The Collar and the Cavvarach

by Annie Douglass Lima

  But that didn’t count. Bensin liked cavvara shil.

  “No, I’m not sorry I bought you at all,” he said, wincing when the truck’s gears ground as it gained speed. That had been happening for a couple of weeks now, but if he wasn’t mistaken, it was getting worse. He was going to have to take the truck into the shop soon.

  “My point is, if you can save up enough to buy your freedom, I don’t have any right not to let you. Unfortunately, I can’t afford it right now. You know how tight my finances are, and the prize money you’ve been bringing in — and even the money from your yardwork — sure helps. But I’m moving closer to getting properly back on my feet, and I’m sure by the time you can afford to pay for yourself, I’ll have a buffer in my savings again. Hopefully some money in my retirement account, too. So, yeah. I’ll let you buy your freedom.”

  If you can ever save up enough. It would take years at the very least, maybe decades. Steene shoved back a new surge of guilt at that thought. At least by then he’ll be old enough to take care of himself without an adult in his life.

  “Okay,” Bensin said again. But he didn’t sound excited or relieved, or even particularly grateful. Mostly he sounded preoccupied, as though his mind were somewhere else entirely.

  But he did mention freedom. Isn’t that what he meant?

  Steene slowed down for a red light, and the gears ground painfully once again. The truck gave a little jerk before it came to a stop. “Stupid transmission,” he muttered. “If you’re going to go out, at least wait another day until I have prize money to get you fixed with.”

  When they started up again, the truck lurched its way from first gear to second and then lurched more violently from second to third. “Hang in there a little longer,” Steene pleaded, patting the dashboard. “You can make it.” He angled up the ramp and onto the freeway that would take them home. “Just one more day. Don’t die on me yet.”

  The pickup positively leaped into fourth gear as it gained speed. “That doesn’t feel right,” Bensin observed, coming out of his reverie.

  “It’s not right. The truck is old and it probably needs a new transmission, but I can’t afford one right now. I’d have to empty my bank account again, and there wouldn’t be enough left for next month’s rent. If you win tomorrow, though, it’ll solve that.”

  “No pressure, huh, Coach?”

  Steene chuckled. “No pressure.”

  The truck did all right on the freeway, where traffic was flowing freely and there was no need to slow down. But as they got closer to home and pulled off onto a regular street, it started doing its jerk-and-jump again. And the problem seemed to be getting worse with every shift of the gears.

  “You think we’re gonna make it home, Coach?”

  “I don’t know. It’s just gotta survive for three more miles.” And then Steene would have to drive to work, of course. And what about tomorrow? If it was having this much trouble now, could he trust the vehicle to bring them all the way back to Red Arena? If it broke down on the way and he couldn’t get Bensin there in time for the semifinals, it would be considered a forfeit.

  Making up his mind, Steene turned off onto a side street. “Never mind. I’m taking it to the mechanic right now. It’s not worth the risk.”

  For some reason, Bensin suddenly looked worried. “Um, what mechanic are we going to, Coach?”

  Steene didn’t actually know any reputable mechanics in this neighborhood, so he would have to take a chance. But he remembered seeing a sign for one around here not long ago. Might as well try it. “I don’t know, but I think there’s one down this street.” There it was, on the left: Quality Car Repair. If he wasn’t mistaken, Bensin looked relieved as they pulled into the parking lot.

  A collared worker in dark blue coveralls hurried over as they got out. “Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?”

  “Yeah, my truck’s been having problems; it jerks and grinds when it shifts gears. I think it’s the transmission. Could you take a look?”

  “I sure could, sir. Why don’t the two of you wait in the office there where it’s cooler? I’ll check it out and talk to the boss, and then one of us will come let you know.”

  Steene handed him the key, and he and Bensin went into the office, where the receptionist at the front desk urged them to make themselves comfortable in the waiting area. They joined a bored-looking gentleman and an impatient young woman fidgeting on plasticky furniture.

