The Collar and the Cavvarach

by Annie Douglass Lima

  The front door opened as they approached, and a tall Imperian woman in a red miniskirt and high heels appeared at the top of the steps. “About time you bothered to get here.”

  “Yeah, nice to see you too, Serra. Where’s the stuff?”

  “Mostly in the guest room.” Her sharp gaze fastened on Bensin. “Who’s this?”

  “His name’s Bensin.”

  “A hire-in?”

  “Not exactly.” Mr. Mayvins made as though to brush past her, but she stood blocking the doorway.

  “You bought a slave? You can’t afford a slave!”

  “I can and did.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I know exactly how much money you had left in your accounts. How much did he cost?”

  “That’s none of your business. My money is my own now.”

  “You spent your retirement savings, didn’t you? You must have.” From her vantage point on the top step, she pointed an accusing finger in his face. “That is exactly why you’ve always driven me crazy! You go making these incredibly irresponsible spur-of-the-moment decisions without thinking things through, and then I have to live with them. Well, at least I don’t have to live with them anymore.”

  “No, you don’t,” he agreed, annoyance in his voice. “Which is why I shouldn’t have to deal with your criticism. Now are you going to let us in, or not?”

  She didn’t move. “What did you buy him for, anyway?”

  “To work for me, of course. What else do people buy slaves for? And to compete in cavvara shil.”

  “You, Mister Slavery-is-Unethical-and-a-Blight-on-Society? Amazing how fast your morals changed when they got inconvenient!”

  “Who are you to be talking about morals?” he snapped. “Now will you please move out of the way?”

  Finally she stepped aside and let them in. Carrying the folded boxes they had brought, Bensin trotted after Mr. Mayvins.

  This Serra must be about to move out, he thought as he passed through the bare living room. There was no furniture in there, no pictures on the walls. But the house had a used look, not a new one like Mr. Mayvins’ apartment. As they turned down the hallway, he glanced into the rooms they passed and saw that they were all equally empty.

  But not the one that must have been the guest room. A neatly made bed stood between a nightstand and a matching dresser. At the other end of the room stood a desk, a chair, and an empty bookcase. “I left the extra bedding and towels that Aron and I don’t need in the hall closet,” the woman announced, following them in. “And there’s stuff we don’t want in the kitchen cupboards too. Anything left after you leave, we’re throwing out.”

  She hovered nearby, watching and criticizing, while Bensin helped Mr. Mayvins pull the covers off the bed. Bensin folded the bedding neatly and stowed it in the dresser drawers, and then the two of them carried the frame and mattress out to the driveway. They filled the other drawers with towels from the hall closet.

  It took some creative arranging to make everything fit in the bed of the pickup. After they had finally maneuvered all the furniture in, they moved on to the kitchen.

  “So your new apartment can get cleaned at last,” the woman scoffed as they filled a box with stained sponges, scrub-brushes, and half-empty bottles of cleaning supplies from under the sink. “Has Bensin here seen how bad it is yet?”

  “My new apartment is perfectly fine,” the man shot back.

  “How many roaches have you seen there so far, boy?” the woman demanded.

  “None, ma’am,” he replied loyally, though considering the state of the place, he would not be surprised if some turned up.

  “Bring over a couple more boxes,” ordered Mr. Mayvins tersely. “You can fill one of them with everything from in here.” Bensin obeyed as his owner began emptying a different cupboard of mismatched mugs, plastic plates, and other cheap utensils. This woman looked like the type who would use fine china and glassware. She had probably taken all the good dishes for herself.

  “I’ll bet you haven’t cooked once since you moved,” Serra remarked. “And that might be a good thing.” She turned to Bensin. “I hope for your sake that you’ll be doing the cooking. Has he told you what kind of garbage he makes?”

  “It’s not garbage,” growled Mr. Mayvins from the depths of another cupboard. “It’s healthy.”

  She scoffed. “Well, call it what you like; I’m glad I’ll never have to experience it again.”

  At last they had stripped the house of everything that might be useful. “So how much did you cost, anyway?” the woman inquired as Bensin headed for the door with the last box.

