“We’s ain’t Islanders,” Symon said with cheerful introduction. “Them folk wot lives here seems to like a bit o’ kidnapping. Friendly slavery, you might calls it.”
One of the company walked forwards. He held out his hand, a normal Shamm greeting. “Well now, slave. You appear to have un-kidnapped yourselves. I’m no native, so we can talk freely. My name, for what it’s worth, is Lamond. This is my brother, Tramond. My other friends here can introduce themselves if they want. But who are you? Both Edenites, I’d guess.”
“Yes. Eden. Lydiard,” Jak said. “But too young to remember the invasion, and neither of us have the slightest antagonism towards Shamm.”
Indeed Symon was quite old enough to remember a good deal of the Shamm invasion, but he grinned, called out his name, and took both Lamond’s and Tramond’s hands. “Reckon,” he said, “you ain’t here to make proper nice friends wiv them natives?”
Another of the men stepped forward. “Countries intent on making war with other countries don’t interest me none. I’m Kant, and my father was a pirate on the Shamm coast for many years. I went sailing with him as a kid. But I’d no desire to kill and set fires, steal and ruin lives when I grew up. What fools they are, thinking they can only lead a good life if they destroy someone else’s. I’m here to talk to the Islanders, try to make peace, talk some sense, and maybe help release them called slaves.”
Jak leaned against the tree trunk, kept one eye on the basking crocodiles, and nodded. “The Islanders seem likeable people. Simple perhaps, but only because they’ve never lived a life amongst others. Too isolated, I imagine. But kind. There’s not a true slave on this island. But we’re asked to work in exchange for good food, good rest, and blankets at night. This place is bloody freezing every night.”
“And they want to attack Shamm? Delightful folk, then.”
“How does you know that be wot they wants?” Symon demanded.
Kant pointed to one of the crocodiles which lay, seemingly asleep, in the sunlight which was golden and steaming on the riverbank. “The fools are digging an underwater tunnel. They intend filling it with those beasts and herding them ahead into Shamm. A lovely army it’ll make – plenty of death both sides, and everlasting hatred. And all because of an old tale from a thousand years back.”
“But they’ll never finish the tunnel.”
Tramond raised an eyebrow. “How can you be sure? I’ve heard of worse.”
Jak pointed upwards. “You might as well build a bridge to the stars.”
A kestrel was flying overhead. Jak followed its flight with both eyes, fascinated, but turned back abruptly to Tramond as the Shammites shook his head. “Not as impossible as you seem to think. The channel between this island and Shamm is narrow and shallow at the point they’re digging. But I’d suppose failure more likely than success.”
“And we’s not staying to see neither,” said Symon. “You doesn’t just happen to have a nice big boat, does you?”
“We didn’t swim, and there’s no nice tunnel yet,” Lamond smiled. “The ship’s pulled up on the sand just around the coast there, away from the reptiles. They don’t like the saltwater and stay by the river’s estuary. Not the sweetest of animals, so we avoid having them all ganged up waiting beside the ship until we come back.”
“And when might you be going back?”
“Suppose you’ll be wanting a lift?” smiled a different one of their group. He was the tallest and widest, and he said, “I’m the captain. Captain Panter. Yes, I’ll give you a lift. But around the other side to Shamm. We won’t be sailing to Eden.”
“But Eden is almost within sight,” Jak answered, although this was not entirely true. It was three days off by sea, yet Shamm was on the other side of the island, and four days by ship at least, depending on the engine.
And Symon said quite abruptly, “There be beautiful big lacine on this island.”
The Shammites laughed. “True. Are there none left in Eden?”
“There are in some places, but they’re rare,” Jak said. “Yet I’ve no way of riding one back to Eden. It’s a ship I want, and once in Eden, I can pay for it.”
“But if you can’t,” objected Panter, “it’ll be too late to do other than throw you back in the ocean.”
“It’s a deal,” Jak said. “Because I know full well that I can pay you.”
Panter chewed his bottom lip. “In a ten-day, I’ll do it. But we came here for a purpose, and that’s a purpose I intend to fulfil.”
