Jonis by Rowan Erlking (manga ereader TXT) 📕

live. Never in all my years have I had the privilege of meeting such a polite demon, let alone a notorious Cordril. Keep your eyes on the horizon, and you will be able to fare out the squall. That’s what my father the sea captain always says.”

He opened the curtain, gesturing for Jonis to go.

“Thank you, sir,” Jonis said, bowing to him. He passed through to the other side.

When the curtain fell, he heard the doctor murmur, “That kid’s going to be really tall when he grows up. What a fine soldier he would make.”

 

“Come here,” gestured over a middle-aged man with a crewcut. He waved Jonis to an open chair.

Jonis obeyed, glancing at all the dark hair that almost covered the floor. He climbed into the chair set up for lager men. Seeing the barber’s bare hands as he reached for the scissors and comb, Jonis said, “You had better use gloves if you are going to handle my head.”

“A wise guy, huh,” the barber said, lifting the scissors towards Jonis’s ear. “Just sit still and you won’t get cut.”

“I’m serious.” Jonis held still, wondering if the man would cut off a piece of his ear anyway for spite.

His words made no difference. Jonis could feel the barber take a hold of his head and turn it with rapid snips. Lighter and lighter, Jonis’s head felt, itchy along his neck as every bit of hair came off the top of his scalp until there was nothing left of his boyish mop.

When the barber had finished, he leaned over suddenly, gripping the top edge of the chair to keep steady. He grabbed his head. “Heavens, I’m worn out.”

Hopping out of the chair, Jonis turned around and inspected the man’s face with a grimace. “I told you not to handle my head without gloves.”

“What’s the problem?” Lieutenant Chappel went to the barber, glaring at Jonis.

“Nothing. I think the day just wore me out,” the barber said, waving Jonis away to the next station.

Shaking his head, Jonis remained where he was. “I told him to wear gloves when handling my head. He didn’t listen.”

“You drained him?” the lieutenant shouted.

He slapped Jonis in the face.

Jonis clutched the red mark on his cheek, but it faded almost immediately, along with the pain. The reaction was almost instantaneous. So was how the lieutenant abruptly staggered back from the boy as if he too were unexpectedly tired.

Lt. Chappel peered at his bare hand.

“You can’t touch my skin without hurting yourself. I have no control over it!” Jonis stared at the lieutenant’s now ashen face.

Lt. Chappel peered up at Jonis. Clenching his teeth, he nodded. “Touch no one.”

“I didn’t do the touching!” Jonis pulled back, waiting for the worst. “I warned him to put gloves on. The doctor did.”

Turning, the lieutenant, marched to the curtain. He parted it, interrupting the doctor. Jonis did not hear their argument. But when the lieutenant returned, he had several surgical gloves in his hands, pulling some on himself. Another pair he gave to the barber. With an abrupt turn, he slapped Jonis again. This time the red mark remained, and Jonis felt the effects linger.

“You will not be insubordinate. Now go on. I will warn the men to be prepared for you.”

The lieutenant stomped ahead.

Jonis followed, rubbing his jaw and glaring after him.

The other stations included a shower, discarding of the rest of his old attire, and a delousing. The shower he appreciated, especially after the long three-day trip in the police van. Losing the uniform that Mr. Farren bought for him was an emotional wrench, though. And even though Jonis did not need the delousing, it was required.

When he was done, they had him stand in the buff and wait for his new clothes in a line of men just as itchy and mortified as he was. The clothes handler gave each man an assessing glance as he stuffed their issue uniforms into their arms. When he saw Jonis, the man snorted. “We don’t have clothes your size small fry.”

Jonis was too tired to return a witty comeback.

The man laughed and dumped a stack of clothes into Jonis’s arms, topped with boots too large for Jonis’s feet. “Next!”

Desolately, Jonis trudged on to the changing room.

Dropping to a bench, he proceeded to dress. Most of the men were too worn out to make comment, though some peered at the boy that struggled to roll up the sleeves to his shirt. The uniform was entirely too large.

“Those should be mine,” the tubby thirty-something said, struggling with too-small pants.

Jonis looked up. His eyes brightened. “Do you want to trade?”

The man nodded, handing over his pair. He watched as Jonis pulled the pants on, looking much more comfortable with the fit. Tugging on his own pants, the man nodded. “You know, for a demon, you don’t seem menacing.”

Jonis blinked with an upward gaze at him.

“Those men like to intimidate people whom they don’t think belong,” the man said. “They’re going to give you flack for being a kid but also for being a demon. I’d watch it if I were you.”

“Thanks for the warning.” Jonis nodded appreciatively.

“I see you lost your gloves,” the man said, glancing at Jonis’s hands.

Stuffing his hands into his pockets, Jonis mustered a sheepish nod. “They said they weren’t army issue. I think I might have to get some specially made.”

“Do you think they will allow it?” the man asked, peering down at him with growing curiosity.

