It had been some weeks since the warrior's induction to the chain gang. Aran had wrongly figured that being outside would have given him a clearer chance at liberty. This hope had fast faded. Today Aran stood head down, shoulders uncharacteristically hunched, though still a good half-head taller than the rest of his unfortunate gang mates.
Yesterday he had been taken from the line and flogged. Tied to the sides of the bullock carts they had been loading down with stumps, he had been hit by a cat until the skin on his back had become slick with his own blood. He had not cried out and was bewildered as to why he had received the punishment. He was the best and strongest worker after all.
He had no support amongst the men on the gang line, and the few times he had tried to garner any thought of escape in their minds, not one had taken him up on it. Even when he tried to reason a work crew's lifespan was decidedly short he was met with dull-eyed lethargy. This had both frustrated and confused him, what did they have to lose? Either die trying to escape, or die like abused beasts of burden where they stood in chains. Perhaps he had been overheard, or had Dahlia on a whim merely initiated the order?
It mattered not, only that he was more miserable today than he had ever been previously. Aran drew into himself, only concentrating on loading one shapelessly asymmetrical mallee stump at a time into the waiting high-sided cart. The day passed in suffering, Aran could feel he was falling into the mindset of a dumb beast. He had slowly watched the men about him grow weak and broken, and one by one they had been removed from the line.
One man had even gone quite mad and had begun to consume large quantities of earth in a suicide attempt. Others in hunger greedily consumed bugs and snails. He was not there quite yet, though hunger and lack of reason gnawed with all the gusto of a gourmand. It occurred to him rudely that today none of the original men had remained, even the most sturdy had fallen and been carted away. A lesser beast would have fallen to his knees and wept.
“Is this him?”
The voice of one of the labor camp guards came to Aran on the wind.
“I believe so, he fits the description she gave me.” The man’s accent was different, he was of all things American.
She?... Dahlia? Aran’s ears honed in on the conversation taking place at quite some distance behind. The large man desired to pause from his labors and look about, but he dared not. He did not want another thrashing on top of the seeping lines that already crossed his back and burned like wildfire every time he moved. He dumbly kept at his work, whilst trying his hardest to listen. The men drew closer, they were still discussing him.
“He’s pretty obedient, but yeah you need to remind him sometimes who’s boss, like any slave.”
“I see that.”
His shoulder stung as he was tapped with the butt of the cat. Aran looked about slowly at the two men, careful to not appear overtly aggressive. The guard was wearing a black bandanna over his lower face, and had on a slate gray hooded jacket, as many of the men did here who tended the chain gangs. The wind on these flat plains was mightily cold.
The accompanying man was like a shot of gold. He was dressed in a blue, homemade wool shirt that buttoned down his strong breast, and serviceable leather overalls. He carried no visible weapons. He was very much built like Aran, large and sturdy of frame. The vision of this man was not unlike that of his father. The warrior would have gauged him to be of Nordic extraction if it were not for the alien enemy accent.
Were the Americans not considered the enemy? Dirt to be spit on and much reviled? They had caused all this grief and suffering initially after all, at least that was what his brother had said.
The clean-shaven, blond man had a piece of paper clasped in his hands. Presumably a bill of sale, but that was not all he had. Draped over his arm was a set of steel manacles, and a wide latigo leather collar, the outside of the item skirted in metal cable that closed in the back with a large padlock. The front of it bore a heavy steel ring.
The guard satisfied he was selling the correct prisoner called to the other overseers who stood about the field. One by one they stood in attendance. Aran had suddenly gone from a man with no hope, to a wild animal who desperately wanted out. Though he was careful to maintain his outward placid stance of a man hopelessly reduced to obedience.
“You got to watch out. These guys get pretty desperate. Even the calm ones, all they do is think of running or killing themselves.” The original guardian with the bandanna across his face stated.
“Down.” This was the command to kneel, you did it immediately or you were struck. Aran was pushed from behind, he complied as his knees and calves sunk into the mire. He was still trying to assess his escape chances. With five men now in attendance it was not looking too auspicious.
The blond man walked about the chained captive. The other wretches stood at rest close by, this distraction meant a small pause in their labors. “Well he looks to be fairly strong and pleasant looking. The last guy I had was as ugly as sin.”
“Be careful he bites.” The hooded guard warned.
“I’ll soon cure him of that.” The blond man stated.
“Show him your teeth!” The guard hit him once and Aran winced. He suppressed an angry growl with all the will he had. He opened his mouth, anything to get out of here.
“Can you count?” The American asked. Aran nodded in the affirmative. “Do simple mathematics and measure?” Aran nodded again. “Good, you have no idea how hard it is to find a slave that can do that these days.”