Jak sighed. “Sitting on this damn infested beach for ten days doesn’t sound attractive,” he said. “But in the meantime, we can think about it.”
It was a little later when he echoes of their words might no longer reach the others, and instead were swallowed by the mounting dusk and the thick thorny leaves of the bushes, that Symon flopped down as far as was convenient from the crocodiles, and muttered, “Don’t know who I trusts no more. Tis all a muddle. But I recckon we’s got away, no doubt of it. We ain’t slaves no more.”
Lying back on the fallen undergrowth, Jak gazed up into the ricj twists and black knots of the Mitzi roots. He spoke to Symon but was also speaking to himself. “Shammites believing in the Island invasion? I’m amused. They believe in a tunnel, and expect to be fighting crocodiles. That’s absurd.”
“Rekon there ain’t no chance o’ herding them beasts through a tunnel no ways.”
Jak agreed. “The Shammites have their stories confused. But how can anyone be sure which story to believe? A steam train or crocodiles. Surely neither. There are no facilities to build any train, let alone drive one.”
“’Aides, that there tunnel’s gonna be underwater”
Jak looked up. “And us with it,” he yawned, “unless we can steal a boat.”
Chapter Eight
Weak from a continuous lack of food, entirely reliant on her morning drink, and frightened of her gaoler, Freya did not attempt escape at first. Her brain closed. Only a pocket of hatred remained, closeted and nursed, promising escape when she had the strength. Not knowing where she was, she had no idea where to go if she managed to get away. But it hardly mattered. Anywhere would be preferable, including the empty blackness of nothing. Of death. Of opium poisoning. Of Kallivan’s sword.
The promise of better conditions had at first given her hope, not hope of escape, but hope of building her strength and knowledge of the land. It did not. Clutching her blanket and her cape, she followed Rudd down the stairs and into a space on the ground level where the grinding wheels turned. One huge wheel pointed across the other smaller wheel below, and another larger wheel was lying flat. They all squealed as they turned, but turned reluctantly, with levers broken, slats broken, and nothing to grind. Outside the rushing stream forced movement where thick rust tried to block it, and splintered wood, encrusted with moss and mould, clung to the stone, still glimmering with a splatter of filthy old flour. A broken wooden barrow and three great wooden tubs stood along the stone wall. There were things she could use, Freya thought, once she had planned her escape. A whetstone lay abandoned beside a crooked stool. There was a table of sorts, its top slats split in the middle yet still usable. And there was a bed.
The bed was narrow, but a thick mattress of straw and hay was topped with feathers inside a sack of broadcloth. There was no sheet but, unlike the usual hessian, broadcloth did not scratch nor itch. Naturally, the tiny creatures living in it would do both, but they could be killed if she was quick enough.
There was no rug, no privy, no pegs nor water bowl. But it was indeed more comfortable than the locked chamber above. And this, being on ground level, offered scope. It also offered hope. There was a real window. This looked out on the stream and the sloping bank where the winter buttercups grew. It was closed with parchment, but translucent enough. Perhaps even thin enough for cutting, if a knife could be found.
Freya lay both cape and blanket on the mattress and regarded her new home. The door was still open when she realised another man stood be
hind Rudd, but it was not Kallivan. More rugged, this creature was equally colourless, and Freya, for a moment, knew herself to be staring. She ignored Rudd. She said, “Are you Kallivan’s brother?”
“He has no real brother,” said the man. His hair was matt straw, as white as bleached linen, and his skin seemed snow-like, a drifting cover over a rigid frame of jutting bones. One eye was the same colour as Kallivan’s almost empty blue. But the other eye was a black hole. A scar, black and raised, traced its own trail from the black eyehole across the nose, missing the side of the mouth by a finger’s breadth, and, turning on to chin and neck, disappearing into the man’s collar. He was well dressed. Older, Freya realised, than Kallivan.
“Then you’re his father.”
“Who I am, is not your concern,” he told her. He turned to Rudd who stood solid behind him. “Bring the whore,” he said, “and inform her never to address me again without permission.” He turned and left the room as Rudd grabbed Freya and pulled her behind him.