Jonis ducked his head between his shoulders in a shrug. “I don’t know. But that lieutenant will probably make sure I get some, now that he knows I need them.”

Just then Lt. Chappel showed up and said, “Here,” tossing down a pair of surgical gloves. “Put these on. I just saw General Gomrey, and he has already sent an order for military issue gloves for everyone who has to handle you and for you to always wear. Be happy he’s doing this.”

“Thank you,” Jonis said, pulling on the rubber glove, feeling it stick against his skin.

The lieutenant turned without a word.

“I think he hates you,” the thirty-something man said.

Jonis let a wry smirk settle on his lips. “You think?”

Getting off the bench, Jonis finished dressing, making the complete trade so that both he and the other recruit were happy and comfortable. When done, Jonis extended his hand. “My name is Jonis Macoy, what’s yours?”

The man looked at Jonis’s gloved hand but did not take it. “I’m Korin. Korin Gabbert.”

“My hand has a glove on it. I can’t hurt you,” Jonis said, lifting his hand higher.

Korin barely took it, letting Jonis shake it.

Walking over to the door to where yet another line had formed, Jonis murmured, “I wonder what they are passing out this time.”

Korin shrugged. “Probably our I.D. tags. We haven’t gotten those yet.”

This line moved quickly.

Korin was right. Each man received an identification tag with numbers and their name pressed in it. When they got to Jonis, they added an extra tag that was bright blue with the words Special Case punched into it. The man handing them to Jonis instructed him to put both tags on immediately and never take them off.

Jonis and Korin walked out into the sun where there were families saying good bye to their men. Endearing for those that rushed out around the boy to be with their loved ones, Jonis did not feel that warmth. Korin left him, greeting a pregnant woman with a kiss as she wept and smiled at the same time. The couple walked to the edge of the fence to be alone. Jonis stood in the doorway for only a moment. Then he turned and walked alone toward the training ground, still listening to the drill sergeants order the men to do a double-time march around the encampment. Looking back once at the building, he leaned on the fence and sighed.

This was it. Goodbye to his childhood forever.

Chapter Six: To Train

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Like Sky Children, Cordrils can absorb energy and thoughts through touch. However, unlike Sky Children, Cordrils have less self control.”

 

 

 

Sleep did not come easily, and morning came too early. Jonis could not block out all the memories in his head, and there was nowhere to go to vent them. The hunting Cordril in his dreams was now fighting a worm parasite demon, wielding the sword that Jonis had inherited. His ancestor had a famous sword smith make it especially with demon hunting in mind. He even had some of the memories stolen from humans, including that sword smith. Jonis woke up in the middle of the night feeling sick. He remembered the reeek of one demon when it had attacked. Rolling over, he attempted to block the memory. But when the trumpet cried for all to awake, he had only managed two hours of sleep.

“Too early,” one of the city recruits moaned, rolling over.

Agreeing, Jonis pushed off his pillow with a sigh and sat up. His former life with his father was not one that allowed sleeping in either. He had not forgotten the old habit, though he missed Mr. Farren’s more laidback ways.

“Out of bed and at attention, recruits!” a stern voice shouted in the darkness. He flipped on the light switch.

Moans exploded in the air. Many of the soldiers covered their eyes with their arms. Jonis stood at the side of his bed, rubbing the blur out from his vision. He squinted at the glare, straightening up with a yawn.

“I said attention!” The man’s voice boomed.

Jonis walked to the end of his bed, knowing that was where they had been instructed to stand the night before. Five others made the same move. The rest still struggled.

“I see you girls need to be taught a lesson at discipline!” the man shouted.

Blinking open one eye, Jonis recognized this man’s face. It was their drill sergeant. Jonis had thought he was a dangerous man the second he saw him. The drill sergeant did not like the idea of using gloves to handle Jonis, but when the lieutenant let him know he could hit a Cordril without repercussions if he wore the gloves, the man happily pulled them on.

The drill sergeant yanked one man out of bed, throwing him to the floor, shouting at him. “You lazy worm! Get up! Attention!”

More men rushed to stand. The drill sergeant slapped them, his corporals dragging others to stand. By this time, all the men were at attention.

“Never have I seen a lazier set of nothings in my life! You are all parasitic worms!” he shouted.

Jonis wondered at that analogy, considering his dream that night.

“You will all drop to the ground now and give me one hundred push-ups. Down now!” 

Many of the men moaned, but obeyed. The drill sergeant grabbed a few that were moving too slow. Korin was one of them.

“You spineless pieces of dog entrails! Start counting! One! Two! Three! Four…!”

Jonis pushed up, already worn out, lifting his chest off the ground. A recruit to the right was doing it with ease—his pectorals and biceps twitching under his sleeveless shirt.

“Twenty! Twenty-one! Twenty-two…!”

Jonis’s arms ached. His school class never went any further than twenty. As a thirteen-year-old weakling, he felt like his arms were on fire. He stopped.

“Get up you pipsqueak! Twenty-six!” The drill sergeant grabbed Jonis’s neck to pull him