by Ben Bova
"Do you know how easy you were to catch?" asked the first boy, slowly releasing the tension on the slingshot. He put the ball into a small sack dangling from his belt and tucked the slingshot itself into a pocket. "I asked you a question," he repeated.
Eric looked up, but did not answer, and noted with satisfaction mat his silence had not been taken as fear, but rather as defiance, which seemed to perturb the boy. He nodded sharply to his two companions and they jerked Eric to his feet.
"Cut him, Reid," said the shorter, heavier of the two as he released Eric's left arm and discreetly stepped a few paces behind his leader. "Show him what we think of peepers."
The boy, Reid, laughed and stepped forward. "How about that, now, pup? Did you get an eyeful, and enjoy it?"
Eric had sneaked out of Woodsgate, bypassing the security shielding that surrounded his home, and had spent the better part of the afternoon outside the grounds. He was forbidden to leave the grounds unaccompanied and Master McLaren would be livid when his absence was noticed—again. But any opportunity to ramble through the Kentucky hills, even for a short while, was worth any reprimand the Master might hand out. He had been hiking what he thought was a little-used side path off the main trail when he'd come upon them. He had heard them first, heard the sounds of a woman's high-pitched laughter in a patch of scrub just off a section of the established trail near the village. Curiosity had drawn him closer and he saw, about a dozen meters distant through a break in the scrub, Reid and his companions—and what they were doing—in a small clearing.
A working whore was with them, one of the women he'd heard about who practiced their trade at the local taverns. She was at least a little intoxicated and seemed to find it difficult to keep from giggling periodically, even as the boys prepared to take their turns with her. She lay naked on a hastily made bed of dry leaves and pine boughs over which she'd spread out her own clothing. Reid unfastened his pants, lowered them to his knees and, not bothering to undress further, climbed on top of the woman, much to her seeming delight.
Eric had watched in fascination and fear of something he knew about, both from his formal teachings and boyhood tale-telling, but had never experienced, never seen before.
"Reid! There!" One of the boys pointed at his hiding place in the bushes and all heads turned toward him. He froze, even as Reid scrambled to his feet and quickly, clumsily, refastened his pants.
"Another!" cried the working whore, her voice showing more amusement than annoyance at the interruption. She rolled unsteadily to her side on the makeshift bed, supporting herself on an elbow, and faced Eric. He stared at her, unable to move. "And a young one, at that!" She laughed again, unbalancing herself as she did, and fell once more to her back.
There was a sharp crackling sound as a lead shot whizzed through the leaves at his right, shaking him from his immobility. Even as he turned, he saw that the three were already moving. Only the fact that they hesitated to grab their few belongings gave him a head start. He turned and ran back down the trail in the direction of Woodsgate, the sounds at his back a mixture of angry cries from the boys at his heels and the even angrier cries of the woman, now suddenly aware that her young customers were leaving without paying…
"Do you know how easy it was to overtake you?" Reid asked again, standing before him now with knife in hand. He handled the knife casually, even showed off with it by flipping it into the air end over end and snatching it firmly by the handle each time. "It was a simple matter. The trail makes a great curve over the last half-klick." He swept his arm to encompass the woods to his right. "We simply cut across, pup; knowing you'd be slowing here at this tree."
Eric looked up at his tormentor. Feel free to hide your fear and anger from your enemy, he recited inwardly, remembering what McLaren had taught him. But tell the truth about your feelings if it may help you defeat him. Above all, let him know the contempt you feel for him.
"Three of you, one of me," he said, using every bit of self-discipline he possessed to make the words sound stronger than he actually felt. "Your years of knowledge and experience in the backwoods, against those of a stranger in these parts." He paused, then raised an eyebrow and tried to make his voice sound as sarcastic as possible before adding, "It must have been very hard for you."
Reid stared in disbelief, as did his companions, at the twelve-year-old who'd just dared to stand up to him. His smile vanished. "You should be taught," he said, no longer flipping the knife, "not to speak with such disrespect to your elders."
"My elders?" Eric replied, hoping the fear he was beginning to feel didn't show in his voice. He forced a smile and looked directly at Reid. "My elders have more than fuzz on their faces."
