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My year of slavery in the gem mine is done. Today I become someone. I have a number; now I get a name. I had no rights; now I get some. I own nothing; now I will get to keep as my own some of whatever I do.
Through the door in front of me is a tunnel. A passageway. A passage. A ritual.
I am an orc. Cowardice is wrong. Cowardice is what made a slave, when I showed fear during a duel back in my homeland of Orchome. But now I am afraid of a door.
I am an orc. I get angry about new things too easily. I am always angry about certain old things.
I am naked because Warden Five just took my clothes. She said that through the door I would pick out new clothes. She said it was proper to be naked when being reborn.
In my mind I stare down my fear. I will not tremble. I will not cry. I open the door that leads from the mine.
Past the door is a long tunnel lit by torches. It rises slightly. After many steps I see a curtain made of strings of beads hanging from the ceiling. No, not beads. They are gems, and I know them. My year's worth of gems. I had thought the dweorg lady that owned me—that bought me from the orcs of Orchome—would have sold or used these gems. But they were saved for today. All the gems I mined.
All her gems. I own nothing.
I reach out and move my hand through the curtain of my past year's labor. I am trembling. Is this a test? That makes me angry. What if I pulled a torch bracket from the wall and shattered a gem? Part of me wants to. But I do not. I step through the curtain. The weight of it is heavy on my skin.
No. That step was fearful. I back up and go through the curtain a second time proudly, with my head high and my gaze level. Take your gems, dweorg lady. I have paid my debt. My year is done and I can walk tall.
I keep walking up the tunnel. Soon I see a bit of daylight. I have not seen daylight in a year. I squint as I walk more.
The tunnel ends. Behind me it looks like a cave mouth. I am on a large cliff with the mountain side going far down below, and more mountain going almost as far up above. The view makes me forget to breathe. I can see endless forest and lake far, far below.
Right in front of me is a chair with an end table. On the chair is a cushion. On the end table is a mug.
Off to the right are ten tables, each with four sets of clothing.
But in front of me is a chair. I have not seen a chair in a year. Now I may sit—on a cushion! I can rest. I can have leisure.
I realize that one thing I now own is time. I can spend time.
There will be no more whips making me hurry. I was good at hurry. The whips were noise and threat. Most slaves were not good at hurry and felt a whip at least once per week. Not me.
Am I being watched? I want clothes. But even more I want to sit, so I do. The mug has some kind of fruit juice, and a straw, and a tiny toy umbrella.
The juice is (of course) the best flavor I have tasted in a year. The umbrella can open and close. I slowly drink all the juice while looking at the view of the valley below me.
"What does this mean?" I mutter.
A little, high, happy voice says, "We can finally say thank you."
I am being watched! That makes me angry. "Show yourself!" I demand.
I hear footsteps to the right, then a small sound as she sets down the runeblocks and her invisibility magic ends. She is an orc girl, perhaps eight years old. She is wearing the most fancy dress I have ever seen. It has lace and silk ribbons. She has no fear.
"Welcome to Dwergaz!" she says with a smile.
I am so confused. Again I ask, "What does this mean?"
She shrugs. "What does what mean? Sorry. After saying welcome I am only supposed to talk to answer your questions. But I am not sure what you are asking."
"I want some clothes."
She gestures at the ten tables of clothes. "Go pick!"
She is... It takes me a very long moment to find the word. She is excited.
I stand up. I am excited too.
I almost hurry. I am used to hurry. I want clothes. The girl skips ahead of me to the tables. But I make myself walk slow and tall.
On each of the ten tables are four sets of clothes, neatly folded. On each set of clothes is a small painting of an orc doing a job. A baker wearing baker's clothes. A smith wearing smith's clothes.
No, it is not any orc. The paintings are not great. But in each the orc is clearly me.
I am not stupid. I look at the girl. Her hands are clasped. Her eyes are big. She is very anxious. I ask her, "Did you paint these?"
"Yes! Do you like them?"
Me as a baker. Me as a smith. Me as a healer. Me as a guard. Me as a barber. Me as a zookeeper. Me as a tailor. Me as a jeweler. Me as an armorer. Me as an herbalist. Me as a dancer. Me doing things I do not know and have no words for.
I am trembling again. "May I keep them?"
"Of course!" she says, with her biggest smile yet.
