by Robert Evert
“Finish,” Edmund said after a while, “finish your, finish your story. What happened to Excrement? What was worse than being beaten to death?”
Pond Scum pounded the wall. More fragments of stone slid down.
“The guard above shot him in the leg. The other guard was on him before he hit the ground.”
More stones toppled from the wall, bounding down around them.
“They hung him by his wrists and let him dangle above us while we worked. Twelve hours of him bleeding down on us, begging for water, begging to be put to death. It wasn’t pleasant for any of us, most of all him, I’d guess. The next day he was dead. Rats had gnawed off his nose, ears, and eyes.”
Edmund sensed that there was more to the story. He struck the wall again. “And?”
“You sure you want to hear this?”
Edmund nodded, sucking in air. He could smell his own stench. He hadn’t bathed in weeks.
“That next day, we came in and he was hanging there, dead white, the blood completely out of him. Most of his face was gone, like I said. Then the guard comes up and asked us which we’d prefer: working with his stinking, rotting corpse above us until the rats finished it off or . . . eat it ourselves.”
Edmund stopped. He didn’t want to ask, but he found himself doing so anyway. “What, what did, what did you say? What happened?”
Pond Scum hit the wall again. “We ate well for three days.”
Edmund hadn’t eaten for more than thirty hours. His stomach had been grumbling ever since he woke up. By the time they had reached the quarry, hunger pains had been stabbing at his insides. He even had passing thoughts about whether he could find any of Thorax’s ribs back in the pit. Now he didn’t think he could eat one of Molly’s best steaks.
They labored away, their picks hitting the wall with alternating blows, sweat coursing down Edmund’s face and back. When the flakes of stone reached their knees, Crazy Bastard appeared beside them like an insane rabbit, bobbing side to side. He tapped his forehead none too gently and giggled.
“Magic,” he whispered, giggled some more, and placed his filthy finger to his old lips. “Magic.” He hopped off to the ore carts with a shovel full of their stone.
“Is he, is he going to . . . ?” Edmund began when Crazy Bastard was out of earshot.
“Tell the guards?” replied Pond Scum. “He’s always saying things like that. Once Turd told us a story about a man from his village who claimed he could talk to birds. For a long time after that Crazy Bastard ran around trying to fly, chirping away. If the guards ever ask, we’ll just say that we told him a story about a magician.”
“What about Turd?” Edmund asked, huffing. He glanced over his shoulder. The big man was chipping away at the wall in front of him, grimacing with every blow. “Where’s, where’s he from? I can’t seem to . . . to place his accent.”
Pond Scum stopped swinging, allowing Crazy Bastard to get another shovelful of stone. “He’s Hillman. He was going to be chief of his tribe. Then, one day, he was hunting alone in the forests and he fell in a hole the Hiisi use to trap boars, bears, and—”
“Hiisi?” Edmund repeated.
“Yes, you know.” Pond Scum inclined his head toward the guards. “That’s what they call themselves. Don’t ever use the G-word, ever. They hate that. They absolutely detest the name. The last Pit Dweller who used it . . . ” Pond Scum shivered. “Let’s not talk about it. Just try not to refer to them at all. If you say ‘them,’ we all know who you mean.”
“There’s so much to learn.”
“Consider it a challenge, or a game. Just keep your ears open, eyes to the ground, and mouth shut. Always work when you’re supposed to, always rest when you can. You’ll be fine. Or not, one or the other. There’s only so much you can do. Keep a positive mind. Work smart. Don’t get hurt. That’s it, really.”
Crazy Bastard returned for another shovelful of stone. He lifted himself up, placed his rank-smelling mouth next to Edmund’s ear and whispered, “Magic.” He snickered, jumped up and down, and staggered off to bring more rubble to the ore carts.
“What about Vomit?” Edmund swung his pick when Crazy Bastard was out of his way. “Why does he walk like that? What happened to his leg?”
“He tried to escape so they cut him right behind his ankle. Sliced to the bone, cutting all the muscles and such.”