One of the other boys—Eric didn't dare take his eyes off Reid to see which one—chuckled under his breath, and Reid cut him off with a sudden, icy stare. He turned back to Eric, approaching him with the knife. "Here's something to think about, pup, next time you decide to spy on us."
Eric wanted to tell them who he was, threaten them with the full might behind his family name, but something deep inside him made him want to see this through on his own. Besides, he realized, they'd probably never believe him anyway. Instead, he stood his ground, hands balled into tight fists at his side. Wait, wait for the moment, he thought. Wait until he is vulnerable—or until there is nothing left to lose.
Reid lightly ran the back of the blade against Eric's neck and up under his chin, then inserted it—blade edge facing away from his skin—into the collar of Eric's pullover shirt. He slid the knife downward, at an angle, easily slicing the fabric with the obviously razor-sharp edge. Once he'd reached the bottom of the shirt, he returned the knife briefly to Eric's neck, then cut the shirt from his left shoulder down the length of the sleeve before repeating the procedure with the right sleeve. Eric stood motionless, staring straight into Reid's eyes as his shirt fell away. The other two—Mobo and Paulie—laughed aloud as they watched. "Cut him!" Mobo cried again, then they both laughed even harder, urging Reid on.
The breeze played across Eric's bare back and chest and he started to shiver, both from fear and from the chill wind. Wait… wait.
A sadistic grin beamed from Reid's face as he stuck the knife into the waist of Eric's pants. He sawed at the waistband and thin belt until they finally severed, chuckling as Eric's shirt—which had been tucked into his pants—fell to the ground. Then he quickly ran the knife down the length of the right pants leg. He needed to cut only a few centimeters down the remaining leg before the pants fell away.
Reid laughed aloud and turned to receive the approving laughter of his companions.
In the brief moment his attention was drawn away Eric slapped as hard as he could at Reid's outstretched hand, sending the knife flying into the scrub. The surprised boy turned back just in time to catch nearly the full force of Eric's right elbow as he brought it up forcefully under his chin, causing him to stumble backward, momentarily dazed.
"Come on, bastards!" Eric crouched in a defensive stance when the other two pressed forward—none too surely, having seen what he had just done to Reid—and snapped sharply to each in turn, hands held in fighting position before him whenever either got too close. He knew he couldn't outrun them, especially with the remnants of his pants still dangling from one leg, so he continued to stand his ground hoping to bluff them or, at the least, stall for time until he could think of something else.
Reid staggered to his feet, rubbing tenderly at his jaw, and laughed softly. Eric noticed, however, that he stayed just outside arms' reach even as he seemed to grasp control of his situation.
"Look at this!" he shouted to his friends, pointing. "I do think we've been attacked by a naked man-child." Reid turned and roared in amusement, with the other two quickly joining in the derisive laughter.
Eric let his guard down slightly, taken aback by what Reid was saying. He looked down at himself, naked but for his boots, underwear and the remains of the unsevered portion of his pants hanging in tatters from
his left leg, and admitted inwardly just how ridiculous he must have appeared. The reflection took only a moment, but it was enough time for Reid to swing around with his leg, kicking him squarely in the ribs.
His chest felt like it was exploding as he twisted around with the force of the blow and crumpled facedown on the path. Reid was immediately on top of him, forcing the breath out of his lungs. The older boy grabbed his wrists and held them flat against the ground, while at the same time forcing a knee into his back, pinning him helplessly. His ribs ached and Reid's knee in his back hurt like hell, but the pain couldn't match the shame he felt at ignoring his training and letting himself be taken by surprise in this manner. He was glad McLaren was not here now—much less his father—to see how he had failed one of the most basic lessons of self-defense.
"What say you now, pup?" Reid spat, thoroughly enjoying the humiliation he was inflicting. He pulled Eric's wrists backward, pinning them behind his back. Each time he spoke, he twisted his aims higher and higher behind him until Eric thought they might snap. The weight of the knee in his back was so great that Eric could barely draw a breath and he felt himself dizzying; if he couldn't get up soon, he'd surely pass out. "Perhaps this will teach you something more important than respect." He stood up abruptly, and Eric felt a moment's relief spread through his aching limbs.
