“I know it.”

He looked out at the sun-filled valley of sunrise.  The sun was like an orange, and the sky was a blanket of lavender.  The forest was glinting of sparkles of gold.

“Stop it,” Jof said nervously.

He walked quickly to the back of the cave, to try and get rid of Deever’s thoughts.

“I can feel it.”

Deever was every bit as uneasy as his apprentice.

“Stop it,” he repeated.

“Jof…” But Deever said no more.  He wanted to warn Jof, he wanted to offer him guidance and courage, but it he didn’t. 

Jof fiddled with a broken metal spoon.  Something like this would take about ten minutes to mend.  An hour to repair the finish and elaborate decoration on the silver. 

But he would not be able to finish this project.  Sunrise.

It was the fifth sunrise after Osten’s visit. 

Deever had an ominous thought that the boy would return, and return for a more dire purpose.  He had a feeling that the boy wouldn’t just leave the Naigh-lait sitting in a cave – they would do something drastic.  As days crawled by, Deever became more convinced of his prediction.  The fifth day, he had told Jof, the boy would return with bad news, and Jof would leave on the sunrise of the fifth day.  Jof refused believe him, even though Deever was a very sensible man.  It was a ridiculous thought – if had to leave, Jof simply had nowhere to go.  But he couldn’t help but be convinced as well - Deever was the smartest man he had ever known.

Constantly he wanted to turn around and shake Jof’s shoulders, and tell him to be strong, to be brave, to never give up, to never surrender.  He himself - he found himself in a state of utter dismay, but only allowed swift grinding of teeth to betray his emotions. He was the one who made the prediction, and today he knew that it was coming true – he knew.  He had never had someone as close to him as Jof, and today was the day that he would leave.  He looked at Jof’s back against the raising sun.

Ironically he thought, so this was what it felt like to be a father.

When the sky was yet to be fully lit with soft pink hues, Osten arrived.  He made his way through the woods, and quickly approached the foot of the mountain.  He had a flat round package in his hands, and his eyes were glowing with excitement.  He looked up expectantly as if waiting for someone to poke their head out of the cave.

Jof said without emotion, “There he is.  You were right.” 

Deever said nothing. 

Jof climbed down the mountain.  When he reached the bottom, Osten jumped up.  “Here we go.”  He held out the package, which was wrapped in many layers of cloth.

Jof bit his lip.  What could he do?  He could feel his heartbeat speeding up.  It was nerve-wracking.

“Come on,” said Osten, his features as bright as the sunrise.

“Osten…” Jof said in a pained voice.  It was terrible to see something you loved destroyed.  It was peculiar to see it back at your feet, he thought.  It wasn’t right.  It couldn’t be happening.

Jof knew that Deever was watching from above.  He still made no move.  He felt frozen.  His hands felt like they were stuck in a cold river.

Osten broke the silence.  “We found who made your last drum, and we asked him to make another one.  And you ask, how do we know who made it?  We looked for all the drum-makers in the area, but there were none.  We went into the city and found a man selling instruments, but he had no drums.  He told us to find a Mr. Coparri, who man made your drum for his grandson, but discarded it after he was grown.  We had him make another one for you.”

He wondered how they “had him make another”.  Did they threaten him?  The clans of warriors weren’t short of threatening – Jof knew they would kill anyone short of cold blood.

 Why did the old man have to make it?  Why did they have to bring this cursed thing to him?

“Come on,” Osten repeated.  His look was irritated now, and Jof found it amazing how he could identify these expressions now.

Almost angrily like a spoiled child, Jof snatched the package from Osten’s hands and threw it on the ground.  He still felt as if he were frozen, as if he was watching from another world - he raised his foot plunge it through the drum, packaging and all.

Osten smacked him across the chest, and Jof fell to the ground.

The young warrior’s face softened slightly.  He knew no other way of stopping him from doing something stupid.  But offering a light punch was in no sense a crime to him.  He held out his hand, and pulled Jof up on his feet.

“Are you a total imbecile?”

Jof collapsed to the ground in defeat.

Osten began yelling at him.  “You don’t want a drum?  Your drum, your soul, your – everything you are is in a drum, this drum.  You’re the damn Naigh-lait!  Why haven’t you been playing these past days?  What’s the matter, chicken out on all the fighting and the violence and the blood and the dying?  Do you know how many of us depend on you, Mr. Naigh-lait?  Clans across Caminpole listen for you every single day.  They jump to their feet when they hear your call.  They’re so eager to fight out their honor in a respectable duel that they will think about nothing else.  They’ll kill anyone who gets in the way of their honor.  And you know what?  If they have no one to fight, tell me what happens.  If no one tells them what to do and when to do it, what do you think will happen?  They’re goddamn warriors at heart, boy.  Killing is in their blood.”

What am I, a wimpy little drummer that keeps them in check? 

“My drum was destroyed,” he said, referring back to one of the initial questions.

“Likely,” he sneered.  “We brought you another one, just in case.”  He kicked the hollow package, and it made a healthy bong sound.  Jof found himself yearning for it.

If what he implied was true, Jof decided that he had no choice in what he had to do.  If the warriors didn’t have each other to kill, they’d go after whatever civilians they could find.  Jof rather be responsible for the warrior’s demented self-annihilation than their uncontrolled massacres on innocent peoples of the city.  If he was worried about his hand in murdering people, then he knew what he had to do.  He was responsible for which of the two groups should die.

He snatched up the package like a starving child grabbing for food, and ripped apart the covers.

In his lap lay a drum.  It was magnificent.  The side was made of one strong cedar strip, hardened with glue and painted dazzling red, gleaming with polish.  The rim was made of white oak, as hard and sturdy as any piece of metal.  The surface of the drum was made with treated leather, thin and taut and papery, but it produced a vibrantly rebounding echo.  The pieces were glued together with shatterproof resin – no matter how hard or how long the drum was beat, the glue would never break.  Jof could also see that it was held together by magic – he could barely see the translucent signs just below the surface.  There were inconspicuous hooks placed here and there for carrying purposes.  It was only about eighteen inches wide, and it was just like his old drum when he first found it.

It was like having the original back again.  His old drumsticks suddenly appeared at his side, and he picked them up with far too much excitement.

For the first in thirteen days, the forest exploded with the familiar sound of a drum. 

Bam, bam-br-br-br-br-bam, br-br-br-br-bam, br-tap-tap-tap-tap-bam.  Br-taptaptaptaptaptaptap bam!

Osten clapped his hands in glee.  He too was ecstatic about the return of the drum.  His mission was accomplished.

All that Jof knew was he felt an overwhelming feeling of contentment.  He felt full of joy, never having appreciated his love for the drum.

When the string of drumbeats reached his ears, a wave of sadness washed over the man resting in the cave above.