Henry Lion Oldie
Master
* * *
"The Great Square
has no angles"
The strained ligaments vibrated under the carefully touching fingers; and the Master had to work hard until the man stretchced out on a rough wooden bench groaned and opened his eyes.
Seeing the gloomy bearded face bent over him, the man shuddered convulsively and shut his eyes again.
"Don't be scared, – the Master said. – The day's over. It's evening now. Don't be scared and lie still."
He wasn't used to say so many words at a time, and it cost him much effort to finish the phrase.
"You, torturer..." – the man muttered.
"I am, – he agreed. – and a master too."
"Master..." – the man pronounced the word as if touching it with his swollen tongue. The word was utterly out of place here, within the smutty walls of the small hall with low ceiling, massive door and without any windows at all.
"Tomorrow you'll have the whip, – the Master warned. – Hang quiet, don't strain yourself. And cry. It will be easier for you."
"You are gonna kill me," – cool indifference sounded in the man's voice.
"No, I'm not, – said the Master. – Not tomorrow, anyway."
"I'm talking too much, – he thought. – It is age..."
The man moved his shoulder, with caution at first, then with more confidence. All bones appeared to be in place.
"Master..." – the man whispered following with his eyes the stooping figure that disappeared at the doorway.
On the next day he had the whip.
A stocky sullen youth kneeled in front of a metallic tank full of sand and methodically immersed his hands into it keeping his fingers widely apart. The sand was damp and caked, and mixed with rusty debris and pebbles; and the youth's fingers were covered with cuts and bleeded.
Master stood behind his back that was rocking back and forth in the repeated effort, and for some time watched his regular rhytmical movements.
"Don't strain your shoulder, – he said. – And bypass the stones."
"Oh yes, bypass, – the youth muttered raising his arms for the next blow. – It's easy to say... Those damned stones, there's too much of them, as in a..."
Master pushed the frowning lad aside and entered into the sand with a slight well-measured movement. The tank vibrated. When his hand emerged out of the sand there was a little pebble pressed between his little finger and his palm.
"It's easy indeed, – he confirmed. – Easy to say. Now let's try the sword."
They went to the far corner of the yard where two swords were thrusted in a oak log. One sword was huge, of a man's height, with a cross hilt. The hilt was filled with lead to balance the massive blade, dim and wide, with a deep groove; the second sword was a somewhat lesser
copy of the first one.
Master pulled the big sword out of the log and raised it over his head with unexpected dexterity. The weapon cut the air without usual whistling, and a fresh notch appeared on the pole digged into the ground near the fence.
"Make it two inches higher," – he said.
The youth stroke a blow at the pole. The upper end of the pole fell down. Drops of tar covered the cut. Master measured at a glance the distance between the cut and the notch.
"It's two and a half, – he looked at the youth who was very upset by his failure. – Don't strain your shoulder!"
He slashed the pole with his sword even without turning to it. The excessive half an inch fell down to the disciple's feet. The youth cast an envious glance at the Master's sword:
"Oh, yes, – he said reluctantly. – With a weapon like this..."
The Master didn't answer. He came up to the pole and marked three more notches.
"It's for today. Make it and go to have your dinner. And as to the sword... I'll let you have it. When you are finished with your
