The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  “You can’t make me beat him!” Garran protested.

  Cyril leaned in and said in a low tone, “You chose to beat him when you filled his head with foolish notions. You will give him two lashes, or one of my men will give him five. It’s your choice, Mr. Holt. Do not fret too much over the one-sided punishment. When you trip up and fall on your face, Mr. Atterly will return the favor, gladly I would guess.”

  Garran looked at the leather strap Cyril shoved into his hand. He lifted his gaze and saw the lump the size of a child’s fist just right of center of Colin’s forehead.

  “I’m sorry, Colin.”

  “Garran, do you know what your apology and a pinecone have in common?”

  “What?”

  “You can stuff them both up your ass!”

  “I’m glad to see you still have your sense of humor.”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Been on that road from the day I was born.”

  Colin pulled his shirt over his head and presented his bare back. “Just get it over with.”

  “Make them count, Mr. Holt, or you’ll do them again until they do,” Cyril warned.

  The lash was not a whip or a scourge. It was a simple length of leather about seven feet long and frayed at the end, without the cruel barbs sometimes associated with the more sinister devices, but it was capable of delivering a painful beating without debilitating injury. This was a work camp after all, and a man was no good if he could not work. Garran whipped the lash forward and raised a welt on the back of Colin’s thigh.

  “Ow, not on my legs, you idiot!”

  “Sorry!” Garran shouted and snapped the lash forward once more, this time aiming higher.

  Colin slapped his hand to the side of his head and nearly jumped out of the wagon. “That was my ear, you stupid sonofabitch!”

  “I’m sorry; I’ve never whipped someone before! I don’t know how to aim this thing! I’ll get it right this time, I promise!”

  Cyril grabbed Garran’s wrist and stripped the lash from his shaking hand. “That’ll do, Mr. Holt,” the commander said, quivering from the effort to keep from laughing. “Go get pails from the cook staff and bring up some wash water.”

  The two young men retrieved a pair of buckets each and made for the creek, with two soldiers and a dog acting as escort. Colin did not speak. Garran continually glanced over at him as they walked, unable to avoid looking at his throbbing, bright red ear.

  “I really am sorry,” Garran tried again as he filled his buckets.

  “You’re a real bastard and a sonofabitch, you know that?”

  Garran nodded. “I am aware of my less favorable traits.”

  “You never had any intention of trying to escape, did you?”

  “Not like that, no.”

  “Why did you talk me into it then? Is seeing me bludgeoned unconscious and whipped amusing to you?”

  “Well…not the whipping part, but the look on your face when that brainer hit you was classic.”

  “Oh, screw you.”

  “Come on, if it had been me and you saw what I saw, you would have laughed your ass off.”

  “Yeah, now, but not then! Why me? I thought we were friends.”

  “We are…sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “The fact that this is at all surprising to you is an obvious indication that you don’t know me very well. How can you call someone a friend, a real friend, when you don’t even know them? Maybe I have a higher regard for what it means to be a friend.”

  “A higher regard…! I didn’t tell on you even though I was madder than I have ever been in my life! If that’s not a friend, I don’t know what is.”

  “So we’re still friends then?”

  “No, we’re not friends!”

  “But you just said not telling on me was the greatest sign of friendship you know, so obviously we must still be friends or you would have told on me.”

  Colin stared into the water as he tried to devise an argument to counter Garran’s logic. “I didn’t have to. Commander Godfrey already knew.”

  “I don’t buy it. We’re still friends. Besides, what other options do you have? This camp is mostly violent criminals.”

  “At least they might show me a little appreciation after they screw me.”

  “You’re just pissed right now, and I don’t blame you. I’m a little pissed at myself for putting you through all that. What can I do to make it right?”

  Colin looked around, picked up a fist-sized pinecone, and handed it Garran.

  “Pinecone…” Garran said uneasily.

  “It’s a start.”

  ***

  Garran and Colin scrubbed the plates and pots while the rest of the camp packed up to begin the next leg of their journey. Colin remained distant and quiet, but Garran could sense he was softening and let him be while they focused on their work. Garran looked up when someone set another iron pot next to him and smiled when he saw it was Rose.

  Rose returned his smile, bent down, and whispered, “I left some food in there for you. Sorry, it’s gone cold.”

  “It’s fine, thank you.”

  Garran watched her walk back to the cook wagons and nudged Colin. “Here, you can have this.”

  “Do you want to share it?”

  “Naw, I’ll be fine. It’s not like riding in a wagon all day works up an appetite.”

  Colin took the pot. “Thanks, but I’m still holding that pinecone in reserve if you screw me over again.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Colin used two fingers to scoop up the cold, congealed oats. “Why did you put me through all that if you never had any intention of escaping?”

  “I needed to see how they reacted. It’s all about knowing your enemy. Simply running for it is a fool’s attempt.”

  “Is that why you chose me, because I’m a fool?”

  “Partly. You are trusting and just dim enough for me to manipulate.”

  “You apologize for getting me whipped, starved, and almost killed yet still have the prickishness to call me stupid. I need to find a bigger pinecone.”