Reid took the whip from his belt, then played it out and snapped it loudly over his head. "Perhaps this will teach you the meaning of territory." He nodded sharply at his companions, then flicked the whip back and forth as they tied Eric's wrists around the nearest tree.
Eric hung helplessly from the tree, the bark rough against his bare chest, and waited for the whip to strike. He heard them laughing behind him, enjoying every minute of the torment, and tried, unsuccessfully, to look over his shoulder to where Reid stood. There was another sharp crack! of the whip and Eric jumped, certain that the next time the whip lashed out would be against his bare back. Crack! Again Reid chose not to strike him, and Eric realized what he was doing: More than causing direct pain with the whip itself, Reid wanted to frighten him, terrify him so deeply that he would beg to prevent the inevitable beating. But that was the key, Eric knew. The beating was inevitable, but there was no need to give Reid the satisfaction of knowing he was beaten. Hide your fear, hide your anger; but show your contempt.
The whip lashed out again, this time actually striking the tree just above his head. Shreds of bark scattered about his hair and shoulders. Eric's eyes closed tightly in fear, but he forced himself to laugh.
Reid stopped, silencing his friends with a wave of his arm, and let the whip hang limply at his side. "What's so funny?" he demanded.
Eric said nothing.
Reid stomped to Eric's side and grabbed a handful of hair, snapping his head back. "I asked you what you were laughing at." He pulled harder, forcing Eric's head to turn in his direction. "Answer me!"
"I was just wondering," Eric replied smoothly, "if you always miss your target."
Incensed, Reid stepped quickly back and let fly with the whip, striking him across his left shoulder. Eric cried out, and tears rolled uncontrollably down his cheeks as the whip struck him a second time, then a third.
For the briefest of moments, Eric thought that the fourth strike was the whip, but as a veritable shower of wood and bark chips fell over him he realized that a part of the tree itself had exploded above him. He opened his eyes and heard yet another blast in his ears, and recognized the sound of an Earther hunting weapon; a shotgun.
"Reid! I'll blow your gods-damned head from your shoulders if you move a muscle!"
The sounds behind him were confusing, and at the same time reassuring: scuffling sounds and fast talking as Reid and the others attempted to deal with whoever it was that had appeared so suddenly; the snort and hooves of a horse, a big one; the ka-chuck-ka-chuck, clack, of two more shells being loaded into the chamber of a shotgun.
"Hello!" Eric shouted. "Who's there?" There was no answer.
"Is this the way you have been spending your time, Reid, accosting traveling children?" The horse stomped again and Eric heard the sound of the beast's labored breathing—whoever the newcomer was had come in a hurry. Apparently his pursuers had had a pursuer of their own. There was a pause, and then another heavy sound as the horse leaped the fallen oak, then trotted to where he hung at the tree.
The rider was middle-aged, by Earth standards, and wore clothing that befitted a noble family. He was handsome of face, but wore a troubled expression as their eyes met.
He shook his head as he looked down from his mount. "A mere boy," he said over his shoulder. "And for this you needed help from Fat Mobo and Paulie the Snake?" He reached for the machete at his waist and cut Eric's bonds with a single chop. Eric fell back from the tree immediately, but caught himself before collapsing on the ground. He rubbed his wrists, but pointedly ignored the excruciating pain from the blows he'd just taken from Reid's whip. The stranger looked down at him once more and, apparently assured that he was all right, pulled the reins on his mount and returned his attention to the others.
"I am ashamed," he said simply. The horse snorted again, punctuating his remark as he pulled on the reins and guided the animal closer to Reid and his friends. Eric smiled in satisfaction at the way the two accomplices shied back from the big horse, but noted that Reid stood his ground, unshaken by the horseman's strong words. "Mobo, Paulie—leave. I wish to speak to the brave and manly Reid alone." The two immediately scrambled wordlessly over the oak and rushed back up the trail in the same direction from where the horse had appeared. Reid didn't bother to bid diem good-bye, but remained where he stood, glaring at the horseman.