The air was fresh, bringing blasts of iced wind and the huge satisfaction of breathing it. For a moment the courtyard, rimed between the cobbles, was slippery beneath her feet and she was still dragged, Rudd both pulling on her arm and pushing at her back. And then they stood at the door of another house, and warmth welcomed them inside.
It was the cottage on the other side of the courtyard, once the home of the miller, with its thatched roof, gable windows, two tiny rooms downstairs and one up, a place for chickens, and a fire slab central to the first room. The wood and a handful of coke was burning there, and the heat dripped from walls and ceiling in battle with the draughts. There were cushioned benches set against the walls and a scorched rug where feet might rest. Only one blink of a shivering moment allowed Freya to wonder if this was her new home, but she knew quite well that it was not. She stood, allowing the warmth to melt her fears and doubts.
She said, “Your home, Kallivan’s father?”
It was Rudd who slapped her, backhanded, across her face. “You be quiet, slut, till you’re told. And you was told right clear not to address the genl’man, lest you be told.”
The pale, scarred man sat on one cushioned bench and stretched his legs. He pointed to hooks hanging on one wall, and the whips, swords, sticks and straps hung on each one. He was watching Freya. Eventually he said, “I live here, temporarily. Rudd is my servant, and Doria, his daughter, serves us both. Some know that Kallivan is my son, while others do not know this, and suppose Ross to be my son’s father. You will die before you have time to tell others of this information, but that is of no moment to me. You are not my type. But nor is Doria, and I am tired of her. I shall take you when I wish, and you will obey me utterly and at all times. I do not specifically enjoy whipping sluts and whores but will do so at length when I wish to impose law and punishment.”
His voice was sibilant and unpleasant. A nasal sneer seemed to distort all his words. The scar that cut across and into his nose had clearly gone deeper than she had guessed, and only gradually, she learned to understand him. He paused before saying, “I will return to speak with you at some time over the next days.” It appeared that the effort of speech affected him too.
Rudd stood silent. Doria seemed absent unless she sat in the next room behind the door which stood ajar. Rudd pointed to the door and shoved Freya out and once again into the frost. Darker clouds were building in the east, and a dampness oozed across the land, promising rain. Rudd’s thick stubby fingers around her arm pulled her over to the rubbish dump, a slime covered hill of muck and iced grime.
“You comes here fer pissing and shitting,” Rudd said. “But not on yer own. Someone watches. Mostly Doria, I guess, and me if she ain’t free. Yer room will be locked. You comes out four times a day. Mornin’, at dawn. Midday after first food. Sunset after food. Lastly afore bed. No more. You save yer piss fer when I lets you out to come here.”
The cold, her misery, the filth of the dump-heap, and her fear coalesced into desolation. Freya shivered, and when Rudd dragged her back to the mill, she ran willingly.
Curled on her new bed and covered by both blanket and cloak, she whispered to herself, fury biting at her thoughts. “You’re a coward, and you blame other people for bringing such vile conditions and treating you like shit. But you accept the shit, and now you’ve become shit. You don’t like being called whore, but that’s what you’ve been for years. You took the easy road. You take the poppy. You take the beatings. You take the hunger and the absolute misery. Perhaps you think you deserve them. But it’s cowardice. Plain and pure shivering fucking cowardice. And if worse than this exists, it’ll come to you too, getting worse and worse until you stop deserving it, and thinking you deserve it and get the courage to go home. No – not that home. A new home. A home with love and warmth and food and comfort. A home where I can love and be loved, even if I’m alone.”
She explored her room. The parchment covered window offered hope. Now, behind the wooden tubs, she found another. No larger, but unglazed and closed with iron bars. The space was cluttered. Amongst the dust and rubbish, there was a small pile of blankets. Beside the opening to the stairs sat a wooden bucket, almost filled with water. A tin cup bobbed on the water’s grubby surface. The large door to the courtyard outside was now padlocked. But a measure of comfort had been supplied. Freya tugged at the blankets. There were three. She folded them across the bed and retrieved her cloak to wrap around her shoulder. She smiled. At the promise of greater warmth both in bed and out of it. The bed was properly built and not a woollen bulge dumped on the stone like the one upstairs. She assumed this one had once been kept for the itinerant stone dresser to come to prove his metal.
