Whenever he worked at the mill he was provided with two good meals. Lady Febula would bring him a wedge of bread and damson jam at midmorning and a hot meal at midday. If he remembered right, today was meat and potato stew. As he thought about it his stomach begged and groaned. It occurred to him as he rolled his blanket up what else he would miss if he didn’t go into work today: his wages. Not that he ever got to spend any of it. Bill was always there to pick them up at five o’ clock sharp. To ensure he spends it wisely he told the miller that first week. But Mr Febula wasn’t stupid and Kye was sure he knew what Bill was up to.
He was reaching to flip back the trapdoor when a plan came to him. It was a rainbow of a plan – colourful and bright, but without a clear beginning or end. It was fraught with risk, but if it worked he could fill his belly and line his pockets for the next few days. He pulled the trapdoor open and threw down the rope ladder, already thinking through the details as he started down. When he reached the forest floor he looped the end of the ladder around one of the lower branches and set off towards the mill.
He took a direct line through the woods to Pebble Creek and followed it all the way down to the millpond where he paused to look at its sparkling water. Several ducks were gliding over the surface and atop the sluice gates a large crow was preening an outstretched wing with its curved beak. Kye frowned; picked up a stone and threw it at the crow. It clocked the wood beneath its perch, setting it to the wing with a series of harsh caws. He watched it go with satisfaction. The miller was a good man and didn’t deserve the attention of those that served the Black Eye.
Mr Febula had given him permission to fish the millpond once a week and to keep anything he caught. It was a perk of being a mill hand and a privilege the miller granted to only a few of his patrons. He had looked forward to it at first - a way to relax after work and a chance to add to the meagre rations he was receiving at home. But Bill had soon spoilt it – demanding he caught ever more fish so he could reduce what he spent on provisions, leaving him more to spend on booze and card games. He had caught him one morning wrapping several fish in old paper and boasting about how they were going to fetch him a pretty sum down at the market. But one of the conditions the miller had set for him fishing the millpond was that none of his catch was sold on. Bill hadn’t been happy when he informed him of this. His face darkened and he gripped one of the fish so hard it slipped out of the paper and onto the floor. He put the fish back in the pantry, but only after hitting him around the head. Why he deserved such treatment for pointing out the miller’s rule, he had never been able to work out.
He followed the path that led down to the mill, passing a wagon loaded with grain sacks. He entered at the meal floor, picking his way around several sacks and bins until he stood beside the great iron pit wheel.
‘Is that you down there Kye?’ shouted Mr Febula from high above.
‘Yeah, it’s me.’
‘Come straight up. I want to speak to you before you get started.’
He climbed the ladder and stepped onto the stones floor. Mr Febula was leant against the wooden tun that housed the millstones.
‘I suppose you saw the grain wagon outside. I’m sorry lad but you're gonna have to bring it in on your own today,’ he said, straightening with a grimace and rubbing his back. ‘I was in here late last night, twisting over them broken cogs. Stiffened me dripping up good and proper it did… Just glad I got you here to help me. The millwright is coming tomorrow to set the stones and we need to get that order out to the bakery in south town.’
Kye sagged, feeling loyalty and sympathy jump onto his back. He feigned a smile, but decided he was too far invested in his plan not to launch into his lie. ‘I hope you don’t mind Mr Febula, but I’ve come in early to ask a favour for Bill. He wanted me to ask if I could fetch him my wages.’ He felt his voice waver as he finished up. Lying wasn’t his strongest suit.
Mr Febula eyed him. ‘They’re not due till this afternoon and he gave strict instruction about him collecting them.’
‘He’s been gambling,’ said Kye, trying to look ashamed. He pulled this off rather well, as the lie he had already told was still burning up his face. ‘Got himself into some trouble over a card game. Two men came to the door last night and they didn’t look a nice sort. I overheard them threaten him over some money he owed them, but he put them off until this morning.’
The miller mused on this for a time, tapping his fingers against the wooden tun. ‘Why didn’t he come for your wages himself, if he’s so desperate for them?’
Kye was ready for this. It was the one question he had been sure the miller would ask. ‘He had a few drinks after the men left and his head’s a bit sore this morning.’ The last part at least was true.
Mr Febula gave him a sympathetic smile. ‘Okay. I’ll have to nip into the house and reckon them up first. But I want you straight back mind.’
Kye nodded.
The miller hobbled past him and began awkwardly down the steps. He stopped just before his head disappeared below the floor, appraising Kye with bare faced pity. ‘I hope he leaves some for you. You’re a good lad and you work hard for what I give yer.’
Kye followed him out of the mill and saw how much he was suffering. He was walking with a pronounced limp, leaning heavily to one side and bracing his back with his hand. They crossed the bridge over the stream and the miller disappeared into his little house. He reappeared a short time after and tossed him a pouch of money. ‘As quick as you can now,’ he said with a wink and a wry smile. ‘And I want that purse back.’
Kye thanked him and set off at a run. But as he passed out of sight he slowed to a walk, tossing the little pouch of money from hand to hand and feeling for the first time in his life, the weight of a week’s work.
‘Bastard Child!’