“Why didn’t . . . they . . . why didn’t they just kill him? I mean, isn’t trying to escape the worst possible offense to commit around here?”
“It is. That and insulting one of them. Using the G-word, in particular.” Pond Scum shook the sweat from his dirty face. “The Hiisi would prefer to keep you alive. If you’re alive, you’re working . . . and suffering. If you’re dead, you’re beyond their reach. They don’t like that. So for the first escape attempt they cripple you. The second time . . . ” He swung again. “The second time they make you play the Games.”
“Games? I heard . . . I heard them talking about that, b-b-before . . . when they were questioning me. What are they?”
“The Hiisi like to gamble. They bet on everything. I’m sure they have several wagers on how long you’ll live and how you’ll eventually die, whether one of us kills you and if so, who. And so forth. They’re obsessed with such things.”
Edmund’s pick arced listlessly over his head.
“Anyhow,” Pond Scum went on, “they have this huge arena where various games are played. Slaves are selected or volunteer to join in on the fun, as it were. The Hiisi go wild betting and watching what happens. It’s like a holiday for them.”
“V-v-volunteer? Why, why in heaven would any, anybody volunteer?”
They stepped aside so Crazy Bastard could get to the pile of stones they had mined. Edmund leaned up against the cavern wall for a few seconds, attempting to catch his breath.
“Some volunteer as a way of ending it all,” Pond Scum said. “Others actually believe that they might be able to win.”
“Win? What happens if they win?”
They resumed chipping away at the cavern wall.
“Depends upon the game. Fungus, a Pit Dweller who was around when I first got here, played in the Games and won. He got a side of deer meat and a pelt. I tell you, when I saw them bringing him his reward, I nearly volunteered right then and there.”
“What did he have to do? What . . . what was the game he played?”
“He fought another slave to the death.” Then Pond Scum added, “But don’t worry. The other slave wasn’t from our pit.”
They struck the wall several more times. They had created a large opening several feet wide and a couple of feet deep. Crazy Bastard had filled about a quarter of one cart.
Edmund shook his head, sending droplets of grimy sweat in all directions. He brushed his hair out of his eyes. “I, I still don’t understand people’s motivation. Why would people, why would people participate when the gob . . . ” He stopped himself. “When the . . . they, when they could easily just not uphold the arrangement, you know? It isn’t as if they have any honor.”
“Right, that’s what I thought when I got here.” Pond Scum hit the wall. “But you’ll learn that, as ruthless as they are, they always keep their wagers. As fanatical as they are about betting, they are even more so about paying up.” He swung again. “There’s one sure way for a Hiisi to end up down here as a Pit Dweller and that’s to renege on a bet.”
“There’re gob . . . them . . . in the, in the mines . . . as slaves?”
“A few. But they don’t last long. They either kill themselves, try to escape, or are killed by us. It’s the only time when we can really go after one of them without fear of punishment. That, and when we are pitted against one of them in a game.”
Edmund set his pick down and put his hands on his knees, breathing hard. He was dripping with perspiration. His pungent body odor made his eyes water. “Let, let me, let me ask you.” He took several deep, gulping breaths and lifted his pick again. He heaved it over his head and
let it fall. It struck the wall with the same ringing clank as his previous hundred blows. “Has anybody, has anybody ever . . . ever escaped from here?”
“Oh sure.”
Edmund looked at Pond Scum, surprised.
“People escape all the time. At least, they run away all the time. I mean, look at it this way. There are five of us and two guards. Now they are more than a match for us if we try to fight. Even if Turd weren’t hurt, even if he had a weapon, they’d cut us down like dead trees. But if we all ran at the same time in different directions, they’d only get three, maybe four of us, depending on which of them had the bow.”
Four out of five. There has to be a way of improving those odds.
Don’t even think about it. Keep swinging. Keep your head down. Stop thinking. Just concentrate on breathing.
“But of course,” Pond Scum went on, “getting away is one thing. Living to tell somebody is another animal altogether. Most people would die in a couple days, lost in the mines without food and all. The rats would eventually get them. Big mean things. You have to grab them behind their ears so they can’t bite you. Then snap their heads to one side real quick like. But be careful. Once they bite, they don’t let go.”
