by Joseph Lallo
Every few minutes he would creep just a bit closer to the blindfolded man, the one who didn't chase him. In a world where everyone else actively despised him, having someone who ignored him was almost like having a friend. He was huddled in the shadow of the man's bench, nearly close enough to touch him, when the old man released an irritated sigh and placed his bowl on the ground. The creature sniffed the air and stretched to get a peek at the contents. It looked like the mushy stuff they'd given him in the carriage, but a bit wetter, and with a meaty smell to it. Casting a wary look up at Ben, he reached his hand out into the flickering firelight. When his fingers fumbled at the edge of the bowl, the blind man's hand darted down and closed around his wrist. It was a dizzying motion, fast as a serpent's strike.
“Got you, you little devil,” Ben remarked triumphantly, raising the struggling creature up and holding it aside with a bit of difficulty.
“Ugh,” said Gurruk in disgust. “I don't think I'll ever get used to seeing that thing. Here, look at that in its chest. Master Jarrad got a defective one.”
“What is it?” Ben asked.
“Some sort of black patch on its chest. A squiggle with a blotch over it, right over its heart,” the dwarf remarked. “I didn't know monsters could have blemishes.”
“I'm sure we will have plenty of time to ponder it later, when I'm not hungry and weary,” Ben said. “Come on. Back to the pen with you. Maybe you'll spend the whole night there for once.”
The malthrope tugged and pulled, trying to twist free or pry open his captor's fingers, but the grip was like a vise. He squeaked and yelped his beastly little protests, and when it became clear he wasn't going to get free, he huffed out a breath in frustration and defeat. What he did not do was scratch or bite. The one time he'd used his teeth, it had been on one of the servants. The beating he'd earned for it had left bruises that would linger for weeks. It wasn't a lesson he was eager to learn a second time. Instead, once Ben had leaned down to fetch his walking stick, the malthrope dangled his feet until he could just about reach the ground, and tried to walk along beside the human. Before long, fatigue forced the human to relax his arm enough for the beast to walk more easily.
Ben counted out the final three paces from the fire to the path and smiled as he felt the coarser gravel crunch beneath his feet. While the others had spent the week working, he'd spent the week helping them to learn their tasks, and having them lead him from place to place. After a few days of pacing the grounds, tapping the path ahead with the end of a stout length of pole, he'd managed to pull together the beginnings of a map in his mind. It would be a while before he knew the plantation inside and out, but for now he could get where he needed to go, and the walking stick kept him from stumbling over any new obstacles. Two hundred-fifteen paces to the next turn in the path, then eighty more to the turn for the little monster's pen.
The pen was small, a bit less than waist-height and perhaps three feet on a side. The walls were slats of wood nailed to stout wooden posts, scraps from one of the many lingering construction projects that were scattered throughout the plantation. Ben set aside the stick and felt along the top of the roof of the pen until he found the hatch. A grin came to his face when he realized it wouldn't open.
“The thing is still barred,” he muttered, impressed in spite of himself. “Clever little thing, aren't you? What did you do? Bar it again when you got out? Or did you find another way?”
He slid aside the brace for the hatch and opened it, tossing the malthrope into the pen and announcing, “In you go! And this time you better stay in.”
Once the hatch was secured again, he paced around the edge of the enclosure, feeling at the dirt until he came to a shallow little hollow beneath the slats of one wall. It was just barely large enough for the malthrope to slip through.
“Ah-ha! Found it,” Ben said. He kicked some loose dirt into the hole and stamped it down good. “You're going to have to do better than that. Tomorrow we'll drive some stakes down along the edge of the wall. I can't wait to find out how you'll get past that one.”
The little creature twisted his head and pressed an eye as best he could against one of the wider gaps in the wall, watching the blind man go. Once even his sharp night vision couldn’t make out Ben’s form, he sniffed around the inside of the pen. A moment’s search turned up a reasonably soft patch of dirt, and he began digging again.
#
The following morning, the slaves were lined up and assembled before their master. Joining him was an official of the local lord, on hand to record the number and worth of the slaves so that his annual tribute could be duly adjusted.
Jarrad marched out and peered across the land spread out around them. The speech he’d delivered upon their arrival had done its job, because the slaves had certainly done theirs. Where just days ago had been two roughly roped-off stretches of untamed land, now there were two fields of supple, plowed earth ready to accept seed. The rest of the slave quarters had been completed, and the framework of what would eventually be a sturdier fence had been laid. Another week like the last one and the land would be ready to begin earning back the fortune Jarrad had paid for it. He nodded and turned to his workers.
“You did well, men. And when you do well by me, I make it a point to do well by you. And so I shall, with two exceptions. Nac, step forward.”
All eyes turned to the youngest of their group. He took two unsteady steps forward. A vicious red welt ran across the back of his neck, and another graced his cheek. From the way he moved, there were plenty more hidden beneath his tunic. He tried to muster a defiant look, but much of the fire was gone from his eyes.
