by Joseph Lallo
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 week 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.”
“Then you'll have to tell him. Or get someone to tell him.”
The old man heaved an irritated sigh. “Do a job well enough and you are cursed to do it forever . . . You'll have to do it.”
The beast shuddered. “If you need me to, I'll try to get someone to deliver the message for you.”
“No, you do it.”
“I don't think the master would like it if I tried to speak to him,” he said, tipping his head and briefly allowing confusion to replace the concern on his face.
“No. You help with the carriage. It is just a few broken spokes, a bit of grease to be added, a bit of work to be done on the axle. You've done all of it before.”
His apprentice stepped back, eyes wide, as though a lit torch had been waved in his face. “I can't do work for the master. He . . . I . . . he doesn't even allow other slaves to work so near to his home without special permission.”
“There's a job to be done, shadow. If I tried to do it in my state, I doubt I could finish, and the results would be unacceptable in any case. Go. He hates to be kept waiting.”
“But I—”
“Go! Grease, spokes, axle!”
The apprentice stood and quietly assembled the things he would need, a mixture of nerves and anger tying his tongue. A pot of grease, a brush, and a few hand tools were thrown into a satchel, and a few lengths of the appropriate wood were slid from the pile beside the door as he left. The sound of his departure brought a slow grin to Ben's face. With no apparent difficulty, he sat up on the cot and listened to the creature march toward his master.
Despite years on the plantation, the beast had never been inside the master's residence, or any of the outlying buildings. The place had begun as a modest home: a bedroom for each of his three children, one for himself and his wife, and a large kitchen and dining room. As the plantation grew, and his family grew, the home had grown as well. It was now a proper mansion: two floors, a dozen rooms, and all of the pointless but beautiful details that tended to accumulate on any sufficiently wealthy home. A porch wrapped around the building's base, with chairs and tables for enjoying the nightly breeze. The railings had lathed balusters, the windows had carved shutters, and the shingles had been painted a warm cream color. Strangely, with each addition Jarrad himself seemed to spend less time there.
The one new feature that he seemed to use was a stable. With the purchase of the new fields, more oxen were needed to pull more plows, and thus a dedicated stable had been built beside his personal workshop to house the horses responsible for pulling his carriage. In a way, it was the last practical addition to the home, and thus the last one that made sense to a dyed-in-the-wool farmer like himself. Between his time spent marching the land watching his workers, and the time spent working or tinkering in his stable or workshop, the only times Jarrad seemed to step inside his own lush estate were meal time and bed time.
He was standing beside a lit lantern with his arms crossed, two of his house servants lingering on either side of the stable's doors, when the sound of footsteps could be heard along the gravel walkway around the corner of the stable.
“Get back! This is the master's residence. Back!” growled one of the servants suddenly.
“Who is it?” Jarrad asked, pacing toward the commotion.
“That beast.”
Jarrad grumbled. “Ben! I thought I told you to leave that thing behind when you come here. Get one of the other slaves to haul things for you. My wife doesn't like to look through her blasted curtains and see a monster.”
When the owner arrived, he glanced around to find the malthrope standing rigidly in place, tools and equipment set carefully at his feet. There was no sign of Ben.
“Go get the blind man,” Jarrad ordered one of the servants, turning to return to the stable's entrance.
“He . . . he won't be . . . he isn't coming, master,” the beast said shakily. Speaking in the presence of anyone but Ben tended to end poorly, so he tried to avoid it. With no other option, he murmured with his eyes turned dutifully toward the ground, head bowed and ears turned down. “He feels ill. From the heat. He said I should help.”
Jarrad stopped, turning back with a dubious expression. “You? Do you know how to repair a carriage?”
“I . . . Ben. He repairs carts. Wagons. I watch. I do it sometimes, when he is busy.”
Jarrad cast a long, hard look at the creature. “Come. The blasted wheel is ruined anyway. It isn't as though it can be made any worse.” He turned to his men. “You and you. I want you near the door. Closer eye than usual on this one.”
The servants turned back to the malthrope and watched with an intensity that made the month of observation feel pale by comparison. He gathered his equipment with slow, deliberate motions. Anything sudden would earn him a strap across the face, a lesson that still lingered with him from his earliest days in this place. He was escorted around to the stable's entrance, where Jarrad directed him to the damaged wheel of the carriage. It was indeed in terrible shape. Seven of the dozen spokes were either splintered or outright broken. The axle was still whole, but one of its supports was split, and the iron hub had been warped and twisted by the irregular load. A stack of crates was holding the damaged corner of the carriage off the ground.
