An Old Sore

It’s going to rain.

That old clichéd thought brought on by an aged arthritic sore, from many sun cycles ago. This pain happened to be caused by a knee, an old injury sustained from playing a game of nunto ball.

The day the injury had occurred seemed not so long ago, a dreary day it had been, much like this one, except the knee had not been bothered then, for obvious reasons.

Nunto was at the heart of it a simple enough game. Each team had an array of players; some large and thick of body and arm, for seizing and outmuscling their opponents, others were longer, sprinters, meant to run the ball quickly, and still others were kind of a blend, shorter, and squat, who were meant for digging out the nunto and muscling lower to the ground.

The game was played on a large open field, with a pair of posts at the opposing ends of the field. Each team started the game ‘defending’ one of the posts, and the nunto was placed in the centre of the field. To begin the game each team sung the ceremonial hymn together, usually joined in by the crowd of watchers, to grant permission from the aged to begin the match:

Bloodied we run, far

Angered we shall be

Entrust in you forever

After this, both teams would charge across the field towards the nunto in the centre. Upon reaching the nunto the first skirmish begins between the two teams. Which is just as it sounds, an anything-goes battle for possession of the ball, entitling both teams to use any means in capturing the nunto; punching, throwing, kicking, biting, clawing, to defeat their opponents.

Upon capturing the nunto, the offensive team then must rush with the nunto to the end of the field, which their opponent is defending, and the player holding the nunto must simply place a body part (hand, foot, leg, face) upon the opponent’s post to score. Doing so causes the post that the offensive team just scored upon, to become the post which they must defend, and the post at the far end, to become their opponents. The offensive team must then try and turn around and fight back through the field to score again.

This goes on, back and forth for a pre-specified amount of time, usually beginning at dawn, and ending either at high, or at the set, or sometimes after a certain score is achieved. Always by the end of the game, the field that was used is torn apart from running feet, and thrown bodies, and sometimes littered with the injured if they are unable to reach the safety of the sidelines, or if they cannot be reached by the medicks.

Nunto in the last century or so has become fiercely popular, with many towns having their own teams, and competing against rival towns in their area, even some of the bigger towns have fields committed just for the use of nunto so that some poor farmers fields isn’t destroyed (though sometimes they are heartily compensated).

It was in such a game that this injury transpired. It happened in the latter half, with the score in the opponent’s favour by a single.

My position was always as one of the sprinters, being taller than most, and possessing the narrow frame of an endurance runner. As such for those in that position, the strategy was generally to stick to the outside of the skirmishes until the nunto came loose and either you would scoop it up and go for a point, or attempt to chase the opposing sprinters if they managed to capture.

The day had been treacherous, to say the least, with almost half of the players on each team being pushed out of the field with injuries and being tended by the medicks. The field itself had become dangerous, as it had been an especially large game to begin, and now there were deep ruts, and scraps in the earth, meaning that maintaining any semblance of balance or footing became a nightmare. Breaking an ankle had seemed more of a worry.

I had been on the outside of a skirmish, waiting for any chance if either the nunto came loose, or a teammate managed to secure it and make a throw pass to me. I should have been paying more attention to the surroundings, having noticed him on the field before, however had thought he had been inside the skirmish currently playing out.

He was called Tornt, and he was one of the large, thick players meant more for holding, and breaking, than for the sprinting and agility aspect of the game. We were the fiercest of rivals having been from differing towns our entire lives, as well as having played each other many times in the past.

The last match he had been especially disgraced, when he had missed me with a left hook and failed to grasp me in a tackle as I had possession, and after dodging his attacks, had passed the nunto to a faster sprinter than I, who had secured the match-winning score. He had also looked the fool had lost his balance after missing the tackle and ended up face first in a deep trench of mud, which had prompted large cheers and laughter from our side of the field.

Focused on the skirmish, and keeping an eye on the nunto, Tornt had come from behind and to the left, obviously circling the skirmish in an attempt for a surprise. A shouted warning from a teammate came too late as he slammed into the left knee. The crack seemed loud enough that the watchers should have heard from the sides, and a sudden ringing began, which took a second to connect that it was screaming, coming from my vocals.

The game continued of course, as there is never a stoppage, especially for something as minute as a player injury.

However, it seemed that he floated above me for some minutes looking down, a strange look upon his face, as if not registering what had transpired.

I didn’t know much about him at that time, just that he worked the asmari fields in his town, and had done so since the rending of his birth. He was simple enough looking, with the dark tan skin common of those whose profession entails time spent outside, the thin blonde hair upon his head forming a widow’s peak high on his forehead. His jaw was a large square, and I remember thinking at the time that it looked more like an anvil than a man’s chin, and he possessed the most peculiar violet eyes. Everything about him looked like many of the others in the area, except for his eyes.

The pain was all I could think of for some time.

I don’t know how I had reached the medicks, but I do recall them realigning the knee, and though I know now what they had done, at the time I could hear no one’s words. It had been nearly a half cycle of the moon before the pain stopped, and though with the aid of the Ways proscribed from the local Magister it had sped along with the recovery to that of a cycle and a half of the moon.

But yes, there it is now. Raindrops upon the roof. I told you it would rain, as old and clichéd as that is.