Chapter One

Cecelia Dooley stood outside in the rain, pulling her long, kimono-like robe closer around her body. It was not a cold day, certainly, but Mrs. Dooley’s heart felt icy; she watched the half-dozen children playing in the dirt street before her, unaware of how intently the three soldiers were watching them. Other mothers peeked out of their cottages, looking through windows or doors, but Mrs. Dooley was the only one who cared enough to risk a cold for her young one.

“Your husband’s been dead for how long, ma’am?” asked one of the soldiers, speaking in his vernacular. Mrs. Dooley could not respond at first; she had to think about how to respond in the soldiers’ language, as well. If she spoke her native tongue, surely there would be some horrible retribution.

“Some six months, now,” she said, feeling a wave of nauseous fury. “He died while defending this city’s walls. Blown to bits by your cannons.”

The soldier interrogating her did not show any remorse. “You make sacrifices when you choose to fight a hopeless battle.” He seemed to want to finish his questions quickly and to get away from the torrential rain. Even though he sported a dignified, iron helmet, he was still sopping wet. “Your son is how old?”

“He turned seven-years-old just three weeks past.”

“I see.” The soldier looked her in the eyes for the first time since he and his allies had come to the city of Necery, which had once been proud and tall, but now was bordered by the rubble of stone walls and the eyes of gaunt widows, Mrs. Dooley being one of them. “And he’s the one right there?” He pointed to a smiling youth, who was chatting amicably to another boy as they tossed about a pink, rubber ball. The boy the soldier had indicated was a fair-skinned youth, with intense blue-gray eyes and light brown hair, turned much darker due to the rain.

“Yes. That’s my son,” replied Mrs. Dooley, feeling slightly anxious. “You’re not going to harm him, are you?”

The soldier didn’t answer her question, but responded nonetheless. “There are many things that could happen to your boy. I can’t guarantee anything.”

Mrs. Dooley bit her bottom lip in despair. Another one of the soldiers stepped forward and tapped Mrs. Dooley’s son on the shoulder. He turned to look up at the soldier, eager yet inquisitive.

“Hello,” said the soldier in a kind voice, but the seven-year-old didn’t understand his language. He had a half-smile on his face as his eyes flickered to look at his mother. Mrs. Dooley stepped forward, but she quickly felt a half-restraining hand on her arm. She glanced back at the soldier who was stopping her.

“My son doesn’t know Cuabone,” explained Mrs. Dooley hurriedly, gesturing towards the boy. “I’m just going to translate for him, that’s all.”

The soldier hesitantly let her go, and she rushed forward to her son. “Listen, darling,” she said breathlessly, “this soldier is going to ask you some questions, okay? But he doesn’t speak our language, so I need to translate his words. Just answer the questions, got it?”

He nodded happily, knowing that if his mother agreed to this, then it was okay. He knew that no harm would come to him.

“Good, good boy. Now, say ‘hello’ to the man.”

“Hello,” chirruped the boy, grinning broadly to reveal a missing tooth.

“How did you lose that tooth?” asked the soldier. “Was it in a fight?”

After Mrs. Dooley had translated, the boy responded, with somewhat of a lisp, “Oh, no sir. It just come out nat’r’lly.”

“I see…” The soldier rubbed his chin, glancing about at the other boys. The gang had moved somewhat off, still throwing around the ball. “Now, boy,” he continued, putting his eyes back to him, “do you play often? With these others, I mean.”

“Yessir, whene’er I can. They’re my friends.”

“Indeed.” The soldier scrutinized his face. “Tell me, child: what is five minus seven?”

Mrs. Dooley translated this question, afraid that her son would get it wrong and would be punished. But the boy, after only a short moment of thinking, replied slowly, “Well, if it’s a number minused by a bigger’un, then it’s gonna be negative. ’nd if you minus five from seven, then it’s two, so thiss’un will be negative two!”

Mrs. Dooley didn’t have time to breathe her sigh of relief before the soldier turned to her. “I like the way he thinks,” he said solemnly, adjusting his metal helmet to deflect the rain from his eyes. “He obviously enjoys sports and is in fit condition. Plus, he will be a handsome lad, and not even a thousand scars can disfigure him.”

“Er – thank you…” began Mrs. Dooley, unsure of where this soldier was going.

“You have now paid your debts to the Cuabone Empire,” continued he, “and, because you have paid more than your tax requires, you will never have to pay again.”

“You – what?” she exclaimed, realization pounding her. “No, you cannot – ” She grabbed her boy’s hand, kneeling beside him in the mud, not caring about her dirtied clothes.

“He will get a fine education,” explained the soldier. “He will be trained to be one of the most revered men in the empire. The emperor himself will know your boy and will know him as his own son. Woman, – ” he snapped as Mrs. Dooley let out a wail of despair – “your son will be a janissary! I can think of no higher honor.”

“That’s because you’re a janissary,” sobbed Mrs. Dooley. The boy, who did not know what was being said, looked frantically from his mother to the soldier, frightened. “Have you ever visited your parents, or even thought about how much this affected this?”

“The emperor was my true father,” replied the soldier coldly. “His blood may not run in my veins, but his valor has been given to me, and I was lucky enough to be picked. Now then, woman, if you please – ” He wrenched Mrs. Dooley away from her son. She tried to leap to her feet, slipping and stumbling awkwardly in the mud. The boy didn’t know where to go: follow the soldier with the calm demeanor, or be by his mother, who was having a breakdown. Tears mixed in with the rain flooding down, and she desperately scooped up a handful of mud and flung it at the janissary. It splattered on his yellow and purple uniform, some spray hitting her boy, but the man did not even flinch. He called to his fellow janissaries, who came over obediently to quiet Mrs. Dooley.

“We’ll take no others,” said a soldier, not caring about Mrs. Dooley’s fit. “The boy you have is the ablest of them all. He will greatly please the emperor, I think.”

The soldier gripping the boy’s arm nodded, and began pulling him away.

“M-Mamma?” called the boy tentatively. “Mamma?”

He got no response, and was quickly wrenched away, through the town’s winding paths, and there he saw a giant caravan, covered with a canvas and with what should be an entrance, but instead was just a large piece of board. The man holding the boy knocked thrice on the wood and stepped out of the way. From within, someone began lowering it down.

“What’s going on?” asked the boy, frightened, as he was shoved up the board and inside the caravan. The response given by the janissary was just one word:

“Devshirme.”

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Here you go, my newest story. I would like you all to know that it was based EXTREMELY LOOSELY after the devshirme tax imposed by the Ottoman Empire way long ago. One of the only similarities are the words "devshirme" and "janissary", and that it takes able boys. I don't want anyone getting angry at me for not having every single tiny detail correct: I don't want to. I'm using some facts, but mostly my imagination to make this story. It is fantasy, after all.

Anyways, thank you for reading chapter 1! I hope you enjoyed it. If not, please don't be mean. I'm not asking you to keep on reading if you don't like it. But I hope you do like it, because I have fun writing this.

Thanks,
E.B. Keane-Farrell