  Bensin eyed the tray of colorful donuts on an end table beside a water cooler. “Don’t even think about it,” Steene warned. “Champion athletes don’t eat donuts. They’re probably stale, anyway.”

  The boy plopped down on one of the couches and picked up the newspaper that lay on the coffee table before them. Pulling out his phone, Steene called the CSF again and asked Marj to let Mr. Drogum know that he had been delayed and would only be there for his last three classes after all. Then he sat down and chose a car magazine from a rack.

  “Hey, look, Coach,” Bensin exclaimed. “My picture’s in the paper!”

  Steene looked. Sure enough, there in the sports section was an article featuring all the athletes still in the Grand Imperial as of this morning. A set of photographs displayed highlights from last weekend’s matches: pairs of competitors locked in combat, frozen mid-slash or mid-kick. Bensin was wielding his cavvarach in his left hand, bare right arm drawn back safely out of range, one foot a blur as he swung it in the start of a roundhouse kick. His opponent had been captured in the middle of an awkward defensive move designed to block a cavvarach held in a right hand.

  “Great picture!” Steene chuckled. “We’ll have to buy a paper later and save the article. Don’t let me forget. And you’ll be in tomorrow’s paper for sure.” One way or another. Hopefully not captured in some embarrassing pose like that with Jayce grinning triumphantly over him and striking the winning blow.

  He read the article over Bensin’s shoulder and then went back to flipping through the magazine, glancing at his watch every couple of minutes. Finally a man who must have been the manager appeared at the door. “Mr. Mayvins?”

  Steene stood up. “That’s me. What’s the deal with my truck?”

  “I’m afraid we’ve got bad news,” the man told him. “You’re going to need a new transmission.”

  Steene groaned. “That’s what I was afraid of. How much longer do you think this one’s going to hold out?”

  “Frankly, I’m surprised your truck is still running at all. I wouldn’t recommend driving it again until you get it taken care of.”

  Great. “Any chance you can do it today?”

  “Yeah, I think we should have time. If you want to give us a call to check on it at about six this evening, we’ll probably have it done by then.”

  “I’m going to be at work at six. How late do you stay open?”

  The manager pointed at the sign on the front door which Steene couldn’t read backwards anyway. “We close at six thirty on weekends.”

  “That’s not going to work for me. Can I come by for it in the morning? When do you open?”

  “That’s fine. We open at nine on Sundays, so any time after that.”

  “Nine.” Steene thought a moment. The tournament didn’t start until ten tomorrow; it would be a shorter day, since there were only the semifinals and finals to be fought for each age group and then the awards and closing ceremonies. So that would probably work. An hour should be plenty of time to get to Red Arena.

  “Yeah, I guess I can do that. And how much is this procedure going to cost me?”

  “Hard to say at this point. A safe estimate would be four thousand imps, though it may work out to a little less. We’ll have to see how it goes this afternoon. Of course, that’s if you pay in cash; otherwise there’s a five percent service charge. In the meantime, we do have a couple of cars here that you could choose from to rent if you like.”

  Steene groaned again. Four thousand? But there was no way around it, and he knew it. He couldn’t trust that old
transmission to last any longer.

  “All right, fine,” he grumbled. He couldn’t remember if he actually had four thousand in the bank at the moment or not. Payday had been nearly two weeks ago, but he didn’t recall buying much since then except fuel and groceries and Bensin’s new monthly bus card, so yeah, he probably had the money. He would stop at a convenience store on the way home and make a withdrawal so he and Bensin wouldn’t have to worry about running late in the morning. And then he really needed to get to class.

  He signed the paperwork to authorize the transmission replacement and confirm the rental car and then turned back to where Bensin was still reading the newspaper. “All right, we’re set. Come help me get our stuff out of the truck before we head home.”

  The boy didn’t move. “Bensin!” Steene called, waving. “Hello! We’re going!”