"You should mind your own business, Brendan," he said once his friends had disappeared into the backwoods.
The horse turned slightly as the man slid the shotgun into a saddle holster and smoothly dismounted, landing at Reid's feet. He removed his riding gloves and tucked them into a loop on the saddle, then, in one fluid motion, turned and backhanded Reid, knocking him backward into the trunk of the fallen oak. "You are my business," he said.
Reid wiped a bleeding lip with his sleeve and leaped forward, and found himself staring at the knife that had appeared suddenly in Brendan's hand.
"I've taught you nothing," Brendan spat, shaking his head in disgust. Reid stood back and straightened, and it was obvious even from Eric's vantage point that the newcomer's words had hit home, as Reid's anger seemed to drain from him.
"You've taught me much," Reid replied, his voice at once defiant, but more respectful in tone than it had been moments earlier. "But I sometimes fail to see the value in what you've taught."
Brendan nodded. "That much is obvious. But had I been a stranger out to do you harm, and you had attacked—as you did now—out of anger and unarmed, you might now be watching your blood spill onto the ground, and not merely trickling from a cut lip. Would you have seen a value in my lessons then?"
The boy crossed his arms in silence and stared off into the woods.
"And since when have you taken a liking to the torment of those weaker than you?" Brendan pointed to where Eric stood, almost naked, still rubbing sore wrists.
"But we caught him spying on us!"
"Yes, I know," Brendan replied. "I encountered your working whore a kilometer up-trail. It was she who told me what happened and the direction you ran. I came up behind you some minutes ago and followed you here." Eric saw the man smile for the first time since he'd appeared. "If you think I am angry and disappointed, wait until you talk with the whore—"
"I'll probably never see the drunken bitch again," Reid interrupted. "She wasn't that good."
"Perhaps not. But you'll go into town and pay her tavern keeper nonetheless."
Reid started to protest Brendan's decision, but thought better of it, adding in a low voice, "You'll not always be able to tell me what to do, you know."
Brendan casually replaced the knife in the sheath on his belt. If he was offend
ed or concerned by what Reid had said, he didn't show it.
"That's true enough. When you reach eighteen, my obligations to your mother will end and you'll be free to turn your back on House Valtane, although to do so would show even poorer judgment than I've seen you display this day alone." Again, he looked meaningfully at Eric.
The exertion of the chase and the terror of his treatment at Reid's hands now behind him, Eric felt the cold of the backwoods seeping into his skin. The welts on his back hurt, and he tried to concentrate on the pain as a means of taking his mind on the growing chill. He crossed his arms, covering himself as best he could, and started shivering more intensely than before.
Brendan turned suddenly back to Reid, the look of anger he'd shown earlier once more flashing in his eyes. "Remove your shirt and vest."
Reid's mouth moved wordlessly several times before he finally managed to sputter a single "What?"
"Your shirt and vest; take them off. Now!"
He hesitated a moment, but realizing that Brendan was indeed serious, he complied. He removed the vest first, then the shirt, and tossed both into a heap on the ground between them. "Anything else, Master Brendan?" he demanded sarcastically.
Brendan ignored the insult. "For now, no. Get you back to House, where I'll expect you in the exercise room at exactly six o'clock. It seems you need a refresher in hand-to-hand, not to mention manners. Perhaps we can address both at the same time."
Reid stood a moment, unmoving, and stared in unabashed contempt for his teacher. Then, without further discourse, he turned sharply and hopped atop the log. He glanced back once at Eric with a look that said he held him personally responsible for the humiliation he'd just received, then hopped down the other side before disappearing into the backwoods at an unhurried jog.
Apparently satisfied that his young charge was on his way home, Brendan pulled a small nylon container from his saddlebag. The roughly rectangular container sported several pockets and compartments, one of which produced a plastic pouch of antiseptic pads. Brendan tore open one of the pads and daubed it with a gentle and skillful hand on Eric's back. As cold as Eric was beginning to feel, the pad felt even colder where it touched his skin; but there was no stinging and the pain in the welts started to fade almost immediately.