by Greg Dragon
“You were saying?” Skull asked.
Slowly Grandpa unwraped his fists from his armrests. Although a light trickled of blood was running down his head, Grandpa didn’t reach up to touch the wound. “This is a matter for the Protector Father. The Code of the Treaty clearly says—“
I could see Skull was tensing up for another strike and I screamed out without thinking. “No! Stop it!”
Skull’s focus changed and the whip end flips over Grandpa’s head to strike my face, but I see it in time and duck. When I look up Skull is no longer smiling. He is angry.
“What the hell is all this commotion?” demanded a tall lean man with blue eyes and closely cropped blond hair.
Skull turned in surprise. “Nothing to bother you with, boss. Just a couple of trouble-makers.”
“I need to talk to you,” Grandpa said. “In private, please. You know I wouldn’t come to you if it wasn’t important.”
Clay looked at Grandpa and then pointedly at the man’s missing legs. “I suspect you wouldn’t. Alright then, come on in.” He walked back inside waving us to follow him.
Grandpa hesitated a few seconds and then lifted himself out of the chair dropping to the ground. “Bring the chair up please, Teal.” He used his powerful arms to lever himself up the front steps of the house passed a glowering Skull.
I followed, dragging the chair to the top and then opening it again so Grandpa could climb back up. Quickly pushing the wheelchair away from Skull’s menacing look, I looked around. Inside was a large room filled with rotting couches and old rugs. The walls were covered in crude and amateurish graffiti and drawings. Several women wearing chits were cleaning the room and preparing food in an adjacent area.
“In here,” yelled Clay from down the hall. “Step into my office.”
I pushed Grandpa into a wood-paneled room with an imposing dark mahogany desk. The office was a counterpoint to the room we just passed through. Light from a large window behind the desk drifted down onto clean and neat surfaces. I noticed Grandpa staring at a framed document on the wall with what looked like signatures at the bottom. There was even a tall bookshelf to the right filled with impressive looking volumes. I stared in wonder.
“They’re just paper with words on them,” said Clay catching my interest. “Nothing magical about them.”
“Then why do you keep them?” I asked impulsively.
“Teal,” hissed Grandpa warningly.
Clay grunted and walked around the desk to stand before me. One hand rested on the hilt of the large knife at his belt while the other touched a lock of my dark hair. “Teal,” he said. “You must be Margaret’s daughter.”
I forced myself not to pull away. “Yes, sir.”
“And who is your father supposed to be?” he asked.
“I don’t rightly know,” I answered. “Most people think you are.”
Clay shrugged. “Could be. Your age is about right and those were such confusing times.”
“A stranger appeared this morning,” Grandpa said suddenly.
Clay’s hand dropped from my hair and his smile vanished. He focused on Grandpa. “What?”
“A simpleton,” Grandpa explained. “Big and dumb and pathetic. Hardly worth fooling with, but he might be a help to everyone in the fields. He looks pretty strong.”
“When did you find him?” Clay leaned menacingly over Grandpa.
“Just today,” I said. “We can take him into our family. With the extra work rations from what he can do, we should be okay. It will also help with the winter harvest.”
“I see,” Clay said staring out the bay window. “You want to keep him. Do you just feel sorry for him or do you already have some sort of sad crush?”
Confused, I wasn’t sure how to answer. Truthfully, I didn’t know why it was so important for me to help Victor.
“He can help,” insisted Grandpa. “And he’s no threat to anyone.”
“Everyone can be a threat to anyone,” answered Clay spinning to face them.
“Not Victor,” I insisted.
“Victor?” hissed Clay. “So this stranger has a name. What’s his story?”
“Hard to say,” said Grandpa wiping the blood that had run down into his collar. “He doesn’t seem to have the ability to speak coherently and it appears he’s been treated badly. Obviously hasn’t eaten in awhile.”
“How’d he get through the barriers and booby-traps?” Clay asked.
“If you’re careful you can safely make your way,” I defended without thinking. “And many of the booby-traps are malfunctioning or long ago sprung.”
“And how would you possibly know that?” Clay shifted his icy eyes onto me.
My mind nearly seized up, but then I latch onto last summer. “One of the goats wandered off and I went into the Borderland to get him.” It was at least part of the truth.
Clay continued to stare at me skeptically.
“He can stay with us,” Grandpa said. “We’ll look after him...with your permission, of course.”
“We don’t have the luxury of charity. If he’s not worth the effort, he goes. And you,” Clay pointed at Grandpa, “are responsible for everything this Victor does or doesn’t do. It’s on your head however this works out, do you understand?”
Grandpa’s face hardened. “I do.”
“Okay then,” Clay clapped his hands together cheerfully. “Have our newest village idiot report to the Block Foreman for the north field tomorrow for Morning Shift. We’ll see if he works out.”
“Thank you,” I said.
Clay looked me up and down. “My pleasure. Besides, now you owe me. And I always collect.”
My skin crawled, but I forced myself to nod.
“Now, if that’s everything, I suggest you make your way home unless you want to get caught up in our nightly circus. It’s always entertaining, but you might find yourself in the center ring.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I knew I wanted out of Shrieker House. I pulled Grandpa back out of the room and we both nodded respectfully at the man who had already turned his attention to other work.