His plan had been to take the money and leave, and it had worked perfectly, except for the guilt that began to seep into him the moment he set eyes on Mr Febula. The miller had hurt his back and there was a big order to get out. If he left Agelrish now, he would be letting Mr Febula down; right when he needed him the most. But as he looked at the purse in his hand he knew it was too late to go back on his plan. He was already in trouble with Bill over last night, but in taking his wages, he had crossed another line. His stepfather would want to whip the hide off him when he discovered this new transgression.
He walked for a while with his conscience chaffing like wet underclothes. But then he was struck with a flash of inspiration. When Bill drunk heavily he rarely left the house before noon of the next day. That meant he had all morning to help the miller. And if he worked quick enough he wouldn’t need that. At a push he could get that cartload of grain into the loft in less than three hours. He would still be letting the miller down in the end, but at least he could get all the back work done for him. That way there was still a chance he could get his order out. So with his mind made up he started to run again, keen to hide the money in the tree house and get started.
The tree house was much further than the house and he had to run all the way so as not to arouse the miller’s suspicion. When he arrived back the sleek black figure of Sian squeezed out from a hole under the mill and strutted up to meet him. He bent down, catching his breath while he scratched her under the chin. She accepted it with a purr and then stalked off when she caught sight of something moving in the grass. Of all the mill cats he would miss her the most.
With a heavy sigh he went to the grain wagon and drew off the first sack. As he brought it in he shouted up to the miller to let him know he was back.
‘You can start hoisting in a minute,’ Mr Febula replied. ‘I’m just opening the sluice.’
Above him he could hear the water from the millpond rushing down the pentrough and spilling onto the wooden buckets of the waterwheel. There was a groaning of wood as the pit wheel cogs interlocked with the wallower and the main shaft began to rotate. By the time he brought another bag in the stones were chattering and the first traces of
ground grain were beginning to appear; falling through the meal spout and into the bin.
Kye attached the chain on the end of the hoist rope to the first sack and shouted up to the miller to engage the crown wheel that drove the pulley. Then he pulled on the cord that tightened the pulley rope and the sack began its way up through the lay shaft. Over the other sounds in the mill he listened for the sack to clatter up through three trapdoors before disengaging the power. Then he climbed the ladder all the way to the top floor and emptied the sack into the grain bin. And so it went on, sack after sack.
As he worked, Kye considered what type of work he would seek in the next few days. Over the last year he had helped Mr Febula with various repairs around the mill and in the process discovered he was good with his hands. He could hammer and saw and even make simple joints with wood. And he enjoyed it too – a revelation that soon had him scrounging old boards and tools to build his tree houses. If he couldn’t find similar work, he could fall back on being a mill hand. He could do it with his eyes closed now. In his time with Mr Febula he had done everything except adjusting the nip on the stones. And that was only because the miller liked to do that himself. But he had watched the miller do it and fancied he could do just as well if he ever got the chance.
He was still fantasising about his future prospects when Mr Febula called up.
‘Here comes Bill now! Looks like those thugs got a bit impatient with him… He doesn’t look too good.’
Kye almost dropped the sack he was holding. He had only been working a couple of hours and it wasn’t even midmorning. If Bill had come down to the mill this early it wasn’t to talk with Mr Febula about the weather. He lowered the sack, started for the ladder and stopped. If the miller had seen Bill from the window of the first floor, he must have been in the courtyard. There was no way he could get out of the mill before he stepped inside. He was trapped on the top floor with nowhere to hide.
Bill was here because he remembered what happened. There was no other explanation. And he was probably so pissed that he couldn’t wait for him to come home. So pissed that he had come down here to tell him what he had coming when he got home and to make sure he sweated on it all day. It was just Bill’s style. He stared down through the cracks in the floor boards. Would Bill beat him right here in the mill? He thought not – Mr Febula would never allow it. The most he could expect was a little rough handling when they were out of sight. He relaxed a little - he could handle that. And once Bill left he would never see him again…
But then he remembered about his wages and his insides rushed like the flour in the bottom chute. His wages. How could he have forgotten what he had done with his wages? When Bill spoke with the miller he was bound to learn of his little deceit. And there was nothing in the world more important to his stepfather than money.
He heard Bill call up to the miller and for a second he thought his knees were going to buckle. He looked around frantically and spotted a window at the rear of the loft, partially hidden behind a stack of tools. He bolted for it, clearing a path to its dirty panes as quickly and as quietly as he could. He had just gained access to the window when he heard Bill ask about his wages. There was a pause and Kye cringed, imagining the puzzled look on the miller’s face. He twisted the handle and pushed, but the window didn’t budge. He pushed harder and harder until he saw the little block of wood that was causing the problem. It had been nailed to the frame and rotated against the window to keep it from opening. He grasped it with a shaking hand, but this too wouldn’t budge. Time and weather had warped the frame and block and it looked like the two were inseparable. He cursed, looking around for another means of escape just as Mr Febula called up. ‘Kye! Come down here at once.’
‘Be there in a minute,’ he called back, trying to sound like he was hard at work.
‘Not in a minute. Come down here right now!’
