by Joseph Lallo
“What!? But master, I have worked just as hard this year as any other. I haven't—” objected the elf.
“You know why you're getting a stripe . . .” he said darkly. “If you weren't such a good worker, I'd be giving you two, or taking your nose.”
There was an exchange of knowing glances among slaves and servants alike. There had long been a rumor that Goldie and Jarrad's youngest daughter had been involved in the past. It would appear that the rumors were true.
A barrow filled with glowing coals was carted up to the line of slaves as Goldie was muscled forward. Slowly, eyes turned to the familiar and dreaded bit of equipment. The stripe brand was among the coals, as it always was . . . but the second brand, the one bearing the owner's mark, was there as well, and laying among the coals was the curved blade of a sickle. When in the best case a barrow contains objects intended to sear one's flesh, those who may potentially be at the receiving end of such implements tend to be keenly aware of anything out of the ordinary. The symbol brand indicated a new slave would be joining them. A murmur among the slaves was unable to confirm what exactly a sickle might mean.
The only one who seemed to know anything was Menri, and his only response was to smile a bit wider.
A bit of coaxing from a trio of servants eventually dislodged Goldie from his place among the other slaves while a fourth servant raised the stripe brand. It was applied, bringing with it a distinctive smell and a cry of pain that reached a pitch high enough to prompt a snicker from those slaves still standing at attention.
“Patch him up and arrange new quarters for him,” Jarrad instructed the servants, adding with a vicious tone, “Make sure they are far from my residence.”
Straab drew a lidded pot of ink from his bag, dabbed a quill in it, and shook a few stray drops from the end while deftly replacing the lid, stowing the bottle, and fetching a scroll with his remaining hand. A short symbol was sketched onto the page, denoting a slave dropping from single to double-stripe status. When he was through, he nodded to Jarrad.
“Beast, step forward,” ordered the owner.
All eyes turned to the creature. Instantly he felt hunted, cornered, stricken with the same panicked reflex to run from the light that drives any creature beneath a lifted rock. He turned to Ben.
“He doesn't like to be kept waiting,” Ben said quietly when he failed to hear footsteps. Stepping close, he added quietly. “Whatever happens, hold still. It will be better for everyone.”
The beast drew in a breath and stepped forward. Straab’s hand smoothly shifted to the hilt of his sword, but when the creature stopped and stood awaiting instruction, he raised an eyebrow.
“I must say,” remarked the official, “I’ve never seen one so obedient before.”
“Is this what you would consider a full grown malthrope?” Jarrad asked.
Straab looked over the beast before him, tipping his head to the side a bit. “As large as I care to see them get, yes.”
“Worthy of the full bounty?”
“Five hundred entus upon the rendering of a tail as proof that an adult malthrope has been eliminated from the population,” Straab recited.
At the sound of the words, the creature shuddered, his instincts screaming to run. With the full force of his will, he managed to keep from sprinting for the fields, Ben’s words echoing in his head. Every ounce of trust that the blind man had earned in their years together was being put to the test. It was just enough.
“Mmm,” Jarrad remarked. He looked to the malthrope with a steady gaze, his expression betraying no hint of his thought or intention. Finally he gestured to his men. “Hold the beast.”
The statement was the last straw, instinct finally overruling reason, but it was too late. Servants on each side grasped and immobilized his arms. Another quickly looped a strap around his muzzle, locking his jaws shut. Panic brought strength, but despite a valiant effort the wiry little beast could not wrestle himself free. His eyes widened in terror as Jarrad took a thick leather glove from one of his men and slipped it on.
“On the ground,” he instructed.
His servants kicked the legs out from beneath the malthrope and forced him to his stomach. One on each side held him down by his arms and shoulders, another held both legs, and a fourth placed a boot on his back to hold him still. He couldn’t move at all. Jarrad took the sickle from the fire. The blade was glowing. Horrified squeals and whines, muffled by the strap, filled the air. He watched Jarrad stalk closer, but when he tried to turn his head, the strap around his mouth yanked his head straight. There was a tight grip near the base of his tail, a firm tug, and then . . .
Nothing.
The creature heard the sizzle, he smelled the burnt hair and flesh, but beyond a short flash of heat there was nothing else: no pain, no sensation. The weight of what happened didn’t strike until he saw Jarrad pacing back toward Straab. In the master's hand was the beast’s tail, fiery orange and tipped in creamy white, still twitching slightly. The sheer disorientation of seeing something that had moments before been a part of his body was momentarily enough to wash away the emotion of the moment, leaving awe and disbelief to fill the void. It was surreal, too much for his mind to grasp at once, like walking down the road one day and meeting oneself. It simply shouldn’t happen. There wasn’t even much blood, the hot blade closing the wound as quickly as it had opened.
The moment of respite from his emotions ended with a vengeance when he saw Jarrad hand the stolen tail to Straab. A potent bewildering mix of fear, anger, betrayal, and hate shook the beast as a growl rattled in his chest and tears filled his eyes.
“You’ve got your tail,” Jarrad said to Straab. He tossed the sickle into the barrow, sending a cloud of embers into the air. “I’ll take the silver the next time you pass through.”