Edmund tried to push the image of Pond Scum snapping the neck of a rat out of his head. “Has anybody escaped completely? Gotten, gotten out of here and . . . and gone home?”
Pond Scum struck the wall.
“That’s hard to say now, isn’t it? I mean, it isn’t like they’re going to send us a letter telling us that they got to such and such a place. But the guards often tell us that so and so got out and is now at home, drinking and having sex with every woman he can find, and so on.”
Home . . .
“That’s another thing about them,” Pond went on, swinging his pick. “They like playing with your head. Their most effective torture doesn’t involve any pain at all, physical pain that is. Keep that in mind.”
Gasping for air, Edmund put the pick on his shoulder and glanced again at the water barrel across the cavern. Turd glared at him, bore his teeth, and continued pounding his wall. He and Vomit already formed the beginnings of a crude tunnel.
This is insane. Nobody could keep this up for twelve hours. Nobody.
Just don’t think about it. Hit the rocks some more. Just raise the pick up and let it fall, like you have been doing.
Honestly, I can’t keep doing this. I can’t.
Say something. Keep the conversation going. It helps.
Edmund forced his wobbling arms over his head. The pick bounced pathetically off the grey stone.
“Were you . . . were you kidding about, about eating, eating that . . . that pit mate of yours?”
Pond Scum’s pick came down again with a resolute clink.
“Maybe we should talk about something else,” he said. “Let me tell you about Crazy Bastard. He’s an interesting one. Then maybe you could tell me a little about yourself. Again, anything you can say will be interesting to us down here.”
Chapter Fourteen
Edmund collapsed on the ground in his assigned area. The dirt stuck to his sweat-covered body like flour on a fish ready to be fried. His back ached. His legs were quivering. He could barely move his arms. Actually, they were the only part of him that didn’t hurt. They had stopped hurting several hours before. Now they were numb. They dangled from his side as if they weren’t attached to his body. When Vomit had given him his portion of the food, a thin slice of unidentifiable meat and a chunk of stale bread the size of his fist, Edmund couldn’t lift it to put it in his mouth. He had to have Pond Scum feed him like he was an invalid. Unfortunately, he knew that he would feel much worse in the morning. He didn’t even want to think about trying to get through another twelve-hour day of pounding solid stone.
I can’t do this. I simply can’t do this. It’s impossible!
They did it.
Edmund twisted his head so that he could see his pit mates. They were all exhausted. Even Turd, who did more work than anybody and received more food as a result, oozed sweat. His sunken eyes stared vacuously at the ground, a hint of desperation growing in them. He rubbed his right shoulder, then his neck, then his hands, wincing in pain each time he moved.
They do it day after day for god only knows how long.
I can’t. I simply can’t. I won’t make it through tomorrow. Cast the healing spell again.
No. It doesn’t help with the exhaustion. You already found that out. Besides, you need to save your strength to cast the other spell once everybody falls asleep.
Sleep. Oh, blessed sleep. I hope I’ll never wake up . . .
“So,” Pond Scum said to Edmund, the joy returning to his voice as soon as the guards withdrew from above their pit. “Not bad for your first day. Not bad. You surprised even me.” He turned to Turd. “And you thought that he would just consume food and water.”
Turd didn’t respond.
“So,” Pond Scum repeated to nobody in particular. “What do you all want to talk about? Any topics of conversation that anybody wants to bring up? Anything at all? Anything?”
No one said a word.
“Filth,” Pond Scum called out through the dimness. It took Edmund a few seconds to realize he was being addressed. “Filth, why don’t you tell us about yourself?”
Edmund let his head fall in Pond Scum’s direction. “How . . . how can you, how can you have the energy to talk?”
“Magic!” Crazy Bastard cried. He then rammed his head into the pit wall. Shaken, the old man collapsed.
“He never shuts up,” Turd said.
“Next he’ll be telling you to ‘be positive,’” Vomit added.