Skull stood at the front door waiting for us. His whip was replaced by a long wooden baton.
“Skull,” hollered Clay from behind us. “Get in here.”
The pink painted man scowled and hit the side of the wheelchair savagely with his baton as he strode past.
“Keep walking,” Grandpa said as he hopped out of his seat to make his way down the stairs. I dragged the chair down and set it up quickly. Grandpa agilely climbed back in and I pushed him towards home, the old man’s powerful arms helping on the wheels.
I stole one glance back to see if Skull was watching us.
Instead, it was Clay standing on the porch staring in our direction.
***
I ran into Skull the next week, literally. He strolled around the corner of the Newell’s old drug store as I was headed home from milking. The wind had turned cold and my head was tucked down inside the edge of my coat so I ran right into the Protector.
“Watch where the hell you’re going,” he grumbled and kept moving.
Fear gripped me only after he had moved away. I hadn’t had time to be afraid, only gotten a brief glimpse of Skull, but it was enough to see the combination of white and green face paint. Even though the colors were laid on thickly, it couldn’t totally hide the purple and yellow bruises on his face. I hurried home with my heart beating fast.
We settled back into our routine. Mother found Victor some clothes and made him a pair of moccasins from old rabbit skins. I helped her bathe him and cut his hair that first night. The multitude of scars and burns on his body angered me.
Mother didn’t seem surprised. “It’s a cruel world. I can’t figure out how he’s still alive at all.”
“He may not be all there in the head,” I said, “but even animals find a way to survive. He’s obviously strong and good at hiding.”
She grunted but looked skeptical. It was
the same grunt she gave whenever she watched Victor eat. His appetite was in direct proportion to his ponderous size and his consumption of kudzu had already forced us to forage further afield. Normally we fought to keep the vine from overwhelming us, even with all the goats, but Victor’s eating was reversing the trend. Neighbors who rarely visited made of point of stopping by to see him shovel bowl after bowl of salad into his mouth before smiling and burping loudly.
Victor turned out to have the strength of a young bull and was happy to work till he nearly dropped from exhaustion. He cheerfully endured the Protectors’ ridicule, immune to most of the insults and taunts. The appearance of an adult man under the age of fifty who wasn’t a Shrieker caused a great deal of combined apprehension and excitement among the Protected.
Through it all, Victor was quiet and childlike and quickly assumed the role of pet among the town of Newton. He occupied a strange position slightly above the children, but beneath everyone else.
Victor’s rainmaker also made an impression on the community. Whenever he was scared, confused, or nervous, the big man would tilt the long cylinder first one way and then the other. At the Remembering, Victor entertained the children with the magical sound of falling water.
Broily wanted to send the giant east with another entreaty for the Knights. The old man had painfully composed another note with his left hand and presented his idea after they had all gathered one night.
“You better not let the Shriekers know you can still write,” said Grandpa. “They’ll take your other hand for sure, or your head.”
“And,” quipped a drunken Reuben, “there are no Knights of the Watch waiting to come help us. Get that into your goddamn head, you stupid fool.”
“You don’t know that,” said Broily, but he dropped his eyes.
“Besides,” added Grandpa, “Victor wouldn’t know east from a frog. He’d as likely use your letter to wipe his butt as deliver it where you want...wherever that is.”
“And he’s part of us now,” I cried. “We can’t just send him away. He’s earning his keep.”
There were some murmurs at my entering the conversation of the Old Ones, but most seemed to agree with me. The idea died and everyone eventually adapted to the presence of the big man and incorporated him into the fabric of our lives. Everyone that is except Mother.
She continued to watch and even try to question him.
“Mother, please leave him alone,” I pleaded. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting him?”
“Something isn’t right,” Mother said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She just shook her head and went back to her knitting. In the days ahead I would catch her watching him distrustfully when she believed no one was looking. Until the day Victor saved me.
Mother and I were in the garden and our shift was nearly over. Victor had taken to meeting us and accompanying us home for lunch before he would return to the north field. We were filing through the gate one at a time, carefully scrutinized by Reaper. Even before it happened, I sensed something was wrong. He wasn’t groping any of the women or looking down their shirts.
“Not you,” he said to me. Mother had just passed through and she paused to stare at me with fear in her eyes. “Step over there,” he said indicating a secluded part of the garden while he continued to funnel the rest of the women and girls out of the garden.
I looked at Mother imploringly but moved over to the corner of the garden under a peach tree long since picked clean for the year. I waited nervously as Reaper closed the gate and then walked over to me with a wicked grin.
“You’re quite the topic of conversation among the Shriekers, my little plum,” he said. “Bidding is high for you. You should be flattered.”
“I thought a girl could pick who she Took the Chit from,” I stammered.
Reaper chuckled. “That’s true, but once they do they can be traded or bought, you know that. Some girls we all get a taste of before they’re worn out. You won’t hear any complaints from them though. They’re taken care of.”
The big man moved uncomfortably close to me.
“I don’t believe I’ll Take the Chit,” I said with more courage than I feel.