The official nodded, tying a bit of twine to the base of the tail and hanging it from his belt in a practiced manner. “I’d prefer to see it killed before I go.”
“I won’t be killing it.”
The statement brought the slaves, servants, and officials to a sudden, confused silence.
“The reward is for killing the beast.”
“That beast is a good worker. It has not left this plantation since I acquired it, and it will not leave this plantation alive. I’ve never had a slave escape, and I don’t mean to. I’ve gotten years of good work out of it, and I mean to have years more.”
“It is a menace. It is your duty to eliminate it.”
“Three of my slaves are criminals who were sentenced to slavery rather than execution. Their lives ended the day they came here. That creature is not alive. It is property. It is my property, and I will not have it damaged until I've gotten my use out of it.”
“What could it possibly do for you?”
“That isn't your concern. You have the tail, and you have my word that this beast has breathed its last free breath. By my account, I've earned that bounty.”
Straab scowled. He rummaged through the bag and pulled out a few scrolls, sweeping over them with his eyes. After tapping his foot in irritation for a moment, he looked down at the still-immobilized malthrope. The creature had stopped struggling and his eyes were squeezed shut, tears running down his face. Another glance at the scroll seemed to make the official's decision for him.
“I don't like it, but let us not fool each other. I don't know how long that thing has been on this farm, but it is a wonder it is still alive, and I doubt very much it will remain that way for long. You'll have the bounty, but you also have my word that if that thing ever escapes, any crimes it commits will be on your head. And since there isn’t any way to know that it is your malthrope that would commit these crimes, any murders, any thefts, anything by any malthrope is on your head until you can prove that your malthrope is dead.”
“If I allow it to escape, I will deserve it.”
“So be it. But so long as we are following the letter of the law rather than its spirit, that thing is, by my measure, an adult work
ing on this plantation. That means it goes on the count, and you pay.”
“As I should. And by the letter of the law, stripes denote value, and this is a slave I can never sell,” Jarrad said. “That means three stripes.”
Straab nodded, preparing the quill again.
Jarrad turned to his men. “Get it on its feet.”
The handlers hauled the creature to his feet. It was clear that the pain he had been spared by speed of the tail's removal was slowly building, and the emotion was raging in his eyes. Jarrad stepped close.
“Look at me,” he hissed under his breath. The beast locked his anguished eyes on the master's. “If you are half as clever as you seemed to be yesterday, you know that what I did today has kept you alive. Once these marks are on your arm, you are one of my workers. I take good care of my workers. If you ever, ever, make me regret this, you know what will happen. Do you understand?”
It took some time for the creature to wrestle back enough of his wits to respond, but finally he gave a stiff nod.
“Release the strap. Brand him, three stripes,” Jarrad ordered his men.
The handler securing his mouth released it and wisely backed away, but beyond an involuntary twitch of a lip, baring cruel and clenched teeth, the beast did not react. The effort necessary to keep his screaming instincts from having their way was plain to see. His body was quivering with tension, like a stretched bow string. His breath came and left in short, severe bursts. He watched as a handler removed the symbol brand from the coals. A quick efficient roll of the iron hissed at his arm. He just shuddered once, eyes still locked on Jarrad. The stripe brand was applied, and again. By the third time, it prompted no reaction at all, not even a blink.
Jarrad stared down the beast that had for years been an investment, and now was a gamble. “Release it.”
With no small amount of caution, the handlers on each arm let go. The creature stumbled and fell, knees not ready or willing to support his weight. The slaves and handlers watched and waited, but all that greeted them was the sight of a creature recovering from an ordeal. Straab shook his head and marked down one additional triple-stripe slave.
“The bounty will be delivered in a few days. Good luck keeping that thing in check,” the official remarked, marching away from the fields and toward his awaiting carriage.
“That is all for today. Return to your quarters. Tomorrow begins the planting season. I want you rested,” Jarrad instructed.
The slaves and handlers slowly spread out across the plantation, each tending to his own business. Only three lingered. One was the beast, the trauma of mind and body making the process of climbing to his feet an uphill battle. Another was Ben, who stepped slowly to the sounds of struggle and offered a hand, then a shoulder to the beast.
The last was Menri. He did nothing, said nothing. He simply stood, disgust and hatred plastered in his expression and fury smoldering beneath the surface.
#
Ben and his apprentice finally reached their shack. Getting from place to place as a blind man is difficult, but it can be mastered. Getting from place to place as a blind man supporting an unsteady creature is another challenge all together, and had the beast not recovered enough to walk on his own, it might have taken them until nightfall before they’d reached home. Once inside, Ben took a seat at the chair in front of the worktable. His apprentice leaned against the wall and slid shakily to the floor.
For a time there was silence, but silence of a very specific sort. This was not the quiet of two individuals with nothing to say. This was the void left by words unspoken. It was potent, dense, and oppressive. When it was finally broken, it was with a single word.
“Why?” the malthrope said.
“What are you asking?”
“Why did they take it? Why did they cut off my tail?”
“The bounty, remember?”
“You knew that they would do this? All this time you knew what they had planned?”
