Around ten years ago, after Hutwig went to work with his father to the lumber camp.
Fighting on top of Combe Hill was the custom, and everything there being convenient for bruising: near home in case a man had to be carried; a post with a lamp on it so you could see who you were hitting; and three feet of mud for the loser.
Hutwig was shivering as he ran to his father who was waiting there, but not with the cold.
“Sink him quick, boy, for the love of Gran,” said he, “for I am damned starving.”
Big Rhys and some of his criminals from the Coomb and Wattle Inn were there, huddled against the sleet. Mo, Rhys’ son, was stripping off his coat.
Off with Ma’’s muffler, away with his cloak, shirt off, start on the vest.
“Vest on,” said Will Twigs.
Tighten the belt to hold up the trews, for there would be hell to pay rent to if they dropped while fighting. Ready, he turned. Mo was stripped to the waist, looking as big as a man, his brown body shining under the flickering light.
“Ten silvers, is it?” asked Big Rhys, very polite.
“Five,” said Hutwig’s father, “Two years and six inches, what more do you want?”
“Five, then,” replied Big Rhys. “Quite enough time to bury the Twigs,” and he pushed Mo forward. “Into it, the pair of you.”
“Hammer the nose,” whispered Will, holding his son under the flaps of his coat. “A fine straight nose, that, for the Combe left, and a bend in it will help his looks.”
Helped by the toe of his boot Hutwig stepped out to meet Mo.
The mountain grass was wet against Hutwig’s back with the first blow of the fight. He stared at the faint stars, shook his head and climbed up. Mo came in like a tram, fists flailing, but Hutwig stepped away and he went past, fighting himself, to wheel and come in swinging.
“Left,” called Twiggy’s father, but Mo had already taken it in the mouth and the young Twig felt the glorious pain in his knuckles as his rival’s head snapped back. Hutwig’s head was clearing now and he stood on tip-toe shooting lefts through his swings while Mo stayed, flat footed and grunting.
“Nail him!” yelled Big Rhys, and Mo leaped in, his fists thumping against Hutwig’s body. They stood shoulder to shoulder, hitting at everything and mostly missing, and then Mo lowered his head and charged.
“Uppercut,” said William, and Twig dropped his right and hooped it up into Mo’s face. He staggered, and Twig swung the same hand at him and caught him flush in the mouth. Blood spouted down his chin and as his jaw dropped in pain, Twig steadied his hands and hit him left and right in the body before knocking him flat with a swing to the face. Turning, he walked to his father’s knee.
“Gran help us,” said his father. “Are we staying here all night?”
Hutwig looked at Mo. He was crawling to his father on all fours, wondering if he was in Bree or the Shire. As he dragged himself up Big Rhys called for another, and he staggered and turned, jumping after Twig like a mad thing, but he had a left in his eye before he could blink and another on his nose when he did. His face was dancing before Hutwig in the swinging light of the lamp, sleet flying across it, and Twig saw his eyes, suddenly bright and alive and the blood streaming over his bared, white teeth. The wind buffeted them as they circled, looking for openings. Hutwig tried a long right, but he ducked it and hit him about the body with vicious little punches that drove Twig against Big Rhys. Rhys held Mo off with one hand and pushed Twig clear with the other, and for thanks he hit his boy twice with his left before he could settle himself for his rush.
“Again,” said William, and his boy did so, knocking poor Mo sideways.
A terrible thing is this Combe straight left. The tap-tap of it is maddening to a grown man, let alone a boy who cannot keep his temper. Mo was crying with rage and pain, and he came in upright, hooking to have Twig’s head off.
“Now,” called William, and Twig stood his ground and let fly at Mo’s chin with every ounce of his strength. He took the blow full on the point and dropped flat upon his face and lay there, sobbing and clutching at the grass. Rubbing his knuckles he turned and walked back to his father.
He called to Rhys, “Oi, Rhys, I say finish this. He is bleeding like a little pig and he has the courage of a lion.”
“To shit with you, William. He has more strength to give, and he will give it!”
“There is a swine of a father,” whispered father to son. “You will handle it, then. Take this boy as you would your cousin. Waste his strength by keeping him off. Hit him down again and you will have me to fight after. Do you hear me?”
Mo staggered from his father’s knee and wandered towards Twig, but he suddenly gathered his strength and rushed, hitting me solidly for the second time. The lamp swung across the sky and Twig tasted the sweet salt of his own blood. In he came again, crying aloud, but Twig danced away. The light was gleaming on the little bunched muscles of his body and in desperation Hutwig drove at them to check his next rush, but the blow never reached him. Instead, he saw the swing of his boot, and bent. The boot took Twiggy in the side, pumping out his breath in one long gasp. And the next kick caught him in the mouth.
Very pleasant to be floating in a dream and to wake in your father’s arms. The wind was rocking them and crying in dark places. It was warm and comforting under his coat. Twig looked around. The light of the lamp was directly above me. Big Rhys, Mo and the Coomb and Wattle men had gone.
“Very handy you are with fists,” said his father. “But you will rarely fight with gentlemen. Next time I will teach you how to miss their boots.”
“Crap,,” Twiggy said. “There is a tooth missing,” and felt his mouth, and indeed one of his front baby teeth was gone.
“Two,” said his father. “I have another in my pocket, and please do not take use words like that. Up on your feet now; do not make a meal of it.”
Twig looked at him as he brushed water from his eyes. “Up now!” said he. “We will go to our graves sitting by here. All right for you, mind, for you have been kept warm fighting. And your fight, remember, not mine, for Ma plays hell with brawlers. You will make the excuses for being late at supper.”
“That will be worse than boots,” the boy said.
“I am freezing solid,” said he. “Look, I am streaming from the eyes.” And he wandered about, kicking at stones and cursing while Twig pulled his clothes over his aching body.
A first day at work to remember, this one. A bleeding nose, a tooth in one hand, another in Da’s pocket, and a boot to the belly. There’s a mess to take home to Ma, and all for a few coppers.
