Despite this, as his body grew, so too did his skills. After a year his pudgy, paw-like hands began to become more slender and dexterous. Repairs that had previously been too tricky or fine for him to perform slowly became simple. By the third year, he was the size of an eight or nine-year-old boy, and able to take on some of the more labor-intensive tasks, like turning the earth or toting and spreading manure. He would work the bellows of Ben’s furnace, or hammer out hot metal when Gurruk was too tired or sore. He grew stronger.
Most importantly, he grew smarter as well. Though it had taken time, the creature had come to embrace his mentor’s advice about finding a purpose. He worked diligently at any task he could. The quality of his repairs never seemed to match those of Ben or the tinkerer on Jarrad’s payroll, but it came a bit closer each day. When he was sent to a row of rakka to give it a second pass, it never needed a third, because his sensitive nose and diligent fingers found every berry worth picking.
While everyone noticed that the malthrope was getting larger, only three residents of the plantation seemed to notice that he was getting better at his jobs. One was Ben, who had come to treat the creature almost as an extension of himself, serving as a spare set of hands when his own were busy, or a set of eyes when he needed them. Another was Jarrad, who watched quietly as his little investment paid larger and larger dividends with each season. The last was Menri.
The elder slave’s hatred for the creature had always burned the hottest. No one knew why, or cared to ask, but it couldn’t be clearer. In the earliest days, it was simply a general distrust for the species that seemed to fuel his anger, but as the years rolled on, a new reason began to stoke the flames. Menri was getting older. Each year he had to fight harder to keep from having a second stripe added to his arm. No one worked harder than he did, not even the handful of fresh slaves that were purchased each year. No one got more done, no one did a better job, and no one got the privileges and respect that he did. It was a matter of pride, of identity. But when he saw the malthrope in the fields, he saw a creature that could do things he couldn’t. It already worked tirelessly, and whereas each season robbed Menri of a bit more of his strength and stamina, the blasted monster got stronger by the day.
#
“Master,” called out Menri.
The plantation owner halted on his way out for his customary inspection of the day's work and looked to his hardest worker. It was the end of a long day of labor. Most of the slaves had eagerly retired to their meager quarters to recover, and even if they hadn't, it was rare for any of them to address him. Rarer still for Menri to do so. In all of the time that Jarrad had been working the sturdy old slave, he'd not once had more to say than the answer to a question or the acknowledgment of an order. Now he was approaching, purpose in his eye . . . and a length of rope in his hand. A pair of slave-keepers, never far from their employer, emerged from the shadows and lurked ominously as a warning should Menri have undesirable ideas for the rope.
“What is it, Menri?” he answered, eyes squinted against the setting sun.
“It is about the beast.”
“What about it?” Jarrad replied gruffly.
“Nac knows a thing or two about their bounty. His father tracked them. He says the full bounty is paid when the tail is this long.”
Menri held out the length of rope and let it roll out to its full length. It was about the length of a man's leg. If the beast's tail wasn't already a match for the length, it would be by season's end.
“Your crop's just about ready for harvest, I'd say. Good news, eh?” Menri said, handing over the rope. “No more having to watch that thing lurking about the fields. Eating the same food as us. Doing the same jobs as us. By the time we're gathering up the last of the rakka, you'll have your bag of silver, and we'll have the plantation free of that devil.”
“Your aid in this matter has been noted,” Jarrad said, coiling the rope and stuffing it into the pocket of his tunic. “Back to your quarters with you.”
“Yes, master,” Menri said with a crooked grin.
The slave paced the path back to his hut, leaving his master behind to roll out the rope again. He looked at it thoughtfully, then turned his eyes to the fields. Ben was plodding toward the repair shack that he called home. Behind him, as always, was the beast. The thing was carrying an armload of uncut wooden poles, each no doubt destined to be a tool handle. The pile was almost too much for the creature to handle. He struggled every few steps to tip the load this way or that, wrangling stray lengths of wood with a raised knee or hastily moved hand, then scurrying to catch up to his mentor.
“Ho! Blind Ben!” Jarrad called out. “Come here! Bring the mally!”
Silently, the blind slave shifted his path, his shadow stumbling along behind. When the duo arrived, Ben motioned for the creature to set down his load.
“Ben, are you familiar with the length a tail must be to fetch a full bounty on a malthrope?” Jarrad rumbled.
“Thirteen hands,” Ben answered without hesitation.
Jarrad grinned slightly and shook his head. “It seems you know just about everything we need you to.”
“One must find a way to stay useful.”
“Would you say that this rope is thirteen hands long?” Jarrad asked, passing the length of rope into the blind man's hands.
Ben slid the rope through his fingers, ending with a nod. “A few fingers shy, perhaps, but roughly.”
“And would you say that the creature's tail has reached that length?”
“I couldn't venture a guess. I have seldom found the need to run my hands along the beast's tail.”
“Beast, present your tail,” Jarrad barked.