  “I’m not trying to insult you.”

  “Yet your natural affinity for the task allows you to succeed with remarkable results.”

  “Some people are short, some are tall. Some are smart and others…not so much. It’s not an insult, simply an observation of fact.”

  “I still don’t know why it had to be me. There are over a hundred men in this camp. I’m certain there are at least a few dumb enough to fall for your manipulations.”

  “There certainly are, but few who would trust me enough. Besides, I already have one man who would like nothing more than to kill me. I’d rather not provoke more without good cause.”

  “I’m pretty tempted to kill you.”

  “Yeah, but you won’t.”

  “I’m sure that will change once I really get to know you.”

  Garran shrugged. “It usually does.”

  ***

  The camp moved higher into the mountains as they marched onward toward the border. The temperature dropped and the snow deepened enough to leave a slushy, muddy mess as they passed. Garran imagined this would only increase the number of chores they would have to perform as part of their punishment.

  Night fell and the workers and soldiers wrapped themselves in heavy cloaks and blankets and stood around campfires and braziers to ward off the highland chill. Garran and Colin cleaned the dinner meal’s pots, and Rose once again sneaked Garran extra food, for which he was grateful.

  Returning the scoured cauldron to the kitchen wagon, Garran spied a bucket of bones and meat trimmings. “What is all that?” he asked Rose.

  “That’s for the houndsman to feed the dogs. I need to take it to him, but it’s so cold out, and I don’t want to leave my fire.”

  “I’ll take it to him. Where’s he at?”

  Rose pointed toward the orange light of a campfire. “Over there near where they tether the horses.”
r />   Garran took the bucket of scraps across the camp and approached a group of soldiers gathered around a fire. They watched him closely but did not challenge him until he stepped into the glowing ring of their fire.

  “What do you want, boy?” one of the men asked.

  “I have scraps for the dogs.”

  “Leave ’em there. I’ll take it over once my balls thaw out.”

  “I can take them, sir,” Garran offered.

  The soldier jerked his head toward the makeshift kennels. “Fine, but don’t get too close. They’ll tear you apart given the chance.”

  The hounds began barking and snarling when Garran came close to their pens, but they did not try to break free. These were trained working dogs, not some back-alley strays. He knew he could never prevent them from tracking him down when he escaped, but he could insinuate himself within the pack enough to keep them from raising a ruckus when he came near. He fed the scraps to each dog, a piece at a time, until the bucket was empty. With any luck, the animals would accept him as a friend and source of food instead of an intruder.

  His and Colin’s days were long, starting before the sun came up, to make the cookfires, and not ending until they cleaned the plates and pots after dinner. Garran took on the extra duty of feeding the dogs after every meal with any scraps of food he could come up with.

  It was midmorning when Cyril brought his mount alongside the wagon Garran was riding in. “Mr. Holt, you have surprised me.”

  Garran looked up from polishing the big copper brazier the soldiers used to ward off the cold. “How’s that, Commander?”

  “I thought you would give me far more grief performing your punishment detail.” He gave a nod to the three-foot in diameter concave disc. “Instead, you have gone beyond the scope of your duties.”

  “What would causing more trouble accomplish other than making my life more miserable? Where else could I go?”

  “I knew you were clever, but I didn’t take you for being smart. I guess even I can misjudge a man’s character once in a while.”

  “It’s an understandable mistake, especially if you knew my history.”

  Cyril nodded. “Keep up the good work. Maybe I’ll consider shortening your sentence.”

  “That’s certainly a good incentive for me to work hard.”

  Although the weather had been mild thus far, more than a foot of snow blanketed the pass, with even deeper drifts along the slopes, where the wind piled it like deep, white, ocean swells. It was bitterly cold, and several men elected to get out of the wagons and walk to generate some body heat despite the strength-sapping drudgery of slogging through the churned-up snow left by the advance riders.

  Colin and Garran were alone in the wagon with Frank and Wilton, each of them wrapped tightly in a wool blanket. The other men plodded behind, sometimes giving the wagon a push when it became bogged down and climbing back in when they tired, until the cold urged them to walk again.

  Colin watched Garran dutifully polishing the brazier to a mirror-like finish. “What are you really up to?”

  “What do you mean?” Garran asked without looking up from his work.

  “You’ve spent almost every spare minute of the past four days scrubbing that brazier. What’s your game?”

  “Why do I have to have a game? Is it so hard to believe I do it out of a profound work ethic?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Maybe I want to impress the commander in hopes of getting off this detail sooner.”

  Colin paused and thought. “Bullshit. The only person you might possibly want to impress is Rose, and I don’t see how this is going to do it.”

  Garran grinned. “You’re more observant than I gave you credit for.”

  “I learn quickly when I know I’m dealing with a deceitful bastard.”

  “Congratulations, you found me out.”

  Garran brought the bottom of his blanket to his mouth, used his teeth to cut the edge, and tore a strip from its length. He then reached under the bench and brought out a chunk of ice he had spent his evenings shaping into a near-perfect sphere using the heat of his hands. He stood, set the icy orb in his makeshift sling, and began twirling over his head before launching it toward the steep hillside above the caravan.