He spotted the miller’s mallet leaning against a grain bin. He ran over and grabbed it then raced back and began hitting the window block with it. But it barely turned against the frame.
‘Kye!’ This time it was Bill that called and he sounded furious.
He struck the wooden block again and again, but all he seemed to be doing was bludgeoning the wood. He soon heard heavy boots starting up the ladder and knew Bill was coming to get him. He felt like a mouse cornered by one of the mill cats. He wouldn’t be eaten alive exactly, but it would be the next worse thing.
‘Now Bill!’ shouted Mr Febula. ‘Don’t go beating on the lad. Not in here. I forbid it. Bring him down so that he can explain himself… Bill… Come on, let me speak to him.’ But the miller could forbid what he liked, thought Kye. From the way the ladders were rattling and the speed of the boots upon them, he could tell Bill was in the grip of one of his black rages. And there were no words the miller could string together that could break him out of it.
He turned from the window to see the top of Bill’s head poke into view. There was a ragged bandage wrapped around his forehead and a bloom of blood showing through, just above his right eye. It was a sight that turned his guts to liquid. He struck the block harder and harder, ignoring the ringing shock it was sending through the bones of his forearm. And as Bill stepped onto his floor it spun free. He pushed the window out and peered over its edge. Ten feet below him was the roof of the lean-to that housed the waterwheel. He swung his legs out and twisted around so that his chest rested on the window ledge. Bill rushed him - his eyes like spear tips and his face flushed with effort and rage. Kye had never seen him so mad. In one quick movement he dropped down outside the window so that he was suspended by his hands. But just as he let go, Bill grabbed his wrists.
‘Get back in here now!’ he spluttered, as he hung out over the window ledge. His chest was compressed by their combined weight, but he was still able to communicate an almost murderous fury. His bandage slipped down over his hair and then fell off entirely; twisting away in the air like a bloody ribbon and exposing the jagged three inch wound it had been covering. Bill’s bloodshot eyes were bulging in their sockets and he could see in their shine exactly what he would be in for if he allowed himself to be hauled back in.
He kicked away from the side of the mill and yanked his right arm free, almost dragging his stepfather out with him. Bill now held him with one hand, but his grip failed rapidly and he soon slid through his fingers and dropped onto the lean-to. The rotten weather boards splintered with the impact and the whole of his left leg went through. He pulled free and scrambled to where the roof hung over a ten-foot drop into the foaming water of the tailrace. He hesitated briefly and it was the thought of Bill racing back down through the mill that gave him the courage to jump. He splashed into the cold water and resurfaced with a gasp, just as Lady Febula was coming out of her cottage with a tray of bread and jam. She drew up in surprise and watched as he swam under the foot bridge. He climbed out on the other side just as Bill came running across the courtyard; bloated and snarling like a territorial bear. He sprinted for the trees and was well into their shade before he risked a look back. What he saw slowed him to a walk. Bill was stood by the bridge, puffing and blowing with his hands braced on his knees. A few years ago his stepfather would have caught him. But idle days and drunken nights had softened his once fit body, expanding his waistline and bringing labour to his breath.
‘Bastard child!’ bawled Bill, when he saw him looking. ‘Yer no son of mine… I’ll catch up with you soon… And when I do, I’ll thrash every last copper moon from yer… Every last one…D’you hear me!’
Behind him, Lady Febula looked on in shock, her tray of treats gripped tightly in her hands.
Emilie
Kye laid back in the sun with his eyes closed, happy to let the day unfold around him. The odds of Bill looking for him at the lake were slim, but he still raised his head from time to time to survey the lakeside and listen to the forest. With the prospect of a dry week ahead of him there was no telling what Bill was capable of.
After leaving
the mill he had risked a trip into South Agelrish, slipping in through one of the side alleys and buying a half dozen damsons and a slice of salted beef from the market. It was liberating to have a pocket full of money and to be able to spend it on whatever he wanted. Mr Febula paid him well and he was confident that if he was careful with what was left, he could make it last a full week – easily enough time to find another job. After only a month of working at the mill his wage had risen to four silver and six copper moons – the same money the miller would have paid a fully grown man. It was only fair Mr Febula had told him; because he was the hardest working mill hand he’d ever had. The day he heard that, he felt as if he’d grown a couple of inches. But the feeling hadn’t lasted long. It had been replaced with bitterness when Bill arrived to collect his wages, smiling greedily as the miller counted the increase into his hand.
With the sun on his face he considered his options. He could set out today or wait until morning. He was keen to get away, but the day was getting on and there wasn’t enough left of it to be sure of finding somewhere new to sleep. So he decided to stay another night at the lake and set out at first light - even if it meant suffering another night in the breezy squash of his tree house.
He looked out to the lake where his sister’s absence continued to spin out. He wanted to see her now more than ever – needing to share with her what had happened and to say goodbye. He expected she would be happy to learn he was taking the path she had been signposting for him and hoped it would make her more agreeable to his visits. He was leaving tomorrow, but he wasn’t going so far that he couldn’t sneak back to see her once in a while.
Absence: Whispers and Shadow Page 11