“There. Work quickly. I may need it in the morning.”
Jarrad watched as his investment went to work. It laid out the parts and tools, then began to work the hub off of the wheel. There was a care and precision behind its motions, as though they were the result of long practice and endless repetition. He'd seen the thing work before—for the last month he'd done little else—but in the fields it was always simple work. The creature would dig holes, pluck berries, and carry tools. There was nothing he'd seen it do that couldn't be done just as easily by even a triple-str
ipe slave. He'd seen little to convince him that the thing was anything more than a creature that had been taught a few impressive tricks. This was different. Something less than human should have greater difficulty with so fine a task. There was no sign of that.
“How many times have you done this, beast?”
“Many, master. Smaller wheels,” he replied, levering out one of the undamaged spokes and laying it out beside a length of wood. He marked off the length and slowly lifted the saw from its place beside him, the motion causing a menacing stir from the servants.
“Let it work,” Jarrad instructed his men.
The saw was put to work cutting replacement spokes to length.
“You've been helping Ben for some time now,” the owner remarked.
“I have.”
“Why?”
“It is important to have a purpose, master.”
“Mmm. Your kind. Malthropes. They say they are all thieves and killers.”
The creature paused in its work, one hand hovering over a hammer. With a deep breath, he grasped the tool and answered, not looking up from his task. “Yes, master. They say that.” He began to hammer the warped hub back into shape.
“Is it true?”
“I do not know, master. I have never met one,” he answered between blows.
One by one, replacement spokes were lined up, and with hammer in one hand and chisel in the other, the creature set about shaping the ends. Jarrad watched as each step was performed. The beast was not fast, and he was not terribly efficient, but he was thorough. Slow, deliberate motions and endless checking and rechecking ensured that no mistakes were made, and gradually the replacement parts began to take shape. After an hour, the spokes were ready, and the tedious task of fitting them in place could begin. After a second hour, the crunch of steps on the path heralded a new visitor.
“Father, tell me you've got that carriage fixed,” came a young voice.
When he reached the doorway, the visitor turned out to be a young man, barely out of his teens, but with the tone of voice and general attitude of a privileged child. In the face he was the spitting image of his father: dark hair, hard jaw. A single glance was all that it took to reveal that the resemblance stopped at the surface. He was thin, skin practically pale from lack of sun. His hands were smooth and unmarked by labor, and he wore an attitude of smugness and superiority like a crown. There were princes less overtly enthralled by their own power and position. When he saw the beast working at the wheel, he sneered and stepped back.
“Honestly,” Jarrad's son scoffed, “You let that thing this close to the house? I simply will not ride in anything that has been touched by that!”
“You are not in a position to choose, Marret. It is our only carriage,” Jarrad rumbled.
“Exactly, Father! It is a crime that we haven't got two carriages. Or three! I really ought to have my own by now. I'm the heir to this plantation!”
“Marret, we've been through this. We do not need it. I will not stand for another coin being wasted on pointless status and show when it could be invested back into this land!”
Marret scoffed again, dismissively turning to march back to the manor. “Fine, Father. Toil away in the dirt. When I'm in charge, things will be different.”
Jarrad released a hissing sigh, like steam rushing from Gurruk's still, and clenched his fists tightly enough to crackle the knuckles.
“You two, go!” he barked at the servants by the door. “I can handle the beast.”
With a reluctant nod, the men departed, leaving Jarrad alone with the malthrope. The owner stalked around the stable, jaw tight and teeth bared. Finally, his anger got the better of him and he unleashed it, grabbing a bucket and bashing it against the wall. His men came running back, no doubt expecting to see the creature at their employer's throat. Instead, they found the creature crouched on the ground, head covered and trembling as the owner seethed in the middle of the floor.
“Sir?” ventured the braver of the two. “Is there something wrong?”
“Did you hear me call you back?” he barked. “Get out! I'll call you if I need you.”
The men scurried away once more, leaving Jarrad to simmer in anger again.
“Get back to work,” he said, pacing back and forth.
The malthrope nervously picked up the hammer and began tapping apart the wheel so that the fresh spokes could be inserted.
“Money. Money is the problem. It ruined that boy,” Jarrad began. “Look at him! He's never had a speck of dirt on those hands. The sun has barely touched his brow. Five years . . . five years is all it took. One day, he's a little boy, it is all you can do to keep him out of the fields, keep him from doing something to get himself hurt. The next day, the first big rakka harvest is sold and he thinks he's royalty. It is like you said. Purpose. A man needs purpose. That boy looks at this land and he sees the money it can make him. He doesn't understand that you only get out of it what you put into it. This land has got to feed more than two dozen mouths. And it has, faithfully, but only because I gave it what it needed. And one day it will all belong to that boy.
