"You are scared," he said like it was the last thing he expected from her.
"I told you not to touch me. Get out!!!"
- Prince Murewa
Murewa swayed gently on his restless horse while looking around them as sounds of wailing and tears filled the air.
Recruitment days were always the same. Mothers cried and protested as their sons were carried away to camp for the compulsory one-year service.
He and Jamal were in town, supervising the recruitment as his officers went from door to door, ushering out the young boys towards the town square.
Murewa turned up his nose as the women held on to their embarrassed sons, wailing and begging him to let them stay one more year.
Every Ore youth above eighteen is required to serve one year in the army, for training in case of war. Recruitment day was once a year and they always sent a two-month notice before the actual date so the boys could have enough time for preparation.
But whenever the actual day came, the boys would leave their houses with wide, confused eyes like they were just hearing about it for the first time.
It surprised him how they always managed to pull that off.
His horse jerked beneath him, spooked by the noise and Murewa patted the strong neck of the animal. "Calm down, boy," he whispered, both horse and rider irritated by the display around them.
Whenever they won a war and were coming back home, it was always the women who were in front to welcome them, singing victory songs and praising him and the army for their strength and dedication. But when it was time for their sons to join this same army for a year, their songs changed.
Murewa was quickly running out of patience. He pulled back the reins, ready to shout the command for his officials to turn up the heat when his eyes caught movement in a particular house that was set apart from the others.
He turned on his horse to see a tall, slim woman; her body shaking with tears as she held her son close to her.
The boy tried to pull away, but the woman held him closer. The boy complied, putting his arms around his mother again. From the corner of his eyes, Murewa saw his officials march towards the house, shouting for the woman to let her son go.
The boy was pulled from his mother's arms and as he was being led away, the Mother turned and despite the long distance, her gazes clashed with Murewa's.
In the woman's tear-streaked face, he saw his late mother and how she held on to him for what he didn't know was the last time.
His gaze remained on the woman and as he watched, she clasped her hands together and held it high, as if begging or praying for something. Murewa turned away from her and pushed his horse into a gallop towards the town square.
On getting there, he alighted from his horse and moved to stand in front of the young boys.
Jamal appeared beside him. He cleared his throat once and silence descended on the crowd.
"Census," he said to Jamal and his friend stepped forward, face harsh and voice loud.
"You are welcome. My name is Jamal, your assistant-in-chief; and this is Prince Murewa, the Chief of this army." Murewa felt all eyes on him.
Jamal continued.
"You don't need to be afraid," he said with an expression that said otherwise. "Once you follow the orders, there would be no problem. And in one year, when you are leaving this place, you would thank us for all the training and knowledge you would have acquired."
Murewa briefly wondered if he had this speech written down somewhere because he said the same thing every year.
Jamal pointed to the first boy in line. "One," he barked and the next boy quickly grasped what was going on. "Two," the boy said and the next boy picked up from there.
As the numbers went up, Murewa searched the crowd for the boy whose mother reminded him so vividly of his own. He finally found him at the back of the crowd. The census got to him and the boy said "Fifty."
He nudged Jamal beside him. "That boy, keep an eye on him."
"What boy?" Jamal looked in the direction of his gaze.
"Fifty."
Jamal nodded and stepped forward again when the census ended.
"Now, listen carefully as I won't say this again. You would be given a week to get accustomed to camp before training would officially start. During that week, you would go on a particular diet to strengthen you and get rid of the breast milk you are so used to." He paused.
"You would stick to this diet for a month after which you would return to eating whatever you like. And when I say whatever you like, I mean whatever you like. Each of you will write the list of food you want to eat for the week and submit it to the cook. But...listen!" Jamal growled when the boys began to steer in excitement.
"All the food you eat, you will work it out on the field. By next week, you would know what I am talking about. Training would start every morning by six and every evening by three, but until then, enjoy yourselves." He ended his speech and motioned for the officers to lead the boys into the camp.
"Move!"
"This way!"
"Go! Go! Go!" The men shouted and the boys moved in the direction they were being led.
Jamal waited with Murewa as the square cleared. Murewa was an awfully quiet person, but Jamal noticed he was even more quiet than usual.
"Is anything wrong?" he asked his friend as they walked to their horses.
"Hmmm," Murewa mumbled, swinging his legs over his horse.
"What...?" Jamal started to ask but Murewa was already charging back to the Palace.
xXx
Murewa flung his bag on the bed and sat down to kick off his shoes. He was feeling a little melancholic because it was one of those days when he really missed his mother.
The door opened and he looked up to see the servant girl come in with his tray of food. She kept her head down as she placed the tray on the bed beside him.
"Good afternoon, my Prince," she greeted and paused for a second before turning to leave.
"Stay, ma," he said softly. She stopped and turned to him with shocked eyes. He looked away, as confused as she was. This girl evoked strange feelings in him. He had never felt such tender emotions towards anyone asides from his mother.
"What's wrong?" she asked gently and he looked up to see her standing dangerously close to him, her hands fluttering by her sides like she wanted to touch him. He reared back to prevent the action. He didn't want to be touched.
She watched with a frown as he tried to distance himself from her. "I don't have a contagious disease," she said and he narrowed his eyes at her, trying to get mad but failing woefully.
Had he somehow let on the fact that he had a soft spot for her? Was that why she was taking such liberties and talking back at him?
"I don't like to be touched," he answered gruffly.
"Why?"
"Do I have to explain myself to you?"
"But you held me the other day."
He wiped his hands over his face and looked at her with a frustrated expression. "Touching you is different from you touching me."
She shuffled to the side of the bed where he was and sat, making sure no part of her body was in contact with his. "You look sad," she commented, looking down at her feet.
He kept mute.