He frowned. “Think you’re too good for us, that it?”
“No,” I stammered backing away from him until my back rested against the wooden fence. “It’s just that my family does okay and I don’t need to. We manage.”
“What if you didn’t manage? Wouldn’t take much for your mother to lose her side job and without his mechanical shop your grandfather is just a waste of food. Life could get very hard for you. You need to plan for the future.” He slipped his hand inside the front of my shirt.
I tried to pull away. “I’m not sixteen yet.”
Reaper licked his lips, foul breath pushing down upon me. “I’m just going to test the wares, that’s all. Let the boys know what the merchandize is worth. You wouldn’t begrudge anyone that.”
Before I could say anything, he nearly lifted me off the ground with his hand in my crotch. His big fingers were there probing, thrusting, hurting. “Stop!” I cried out. “You’re hurting me.”
“Shut up,” he said burying his head in the opening of my shirt licking my neck.
I cried out again and struggled, but it was like pushing against a tree.
“Let her go,” said Mother from behind Reaper.
He grunted in surprise and released me. Turning he saw the small woman there with a slender knife in her hand. Fast as a cat, he punched out catching her flush in the face with his massive fist. Blood spurted from her nose and mouth as she crumbled to the ground.
Reaper stopped to spit disdainfully on Mother’s writhing form before turning back to me.
“No hurt, Teal,” said a childish voice from inside the garden. “Miss Margaret hurt?”
“Get out of here, softhead,” said Reaper, “or I’ll put a beating on you too.”
Victor ignored the Protector and helped Mother off the ground.
The Shrieker appeared genuinely angry now and he let go of me. He swung his arm and his fist connected fully with the side of Victor’s face. The big man’s head rocked back, but he didn’t fall, only looked back at Reaper in slight surprise.
“Leave him alone,” I said.
Reaper backhanded me absentmindedly and then turned back just in time to see Victor rushing upon him.
The giant wrapped his arms around Reaper and squeezed him tightly. “Nohurtteal. Nohurtteal. Nohurtteal,” he kept saying over and over as the two men struggle and feel to the ground.
Reaper thrashed and bit at Victor until the big man let him go. The Shrieker climbed to his feet red in the face and gasping. Picking up his whip with trembling fingers, Reaper started hitting Victor again and again with all his might.
Victor squealed and tried to crawl away, but Reaper followed, striking Victor across the back, legs, arms, and head again and again until blood showed through torn clothing.
I rushed towards the two, but felt Mother’s arms around me, holding me back. “No dear, stay out of it, or he’ll kill you.”
“But he’s going to kill Victor!”
At that moment the wooden handle of the whip broke in half. Reaper stood over Victor’s prostrate body heaving great gasps of air. His large head slowly rotated towards us before baring his teeth and screaming savagely. Fists clinched he stepped forward straddling the man’s body and gripped the hair on the back of Victor’s head. With one hand he tugged the head back to expose Victor’s neck while pulling out the large curved knife at his belt.
“No!” I cried struggling in mother’s arms. “Don’t kill him!”
Reaper ignored me, but Victor’s eyes meet mine. Incredibly they look calm, even aware. He smiled at me affectionately.
“I’ll Take the Chit from you,” I scream.
The Protector freezes and tilted his head in my direction like a dog listening for a particular sound.
“No,” hissed Mother.
I ignore her. “If you spare him, I’ll Take the Chit from you when I’m Of Age.”
He glared at me angrily before looking me up and down. I can almost feel him devouring me and my skin crawled. Finally, he put the knife back in its sheath and stepped away from Victor.
“Pick him up and get him out of here,” he rasped and noticed the other women and girls at the entrance. “Not one word of this to anyone or I’ll peel the skin off your faces. Now get!”
We fled. It was difficult carrying Victor, but he was able to support most of his own weight. I could feel Reaper’s eyes upon me until we are down the street and out of sight.
I heard a strange sound from Mother and turned to see something terrible.
Tears were running down her face and that frightened me worse than anything that had happened so far.
Victor cried all the way back to our house, but once there seemed to calm himself. Mother and I stripped the bloody rags from his body and clean his wounds, most of which were on his immense back. He stoically endured what is certainly painful, mumbling incoherently to himself.
Once we had done all we could for him, I tried to get the big man to rest. Instead he took his rainmaker and sat cross-legged in front of the open fireplace. He tilted the cylinder to one side and then the other. The soothing sounds of rain filled the house while Victor stared intently into the flames.
***
I had never seen Grandpa like he was. To call him angry failed to adequately explain his state of mind. His deep fear for Mother and me, mixed with fury over what had happened, all combined to form a strange cocktail of intense brooding that set our home on edge.
Instead of being more afraid, though, I felt a sense of clarity. I truly realized for the first time that we were not the Protected and the Shriekers were not our Protectors. It was a situation that couldn’t continue, I knew. We had to do something.
“The Protected are close to one hundred fifty, right?” I asked Grandpa the following week in his workshop.
“More or less,” he answered working on a giant stereo speaker. “About twenty-five of what you would call Sad Ones and the rest women or young.”