“I swear, if either of my girls had even the slightest interest in this place I'd leave it to them. But the oldest, she's got her own family now, and the youngest . . . well, she's nearly as bad as him. She knows a thing or two about how to run things, but it is still all about the money for her, and she'll get her claws into some damn fool like me before she decides she wants to do something on her own. If that boy doesn't open his eyes and start to understand where all of those fine clothes and expensive habits are paid for, this land will collapse once he gets his hands on it.”
Jarrad took a deep breath and looked to the creature. The beast had been quietly working. He had managed to insert each of the spokes loosely into the hub. The thin bits of wood were all angled upward, holding aloft the hub of the wheel like the peak of a tent. He was standing, circling the wheel. The plantation owner crossed his arms and leaned against the door, curious how his investment intended to force the hub flat to notch the spokes into place and finish the wheel. Such a thing was normally achieved as the wheel was being built. Doing it without disassembling the wheel seemed unlikely.
Nearly a minute of watching the malthrope pace around the wheel had nearly sapped Jarrad's patience when the beast finally stopped. He crouched slowly and reached out to straighten the hub, then in a flash of dizzying motion, sprang into the air. The powerful leap was nearly enough to brush the points of his foxy ears against the high roof of the stable. At the peak of the jump, he pulled his legs up, and as he came down upon the wheel he straightened them, fast and hard, driving both heels into the hub. With a creaking pop, the hub snapped flat to the floor, all spokes firmly seated.
“You didn't learn that from watching an old blind man,” Jarrad remarked.,
“No, master. Ben usually gets a few of the heavier slaves to stand on the hub.”
“Well, why didn't you get a few slaves in here to finish it?”
“They are resting, master. Tomorrow is brand day, and then comes the harvest. Much work to be done. And I was told to help you. This was my job to do.” The creature stated each sentence as simple fact, as though it was strange that he had even been asked. “I'll get the wheel back on and fix the support now.”
The owner nodded and watched as the simpler tasks were done. A broken strut was pried loose, a fresh one fitted. A coating of grease here, a wheel twisted on there. In no time at all, the wagon was ready to be pushed free of its support, rolling steady and true on its repaired wheel. If not for the freshness of the wood on the replaced pieces and the dings left from hammering at the hub, one would scarcely know it had ever been broken.
By the time Jarrad was finished admiring the job, the beast had collected the tools and scraps and was heading out the door.
“Ho, beast,” he said, stopping it in the doorway.
“Yes, master?”
“Good work.”
“Thank you, master.”
#
“Up, up!” Ben said, nudging his sleeping apprentice.
“Why? It is brand day. Until the master decides to add any new stripes, there isn't any work to be done. You don't need me there,” the creature answered, sitting reluctantly up in his cot.
“This time you'll need to come along.”
“Why?”
“Because you will. Now come,” Ben said, giving the beast a motivating thump on the back with his stick.
The duo marched out into the rays of the rising sun and made their way to the north end of the middle field, the traditional meeting place for the annual appraisal of skills and worth that was brand day. Most of the other slaves were already there, arranged into a handful of clusters of individuals who got along, and here and there a few hard stares from individuals who didn't. Menri was at the head of the remaining original slaves, a wide grin crossing his face when he saw the malthrope approaching. The other slaves adopted less jovial expressions when they noticed their unexpected guest, but the arrival of their master forced them to come to order before anything beyond a few harsh words could be hurled in the beast's direction.
Jarrad was joined by a thin, well-dressed, well-armed gentleman that none on hand had seen before. The newcomer had a short sword in an expensive leather sheath on one side of his belt, balanced by a pair of daggers on the opposite side. His clothes were of a thin and tailored tan fabric, and he carried a messenger's bag with a few scrolls and a quill peeking out from inside. He had a tightly cropped beard, a sculpted mustache that tapered along its length, and short hair covered with a formerly white kerchief that was tightly tied and had absorbed more than its share of sweat.
“All right, everyone, we've done this all before, and there is a long season ahead. We'll do it quickly and you can get back to your quarters,” Jarrad stated, as he had each year prior. “This is Mr. Straab; he will be marking down how many slaves of what type I have. I'm happy to say that only two of you will be gaining stripes today. Goldie, step up!”