  Behind her back, Mr. Mayvins turned and frowned at him, but he didn’t need the unspoken warning. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see the paperwork.”

  His owner didn’t speak as they squeezed the boxes into the truck, but the strength with which he slammed his car door spoke volumes. They sped most of the way back in silence, a good twenty miles per hour above the speed limit. Whenever Bensin dared to cast sidelong glances at his owner, he could see his jaw clenched in anger.

  “I appreciate you not telling her anything about the money or the state of my apartment,” Mr. Mayvins said finally. Bensin, not sure what to say, just nodded. He had once heard his friend Ricky tell another slave, “Don’t ever make any comments, good or bad, about a free person’s ex. You never know whether they’re going to get defensive and take it out on you.”

  Back at the apartment, the two of them set up the bed in Bensin’s room, the dresser and nightstand in Mr. Mayvins’, and the bookshelf in the living room. “I guess we can use the desk as our table,” Mr. Mayvins decided, and they positioned it in the little dining room just off of the kitchen, along with the one chair.

  They spent the rest of the day unpacking and putting things away. Bensin gathered up all the accumulated trash, taking it down by the armload to the garbage cans he had seen in a corner of the parking lot, and arranged the few mismatched dishes in the kitchen cupboards. As boxes were emptied, he tucked the flaps neatly inside each and set them on their sides, arranging them in rows against the walls of the living room and Mr. Mayvins’ bedroom. In went clothes, shoes, books, movies, documents, sports equipment, and various other odds and ends.

  In one large carton, Bensin discovered a number of separate newspaper-wrapped items. Upon unwrapping the first one, he was startled to discover a polished silver cup with two large handles. On one side he read the words,

  SECOND PLACE

  YOUNG WARRIORS OF JARREON TOURNAMENT

  CAVVARA SHIL

  BOYS UNDER 16 DIVISION

  FEBRUARY 14, 138

  He competed in cavvara shil too?

  Bensin unwrapped the next object, which turned out to be a framed certificate. A chain of embossed cavvarachs formed a gleaming border around the words,

  Honorable Mention: Steene Mayvins

  Imperial Cavvara shil Society Annual Skills Display

  Boys Under 18 Division

  November 25, 139

  The next item was a gleaming trophy shaped like a pedestal. Atop stood a little figure of a person brandishing a cavvarach. The engraved plaque at the bottom read,

  FIRST PLACE

  CITY OF KRILLONIA SUMMER ATHLETICS EXHIBITION

  CAVVARA SHIL, BOYS UNDER 16 DIVISION

  JULY 18, 138

  But it was the fourth one that really made Bensin’s jaw drop. A large, bronze cup on a tiered stand bore a plaque that said,

  THIRD PLACE

  GRAND IMPERIAL CAVVARA SHIL TOURNEY

  BOYS UNDER 18 DIVISION

  April 9, 141

  He fought in the Grand Imperial? And he actually placed? Bensin could hardly believe it. His new coach was more talented than he had imagined.

  He jumped when Mr. Mayvins, who he had thought was in the other room, appeared and knelt on the carpet beside him. “I see you found my trophy collection.” He took the cup and brushed a film of dust off the top of its stand with one finger.

  “Yes
, sir.” Bensin glanced back into the box, still mostly full of bulky, newspaper-wrapped objects. “You must have won a lot, sir.”

  “Not as much as I wanted to.” The trainer grinned. “Now I enjoy my victories vicariously through my students instead. And this year, that’s mainly going to be you. Just wait. You’re a good athlete already, but if I have any say in it, you’re going to become a champion athlete.” He pointed to the bookcase they had set by the far wall. “Go ahead and arrange these on the shelves there, but make sure you keep at least one shelf empty for your trophies. It’s going to be full by the end of the year.” He held up the Grand Imperial cup. “You’re going to have one of these, too — and it may just be better than bronze.”

  Chapter Six: Hypocrite

  For the first time since he had moved in, Steene didn’t have to dump a load of junk off his bed before he crawled into it for the night. The room was neat and organized, everything unpacked and put away. The rest of the house was equally tidy. Although half the furniture was makeshift, it no longer looked as though he had decorated with a refugee motif in mind.