The creature quickly turned and straightened his tail. Jarrad stretched the rope beside it. The tail was a bit longer.
“It seems that it is time to harvest,” Jarrad stated.
“It seems so, master,” Ben replied steadily.
“Send the beast away,” Jarrad ordered, pocketing the creature's death sentence.
“Go. Take the supplies to the shack,” Ben said.
Jarrad watched as his investment faithfully obeyed. The creature gathered up the ungainly load and made his way toward his home. The owner's hand was wrapped tightly around the coiled rope in his pocket. He drew in a breath and exhaled through his nose in what might have been a sigh if not for the edge of anger and frustration it carried with it.
“Something troubling you, master?”
The plantation owner paused, watching the beast retreat into the distance a bit longer before answering. “Decisions are simple things, Ben. Others may fret and fuss over them, but they are truly simple things. When given two choices, one is better, one is worse. Choose the one that does the most good. If no good can come, then choose the one that does the least harm. That is the correct choice. That is the only choice . . .”
“An admirable way to live one's life, master.”
“I can't think of more than a handful of times I've been faced with a decision that I've second-guessed, or one that wasn't diamond clear. And lately, you seem to be at the root of them all. When that beast was foisted upon me, the choice was clear. Kill it. Get the silver. Balance the scales. It was useless otherwise. As you pointed out, however, keeping it alive could make sense, as it would be worth more in the long run. So, a new option: keep it until it was ripe, then harvest it as any other crop. Now . . . the creature has been useful, no question. We've been harvesting easily an extra bushel a day since he's been working the rows. And that nose of his has sniffed out seeds roasted to a level of perfection that we've seldom managed without him—him. Listen to me, I'm speaking of the blasted thing as though it were a man!”
“One would imagine that the choice would still be a simple one. Is his continued service more valuable to you than his bounty?”
“You are doing it, too, old man. He isn't a he. There would be nothing to discuss if he was. You don't sell a good man who still has good years in him and a job to do. He
would remain here. But that thing is not a man. It is a monster. Fortunately, there haven't been many who have noticed it on the land, or I would be facing the local lord's wrath for harboring it. Is he useful enough to risk the consequences of keeping him? Or do I lop off the head, slit the throat, and squander a perfectly good worker for a mound of silver that he might one day have earned back three times over? And how do I know that the beast will even continue to cooperate? What if I spare it, and in a year it grows into its reputation? I'll have been harboring a killer, and there will be no one to blame but myself.”
“I can understand your difficulty, master. Perhaps, in time, the answer will become clear.”
“Time? No. Time muddies things. Invites second guesses. I’ll do as I always do. Set a date to decide by. Whatever decision I make, I stand by. The end of the month is brand week. I’ll send word, see to it that the official on site is a bounty officer. I’ll have the answer by then.”
“Wise.”
“Mmm. Dismissed, Ben,” Jarrad stated, turning on his heel and heading toward his manor.
Ben paced off toward his shack. If his mind was affected at all by the implications of the days ahead, it didn’t show. He wore the same impassive, stoic expression that seemed never to leave his face. When he reached his shack, his apprentice was already inside. The sound of a blade scraping against wood rang out from the smithing room that had been added.
“Preparing the handles already?” Ben asked.
“We’ve got a dozen shovels and six hoes to build. Not much time to get that done,” the beast replied. “What did the master need you for?”
“He needed to think. Sometimes it helps to do so out loud.”
“What was that about . . . about a bounty? And my tail?” he asked, a dash of anxiety in his voice.
Ben drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. The beast had never been told. It was hardly a surprise that the other slaves hadn't. Most of them would rather die than be seen even appearing to have anything less than profanities and slurs to say to the thing. But Ben hadn't told him either. What good would it have done? Tell a boy that those keeping him are doing so only until he is old enough to be killed and his life will be naught but anger and fear and sorrow. Tell a creature whose life is already filled to the brim with such things? There was no telling what would have happened. So he was kept in the dark.
And now? What good would it do now? Tell this creature here, today, that in a month his fate would be decided by whether his life was more valuable than his death? There was no doubt what would happen. But still, he deserved some answer. Even the lowest of creatures deserves a glimpse of the truth before the end.
“There is a bounty on you. On all malthropes.”
“But . . . I didn't do anything.”
“It doesn't matter; you're a malthrope.”
“Why are people all so angry about malthropes? Angry enough to put a price on them, just for being what they are?”
“They aren't angry—they are afraid.”
“Afraid? It sure doesn't feel like fear. Not when they catch me off-guard with a shovel to the back.”
“They're afraid of what you'll become. And working with you all of these years, it isn't hard to understand where that fear comes from.”
“What . . . what's that supposed to mean?”
