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The Journals of Raymond Brooks 41
“Someone like me?” I asked, not really sure what was wrong
with me, but angry nonetheless.

“A low-born orphan,” Ivar explained.
“She’s noble?” I asked, understanding full well the difference
between nobility and commoners.
“In our race, yes, she’s high-born, and you’re not of our race,”
Ivar said.
“I understand,” I said.
“It’s not that I don’t care for you, but some things shouldn’t
be; some things can bring shame to my family.”
“I understand,” I repeated a bit more loudly, and I fully did.

Where I come from, I was the high-born — the chosen, while
she would have been the low-born — the outsider.
“Good night, Adam,” Ivar said. He turned and went back to the
smithy. I was angry — as angry as I had ever been. It seemed
that everything angered me: the very face of Ingrid, the way
she spoke to me as if I was beneath notice; Ivar’s ‘talk’ with
me. I knew she was taking over my life, pushing me away and

depriving me of what little I had. I could hear them laughing
inside, probably making fun of low-born me.
So I left the smithy and in the darkness fought against my
shadow, imagining the faces I had now come to hate. If only I
could pound someone. Was I being followed? How my blood
raged for a fight, and for what? I was overreacting; I was half-past
crazy. I realized that nothing I had done or thought since noon
had made any sense. My rage was gravely misplaced. Ingrid is
Ivar’s daughter; she doesn’t even know me; so why would she

belittle me? And dear Ivar, who has shown me only kindness
over the years; surely he’ll not forsake me now that a closer kin
has reappeared in his life.
I walked alone, traveling the dark, muddy roads and alleys,