The filth disgusted her, but not as it would once have done, for now being immured to dirt and the life of a drug-blind whore also disguised other problems.
With her new room as cluttered as the attic had been empty, there was sufficient for her to pretend interest in, and the rigidity of lonely boredom that had hung in every empty corner upstairs did not entirely vanish but took one step backwards. One empty keg smelled of sour ale, but she could use it both as a stool and as a climbing frame to see more clearly from the windows. She could watch the river’s spray and splash as the wheel turned, ever desultory, on its splintered slats
It was someone else again who brought food, and she was surprised. A girl, young and plump, slammed the platter on the table, pointed, and said, “Won’t get no more today, so best eat.” Freya was given neither knife nor spoon, but the slabs of tough old meat and hard cheese were easy enough to eat with her fingers. There was also stale bread and a wizened apple. Half starving, she had hoped for more, but she accepted and ate. First she put out her hand, hoping to delay the girl, needing to know what she might be like.
“I’m Freya,” trying to smile. “Can I ask your name? Do you live here?”
She seemed suspicious but answered. “Dorothea. That’s me and me Pa’s the master here.”
Freya smiled so insistently, it hurt her jaw, still bruised from a back. “Dorothea, what a charming name. Is your father the miller?”
“It’s a bloody awful name, and you’s a bloody stoopid fool,” she said, screwing up her eyes. “My Dad’s Rudd, what used to work at the Prison. The miller’s gone long ago. And you call me Mistress Doria.”
“Doria.”
“No, bitch. Mistress Doria, for you’s the whore and I’s a proper person. And you’s the prisoner and Master Thribb, he’s a grand man and he’s nice to me. But he won’t be nice to you.”
With a widely smiling face, Freya said, “Thank you for the food.”
The three new blankets beneath the old worn one meant warmth most nights, and the food brought by the girl was now adequate, even sometimes almost hot. There were small wedges of salt pork or bacon with the bread, a pottage of lentils or cabbage, boiled eggs, and together with the poppy drink, fresh ale each day. The mug and the bucket of water, which she was able to refresh each time she was permitted out
side to use the dump as a latrine, seemed a blessing, as she also used the water for basic washing. The walks outside were strangely exhilarating. Although it was blisteringly cold and the wind screeched through the valley of the riverbed, Freya saw the sky and the birds. She touched grass. Most beautiful of all, she breathed fresh air. And these were the moments most likely to supply opportunities for escape. Even the rank shit stench of the sewerage dump did not spoil the sense of freedom, and the passing gurgle of flowing water seemed sweet like a rich rebirth. The birds flocked down to drink. Freya enjoyed the tiny golden and blue finches, the blackbirds and red-breasted robins, the swallows and martins, the magpies in deep fluorescence, the croaking of the frogs before sunset and the splash of the fishing birds on the early breezes.
The winter buttercups were pale yellow along the banks, tall enough, thick enough, and sweet enough to hide the frogs, the tiny lizards, the smaller birds and the spiders on the hunt.
A pair of eagles flew over each morning but did not come down to fish. Further downstream there were herons, groups of brolgas and geese wading the shallows, heads down and beaks immersed.
The days passed, with light changing to dusk to dark and finally to a new pale light signifying dawn and a new day. Freya soon began to lose track of time. It was now deep winter and, since she was given no candle, the gloomy days with heavy cloud closing off all sunlight seemed to merge into night, and she could not always tell when one ended and the next began. It rained often and the wind whistled and gusted into her chamber, so she cuddled into bed when the storms were violent.
For many days she was questioned. The one-eyed man was always followed by Rudd, and together they would stare down at her until she felt as a cockroach or a frightened mouse might feel, expecting the boot that would squash it flat. “Well, harlot. Do you swive with the lords of the council and is that how you know one that writes the warrants and wants Sir Kallivan in a cell and at his mercy? Or that he puts out warrants for no good reason at your request?”
The Mill Page 9