“You could have worked harder, but you are young and that can be forgiven. What is not so easily set aside is your talk of escape. You'll have two stripes, and until I'm satisfied that you've learned the error of your ways, I've instructed my men that you are to be treated as though you have three. Go to the tool shed. The brand is waiting for you,” he decreed.
Nac silently obeyed, the servants and slaves alike watching as he walked.
“As for the rest of you, the new slaves have demonstrated that they deserve a single stripe each, and I've seen nothing to suggest that I should add a stripe to any of the veteran workers. In a moment, those earning their first stripe will follow young Nac to the tool shed. Before you go, I want you to know what that stripe gets you. Each of you will have your own hut. The land behind your hut is yours to work for your own purposes. Food, recreation, whatever you like. You will be given three meals a day, one with meat. Plenty of you couldn't hope for half as good back where you came from.
“Now—to the shed, and after that you've got the day to rest. Tomorrow the planting begins. Dismissed,” he decreed. As the slaves shuffled back toward their quarters, Jarrad added, “Ben, you stay behind.”
The blind man remained as the others departed.
“To my great surprise, you've given me reason to believe that you will be as useful as your previous owners suggested. You've got a good head on your shoulders,” Jarrad said.
“Thank you, master.”
“And then there is the matter of the malthrope . . .
Ben slouched slightly and cleared his throat. “Yes, it has proven to be somewhat more difficult to handle than I had anticipated.”
“That's putting it lightly. Unless I'm wrong, the beast has spent more time outside of its pen than in.”
“That is likely, master.”
“I made the thing your responsibility.”
“And I take the responsibility very seriously. I do believe the creature has not done any damage.”
“No, but it is a distraction and a disruption, and I won't put up with it for very much longer. Handle it, blind man.”
“Yes, master.”
The master and his servants paced back to the residence. Those slaves who did not require a fresh brand retired quickly to their quarters, and those earning their first stripe reluctantly made their way to the tool shed. It left Be
n alone at the edge of the fields. After a few moments, he was just barely able to hear the quiet crunch of tiny feet. Ben didn't need eyes to know that it was the malthrope taking the lack of witnesses as an opportunity to slip from his hiding spot and take a few steps closer to his “friend.”
The old man sighed heavily. “You aren't going to make this easy, are you?”
#
The next few weeks were extraordinarily taxing, but in different ways for different people. Most of the slaves faced long hours of hard labor, starting before the sun had finished peeking over the horizon and ending sometimes long after it had dropped below it.
One field was planted with precious rakka seeds. As was the case with every other aspect of the delicate crop, planting had to be done with great care to have even a chance at a healthy crop. A measuring stick was supplied to each slave to push into the soil to a precise depth. A seed was then dropped in, covered, and the soil was moistened until it was just the right texture. Experienced slaves took the lead, demonstrating the proper methods.
The first three weeks were so crucial that three slaves were designated “blackfeet.” They would march the fields during the height of the broiling Tresson midday, their feet bare and watering can in hand. If the earth began to feel a bit too dry, it was watered to perfection. Those newcomers who learned quickly were trusted to remain on the rakka field, while even a single mistake banished them to the second field, now being planted with lentils. As a crop, they were far less fussy, but no less important, because the harvest from that field would provide the bulk of their meals for the year to follow. The third field, formerly Jarrad's only piece of land, was left to lie fallow.
During the day, Ben spent most of his time as a “blackfeet,” a job to which he was uniquely well suited. When the hottest hours had passed, though, the time inevitably came to deal with his far more challenging assignment: catching and controlling the little malthrope. Realistically, he shouldn't have even had a chance to catch the little thing, but for some reason the malthrope didn't have the good sense to stay away. All Ben ever had to do was hold still or pretend to be distracted while no one else was around and the beast would come out from whatever dark corner he had found and gradually work his way toward Ben.
At first, the rascal would come near enough to practically touch his playmate, but after getting snagged once too often, bait was necessary to entice the thing near enough to be caught. Fortunately, he didn't seem to be very picky. Food was the obvious one, and it continued to work at least once a day. Failing that, a bit of rope with a knot in it, a strangely-shaped stone, or virtually anything else Ben held briefly in his hand was enough to get the creature to tiptoe into range and investigate. Once the blind man felt the pest was near enough, he would reach down, grab a handful of pelt, and hoist the malthrope from the ground. By the third time he had been caught, the creature didn't even struggle. This had simply become the new game, and getting caught was just the end of the first round.
The second round began once Ben deposited the beast into the latest attempt at captivity. For the first few days, Ben continued to try to make the pen a suitable prison. Stakes were driven into the ground surrounding it. Boards were added to the floor, more nails, more slats, a better latch. After each improvement was made and each flaw corrected, Ben would proclaim “In you go!” with escalating frustration and slam the hatch.
Seldom would more than a few hours pass before his shadow was back behind him.