  The missile struck the trunk of a tree perhaps a hundred feet up the slope. The impact sent reverberations through its trunk, dislodging a torrent of snow trapped in its branches. The freed snow struck the ground and created a cascade effect with the layer of loose powder lying dormant just below. Conditions were perfect for an avalanche as the topmost foot of snow slid down the steep slope, struck the convoy near the middle, and buried men and horses to their knees and the wagons to their axles.

  Garran leapt over the downward slope on the other side of the road, holding the copper brazier close to his chest, and rode it like a sled. Tree trunks whizzed past as Garran shifted his weight to guide the disc between the towering giants.

  Horns blew their shrill cries across the high pass, and soldiers worked to free their mounts from the belly-deep snow. Those not caught in the miniature avalanche spurred their horses over the precipice, and the houndsman released his dogs. Animals and their handlers pursued the fugitive, but Garran was little more than a speck in the distance by the time they crested the slope. The deep snow and steep decline brought the mounted soldiers to a crawl. Even the hounds could do little more than shuffle down the steep gradient and bay their frustration at the wind.

  Cyril turned in his saddle just in time to see Garran throw himself down the slope. He sat silently and watched the boy vanish in the distance. He did not need to bark orders at his men. They knew what to do without his shouting to cause distraction and possible confusion. Shaking his head and chuckling, he ordered the wagons dug out and put underway so they could reach their next campsite before nightfall.

  ***

  Cyril and his men were exhausted. It took quite a bit of digging and pushing to get the wagons clear and moving once again. Those who sought to track down the young fugitive returned shortly after dark without ever finding a trace of Garran’s passage. They followed the creek for more than ten miles, but the dogs never picked up his scent. If he stayed in the water that long, odds were he would freeze to death long before the sun rose.

  The commander pitched another log into the small iron stove heating his tent and prodded the flames to life with a poker. He then fetched a cup and a bottle of spirits from the trunk at the foot of his cot and sat in a chair to enjoy a stiff drink or three before turning in.

  He swirled the liquor around in his mouth a moment before swallowing. “I have to wonder what kind of a man goes through so much trouble to escape just to sneak back in to piss in my whiskey.”

  Garran rolled out from under Cyril’s cot and sat on the end. “How’d you know I was still here?”

  “Someone like you doesn’t go through so much trouble without sticking around to witness the results. I could also smell my whiskey on your breath and felt the breeze coming out from under my cot where you obviously cut a hole to gain entrance. You’ll be patching that up before you leave.”

  “You don’t seem angry.”

  “About my whiskey? I’ve consumed far worse in my life.”

  “I mean about my escaping.”

  Cyril shrugged and poured another drink. “I used to get angry. I used to be angry all the time until I learned the only thing it ever got me was exhausted. Anger is like oil, it can fuel your spirit, but it will burn you up inside.”

  “You’re not insulted that I managed to run off?”

  “I can appreciate artisanship in work even if it’s counter to my own goals or desires. I was in a brutal skirmish some years back on the Urqua border. My unit got ambushed, and it was looking bad, but we were holding. Then this Urqan came striding into the fray and no one could touch him. He cut through us like a farmer scything wheat stalks. It was a magnificent sight to see, and I thought it was going to be my last. He blocked my swing and kicked me
to the ground. I was sure I was a goner, but at least I was going to die to a real master of warfare and not some lucky, green recruit’s arrow or dysentery.”

  Garran leaned forward, enraptured. “What happened?”

  Cyril grinned. “He slipped in a pile of guts and fell on his own sword!” He laughed, took another drink, and tipped his glass at Garran. “Let that be a lesson to you like it was me. No matter how good you are, there ain’t no amount of skill that can defeat bullshit luck when it decides to present itself.”

  “So, are you going to have me whipped and punished?”

  “Are you going to escape again? Would it make a difference?”

  “No. I was being honest when I said I had nowhere else to go. I’ve never been away from home, and my own mother sold me.”

  “Then why go through all the trouble in the first place?”

  “Until now, I was here because my mother sold me, and I was here on your terms. Now you know I’m here because I choose to be. I’m here on my terms.”

  “It doesn’t change anything. The work is the same.”

  “It changes everything that matters to me.”

  Cyril gave a grunted chortle and sipped his drink. He reached into his footlocker and tossed Garran a small, canvas bag. “Sew up my tent and get to bed. I want to make it to the work camp before the week’s end.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Garran picked out his tent from the masses and wound his way through the meager shelters dotting the clearing like wedge-shaped boulders. It was easy to spot his and Colin’s tent due to the trench and small berm dug around it. Garran got down on his hands and knees and crawled through the opening. A booted foot struck him in the forehead the moment he breached the entrance.

  “Ow, crap on a cracker!” Garran shouted as the impact drove him back outside.

  “Garran, is that you?”

  “Yes, you nitwit!”

  “Sorry, I thought you were Dominic or one of the other creeps lurking around.”

  Garran crawled back inside. “Well I’m not. Sonofabitch!” he cried out when Colin kicked him a second time.

  “You did it again, you selfish prick!”