I really want to put clothes on. But I do not want to pick the wrong choice. "May I touch more than one pile of clothes? May I wear something while I choose what I really want?"
She giggles. "Yes and yes. You only get to keep one as a gift from Dwergaz. The others go in storage. Maybe you will buy more of these clothes. Maybe some other woman will get them."
I like the colorful clothes of the dancer. But the morning air is cool. I want all of my legs covered, and shoes. The clothes of the jeweler are fancy. Not as much lace and silk as the girl's dress, but some. I put on the jeweler's clothes.
"I need to sit," I tell the girl. I walk back to the chair and almost fall into it. I want to look at the view more but my eyes are too moist.
"Do you want me to bring you more juice?"
"Yes."
She walks over to a part of the wall to the left and opens a secret door. There is a closet. She takes out a pitcher of juice. It is clear but not clear. Is it carved from a huge gem? She refills my mug.
"What is that made of?"
"Glass," she says. "Do not worry. Most orcs on their Naming Day have never seen glass." She holds it out to me. I get to hold this?
I hold the pitcher. It is clear but solid. I tap it and it makes a tink sound.
The girl runs to one of the tables. She brings a painting of me in a room like a forge. In one hand I am holding a long metal rod with a glowing blob on the far end. In the other hand I have a tool and am shaping the blob. She sets the painting down on the end table. "Glass is shaped a lot like how clay is shaped, but while very hot. Like metal it is solid when cool. But glass is so fragile."
The body of the pitcher has graceful curves. I think about clay, and can see how the handle was once a separate thing that was attached here and here with more graceful curves. The lip has a fold in front to help it pour. It is the most beautiful object I have ever seen.
"I could learn to make this?"
"Of course."
I set it down slowly. I think about the way she said of course. In her mind of course I keep forty paintings of me doing jobs. Of course I can do anything.
I was told that I was sold to a dweorg woman for three years of service in the city of Dwergaz: one year as a slave, one year as an indentured servant, and one year to learn more skills before I go free. That was great news. In Orchome I would have been a slave all my life. But the orc who shamed me in that duel did not want many slaves. Orcs, especially the men, get angry too easily to do teamwork well. Slaves had always been used to raid and get loot, until they died in a raid. Many died in their first raid. When dweorg traders began to buy slaves it helped all. Sure money for the orcs with slaves. Only three years of service for the slave. Labor for the dweorgs.
"What if I pick the wrong job?"
The girl shrugged. "Then you buy clothes for another job and try that. You switch until you find the job you love. You go until you pass the tests of a year's learning for your best job."
"So it might be more than a year."
"Maybe more. Maybe less. No one keeps track. You are not a slave."
Her words did not make sense. I was getting angry about that but took a deep breath and slowed my heart. "No one cares?"
She shrugged again. She did not see I was confused or angry. "Counting days is for slaves. How many gems did you walk through in that tunnel? No one counts what a slave makes. Some slaves mine more gems than others. Some slaves have more luck, or work better. Only for slaves is being done about days. Now you free. What you do counts. Learn a job. Grow in skill. Make and do useful things. The dweorg craft masters and mistresses know what a typical apprentice learns and makes and does in a year. They care about you getting there."
"I am not free yet."
"Some orcs pull down the curtain of gems, wrap them in some clothing, and run away down the mountain into the forest. No one stops them. It is sad when they do. They never end up happy. My mom says they picked the wrong kind of being not free. They think were prisoners. Prisoners can only escape the mine. Only slaves can be reborn into Dwergaz."
"Some just leave? With so much wealth?"
She nods. "They take the gems. But they also take their past. They ignore or break the paintings. They leave learning. They leave..." She has to think a bit to find the words. "They must hope for something. But how do they imagine it when alone?"
"So I could just leave. You could too. But we do not because we stay here to learn."
She thinks about my words, then frowns. "Some day I will travel. And I will keep learning wherever I go. But only Dwergaz helps me picture my future."
I pick up the painting of me crafting glass. Whichever dweorg made these rituals long ago was not subtle. Walking through a barrier. Coming out of a tunnel into sunlight. A view. A first drink. A child who is a student. Pictures of my future.
"Why did you paint me?"
My question confuses her. She asks, "Why was it me? Or why did I pick a painting class in school?"
"Both."
"I like to be the kid here at Naming Days. I like to watch and help. Many kids do. But very few had enough honor to paint you. When I was told that I could, of course I wanted to."