When it became clear that the pen was a losing endeavor, Ben sought out alternatives. One of the only doors with a legitimate lock on it was the grain storehouse, so he managed to get permission to lock the pest inside, if only to see if he would be able to get out. It was an educational experience to say the least. At first, it seemed that they had struck upon a solution, since the malthrope didn’t seem to show up in any of his usual haunts for nearly a day. Noon the next day, though, the blind man heard the familiar echo of footsteps along with his own.
Though the old man would have to take their word for it, the other slaves claimed that the little creature was practically waddling, stomach bloated and face the very picture of contentment. Ben rushed to the grain house to find the door still locked. When he managed to have it unlocked, he did his best to inventory the sacks of grain, but none seemed to have been emptied, or even opened. He shrugged his shoulders, crossed the storehouse off the list of potential enclosures, and received a vicious dressing down from Jarrad for the fiasco. It wasn’t until days later that he finally learned where the beast had gotten his meal.
Ever since the incident, Ben had been losing track of the little devil for about an hour each day, and he had a strong suspicion that the creature had been sneaking back to the storehouse. Sure enough, on one such occasion, the blind man made his way back to the sturdy, locked door of the communal pantry and pressed his ear against it. Inside he heard the scrabbling of claws and the squeaking of a mouse. The squeaking came to a swift and sudden end, and a moment later something dropped down from an upper window, then down to the ground, licking its chops all the while.
“Well . . . if nothing else, you’ll keep the mouse problem under control,” Ben grumbled. “Come on. Let’s see where you’ll be escaping from next.”
He paced back to the fields, his shadow faithfully in tow.
Chapter 6
“You, blind man!” came Jarrad’s bellowing voice from across the fields.
Ben had been busy marching in measured steps along the fence line, part of a daily regimen to complete his mental map of the plantation grounds. When he heard the call, he turned to its source, mostly because he’d long ago learned that people still expected him to look at them when he spoke, even if it didn’t do him a lick of good.
“Yes, master! How may I help you today?”
“In the workshop—now!” Jarrad replied. He didn't sound angry—or, at least, no more angry than he usually did. He rarely addressed his workers individually, and when he did, it was with the same force and manner that he used when addressing the group as a whole. All in all, it painted a picture of a man who exclusively spoke at the top of his lungs.
“Yes, master!” Ben quickly replied, pivoting his feet and beginning to trace a path to Jarrad's workshop.
In short order, he reached the door and was ushered inside.
“What is it that you require?” Ben asked.
“There’s a chair in front of you. Sit down,” Jarrad said.
He extended his waking stick until it clicked against one of the legs, then stepped forward and sat.
“Planting season’s over,” Jarrad said.
“It is.”
“Nine in ten of the rakka seeds sprouted. Best year so far. You did a good job teaching the new slaves, and you taught my men a thing or two.”
“I’m happy to have succeeded in my tasks.”
“Mmm. Most of your tasks.”
“Yes, master,” Ben said with a sag of his head, “most.”
“Mmm,” Jarrad repeated, “and the most sensitive part of the year is behind us now. The other slaves know their roles, there’s no more need for blackfeet. Your good service of the past isn’t enough. This is not a charity. I can’t afford to be putting food in the mouths of workers with no work to do. Not this season. So there are two things to be done. You need to get that rat that follows you around sorted out, and you need to find some way to make yourself useful until the rakka starts to bear fruit, or I am going to have to start cutting your share of meals down.”
His words were not delivered with anger or reprimand. They were frank, steady, and matter-of-fact. He was simply explaining the reality of things, with the confidence of a man who knew that for this patch of land, reality was his to sculpt.
“That is understandable.”
“So, have you got any other skills that might be helpful?”
“I am something of a repository of skills, master. What needs to be done?”
Jarrad took a seat and drummed his
fingers on the table, eyes wandering in thought for a few moments. “Many of the tools are in a state of disrepair. For the last few seasons, I have been paying a tinkerer to visit from time to time to mend them. You indicated in the past that you could do this job. Are you confident you still can?”
“Quite confident, if a few requirements are met. Will I be doing my work here?”
“No. There is a small shack at the far end of the fallow field. That should be sufficient.”
“Very well. I presume that I will be the only one using the shack.”
“My men use the equipment there from time to time.”
“That will have to stop, I'm afraid.”
Jarrad shot Ben a hard look. Realizing that the withering gaze would do little to intimidate a man who couldn't see it, he growled. “You do not give me orders.”
“I would not presume, master. But if I am to use the tools, I must be the only one. I cannot simply look for the appropriate tool. It must be precisely where I expect it to be or it will take me hours to find it.”
“I will instruct my men to put things back where they found them.”
“That won't do. You see this?” Ben asked, extending his hand. Across one palm was a vicious scar. “When last I shared a workshop, the man I worked with put a saw back where he found it. The blade was facing the wrong way.”
Jarrad looked at the ancient wound thoughtfully, then reclined in his chair and quietly considered the situation. At the creak of his master's chair, Ben closed his hand around the walking stick and waited patiently. In his experience, slave masters did not typically respond well to logic when it conflicted with their whims, but he was well beyond the age of worrying about such things. They would do what they pleased regardless.