  Finally Bensin lowered the paper, and Steene was startled to see that his face had gone pale. Of course, Bensin was light-skinned anyway, but the difference was noticeable. He set the newspaper down on the coffee table without a word and stood up, his expression suggesting he was in shock.

  “What’s the matter?” Steene stepped over to see what the boy had been reading, but the page showed only the classified ads. “Everything okay?”

  Bensin nodded, but his face said that it wasn’t. He bit his lip, not looking at Steene.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I — nothing, sir.”

  “Don’t give me that.” Steene picked up the paper. The boy made a sudden move as though to snatch it away, but at the last minute thought better of it and shoved his hands into his pockets.

  Slaves for Sale read the title at the top of the page, followed by four columns of pictures and descriptions. “Oh.” Now he understood. “Someone you know is being sold, aren’t they?”

  “Yeah.” Bensin’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “A — a kid in my old neighborhood.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” Being a slave must really stink sometimes. “Maybe you can find out where whoever buys him lives and go visit now and then.”

  Bensin didn’t reply. “Well, come on. I’ve got to choose a rental car, transfer our stuff into it, get cash, drop you off at home, and then change and get to work, all in the next twenty minutes.”

  The tiny white rental car felt strangely light and a little too responsive as Steene steered, but it would do until tomorrow morning. At the withdrawal machine in the convenience store down the street, he was relieved to discover that he did have four thousand imps left, though not much more than that. Hopefully I won’t have to spend all of it on the new transmission. And if everything went well, he would have plenty of money to refill his account after tomorrow. As long as Bensin took at least third place, there would be a cash prize of some amount.

  “Don’t forget my pass, Coach,” Bensin reminded him when they got home. Steene scrawled out a pass for him, quickly changed into his work clothes, and hurried back out of the apartment. “Have fun,” he warned from the doorway, “but remember, don’t eat any junk food or do anything where you might get hurt. Be back by, let’s say, nine at the latest, so you can get plenty of rest for tomorrow.”

  “I will, Coach. See you.” Bensin still looked somber.

  It was hard to focus on work with the final day of the tournament looming. The students in all of Steene’s classes wanted to talk about the Grand Imperial, and he was only too glad to describe how Bensin had sailed through the twelfth and thirteenth rungs today and earned himself a spot in the semifinals. Most of them had been keeping up with it on TV and were excited that not one but two CSF students had made it this far. Steene guessed that tomorrow’s classes would be emptier, students skipping practice to watch the last day of the event. Well, that wasn’t his problem; he wouldn’t be here anyway.

  When his last class was over, Steene hung around awhile longer to make sure everything was prepped for tomorrow’s sub. He straightened up his classroom the way Bensin usually did for him at the end of the day, jotted down lesson plans for each of his classes, and set the instructions out in plain sight.

  In the hall, a couple of the other teachers stopped him to congratulate him on his student’s achievement and ask if Bensin was ready for tomorrow. In the lobby, a little crowd of students and their parents were chattering about the Grand Imperial, and they practically pounced on Steene.

  “Bensin is your student, isn’t he? Did you teach him that thing about switching his cavvarach to the other hand?”

  “He’s been doing awesome! We can’t wait to see how it goes tomorrow!”

  “Do you think he’s as good as Jayce Torro?”

  Steene answered their questions, assured them all that Bensin would be the champion the next day, and finally made it out through the glass doors to the parking lot. It was depressing to see the little white car waiting for him and remember that his truck had just had major surgery — expensive surgery — but he pushed the thought away.

  The apartment was dark and quiet, as he had expected, but he was surprised to see that Bensin’s bedroom door was shut. When he turned on the kitchen light, he noticed a piece of paper sitting out on the desk.

  Goodnite coch. I got back erly but Im tired out and Im going to bed to rest up for tomorow. Bensin.

  Steene checked his watch. It was just after eight o’clock! He hadn’t realized teenagers were even capable of going to bed that early. Well, it was a wise move, and he was glad his student had been responsible enough to think of it.

