The Collar and the Cavvarach

by Annie Douglass Lima

  “And where are they now?”

  “My mom died right after Ellie was born, sir. They said it was from complications of childbirth.” It still made him sad to think about that. “A friend of my mom’s there at CCC helped me take care of Ellie when she was little, but I mostly raised her myself. A couple years later, the CCC got bought by some company that wanted to build houses on the land, and my dad and all the rest of us were sold different places.”

  He could still remember that last evening before Dad left. Bensin’s work was done for the day, and he was keeping an eye on two-year-old Ellie, who was playing in the dirt and weeds just outside the dormitory while they waited for dinner time. He was helping her stack broken pieces of coconut shell to build a tower when Dad came up and squatted down beside them. He didn’t say anything at first, just watched the two of them. Bensin, who never knew what to say to him, didn’t speak either.

  “Someone’s here to buy me,” Dad told them finally. “I’m leaving in a couple minutes, as soon as they agree on a price.”

  Bensin wasn’t surprised. Half the slaves there had been sold already, and they all knew it was just a matter of time before the rest of them went. The only questions were when and to whom.

  Dad reached a grubby hand out to ruffle Ellie’s blonde hair. “Looks so much like her mom. A little girl her age, they won’t usually sell on her own. Guess you’ll probably get to stay with her at least until she’s a bit older.” He cleared his throat gruffly. “Take good care of your sister.”

  “I will,” Bensin assured him. “I promised Mom.”

  Dad pulled off the cap he was wearing and fitted it on Bensin’s head. Then, without saying anything else, he got up and disappeared around the corner of the building. Bensin never saw him again.

  And he didn’t know why he should care. He had never been close to his dad, and that was one of the longest conversations the two of them had ever had. But every now and then he felt a faint, puzzling sadness as he thought back to that evening. Ellie didn’t remember it, didn’t remember Dad at all. But Bensin wore his cap every day.

  “And that’s when Cley and Hilda Creghorn bought the two of you?” the officer wanted to know.

  “Yes, sir. They bought me because they saw I was strong, and they wanted someone to do outdoor work and win them money in sports.”

  What he didn’t mention was that being strong was no accident. After he made his promise, Bensin realized he couldn’t teach his sister to be strong unless he was, so he started working out. That was his last year in slave school, and his teacher let him borrow a book about fitness. He followed everything it said and exercised every evening after work. He didn’t know any other kid his age who could run as fast as he could, or lift as heavy a load, or shimmy up a palm tree as quickly.

  “Ellie was only two at the time,” he went on, “but they bought her as well, because they were planning to have kids of their own and they wanted a slave girl they could train up to be a nanny and do housework and stuff.”

  “With your parents out of the picture, that explains why you’re so determined to watch out for your sister,” Officer Shigo observed, again seeming to know what Bensin had been thinking.

  “Yes, sir.” Bensin adjusted the cap’s brim and dipped his brush back in the paint. He made sure not to look at the officer. Can he tell I’m still working on a way to free her? But if Officer Shigo knew, he didn’t say anything.

  When they had finished the rest of the fence, they stopped for another break. The officer brought out lemonade again, along with a plate of colorful sugar cookies. “My wife and daughters made these over the weekend.” He set them on the porch table. “Help yourself.”

  Should champion athletes eat cookies? But Bensin couldn’t think of a polite way to refuse. “Thank you, sir.” He chose the smallest one and took a bite. “It’s good.”

  It still felt awkward to be sitting there just a few feet away from a Watch officer, but at least the man didn’t ask any more questions. He joked about the cookies and how Carlia’s frosting job made it difficult to identify their shapes. Bensin even found himself chuckling as they discussed whether a particular cookie looked more like a lopsided rocking chair or a cow with a cavvarach.

  The shed was easier to paint since they didn’t have to do the edges or back sides of any of the boards. Bensin made sure he was always working around a corner from the officer so it would be harder for the man to talk to him. Why doesn’t he just leave me to do the work and go sit inside?

  They were nearly done when the three kids returned from school. Bensin kept working while their father crossed the driveway to welcome them home.

