fajinhal and returning carrying boxes of supply for the week, which were lain in the Main Hall. Then was lunch.

Miles accompanied Yava to a seat at the long Hall table. Clay bowls and spoons were set all down its length, and the “cooks” made their rounds; and a clump of stew in a serving spoon was dumped into Yava’s bowl, then Miles’. Cold stew it was, but the cold went unmentioned. Cold was routine to Yava, the same for Miles. They drank meaty juice, chowed on chunks of carrot, and speedily brought their spoon from bowl to mouth. He wiped his with the back of his paw then spoke:

“How you like your second day so far, Yaves?”

“Yeah,” she stumbled, “started on the wrong foot, but it’s clearing up.” A smile.

Miles’ smile in return. “M’ glad.” He tapped his emptied bowl with his spoon thrice; set the spoon down in it; stretched as an aah slipped from his jaws, and he reclined. “The real fun starts today. You’ll have a taste of sword on sword!. Been waitin’ for it myself!”

Yava’s last gulp was slow. “Sss-sword on sword?”

“Wood ones. Yeah.”

Would one splinter her to death? No, she decided. Her armor would sooner crush her.

Yava strode after Miles down the dirt slope leading to Blind’s Eye: a pit of tall brown walls overrun with vines running in vein-like patterns. An arena. In the pupil of the Eye stood kirunit lined up in two squares, one square their instructor Cliff’s; and in front of that stood Cliff; but, alas, to the right of Cliff was that snaggletooth bastard. Yava eyed him sourly. She hurried ahead of Miles. Took Miles’ paw in hers. Took him to the L last-names.

There was the tiny sound of sticks striking together. Now the kirunit formed a circle with their backs to the walls, cheering on either “Arthur” or “Maxis”. One’s blade brushed down the other’s snout as the other parried with his own, gritting his teeth. The parrier was overcome. He fell sprawling into the mud with a grunt. Then the victor loomed overhead, holding a “blade” to his throat. Later, Walby dueled Oaks; McGallahan, Floyd; Darvell, Brinley. Dozens of others. In the end Yava was called up to duel Lado, a kirin she recognized to be one of the kirunit in her unit who mocked her when she fell off horseback.

“Be ready to fall again, Lapis.” He waved his sword.

“Oh, I’ll fall,” she said, “on you with this stick.”

Knees bent. Toenails drove into the dirt. Gazes met… then Yava was in the air with a “hih!”, her blade raised. An effortless sweep of Lado’s and she was struck, and sent rolling to the ground. One-two-three rolls then she was up. Mud flaked from her furs as she leapt again. Swung at Lado’s skull. Lado’s foot kicked her in the ribs. She stumbled backward. Groaned. She fell on her back, her sword having fallen somewhere past peripherals. Saw the sky. Tossed herself sideways before Lado’s sword thrust down where she had lain. She saw… in the top of her vision: a vined wall. Now Yava was reaching her paw at the wall; now Lado was unplanting his sword; now the backed-off Ranks watched with held breaths. Lado unrooted his sword. He cleaved at Yava. He missed; for then she wrapped her wrist in a tangle of vine then yanked upward, and the yank propped her up on her feet in a dodge-like manner. She jerked her bound wrist. Growled. Jerked. Dodged a slash. Jerked. Jerked! A fifth jerk tore the tangle from the wall. Thick vine hung from her right arm, to the ground in rope-like ravels. Before Lado could jab, she whipped the vine and the vine made three coils over his sword. She reeled in. Lado fell.

The vine stole Lado’s sword away. Yava held it. Pointing it over Lado’s head, she sang, “Say Uuuuun-cle.”

Lado groaned. He crept to his knees, nodding.

“The victor is Lapis. Yava Lapis,” Cliff called.

All those in Cliff’s instruction cheered. The bastard cursed in the shadows.

“Impressive!” Miles remarked.

Yava returned to him. “Maybe if I won with a sword it’d be!”

“Hell. Wood or whip. Whatever works a weapon, right?”

Her two tails wagged fast. She smiled. “Thanks Miles.”

That night she slept sound. Bread crumbs were no longer dreamed of. Bread loaves, and stew to go with the bread, and mother and her dipping the loaves in the stew, laughing, were dreamt of.