“I did. Everyone did.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What good would it have done? ‘Come here, you little scamp. See that tail of yours? They mean to cut it off when it is long enough. And they’ll likely cut your throat along with it.’ What would you have done?”
“I . . . I could have run away.”
“No doubt you could have. But you were a whelp when you first came here. Jarrad had been given a reason to keep you alive. I convinced him it would be worth the wait to turn in the tail when you were grown. It is why you are still alive. No one out there would have waited longer than the next visit to a man like Straab.”
“And what about after that? What about once I could take care of myself?”
Ben gave a short, bitter laugh. “You think you can take care of yourself? That Straab character might think you’re full-grown, but you have no idea what you’ll find outside those walls. You aren’t ready. Not yet.”
“Well . . . maybe it is time I learned for myself. That fence might stop you and the others, but not me, and those dogs like me better than they like Jarrad.”
“Mmm. And what about Jarrad? You heard what they said. He put his neck on the line. You leave this place and he feels the consequences.”
“He cut off my tail!” the beast hissed.
“He also spared your life. He could have drawn that blade across your throat and been better off, but he didn’t.”
“He just wants more work out of me.”
“What does it matter? He wants you alive. He was given the choice of killing you and sparing you and he spared you. How many others would have done the same, regardless of the reason? What he has for you may not be trust, but it isn’t far from it. Running now would only prove to him that he was wrong.”
“Why you, then? Why did you convince him in the first place?”
“I just knew you would be worth more as an adult, and I thought that you wouldn’t be much trouble. I didn’t want them to waste an opportunity.”
“And when you learned how much trouble I was?”
“I still didn’t want to waste an opportunity. Listen I didn’t know much about malthropes before you came along. Now I know far less.”
“Less?”
“Indeed. Before, malthropes were mindless monsters. They were murderers and thieves implicitly. Now I find that is not true. Now I know nothing except what I’ve observed. And what I’ve observed is a creature who seems able to do anything asked of him. Great potential. A great opportunity. And I cannot stand idle while an opportunity is wasted.”
The beast fidgeted painfully, dense silence creeping back. He looked to the ground beside him, to the place where his tail should have been. It was as though it was still there. He could feel it, the sensation of it moving when he tried to curl it, but it was gone. Now his eyes turned to Ben. The one person, the one thing that he had trusted. The trust should be gone as well . . . but, like the tail, he could still feel it. His mind churned over the last few weeks. Ben’s insistence that he demonstrate his worth. His sudden illness that forced a few hours alone with Jarrad . . .
Maybe trust wasn’t like an arm or a leg. Maybe, even if you couldn’t see it, it was still there if you could feel it.
“And what if I stay? What happens then?”
“Now you are one of us. All of these people share a common goal. The same goal. To do what they must, to make things better, to live their lives, and to serve their purpose. You share that goal, and that means that these are your people. You bear his mark, the same as anyone else.”
The creature scoffed. “The same? They certainly won't treat me the same.”
“Behave as though you are equal and they will treat you as such. Follow orders not just from me but from the master and his servants. Work with the other slaves . . .”
“And they will treat me as one of them?”
“In time.”
“And if they don't? Why should I behave properly if they don't treat me properly?”
“Because all goo
d things must start somewhere, and all bad things must end somewhere.”
The creature was silent for a time. Then, painfully, he made his way to his feet.
“Where are you off to?” Ben asked.
“Tomorrow the new rakka field gets readied. I’ve still got half a dozen trowels to look over,” the beast said, pacing off to the second room.
The blind man listened as the scrape of a sharpening stone, the sound of a job being done, replaced the silence. A smile came to his face.
#
The next day was the beginning of the growing season, just a bit more than five years to the day since Ben and the malthrope had arrived. The day's task was to prepare a field for rakka. Rows had to be heaped to a precise height, with just the right mix of compost and manure. The plant's food had to be carted along in a barrow, or hefted on one's shoulders. Each seed needed to be placed at a precise distance from the last, such that each row had the same number of plants. Though with enough time it could be done by the most novice of slaves, doing it quickly and well was, in short, one of the most skilled pieces of labor to be performed in a given year. A single error at any point would could result in a crowded row that was difficult to harvest, or else a sparse one that wasted precious land. Redoing a row was a phenomenal waste of time and resources, as the mixed soil would need to be dug up and replaced lest the temperamental rakka plants refuse to sprout.
Yet despite all of this, to Menri's fury, the blind man and his blasted malthrope had been put on the field beside the real workers to prepare the final row. It was a stomach-turning sight.
“Ho, blind man,” growled Menri. “Get the mally off the fields. You can't let a mally lay a rakka field!”
At the sound of the man's voice, the creature lowered his head and shuffled aside a bit. Despite his size, shoulder-height to Ben, he looked much smaller: perpetually slouched and thin as a rail. For the first time he was dressed as the other slaves, a shirt and trousers made from the rough cloth produced from the dried rakka vine and colored the same distinctive hue. It was the first time he was considered one of the workers, and thus was assigned one of their uniforms. The coarse cloth weighed down the fluffy red fur that covered the beast, making him seem thinner still, and a cascade of tangled hair that had never seen a blade flowed from his head and into a ponytail.