  “Wow, you’ve done a lot,” said a voice. He looked up to see Nate examining the shed walls. “The fence out front looks great, too.”

  “Thanks.” It was always awkward talking to free people his own age. Bensin was never sure whether or not to address them as sir or ma’am. Most kids didn’t expect it, but every now and then someone would make it a big deal and accuse you of being disrespectful if you didn’t.

  “I’m glad you’re here doing the painting. Dad would probably be making me help with it otherwise.” Nate grinned, and Bensin hesitantly smiled back.

  “I’m glad I could do it, too,” he admitted. “I like being able to earn money on my day off.”

  “My dad says you’re good at cavvara shil.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That’s cool. I’ve never learned, but it’s fun to watch. I play soccer. I’ve been on the team at my school the last two years. I bet you have to train pretty hard to be good at cavvara shil.”

  “Yeah, but it’s fun.”

  “Well, so is soccer, but sometimes you just come home and want to do nothing but take a cold shower and lie under the fan for a few hours, you know?”

  Bensin chuckled. “Yeah.” That’s everyday life for most slaves, athletes or not. But we never have time to actually do it.

  “Well, I’d better go start my homework. Maybe I’ll see you here again. Will you be back?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I hope so.” The boy grinned again. “Every time you mow the yard is one more time I won’t have to do it. I mean, you’d be welcome anyway, but you know.”

  Officer Shigo asked the same question a few minutes later. “You’ve braved it twice. Feel like coming back next week? The lawn will need mowing again, and I’ll probably have a few other jobs too.”

  “I guess maybe, sir,” Bensin admitted.

  “Well, check with Mr. Mayvins, and if he says it’s all right, give me a call when you decide.”

  Chapter Eleven: What Poetry Looks Like

  Since Coach Steene had the next day off, he and Bensin drove over to the CSF in the afternoon and practiced in his empty classroom for longer than usual.

  “Your technique is excellent, but you only seem to have any confidence when you’re in your Zone,” Coach told him after a sparring session in which he had successfully pinned Bensin to the floor for the prescribed five seconds. “You panicked and fell out of your Zone there when I started getting the upper hand. You can’t let yourself think Oh no, I’m not doing so well, and lose focus. This is cavvara shil! It’s your specialty! You love it, you’re good at it, and nothing else exists while you’re doing it. Nothing! Not the prize money, not the spectators, and especially not the chance that you’ll lose.” His eyes shone as he got into what he was saying. “Listen. You’ve got to let cavvara shil be the air you’re breathing, the blood in your veins, the strength in your muscles. The cavvarach is your partner, your best friend, one of your own limbs. Treat it that way.”

  Bensin grinned. “You should write poetry, Coach.”

  “I don’t need to write it. I see it when I watch you fight in your Zone. You just need to keep feeling it. Now let’s take a quick break, grab some water and an energy bar, and then try it again.”

  They kept at it all week, Bensin losing himself to the joy of cavvara shil each time he sparred. He won mo
st of the time against his partners in the advanced classes. As often as Coach could step away from his other students, he was right there, encouraging, reminding, giving pointers.

  That weekend’s tournament began in the late afternoon, but just like before, the cavvara shil part came last. They got to Imperial Park a few minutes before it started and checked the master list by the information table. “Looks like there are sixteen contestants in your division,” Coach observed, “so eight matches in the first rung. You’re in the fourth match.”

  Bensin was relieved to see Jayce Torro printed in the seventh slot. His own opponent was someone named Toby, obviously a slave. Bensin hoped that Toby’s owner, whoever he was, wasn’t the type to lash him for losing. Because he’s going to lose. I’m ready this time.

  A thunderous burst of applause announced the end of the kickfighting finals. A free person must have won; slaves never got that much applause. But Bensin didn’t care if anyone clapped for him or not. Coach Steene would be proud if he did well, and that was enough for him. That and the trophy and money, of course. I’ve got to get at least third place. First, second, or third meant prize money. Would his share be enough to pay for Ellie’s collar removal? Probably not, but it would be a start.