  He left his bedroom door ajar as he turned out the light, just in case. Bensin had said goodnight and shut himself into his own room a few minutes earlier, but that didn’t necessarily mean he was going to sleep. He’s tried to escape twice already. Regardless of the boy’s story and his assurances that it would never happen again, Steene wasn’t about to trust a stranger quite that easily. Though he did have a key to the other bedroom, he hadn’t used it — what if the kid needed to get up and get a drink or use the bathroom? — but the front door was securely locked. Still, it wouldn’t be that hard to get out through a window, and this was only the second floor. Until he was sure he could trust his housemate, Steene was going to keep an ear open for any sounds of attempted escape.

  He lay awake, thinking about his new slave and the choice he had made to purchase him. Serra had been right; Steene had always decried slavery as unethical. The sight of thin, exhausted slaves worked to the bone or abused by their owners never failed to rouse his anger. He had voted for the Slave Rights Act a few years back that had given them the six-day week and the limited working hours for minors; and when anyone asked, he had always said he was opposed to slavery in principle. And yet now he had bought a slave of his own.

  Why?

  Because you’re a hypocrite, like Serra said, whispered his conscience.

  Because I need the money I hope he’ll bring in, Steene corrected defensively.

  His conscience, as critical as his ex-wife, wouldn’t settle for that answer. As soon as life promises to be easier with a slave, you abandon your principles. Is that all your morals are worth?

  But I won’t be one of those owners who beat their slaves and scream at them in public and work them to death, Steene protested. And someday when I’m back on my feet financially, if the kid wants to save up and buy his own freedom, I’ll let him.

  Ha. As if Bensin could ever save enough, earning two-thirds minimum wage one day a week, to pay for what Steene had spent on him already. Not to mention the money he would be putting into the boy’s training and upkeep.

  Steene sighed and rolled over, hoping he hadn’t done the wrong thing today. But isn’t slavery always wrong?

  Sighing again, he sat up and punched his pillow into a more comfortable shape. If he hadn’t bought the boy, someone else would have. Someone who might have abused him, like Cley did. I’ll treat the kid well, he promised himself, trying to quiet his conscience. He’ll eat the same food I do, I’ll give him the kind of training students pay good money for at the CSF, and I’ll take him to the doctor if he gets hurt or sick. He’ll have a better life working for me.

  But his conscience wouldn’t stop calling him a hypocrite.

  Steene was just starting to doze off when he heard the soft click of a door opening. It was followed by the creak of floorboards as footsteps tiptoed down the hall past his bedroom. He sat up, all senses alert, and heard the sound of a cupboard opening in the kitchen and then running water.

  Is he getting a drink because he’s actually thirsty? Or is this a test to see if I’ll notice he’s up? Steene slipped out of bed and opened his bedroom door. When Bensin came back down the hall, he was leaning against the doorjamb with arms folded, watching him in the dimness.

  The boy jumped about a foot. “Oh! You startled me, sir!”

  “I noticed.”

  “I — I was just getting a cup of water, sir. Is that all right? I didn’t think you’d want me waking you to ask.”

  “That’s fine. Champion athletes drink plenty of water, so get a drink whenever you need one. Just be aware that I’m a light sleeper.”

  “Yes, sir. Sorry I woke you up.”

  “That’s all right. See you in the morning.”

  He left his door ajar once more, but heard nothing further.

  The next morning, Steene awoke to find Bensin already up and hard at work cleaning the bathroom. The sink, toilet, and mirror were sparkling, and the boy was bent over the tub, scrubbing vigorously.

  “You’re industrious for so early in the morning.”

  Bensin glanced around. “I thought I should make myself useful, sir. You weren’t up yet to tell me what to do, and this was the one room I didn’t get to yesterday.”

  “It looks great.” Far better than it has since I moved in. “You can finish it later, though. We’re going to drive to the store and buy some real food. Those burgers I bought us last night were the last straw. The diet starts now, and after we have a bite to eat, we’re going to go for a run and then plan out a training program for you.”

  From the boy’s expression, Steene could guess what he was thinking as he stowed the cleaning supplies back under the sink. Diet? Whose diet?