* * *

She mounted her horse the following midday. It was the same mare from day one: a dark-cherry one she named Cher. Cher and her rode with Cliff and the other Kitsurin to Fajinhal. At the Ranks Recruitment Center, they loaded crates of supply and nets of food up on their steeds, tied it up, then took their leave. Walnuts and huckleberries in the tan pouch by Yava’s waist tempted Yava to take one or two. Negative two, she counted. I’m getting there.

Quickly she unloaded at the Main Hall. She finished while others did still; and so she rode off into the gold and blue of the evening on Thorny Trail. Miles among many watched her go. One kirunit harrumphed. Cher galloped up Thorny Hill, and Yava hiyahed, yanking her reins. They reminded her of vines… whips. She sped faster, shakily let go of the reins. She undid the snap-on straps of her shoulderpads; she undid her headgear; undid her vest, her leggings, and chucked them all. Boots and a belt remained. Her headgear clinked down the hill till it was out of earshot. Her and Cher peaked the hill; and now all the camp and the outskirts of Fajinhal were to be seen; and her eyes were at level with the tops of alohines. She howled into the forest ceiling… laughed… cried,

And purred that night, with her face in the bedsheets.

* * *

Each day, her flesh would fill in. Apparently she had become someone in contrast to “the thinly girl I first recruited” according to Cliff. Thin still. But muscle instead of bone became increasingly prominent beneath her cream orange fur. Now she wore new gear which fit her fine, was not slack. Slack was one thing she had not done lately, and, despite losing most of her matches after her first, just how a comrade predicted she would (“Beginner’s luck,” he told her), she was learning the sword. Sometimes she would sneak off into empty darkness in the forest then strip her armor from her body. Boots and belt would remain. She would tear a loose vine hanging from a tree then wrap the vine around her wrist and do four coils; then she would sling the vine at the stumps of trees and whip away their barks. Engraved on one of the thick alohines was “Yava”.

Saturday came.

Saturday!

You’re not hearing me. Saturday!

The day came and so did her paycheck. The kitsune would, around 20:00, take peeks into the drawstring pouch and giggle; close it up, then peek again; and so on, until a horn resounded in the distance: It was dinner time. A glimpse back at it… before hurrying out through the flap of the tent.

Tomorrow, Yava told herself.

The Ranks must have been forking away at their mashed potatoes, collard greens, honeyed ham, biting into their buttered slices of warm bread well before Yava arrived. Many plates were half-cleaned, if not entirely. The aromas sent shivers down her shoulders.

Urrarrl. That was her stomach.

“Where’ve you been, Yaves?” Miles asked between bread bites.

Yava sat. “Thinking of family.” Glancing toward where her plate should’ve been, “Am I too late?”

“Nah.” He revealed to her her plate, taters-greens-ham-and-all. It had been hidden on his lap. “‘Snaggletooth’ looked like he might lunge for it. I kept it warm for you.”

They both learned the bastard’s real name: Heckler. But she preferred calling him Snaggletooth, and he ran with it.

“You’re awful kind.”

She added a thank you before handling a ham slice with her bare paws. Stuffing her face, chewing. Strips of sinew hung from her mouth. Her manners were out the window―she was drooling, even―but hunger and happiness meant carelessness in that. While she cavekitsuned down her meal, she’d occasionally glance at Cliff on the far bludswor end of the table. A thought.

“I’ll admit. When I first met Cliff, I… crushed on him.”

“Wow.”

“Let me finish.”

“I’m listening.”

“I did crush on him, but then I hated him.”

“How about now?”

“Well, I stand in the middle. Cliff can be a bastard, but he’s a just bastard. Heckler…”―the first time she had used that name―“is just a bastard.”

“Well put.” The kirin took a lumpy gulp: a forkful of ham. “By the way, I’ll be anticipating that ham on your plate.”

That caught her attention. She upended her plate, shaking her head, mumbling “mm-mm”, shoveling in all the remaining ham-and-taters.

That night Yava’s stomach churned as she tossed and turned beneath the bedsheets. Oh! How her mother would react tomorrow. (She looked toward the outline of the drawstring pouch in the dark.) It took a half-an-hour, but sleep came to her. Bread loaves. Juicy loaves.

* * *

Neigh! Cher rose off on her front legs.

It was 05:20. The sun was not risen. Yava was gone.