  Coach disappeared to talk to some of his other students who were competing that evening, and Bensin stood by the ring to watch the first round. He wanted to know what to expect of the guy who won, just in case he was paired with him later.

  Coach reappeared as the round ended. “Time to warm up. Two more matches and you’re on.” He pulled the jump rope out of his duffel bag.

  Bensin warmed up and stretched as ordered. But the real preparation came after he had taken off his shoes, donned his padding, strapped on the shil, and picked up Coach’s cavvarach. It’s my partner, he reminded himself. It’s my best friend. Glancing around to make sure there was no one close enough to hit, he closed his eyes and swung the weapon, savoring the feel of the foam rubber under his fingers, the weight and balance of the weapon that he could almost imagine was an extension of his arm. With this in my hand, I’m anyone’s equal. He was just as good as anybody in the empire, just as capable, just as worthy of respect. When I’m holding a cavvarach, my collar barely exists.

  “You ready?” Coach Steene’s voice at his elbow might have been coming from a distant province.

  Bensin opened his eyes and grinned. “Oh, I’m ready, Coach.”

  “I don’t have to ask if you’re in your Zone.” His owner laughed. “It’s time. Get in that ring and show them what poetry looks like.”

  His opponent was already in there, Bensin saw, as Coach lifted the edge of the netting for him to step under. The emcee was saying something, but he barely heard it, barely noticed the starting whistle. Cavvara shil is the air I’m breathing, the blood in my veins, the strength in my muscles. He flew across the ring, bare feet scarcely feeling the ground beneath them. Joy and adrenaline flowed through him as he swung the weapon, heard it meet Toby’s with a clang, dodged a kick, aimed one of his own, caught a blow on his shil. He swung his cavvarach again, angling it so the hook at the top edge would connect with the hook on his opponent’s.

  There was the familiar feeling of resistance as he tugged and thrust his foot out in a front kick at the same time. Then the resistance was gone and he staggered backward, off balance. He turned his stagger into a quick retreat, expecting his opponent to take advantage and swoop forward to knock him off his feet.

  But his opponent just stood there, empty-handed, and Bensin was suddenly aware of the whistle’s blast and the voice of the emcee. “We have our winner, ladies and gentlemen, and after just six seconds! This has to be a record!”

  The two boys stared at each other, both equally surprised. Bensin was almost disappointed. It’s over already? I was just starting to get into it! Then he heard applause and cheers, and they weren’t coming from Coach Steene alone. He turned, a little dazed, and nearly dropped his cavvarach as he saw who was standing beside him.

  Officer Shigo? What’s he doing here?

  Somehow he exited the ring, his coach and the officer both laughing and congratulating him. Coach slapped him on the back, beaming. “That was totally awesome!” exclaimed Nate, whom Bensin now saw standing between his dad and his little sisters. There was a woman there with them, and Officer Shigo introduced his wife, but Bensin couldn’t focus on anything.

  “Is it really over?” he finally asked Coach when he found his voice.

  Coach laughed again and helped him pull the padding over his head. “It’s over, and you kicked butt. Keep fighting like that and you’ll get yourself into the Grand Imperial for sure.” He handed him the thermos with the smoothie they had brought. “Here, drink a little to get some energy back. Not too much, though; the rest is for later.”

  They moved away from the ring as the next pair of contestants entered. Then, through the crowd, Bensin glimpsed a face that jolted him back to reality. Jayce was staring at him, and the expression in those dark eyes was anything but congratulatory. Jayce had ended up taking first place in the last tournament, which meant he had five more wins to go for his car. Doubtless he was planning to bring it down to four after this evening.

  “Surprised to see us here?” Officer Shigo inquired as Coach Steene led them all toward a bench off to one side.

  “Yes, sir,” Bensin admitted, handing the thermos back to Coach. Why had the officer come? He wasn’t in uniform, so he couldn’t be on duty. Is he here to keep an eye on me?

  “We figured this would be a fun family outing,” explained his wife with a smile. “And so far it certainly has been.”

  “I thought maybe you could use a few more fans to cheer you on,” the officer added.