  “Champion athletes don’t eat junk food,” Steene explained as he led the way out to the truck. “I’ve pretty much been living off fast food and energy bars for the last few weeks, just because my kitchen’s been empty and my life upside down. It only got worse when the CSF closed for New Year and I had no schedule to keep me sort of organized. But now that I’ve got the boxes unpacked, a few cooking utensils in the cupboards, and a future champion to train, it’s time to get serious about eating right and working out again.”

  At the grocery store, they made a beeline for the produce aisle. “Wow, sir, you eat a lot of fruits and vegetables,” Bensin observed as Steene filled the cart.

  “So do you, now.” Next came more of the healthy foods he’d missed since he had moved: chia seeds, pumpkin seeds, brown rice, quinoa. “Make sure you remember where in the store we’re finding all this,” he told Bensin as he added a jar of cashew butter to the growing pile. “I may send you to do the shopping sometimes.” If I decide I can trust you to go out with a pocketful of money.

  He chose his favorite brands of rice cakes, yogurt, soy milk, and coconut water before stopping briefly by the butcher counter for lean meat. “Pick a flavor,” he ordered when they passed through the energy bar aisle. From the boy’s uncertainty, he guessed Bensin had never tried any of them before, but he pointed to the dark chocolate. Steene topped off the heap of groceries with one box of dark chocolate energy bars and one of raspberry. At the last minute, he remembered to grab a blender from the appliance aisle and a box of plastic bags so they could cut up and freeze what they wouldn’t use right away.

  The price on the screen at the check-out counter made him regret buying so much all at once, but there were people behind him in line, and it would have been too much trouble to go put anything back. At least all this should last the two of us till payday and beyond. He’d just better not plan on spending much more until then.

  “You could always hire me out later today, sir,” suggested Bensin, noticing his glance at the screen. “It’s Saturday, and there’s a family back in my old neighborhood that I did yardwork and cleaning for on Saturday afternoons.”

  “Not a bad idea,” Steene agreed. “I have that list of names from Cl
ey. I’ll give them all a call and see if we can put together a work schedule for you that will fit in with your training and the times I’ll want you to help at the CSF.”

  It felt great to stock the fridge for the first time and imagine all the healthy meals and nutritious snacks in his near future. He had usually cooked two dinners a week, with Serra and Daisy, the hire-in, each cooking twice a week as well, and restaurant fare or leftovers on the menu the remaining evening. But Serra wasn’t into health food and disliked most of the dishes he really wanted to make.

  There’s no one to stop me from fixing whatever I like anymore. I can eat healthy all the time from now on. That was some consolation.

  “We’re just going to eat light before we go run,” he told Bensin, opening the package of rice cakes and spreading two of them with cashew butter. “I know you’re probably pretty hungry, but we’ll have more when we get back. And I’ll buy another chair as soon as I get paid so you can sit down too,” he added, handing the boy half of their little meal.

  When they had eaten, Bensin wiped the desk clean without being asked while Steene pulled out bananas, blueberries, yogurt, coconut water, chia seeds, and kale. The boy watched as he dumped some of everything into the blender. “Yes, we’re having this all together.” Steene grinned at Bensin’s skeptical expression.

  “Spinach, sir? With fruit?”

  “It’s kale, not spinach. And yes, absolutely. You probably won’t even taste it, but I guarantee you’ll like the smoothie. Besides, it’s the best thing to get into you right after a run. It’ll replenish your energy quicker than solid food.”

  He blended it up, poured it into two of the plastic Biff’s Burger Joint cups that Serra had seen fit to give him, and left them in the fridge. Bensin stood waiting by the door, barefoot, while Steene pulled on his shoes and socks. “Aren’t you going to get your shoes on?”

  “My shoes are pretty tight, sir, but my feet are tough. Is it okay if I run barefoot?”

  Steene shrugged. “I guess so, if you’re sure you can handle it. Next weekend, Springstyle Sporting Goods will be giving out gift certificates to the first through third place winners. Tell you what, if you win one, we’ll use part of it to buy you some good running shoes.”