by Travis Smith
When no one came, however, The Stranger began to writhe in his snare. His frustration, combined with the increased blood flow to his head, made his face and ears burn, and he could feel his fever returning with rabid intensity. The wound in his chest was now twisted and pressed against his bandages, and it too was burning and pulsing fiercely. He could feel his consciousness waning, and the more he struggled, the more pain he brought upon himself.
He groaned and attempted one last time to maneuver himself into a new position, but nothing would give. As his claustrophobia and frustration reached a peak, he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax, so his pounding heart wouldn’t explode inside his chest.
After such a cathartic experience tearfully watching the sunrise, how could he have been so foolish as to get himself trapped here? He’d literally felt himself slide from the womb of his grief and into this fresh, new life of determination only moments ago. And now he was dangling upside down in a net, unable to move so much as a finger to free himself. Left at the mercy of his already questionable blood pressure and whatever man or beast may come bumbling along to spot him first.
At last, The Stranger heard a rustling in the brush. He strained his eyes to look to his left, but no one was there.
“Knew I’d get ye ’fore any’ne else’d,” rasped a voice out of his line of sight.
As the net turned slowly, The Stranger observed a small, feeble old man hobbling out of the jungle with a thin cane for support. The cane looked to be nearly as old and knotted as its owner. Surely this man could mean him no harm.
“Please let me down, sir. I’m injured and in terrible discomfort up here.”
“Ye gon’ take flight ag’in ’f I cut ye loose?” the old man cackled.
The Stranger recognized the man’s voice from the beach, when he’d first regained consciousness and fled the scene of his wrecked ship. “I was disoriented,” he explained. “I didn’t know who was after me.”
“Ye di’n’t answer me question, sonny.”
“I …” The Stranger didn’t know how to respond. “Yes, I need to be on my way.” He writhed in his net again, frustration building. “Let me down, I say. I have no bother with you.”
“’Fraid I can’t let ye go just yet,” the man replied with an insincere apologetic tone.
“All right! I’ll stay and chat with you. Just get me down!”
The old man stopped hobbling nearly directly under the net and bent forward on his cane. “Not sure I b’lieve ye, me boy. Sad t’ say I c’d see ye runnin’ off on yer own soon’s I set ye loose.”
The Stranger closed his eyes in disbelief. He had, in fact, every intention of doing just that given the first opportunity, but the neurotic old man clearly just wanted to toy with him. “Sir,” he groaned and writhed one last time in the net, “what do you want from me? Please, I beg of you, just let me down so we may talk like men.”
“Yer a plague on me island,” the man replied. “Since ye wrecked on me shore in yer flamin’ vessel ’n’ scurried off into me jungle, ’s been nothin’ but death ’n’ chaos all across these peaceful shores.” He reached into the large pocket of his loose smock and pulled out a small tube of some sort of exotic wood. “That said, I don’ see ye sittin’ fit t’ talk like men at present.” He placed one end of the tube into his mouth and blew.
The Stranger started as the sharp dart stuck painfully into his pinned arm. He worked his lips and let out a strangled groan as his vision faded to black.
3
The Stranger awoke in a dark cell feeling more miserable than ever. A small lamp flickered in the far corner of the room, of which his cell occupied only a quarter. A wooden staircase led down to the dank, windowless room, where there was a wooden table, a rocking chair, the steel-barred cell in one corner, and some sort of cauldron for potion-mixing. The Stranger’s cage had a small cot and an empty bucket, presumably for waste.
He lay his head back on his bed and closed his eyes. No sooner had his new life begun than he’d found himself locked away in some ancient madman’s dungeon. If the elder were working alone, he should have no trouble strong-arming the man and freeing himself, but his infection was back full-force, and his chest was searing anew with white-hot pain. And then he remembered the man’s blowgun. The old man could knock him out cold from across the entire room if he had mind to. The Stranger would likely never get close enough to touch the man if he were careful.
He struggled to sit up and felt lightheaded. His face and ears were burning fiercely with his fever.