  Coach Steene chuckled at Bensin’s expression. “They spotted me with you when we first came in and struck up a conversation while you were watching the first duel. I didn’t want to mention it to you before you fought and break your focus.”

  They watched the rest of the first rung together, Coach Steene and Officer Shigo discussing the combatants’ relative skills and trying to predict the winners of each match. Nate occasionally asked Bensin questions about specific moves or how rules were applied, and Bensin explained them to him. It was weird knowing more about something than a free kid, and even weirder having the free kid interested in what he had to say. The two little girls dragged their mom around the park, bouncing from one ring to the next, trying to persuade her to buy them snacks and souvenirs from all the different stalls.

  Jayce won his duel, too, as everyone had expected. After the first eight were over, there was a brief break while the officials put together the pairings for the next rung. In a tournament of this size, that would be the quarterfinals, the winners going on to compete with each other in the semifinals and then the finals.

  When the list was finally posted, Jayce shouldered his way to the front of the crowd to take a look, Mr. Brinks at his side. Once they had moved out of the way, Bensin was relieved to see that he was not paired with his rival this time either. But if we both keep winning, I’ll have to fight him eventually.

  Jayce and his opponent were on first in this rung, and Bensin was scheduled to fight third. “Don’t watch,” Coach Steene ordered, leading him away from the ring. “Warm up and get in your Zone. Get Jayce out of your head. He’s not your business right now; you and your cavvarach have another victory to prep for.”

  Bensin’s second match lasted much longer than the first. His opponent was quick on his feet and quick with his weapon, but Bensin finally managed to knock his legs out from under him with a low roundhouse kick. The boy twisted and thrashed as Bensin flung himself onto him. They both dropped their cavvarachs in the scuffle — not a disqualifying error when the combat had moved to groundfighting — before Bensin finally succeeded in pinning his opponent’s shoulders down.

  He heard the emcee counting into the microphone, the crowd chanting with him: “One! Two! Three! Four! FIVE!” And then the w
histle shrilled and he rose shakily to his feet, much more worn out than before, but relieved and proud.

  I’ve made it to the semifinals. Now he was guaranteed at least fourth place.

  It felt great to have six people cheering for him as he made his way out of the ring. “You’re doing awesome!” Coach helped him out of the padding and handed him the thermos again. “Don’t drink too much. Here’s an energy bar, but just take a couple of bites for now.”

  “You’re really good,” Nate observed, tagging along with Bensin as he walked back and forth between the rings and the food stalls, trying to keep his muscles loose and ready for the next rung. “Even better than I thought.”

  Bensin grinned, his victories making him more confident than he would otherwise have been in conversation with a free boy. “I love cavvara shil. It’s my favorite thing in the world.”

  “Yeah, I can tell. It’s like it’s what you were born to do. I kind of feel that way with soccer sometimes, but probably not as much as you.”

  When the judges posted the next list, Bensin saw that he would be fighting an Ander Whitson in the third rung. “So if you beat him, you’ll be in the finals,” Nate observed. “You’ll either come first or second.”

  Bensin nodded. “And if I don’t beat him, I’ll be paired up with Jayce or his opponent, whichever of them loses, and we’ll fight for third place.”

  There was a longer break before the semifinals started. All the athletes were getting tired, but Bensin could feel the energy bar and smoothie doing their job. He was glad that tomorrow was Sunday and he would have some free time — he might just take a nap in the park while Ellie played — but for now he still had energy for the next duel.

  “Your Zone,” Coach reminded him, handing him the cavvarach again after Bensin buckled on his shil. Bensin nodded, swinging the weapon, focusing his mind on the pleasure of the sport. My partner. My best friend. My other limb.

  Ander was good, really good. His specialty, apparently, was kicking, and Bensin was barely able to get in any blows of his own before he had to give his full attention to dodging and defense. If it hadn’t been for the padding, he knew he would have been covered with bruises, and as it was, he could tell he was going to be sore tomorrow. But he did manage to get in one hard whack to the knee, and his opponent jumped back with a gasp of pain.