"Honor?"
She nods. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and clasps her hands to her chest. She opens her eyes and begins to glow. The glow is faint. But I can feel it. It pushes at me, like wind but not like wind. She is growing bigger. No, her size is the same. She seems to be bigger, and wiser, and nicer. The change is real and not real. Like the glass that is clear and not clear.
Glowing seems to make her tired. She stops it and takes some deep breaths. She says, "I am not very good at showing my honor yet. You are a grown-up and will do it better."
"I can do that?" I have honor? I am still not sure what honor means in Dwergaz. In Orchome honor meant other orcs would fear and obey you. But no orcs glowed. No little orc girls had honor in Orchome.
"You will learn how," she says. This makes her excited. "You will learn fast! When you stand tall I can feel your honor already. I probably cannot touch your brands."
I have twelve small brands on my back. Each month, on the first day of the month, each slave in the mine is branded. Each brand has many small dots and lines. I was told they were numbers.
Thinking about the brands makes me angry. Will I always be a slave? "When will the brands be gone?" I ask gruffly.
"Remove them?" she says. She is shocked. No, horrified. "Not you! No one has ever had those!"
Her words do not make sense. That makes me angry. "All mine slaves have brands," I grunt at her.
"Of course," she says. "But not yours. Ten out of ten, twelve times, with big sums!" There is awe in her voice.
"Explain," I demand.
"Each month the ten orc mine wardens that watch over a slave group make wagers. Will this slave succeed in Dwergaz? The wardens have skill at seeing potential. All your wardens always said yes about you, so firmly!"
"They were rooting for me?"
"More than that. They wagered lots of their own honor. Lots! If they are right they will gain a share of your honor. If they are wrong, they will lose a lot of honor. But they will be right! I know you will succeed in Dwergaz."
"So my work the past year gives me honor now?"
She shook her head. "No. Who you were the past year gives you honor now. In Dwergaz you gain honor when people put trust or faith in you. The brands tell which wardens had faith in a slave and how much. For you they all did, a whole lot."
The anger has faded. "And you cannot touch them?" I ask in a soft voice. I turn my back to her and start to take off the jeweler's shirt.
"Let's go to the changing room," she says. Then she giggles. "If glass is a new thing, wait until you see a mirror!" She touches another secret place in the wall and a second closet opens.
It takes me many minutes to get okay with the mirror. I do not want to share about that. I have not seen my own reflection in water for more than a year. I also do not want to share about that. I spend a lot of time looking at me in the mirror wearing different clothes. I see now why Warden Five made me wash and brush my hair.
Then we go back to my brands. She has me carry the chair into the closet with the mirror. I take off my shirt. "Stand tall and proud," she says.
I think about the ten wardens tying their futures to mine. For the first time I wonder what their names are. In the mine they were only Warden One to Warden Ten. In the mine no one has a name.
I have not asked the girl her name. I want to. I have wanted to since she first spoke. But if she told me her name I would want to tell her my name. I do not yet have a name to tell her. (I know what my name was in Orchome, of course. But that was the name of a coward and slave. Today I get a new name. I do not know what it will be or how these rituals will help me pick it. But I already know how it will make me feel.)
I turn so my back is mostly to the mirror. I can look over my shoulder and see my back. I look at my brands for the first time. While I was in the mine the wardens were firmly sure I would succeed. While I was in the mine a girl was painting what she imagined my future might look like.
She stands on the chair. I can look over my shoulder and see her reach out at the brands.
She can't touch, even when she leans into it. I again feel that push that is not wind.
I think more. All ten wardens had faith in me. No one can take that away. She cannot even touch it.
I think more. She was imagining my future. She was more excited about my future than I have ever been.
I will not let the wardens down. I will succeed.
I cannot let them down. That is not who I am.
I am now more excited about my future than the girl has ever been.
The brands glow. Her hands are pushed farther away. Her face changes and she recites:
When you walk through a crowded room, others will move out of your way.
At any feast you will be seated among the most honored.
Only those with an invitation or introduction can approach within an arm's length.
No one can raise a hand against you. No thief can steal what you carry or wear.
Even if you commit a crime whose punishment is flogging the official will not be able to approach to do that.
I ask her, "What was that you said?"
She climbs down from the chair. "Those words are said when someone learns to show their honor. Just then only your brands glowed, not all of you. But it felt right to say the words. Everyone knows those words. They are used for handwriting practice."