Is this where I die? he wondered. Will my new lease on life come to a close so promptly? With that The Stranger fell back asleep.
He awoke some time later to a series of heavy thumps and creaking on the stairs. The old man was lurching his way down with a pouch slung over his shoulder. The man slowly made his way to the floor and shuffled over to place his bag on the table.
“Name’s Eugene,” he croaked amiably enough as he procured a bowl from the bag. He began pulling out various items and placing them in the bowl. Several leaves, some type of rock, what looked to be a hair. Eventually he raised his eyes to The Stranger’s and stared at him expectantly.
“I don’t care,” The Stranger replied. He refused to play along with the man’s sadistic mind-games.
Eugene smiled a nearly toothless grin as he limped over to the cauldron and lit a fire underneath with a match. He walked back to the table and pulled a pear out of his pouch. After cutting it in pieces and placing two small portions into the bowl, he plopped heavily down in his rocking chair and began eating the remaining pieces.
“I’d offer ye some,” he said, “but ye’ll want ’n empty stomach fer wot’s comin’.”
“If you’re going to kill me, just kill me,” The Stranger replied, struggling to keep his tone from sounding too pleading. “I’ve been through enough already.”
“I ’tain no satisfaction from killin’ a man,” Eugene said darkly.
The Stranger finally managed to sit up on his cot. “Then from just what do you attain satisfaction?”
Eugene popped a slice of pear into his mouth as he eyed The Stranger in silence before struggling to stand himself upright. He shuffled over to the bars of the cage and cocked his head slightly. “How’s yer,” he stuck his cane through the bars and held it lightly and shakily against The Stranger’s chest, “injury?”
The Stranger didn’t hesitate to muster all his energy and snatch the cane and pull it towards himself. Eugene offered no resistance against which The Stranger could pull himself upright. The cane pulled effortlessly from the man’s grasp, and he slowly backed away from the cage in silence.
The Stranger squeezed the wooden stick as tightly as he could, his face contorting in his rage. “Come and get it!” he sneered.
Eugene’s face lit up in a cruel grin as he reached into his smock pocket and pulled out his blowgun. He held it between two fingers and wiggled it tauntingly as he chuckled to himself.
The Stranger closed his eyes and trembled furiously as he awaited the prick of the dart. Just before it came, though, he used both hands to slam the stick down painfully across his knee, effectively breaking the old man’s cane in half.
4
When The Stranger finally awoke again, the pieces of the broken cane were gone, and the old man was sitting in his rocker with an entirely new cane at his side. A steaming cup of dark purple liquid was at The Stranger’s bedside.
“So you’d poison me, then?” The Stranger gibed. “Practice some of your black magic potions?”
Eugene’s eyes narrowed minutely, as though he were momentarily offended by The Stranger’s remarks. “On the contr’y,” he croaked.
The Stranger bent and lifted the cup to smell it.
“I know ’ow ’t smells,” Eugene said impatiently. “Drink it. All.”
“You will heal me, then? Cure my ailments to torture me back to this state anew?”
Eugene only stared in response.
The Stra
nger lifted the cup to his mouth. If it truly wasn’t poison, surely it held healing qualities. The Stranger hadn’t seen how the man had made it, and he wouldn’t have fully understood even if he had seen, but if there was even a chance that his wounds would heal and he would regain his strength, wouldn’t he be a fool to pass that up? He looked at Eugene again. The snookering old man merely watched with a satisfied grin on his face. Suddenly, destroying that satisfaction felt like the only important thing left in life. If it was to be his dying act to thwart this impossible old badger, so be it.
The Stranger flung the cup at the bars that held him captive. It shattered and sprayed hot potion across the cellar. Eugene never budged. He merely watched the outburst with a knowing amusement. The Stranger rolled over on his side and faced the wall in sullen silence.
The next time he rolled over, a new cup had been pushed between the bars. He used what little energy he had left and put himself in more discomfort simply to stand up, walk to the cup, and kick it brusquely back through the bars.
“I’ll keep pushin’ ’em through,” Eugene said.