“Well, it’s important, now isn’t it? We can’t stop our bodies from feeling the pain. Right? But we can stop them from getting us in here.” Pond Scum tapped his temple. “The trick is making them think that they have broken us.”
They have.
“Plus, talking helps pass the time. Didn’t the day fly by once we started talking, Filth? Much better than wallowing in pity. So how about if you tell us a story? I’d love to hear something new.”
“There’s nothing that he could say that would be interesting to me,” Turd said, laying his mammoth body gingerly on the ground.
“Let me ask you this,” Norb’s voice said in Edmund’s head. “How exciting would it be to be married to a librarian or a stable hand? What new stories could we tell them each night as they served us our dinner?”
“Ah,” Edmund recalled replying, “but, but, but that’s where you, you are wrong. You see, I have a world of st-st-stories. Stories that are far better than this im-im-imposter can ever tell.”
“I . . . I could probably tell a brief tale,” Edmund said. He tried sitting up, but he couldn’t get the momentum to get himself off the ground. “Maybe something from your culture, Turd?”
Turd scoffed. “What do you know about my people?”
“Not much, admittedly. But I remember a story m-m-my, my grandfather used to tell me. I always enjoyed it. It was from your people, if I recall correctly. It was about a fisherman named Ico.”
At this, the tired eyes of the huge man lifted.
“Have you heard it?” Edmund asked.
“My people tell many stories about Ico,” Turd replied.
“Go ahead and tell it,” Pond Scum said.
“Yes,” Vomit agreed, wearily. “Please. Anything new will be welcome. Tell away.”
“Okay,” Edmund said, pleased to have something to occupy his mind other than his present situation and condition.
Gazing upward, out of the pit and into the blackness above, Edmund imagined that he was on Tower Hill outside of Rood, studying the bright stars. He cleared his throat.
“S-s-so there was this man named Ico and he was a fisherman,” he began. “One day he was fishing alone along a river deep in the mountains. The sun was setting and he wanted to go home. So he pulled in his net and found a s-s-single . . . single speckled fish flo
pping around in it. The fish was small, and wouldn’t make much of meal, but Ico thought that he could use it as bait on one of his fishing hooks the next day. S-s-so he was going to put it in his bag. But as he reached for the fish, it spoke to him.
“She said—the fish, ev-ev-evidently, was a she—she said: ‘Oh, please great fisherman, please don’t kill me. Spare me and I’ll bring you three fishes tomorrow who are far bigger and fatter and more tasty than I.’
“Well, I-I-Ico, having no real need for such a small fish, agreed, and cast her back into the water. Sure enough, the next, the next day, Ico pulled in his nets and there were three monstrous fish bigger than any that he had ever seen. They were giant lake trout that weren’t common way up in the mountains. S-s-so, so Ico, pleased that he and his family were going to eat such a fine meal, was happy, and went home.
“The next week Ico went fishing again, and returned to the very spot where he had caught the three colossal lake trout, because they were so tasty. B-b-but when he pulled in his nets, there were no lake trout, just the little speckled fish that he had caught before.
“‘Oh please, oh wonderful and kind fisherman,’ the fish said to Ico. ‘Please don’t eat me. Spare my life and tomorrow I shall bring you three fish even bigger and tastier than the lake trout I brought you before.’
“W-w-well, well, this pleased Ico, because the lake trout were indeed extremely large and very tasty. He couldn’t imagine anything better. So he released the small speckled fish and went home.
“The next day Ico returned to the exact same spot and set his nets. When he drew them back to the bank, he found three, monstrous coastal catfish that would never be caught in the mountains, being from the shores by the ocean and all. And they were larger than anything he had ever caught. They put up a tremendous fight, and it took him many hours to haul them to land. But he finally got them home, and everybody in his village praised him and called him the b-b-best fisherman of his people.
“The next day, Ico borrowed as many nets as his friends and family would lend him and he went back to the mountain stream. Sure enough, when he hauled them in at the end of the day, the little speckled fish was the only one there.