“Really now. Look at yourself sometime. You're nearly as tall as I am. You've been here five years. That makes you, what? Six, perhaps seven years old? You're the size of a teenager, and you're thinking like a young man. You've got more stamina than a human, more speed, sharper senses, sharper teeth. Man wasn't always what it is now. Cities? Plantations? Societies? There was a time before all of that, when man was still huddling in the darkness. Good heavens . . . something like you? It must have been a nightmare. The same teeth, the same claws, all of the worst features of those things that preyed on man, and a mind to match his own. And now I learn that your kind are full-grown in a decade? More than reason enough for a fear to last generations.”
“Well . . . that still doesn't explain why he's so interested in my tail.”
Again, Ben paused before answering. “I've told you many times that there is nothing more important than having a purpose.”
“Yes.”
“That to be useful, to do what is needed, is the only reason to wake in the morning. That without a purpose, there can be no worth.”
“Yes. I know.”
“Well . . . never, never, has that been more true than now. You must prove that what you are, that what you have become, is more than the beast they brought here all of those years ago.”
“What if I can't? What if I don't?”
“Then you'll learn why the master is so interested in your tail.”
“But I want to know.”
“No, I assure you, you do not.”
#
In the days that followed, the malthrope became distinctly aware of a few things. For the most part, the slaves and plantation were as they always were at this time of year. The hottest days of the season were still weeks away. The hardest work was still days away. Slave and slave handler alike were making the best of a few days with little to do before the rush of the planting season began in earnest.
Despite the inactivity elsewhere, Ben was stretched thin, his many skill in higher demand now than any other time of year. He spent hours tutoring the ever-increasing population of slaves so that they would be ready for the season, and hours more were spent seeing to it that all equipment was in peak condition. Wherever possible, the beast was there with him, acting as the blind man’s eyes and spare hands. All of this was normal. What was new, however, was the constant feeling that he was being observed.
The malthrope had long ago developed a sensitivity to being watched. When you live your life among people who would sooner strike you than look at you, how to remain unseen is a lesson quickly learned, and being seen is a tangible sensation. Even with his eyes closed or his back turned, when eyes were turned in his direction he could feel it as a point of pressure, like a ghostly finger pressing on his skin. The feeling grew with time, until it smoldered in the back of his mind, gnawing at his thoughts and fueling his anxiety. Since the mysterious talk of his bounty, it had been constant and maddening.
More worrisome than the knowledge that he was being watched was the realization of who was watching him. The first was the plantation’s owner. In truth, there was nothing new about that. Jarrad was endlessly watching his workers. For years, though, the beast may as well have been invisible. In watching his workers, the master’s eyes would flit toward and away from the malthrope as quickly as they might from a stone or a bush. Now Jarrad seemed to watch no one else.
Worse, though, was the second set of eyes: Menri.
Of all the slaves, Menri’s hatred had always burned hottest, and the years had done nothing to stifle the flames. His hatred, even his abuse, had become such a constant presence in the creature's life that it had simply become another part of the day to day struggle. Now it had stopped—but what replaced it was, in a way, far worse. He too was simply watching, the permanent scowl of his face twisted by the slightest whisper of a smile. There was a chilling quality to his gaze as he watched, as though he knew something terrible was in store, and he refused to look away for even a moment, lest he miss it.
The constant observation made the beast feel small and frightened again, as though he was still cowering under the seat of the carriage on the way to the plantation. He wanted nothing more than to scurry off, to find some dark corner and curl up inside until he was forgotten—but those days were gone. There were jobs to be done now. It was clear that Ben wasn't simply humoring him by assigning him these tasks. The old man truly needed his help, and even if there wasn't a single other resident of the plantation, slave or keeper, who valued him or his role here, Ben was reason enough to endure the torturous scrutiny. He owed the man that much—and more.
A month crawled by, and finally the last day of brand w
eek was coming to a close. The day had been unseasonably warm, making the last minor preparations a test of endurance. It seemed an eternity before the sun mercifully slipped below the horizon and the cool of night drifted over the fields. The day had taken its toll on everyone, but it was clear as he trudged back to the shack that Ben had fared far worse than the rest. His breathing was heavy and labored, and his steps slow. His walking stick creaked under his weight as he thumped it to the ground with each step. If not for the stout stick, and more aid from his apprentice than he normally allowed, the old man may not have made it to his shack at all. Once inside, he stumbled to the cot and fairly crumbled into a heap upon it.
“Here, there's some water here,” the malthrope said, plunging a dipper into a bucket of cool water beside the cot and guiding his ailing keeper's hand to it.
“Good, yes,” Ben muttered hoarsely, draining the dipper and handing it back.
“It was warmer today than usual. You shouldn't have spent so much time on your feet.”
Ben released a few weak chuckles. “Is it you who teaches me now? I didn't think you'd come that far.”
“Do you need more water?” the creature said, concern knotting his brow.
“No, no. Just sleep. I did too much today.”
“You can't sleep yet. Remember? The master needs your help with the carriage.”
“Blast it, that's right . . .” Ben said with a grimace. He leaned his head back on the bundle of cloth that served as a pillow for a moment and thought. “I can't. Not tonight.”
The Book of Deacon Anthology Page 152