“And I shall continue to toss them back.”
“I c’n wait ’til yer on yer last leg o’ life, dyin’ o’ hunger ’n’ thirst ’n’ fever,” the old man replied contentedly. “I won’ give ye food ’r water ’r naught ’til ye’ve broke down ’n’ drunk e’ry las’ drop.”
The Stranger stumbled back into his bed and closed his eyes, desperately wishing for an end, wishing for his pain to finally cease.
5
Each time he fell asleep and awoke again, a fresh batch had been made, and a new cup had been placed in his cage. Each time, The Stranger promptly tossed the cup away in protest.
Soon his hunger pangs became indistinguishable from the throbbing in his chest that waxed and waned with every beat of his dying heart. Despite the lack of natural light, The Stranger was sure that more than a day—perhaps more than two—had passed before his parched tongue became unbearable. He had embraced the end of his life, accepted that he would surely die at any moment, but he still found himself unable to simply sit back and let himself go. The process was more than just a conscious decision to give up; it involved writhing in endless torment, wondering which shallow, quaky breath would be his last. Pains coming from nearly every part of his body, he finally found himself lacking the energy required to continue acting out against the old man. Should the liquid be poison, so be it. At least his pain would stop. Should it actually heal him, he would find a way to take his own life before allowing this old man to torture him back to this state. And his mind was unable to consider the possibility of it being something else …
He lay in silent agony as he watched the old man stubbornly stir his pot for what must have been the fifteenth time. Did he actually get off just sitting in his rocker and watching his victim’s will break over so much time? The mental anguish was nearly as insufferable as his physical pains.
Eugene slid the final cup through the cell’s bars, and The Stranger crawled across the dusty floor to seize it. He took one mouthful and would have spit the foul substance all over the floor had his tissues not been so dry. He gagged on the drink and lay on his side as his empty stomach convulsed. The physical relief that it brought far outweighed the revolting taste. The Stranger took another large mouthful and struggled to swallow. The third gulp went down easier, and soon he was guzzling the thick liquid greedily as though it were fresh, cold water.
The old man hobbled over and slid another cup through the bars. “’Bout time,” he said plainly.
The Stranger looked within the second cup and found that it was only water. He downed the entire cup, every gulp tasting fresher and more invigorating than any he had any memory of ever imbibing. When the water was gone, he lay his head in the dirt and promptly fell asleep.
6
The torturous dreams or memories or premonitions that followed left The Stranger’s head feeling blank and confused when the potion wore off and he finally awoke for good. Eugene was still in his chair, and The Stranger had no idea how long he’d been out, but he had somehow made his way back to his bed. His body felt immensely refreshed, and his mind felt blank and new to match. A plate of warm meat was sitting on the floor next to a full cup of water, and The Stranger rolled out of bed and crawled on his hands and knees as rapidly as he could.
He shoved the meat into his mouth and struggled to choke it down after chewing as little as possible. “How did you get me all the way down here?” he asked abruptly. “From the jungle.”
“When ’ere’s a will …” Eugene replied.
A tear suddenly rolled down The Stranger’s cheek. He was ravenously hungry and confused, and he wasn’t entirely sure whether his fever had vanished or whether it was still addling his tired brain. “There were terrible dreams,” he said with no recollection of waking multiple times throughout and screaming at the watchful Eugene.
“Sad t’ say those mayn’t’ve been mere dreams,” the old man replied.
7
The Stranger slept a great deal over the next several days. Waking solely to shovel food into his mouth and to do his business in the bucket, he slept off the lingering effects of his infection and the foul potion. When his body was finally healed and the fever completely gone, he began pacing his cage and fully considering the old man’s plans with him. He didn’t see the man again for what felt like several days. It seemed the man came down and magically cleaned his bucket and dropped off food each time The Stranger slept. With no windows and a badly ruined internal clock, he had completely lost track of the time he’d spent in captivity after only the first day. He exercised in his cell to rebuild his strength and bide his time, all the while considering ways to make his escape. On more than one occasion he crawled along the perimeter of the cage and searched for weaknesses in its structure. The steel bars were all completely immovable, and the dirt underneath was impossibly firm. He tried digging in one spot until his hands completely dried out and began to bleed. He even tried urinating in the corner on several occasions, but the puddle always ran, and the dirt never absorbed enough of it to soften up.