I do not talk. I put the shirt on again. I have so many thoughts.
I think about what the girl was taught by her mom. Was I a prisoner and a slave? I feel like I was both when in the mine. How could I not have been both? What about how orcs get angry so easily? Am I a prisoner or slave to anger?
I sit in the chair again. I look at the view. "There were orc slaves with me in the mine who could not tame their anger. They could not stop fighting. They were sent away. Where did they go?"
The girl says, "All orc slaves who cause too much trouble get a choice. They could be sent back to Orchome to their old owner. But none do that. They all get sent to be gladiators far away in Maceweight. If they fight well they will get to be free."
I think about orc anger. No, those orcs never get to be free.
"Can you give a message to the dweorg woman who bought me?"
The girl looks surprised, but says yes. She gets paper and a writing stick from the first closet. She lets me know when she is ready.
"Tell her...Tell her that I was angry at her every day for a year. Every time I found a gem it felt like she took it from me. I knew it was never my gem. But it was my work that found the gem. I think my anger was okay. I am not sorry now for my anger. But I think owning a slave can hurt the soul. Tell her that I wish her soul is healthy...that my anger did not hurt it, that owning me does not hurt it. I am glad the mines are not Orchome. I am sad the mines are in Dwergaz."
The girl stops writing. "The mines are not Dwergaz. In Dwergaz people have names. In Dwergaz people can show honor."
"The gems bring the mine into Dwergaz."
She says, "No. The dweorg lady that bought you must send her gems to her family back in Maceweight. The only thing allowed to move from Dwergaz to the mine, or back, is orcs."
"Hm. Then change the last thing I said to 'I am glad the mines are not Dwergaz.'"
She finishes writing.
"I want my name. What is next?"
Past the ten tables is a door. The girl unlocks it with a key. The next room is very big. It has paintings and sculptures of famous orcs. Many are from far away orc lands that are not Orchome or Dwergaz.
The girl says, "See how each has a metal plaque? I can read those. Each orc has a story. You can pick a name. Or you can mix the sounds from more than one name."
I walk back and forth. I remind myself to walk slow and tall. Maybe some day a picture of me will be here.
I did not know orcs came in so many sizes and colors and tusk shapes.
At the end of the hallway the paintings and sculptures also include dweorgs. "Why would an orc being reborn pick all or a part of a dweorg name?"
She says, "Some orcs want to be the best kind of orc they could imagine before they became a slave. I think you do."
"Yes," I agree.
"Other orcs are too angry at what the orcs they know have done to them. They remember how orcs treated them as kids. They remember how orcs treated them for wanting things or thinking things. In their mind Orchome is about being treated badly, about fear and defeat, about slavery. So now they want to be a new kind of orc. They ask questions about that. They ask more questions than you have asked about Dwergaz. They are told that some orcs in Dwergaz live not like dweorgs and not like orcs but as people a bit like both and a bit like neither. They might put some orc name sounds and dweorg name sounds together to make their own name."
I think about that. "That makes me sad. There is a lot of Orchome that I do not want to become. But I want to become...like a plant that sprouted there but then grew big in a new place. I do not want to push away my roots to have healthier branches and leaves."
She thinks about that. "I like to make pottery. At the end of each pottery class the unfired pots that no one wants are smashed to make the runny slip for the next class. We do not always see the bits of the past in what we do."
"Is your name from these orcs?"
"My mom picked my name. It is not from any of these. But after I learned my letters I was taught about all the orcs and dweorgs in this hall. I have favorites. When I am stuck I think what they would do."
Some of the paintings and statues of orcs are very grand. But those of dwoergs seem even nicer in a way for which I cannot find words. I ask, "Do dweorgs have more honor than orcs?"
"Of course. They left a nice place to come to a new land. They faced risks and worked very hard to make Dwergaz safe and ready. They picked what honor would be here. They do not need orcs."
I find a favorite sculpture. It shows an orc woman named Jahdena. She saved many during a fire despite being badly burned. That is the kind of bravery I want. When her village burned she kept safe everything most worth saving, then helped rebuild the rest. Her statue makes me cry. Her burns make her ugly and weakened. But the sculptor used such care that I can still see her old beauty and strength: like the glass that is clear and not clear, like honor that is there and not there.
I smile at the girl and ask her what her name is.