Crickets would go silent when she galloped past them. The morning air was chilly but her blood was warm and so the morning air refreshed her. Whipping Cher’s reins relaxed her. She came into Fajinhal on the West Trail wearing her boots and belt. Attached to her belt was the drawstring pouch. A soft jingle of coins.

Streetlamps still glowed on the dark blue streets. Walkways on the outskirts were dirt-paved but became stone-paved further in the city. Yava arrived at these stone-paved streets before 06:00.

The horse trotted down alleyways, down “ghost town” type streets not yet bustling as they usually were, down to the southern outskirts where there were pink and yellow flowers and a stream ran east to west and a bridge built above that stream had a half-circle underpass. Something made her furs prickle. Descending the grass slope down to the pass, Cher became a reluctant type of slow. That was Yava’s reluctance.

“Shoosh,” she whispered.

Cher whimpered.

Dawnlight rose on their backs. Yava was patting Cher all consolingly, saying shh, shh, till they reached the bottom, turned the corner. The underpass was empty but for the river. Mother was not here.

“Alright,” Yava said aloud. “We’ll wait here for her.”

Cher and her lay against a wall of the pass. Yava stroked Cher’s mane. An hour had passed.

“To the market, then.”

Shops were opening. Kitsurin crowded the streets. Pastries and cheeses and spices were in the air, namely at this shop stand Yava drew Cher up to. A sky-blue cloth covered the stand; and there was a wooden bar; and behind that bar stood a black-mustached, caterpillar-eyebrowed kitsune. Yava picked up a loaf of bread then put down two coins.

“Oi! Lapiiz girl. I was won-dreen when you come.” He seemed cheery. Though, after staring into her face longer, he frowned. “I am so sorry.”

“What is it?”

“Lapiiz mother,” he began. His eyes looked away. “Is not here.”

“I’m sorry?”

Someone approached to speak to him: a shopper. Mustached Kitsune replied, turned his attention away from Yava.

“I cannot talk now,” he said to Yava in between a convo with the shopper. “Am sorry. Talk to the soldiers. Green clothe’ soldiers.”

She stood there for almost a minute.

She imagined town guards in green interrogating her mother, escorting her down the street past murmuring crowds of shoppers, one guard on either side of Mother, marching. Yava came to… rode her mare around passerby shoppers, rode three blocks down past the set-ups, curved left at an intersection. She rode through a street shadowed down on in the middle by a tall structure with stained glass windows. The jail was at the end of the street.

Cher was tied to a tree. Yava went in.

They asked her for her first-name then last-name at a tall counter in a dim rustic room. The receptionist nodded, did not meet her gaze. The receptionist stood from the chair then went round the corner of the counter to meet Yava. Then she escorted Yava back-back-back. Way back at the end of a one-windowed hallway with only a few rays of light beaming in, the receptionist stopped. Yava stopped. They stood in front of the jail cell. Her mother sat behind bars on a wooden bench.

The receptionist left.

“It’s too nice of you to have come,” Mother said. Her eyes were shut.

“Who did this to you, Mother?”

She opened her eyes. “Sweetie. You look too kindly on me.”

“What did you do?”

“I was caught stealing a pear from Weber Burling.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“You can’t be in here.”

“Oh, it will only be till the morrow.”

“Tomorrow I return to camp. Today is my off day.”

Mother looked at the plain floor, sadly. There was silence.

Yava said, “Mother?”

Mother said, “Yes Yava.”

“I brought this loaf of bread for you. But…”

The loaf, she held outward, but it wouldn’t pass the jail bars; the space between the bars was two inches at most. Mother’s eyes understood.

“Break some off for me then slide it through,” Mother said.

“But then…”

“But what.”

Yava’s face turned red; and her paw holding the loaf of bread began to crush the loaf; and her eyes began to squeeze out tears. “I wanted you to eat this whole, I mean, in tact. I bought it.”

“Slide it through,” Mother said.

So Yava picked apart the bread piece by piece. Mother would not move an inch no matter how many times Yava insisted she did to take the bread from her paws. So bread crumbs would drop from her paws to the floor in the cell; and her mother would nod; and once the entire loaf lay in crumbs on the floor in the cell, Mother came to pick them up.

“A loaf of bread crumbs is no less filling than a loaf of bread,” she said.

Yava wanted to crumble. She didn’t.

All she thought was this:

Last week, bread crumbs. This week, a loaf of bread crumbs. Next week, a loaf of bread…