“What are your plans with me?” The Stranger demanded, slamming his fists against the bars when Eugene finally hobbled downstairs while he was awake.
“Wot’s yer name, stranger?” Eugene asked, ignoring The Stranger’s demands in his frustrating way.
“I have no name.”
“Why d’ye bring yer flamin’ craft ’n’ yer filthy soul t’ me untroubled isle?” the old man tried instead.
“I had no hand in landing here,” The Stranger said.
Eugene sat in his chair and eyeballed The Stranger. “Where’s yer crew? Yer captives?”
“I’ve no crew. Nor any captives. ’Twas only I on that ship.”
“Now ’at’s a petty lie, ’s I seen more bodies ’s worse off ’n’ yers on board.”
“That was my family,” The Stranger sneered. “We were intercepted and attacked in the dead of night on open seas.”
Eugene narrowed his eyes and studied The Stranger’s stony face. “An’ if ye claim to carry no slaves, I reck’n ’twas the rightful owners o’ that craft who done it?”
“I suppose you could say that,” The Stranger said after a pause. The old man clearly either thought him a slave driver or a thief. “We stole the slave ship to escape Reprise when the king fell.”
“I’ve ’ad word o’ such affairs,” Eugene said without tone.
“’Twas Bernard himself who intercepted our craft. He sought to kill me and to take my son.”
Eugene’s face remained unreadable if not disbelieving. “D’ye speak truly?”
The Stranger nodded somberly. If he could convince him of his tragic tale, perhaps he could get the old man on his side. “I have been looking to go after my son since I awoke on that beach. This island gave me new life.”
“A life o’ captivity,” Eugene replied.
The Stranger’s hope collapsed around him
. “Your captive!” he yelled, slamming his fists again upon the bars.
Eugene struggled to stand up from his chair. “Ye’s reborn, but born into captivity.”
“Why are you keeping me prisoner?” The Stranger roared.
The man hobbled forward and glared sternly into The Stranger’s eyes. “Swear off your quest.”
“I will die before I do such.”
“Then die ye will,” Eugene said. “Ye cain’t kill The Baron, Stranger.”
His chest heaved. Furious that he was trapped helplessly in this cage, he shouted, “I will! I’d kill you too, old man, just for saying such!”
“Ye cain’t kill Bernard and avenge yer fam’ly!” Eugene demanded angrily.
“I vow to live this life to destroy Bernard. I will destroy everything he stands for. I will destroy everyone who stands with him.”
“Ye’ll fight his darkness with yer own?”
“I will fight him with everything I possess.”
Eugene eyed The Stranger contemptuously before turning around and shuffling his way back up the stairs. “Yer quest is destined t’ fail,” he said as he exited. “Yer soul is as black and damned as his.”
8
Time drew out agonizingly slowly and mysteriously. The Stranger spent days just sitting on his bed and mourning his losses, weeping for his helplessness. For a time he stood at his cell door and screamed up the stairs in fury and slammed his fists until they turned purple and useless. The old man made his way down while The Stranger was awake on rare occasions, but he never stayed again, and The Stranger made no attempts to speak to him. He grudgingly took his food and drink each day and whiled the endless time away as his stubble grew into a full beard and that began growing into short but maneuverable strands of hair. He tried yet again to simply let himself die, but the agony that mortal thirst and hunger brought with it again proved insurmountable. He searched for ways to kill himself, but the room was barren, and short of beating his own head against the bars, nothing would work.
“What do you want from me?” he sobbed when Eugene showed up after a while. “Why are you keeping me here this way?” He’d tried every imaginable way to escape, but the cell was impenetrable, and the old man was always careful to keep his distance on the rare occasions that he showed up.
