Martin (Feast Meal
Chapter 16:
previously: (chapter 14) we flashbacked to Martin, where we learn how he achieved his status as an acolyte of The Arm.
then: (chapter 15): the party decided to continue on to The Waste despite a warn from Calleum.
and now: we again flashback to Martin at a feast meal when he takes his place as an acolyte.
Martin stood alone in the entryway to the rectory and took in the chaos. Monthly feast meals were about the only time everyone gathered in one place at the monastery, and while ranking members had already taken their seats at the far end of the hall, the much more numerous initiates were just now swarming over the tables in front of him.
Feast meals were also the only time members of The Arm, at least lower-ranking ones, were offered fare beyond watery porridge and a hunk of stale bread. Knowing that fresh vegetables would soon be topping their plates heightened the frenzy as initiates fought for seats. The best were toward the front of the rectory, where the serving trays would be placed once the food was brought from the kitchen.
Martin had only a few vague memories of his childhood — the time before he had been given to The Arm. One he cherished most was of a soft-voiced mother trying to convince him to eat a spoonful of mushed peas. He had refused as any young child would. But here, in the stone walls of the monastery, their rarity turned vegetables into a delicacy. He craved them. Their natural sweetness. A flavor so unlike the bland porridge they ate every other meal.
Martin often found himself wishing he had a second chance at that offer from a mother whose face no longer exists in his memory. He would not have pulled lips tight over teeth and clamped down jaws. But savored the creaminess of the peas as his mother fed him spoonful after spoonful while whispering to him about how eating his vegetables would make him grow up as strong as pa.
Martin stood in the entryway, not shoving and elbowing for a place among the initiates, because it was tradition for those who had risen in rank to take their new seat at feast meals. And the meal would not commence until his next step toward ascension had been recognized by the preceptor. So while he waited, while everyone waited, annoyed glares were cast his way. Many of them were familiar, initiates he had trained with just days ago. He spotted Lachlin, his one eye still bruised, and Aster scowled at him from her seat. They knew he was the reason the food was not being served. Not yet, and pangs of hunger were fuel for anger.
At the far end of the hall sat the preceptor on a raised dais. From where Martin stood, the leader of the monastery appeared as a dark pile of robes with his face hidden in the shadows of a gray cowl.
To one side of the dais stood an initiate assigned to feed the preceptor.
On the other side hovered the prior, a middle-aged man whose long, sleeveless tunic hung loosely from narrow shoulders.
I could never make such a sacrifice, Martin thought as he glanced down at the stump of his left arm. He still felt the searing pain of his consecration in dreams.
Below the dais was a table for the monastery’s five oblates, each representing one of the five disciplines of The Arm. Oblate Daloon, head of Warcraft, sat at the far left of the table.
Below the oblates were five separate tables, each with seats for five adepts.
Next, five long tables with room for up to twenty five acolytes radiated out into the rectory. But the seats were rarely all filled as acolytes were often sent on errands for the higher ranking members of the sect.
After that, the rectory became a chaotic collection of various shaped tables placed wherever they could be squeezed into the large room, and they were crowded with initiates. Space was hard won. Those sitting at the ends of the tables were in danger of being sent to the floor while in the middle of the tables, initiates were squished together so tightly they were forced to sit sideways with their one arms reaching inward.
I won’t miss that, Martin thought.
Then there were the neophytes, those who had not been consecrated yet. At the prior’s direction, they would bring trays of food from the kitchen, and the feast would begin.
The one thing that always surprised Martin about the rectory was the lack of certain sounds. There were the usual clinks of silverware and the creaking of wooden chairs. The shuffling of feet and the rustling of tunics was constant as initiates fought to maintain their seats. Every now and then a cough echoed throughout the room or pained grunt as a fist found someone’s belly. But hardly a word was said.
If Martin dug out that memory of his mother trying to feed him peas, he would recall voices more numerous and joyful than all those he could pick out in the din of the rectory.
When the preceptor rose from his seat, all of the random noises hushed. No one dared, for fear of missing out on the feast meal, distract from what the leader of the monastery was about to say.
“Today, we honor one who has taken the next step in their ascension,” the preceptor began, his voice ringing out through the hall. “What discipline is Initiate Martin’s calling?”
At this, Oblate Daloon stood and replied, “That of Warcraft.”
“If that is the calling he chooses,” the preceptor said, “he may take his seat among the acolytes of his discipline.”
Every head in the dining hall turned to watch as Martin stepped through the entryway and into the rectory. He didn’t bother meeting the eyes of the initiates he walked past. Those eyes would be full of hate and envy. Martin’s gaze was locked on an open seat at the long table in front of Oblate Daloon. He also didn’t dare to meet the eyes of his now-fellow acolytes, as they would be filled with challenges and threats. Instead, as Martin took his seat, his eyes went from the oblate to the preceptor, who was whispering something to a nodding prior. The prior then turned to meet Martin’s gaze and gave the monastery’s newest acolyte a smile.
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