  He got himself some dinner and watched TV for a while, keeping the volume low so it wouldn’t wake Bensin. When he finally went to bed himself, though, Steene lay awake wondering what the next day would hold.

  If Bensin wins, we’ll both be famous. When he was a teenager, it had been his dream to win the Grand Imperial, but third place had been the best he could ever manage. He had beaten Markus Brinks, his rival even back then, but Markus had come in second the next year. It would vindicate Steene if his student could be the champion, could beat Markus’ student and do better than either of them had as boys.

  You’ve got to win tomorrow, Bensin. I hope you’re sleeping soundly right now. You’re going to need all your energy when you face Jayce in the finals.

  Steene himself had just fallen asleep when the chime of the doorbell startled him awake. He lurched upright in bed, his pulse racing. Fumbling on the cardboard box that Bensin had set up for him as a nightstand, he found his phone, but he had left it off. Turning it on, he squinted at the screen to check the time. 11:24. Who in the world would be at my door this late? Come to think of it, who would be ringing my doorbell at all? He didn’t know any of his neighbors, and none of his friends or coworkers knew where he lived now. He hadn’t had a single guest over since he had moved in; after all, he had no proper furniture. In fact, Bensin was the only person besides himself who had passed through that door in the last four months.

  Steene got up and fumbled his way to the living room. “Who is it?” he inquired, his hand on the knob. He was just awake enough to realize that it might be a good idea to find that out before he opened the door at this hour.

  “It’s Watch Officer Kalgan Shigo,” came a deep voice in reply. “Are you by any chance missing a slave?”

  Chapter Eighteen: For Sale

  Ellie’s for sale. Bensin had known it could be coming, but part of him still could hardly believe it. All the way home in the rental car he kept saying the words to himself. Ellie’s for sale. They’re really selling her.

  It was his fault. He should have made sure she was free by now. But what was he supposed to do? Between extra cavvara shil practice for the Grand Imperial and the rest of his responsibilities, he hadn’t had a chance to come up with a plan for getting the money.

  Bensin stood aimlessly in the living room while Coach Steene got ready for work and issued last-minute instructions. He wondered if perhaps someone had bought his sister already; and if so, how he could possibly find her. Even after Coach had shut
the front door and Bensin heard him hurrying down the steps, he stood unmoving, trying to decide what to do.

  How long had that ad been in the paper? Just today, or had it been there all week? If this was the first day, probably nothing had come of it yet. The Creghorns had advertised Bensin — both in the newspaper and on the CSF bulletin board — for several days before Coach Steene had finally bought him. Of course, that was partly because Bensin had done everything he could to discourage potential buyers. Ellie wouldn’t think of that, wouldn’t know what to do even if she did.

  One way or another, he had go to the Creghorns’ house right now and see if she was still there. If she was, he needed to make an escape plan and get her away as soon as possible. It was as simple as that.

  But how will I pay Wenn? If he waited one more day, and if he came in first, his share of the prize money combined with his current savings would be plenty. But he might not have one more day. Could he afford to wait and risk someone buying her today or tomorrow? And what if he didn’t win first place? Even second place wouldn’t be enough.

  Maybe I can make some sort of deal with Wenn, promise to pay him extra if he can wait a little longer for the rest of the money. But no, he knew Wenn wouldn’t go for that. Maybe I can promise to come in every week and work for him. No, he wouldn’t go for that either. The man had made it clear that Bensin had to pay the full amount in cash up front.

  Well, I can stop by and ask Ricky for ideas. His friend might be able to come up with something when he got back from work. In any case, Bensin had to act, and as soon as possible.

  Slumped over in his seat on the bus, he kept thinking of everything he had ever seen or heard about cruel owners and the things they did to their slaves, especially to young girls. If Ellie were sold, what would her new owners be like? Mr. Creghorn had been mean enough to Bensin, but at least he had never used the Motivator on Ellie. Hit her sometimes, yes; yelled at her and locked her in the room without meals, sure. But he had never done anything really horrible to her, and for that Bensin was grateful.