The guard laughed. “We have little need for that here.”
The man seemed satisfied, and a hammer and rod were brought to strike the pin from Aran’s steel collar. The heavy metal binding had rubbed his breastbone and prominent trapezoids raw. His ankles had fared little better, he had begun to fret he would get an infection too, and die as he had seen so many men do before him. It began with a small open scrape that suppurated into a vile open sore, then the man grew weak and died from the ensuing infection. He had yearned for sturdy work boots to protect his ankles, though they would have been a misery of their own once filled with stinking river mud and water.
Aran thought about escaping, right there and then, but then he feared if he failed to do so and the man backed out of the sale, his torture would only continue here. He was afraid he would die in these chains. So he knelt obediently while he was removed from the line. The leather collar was placed about his bull neck. It was so wide and stiff he struggled to look down, perhaps that was the intent of the device? He was then manacled, wrists close together, fastened before him to a waist chain. His feet were also fettered. The shiny steel clasping his ankles hurt. The untended sores were becoming worse by the day.
The man led him away. Aran shuffled in the practiced stride he had learned after his new owner. In the distance he heard the guards yelling at the wretches to resume the work. A whip cracked and Aran involuntarily shivered. Whatever lay ahead it could not be as hellish as this, as he was commanded to get into the waiting cart.
The man was silent on the return journey to his abode, only occasionally speaking a word of encouragement to his dark cart horse as he flicked the reins on the animal's rump to urge more speed. It was a good forty-five-minute drive to Johansen’s woodyard. Aran had become very tired during the journey. The fact he had ceased his heavy labor, and the motion of the cart called him to near sleep. He struggled to stay alert.
The rattle of the dray subsided as the horse came to a halt in the chain link compound, and Aran was almost startled as he was instructed to get down. Newfound pain stabbed at his feet as he sought to stand, he wanted to be rid of the manacles something fierce. The man caught Aran’s discomfort.
“You're hurtin arn’t you?
Aran only returned his new owner's concern with a flat stare of suspicion.
“Too proud to admit it as well I see. Wait here.”
Aran turned about to look at his surroundings, he was now on the southeastern side of the settlement. It was quiet here and a thick fog was rolling in, part low cloud and part wood smoke, muting the sounds of humanity about him. He shivered in the dampness as he waited. The Bridge appeared to be a sprawling metropolis. As far as his eyes could see to the east crouched the low shanty huts illuminated by cooking fires, and dancing candlelight, built of wood scraps and corrugated iron. This must be the industrial area and poorer side of the town.
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The man returned. He held a pail and a cloth, but Aran had not been facing him. Instead contemplating society as it stood some feet away. Listening to the sounds of children, and people going about their lives quietly in their homes. He briefly wondered what it might be like to just be married to have a hut and some children.
“You stink slave, wash yourself off, and lose the rag.”
Aran had thought perhaps he should try and escape here. It was just he and this man after all, but in the next thought decided it would wait, he was by this time feeling most unwell. He went toward the water trough but was arrested in his action by the hard voice behind him.
“You are not an animal, and I won’t have you behaving like one. Come over here.”
Aran turned slowly, confused at what the man wanted. He staggered and collected himself. Then stood still. The man came toward him and pulled the filthy cloth from his waist, his only covering.
“I hope you have not become a wet brain like the others.” He muttered as he proceeded to wash his charge with of all things warm water.
Aran did not answer, he could barely hear the man, and the warm water felt so luxurious he dared not move. He did not want this small comfort to pass. Until that moment it had not registered what his recent experience had done to him. It frightened him some that he would prefer to stand quietly and let himself be bathed than try and escape, this was surely not him. Inside he felt great shame.
“Now there are rules here slave.” The man was now drying him off, pressing carefully at the weeping stripes that crossed his back. “You will not touch my daughter or grandson, and you will act civil about them at all times, you hear?”
Aran found the will to nod dumbly.
“You will assist me to run the wood yard, load firewood, and help me measure and cut lumber. If you behave well and serve me and my family diligently you will be rewarded with a better life. If you misbehave I will treat you strictly. Oh... and if you are thinking of running, be my guest. However there’s a pretty good chance you will be rounded up and flogged and then returned to me. Trust me they all try it at least once.” The man chuckled as he finished drying his new property. “Come inside let us tend your wounds.”
His new owner's home was simple, but inviting and warm. Aran was commanded to sit on the floor and given a ragged towel to cover himself. The environment made him feel even more weary than he had outside, his shaggy head longed to loll forward but the collar he wore restricted him. A fire blazed in the large stone hearth, there was no shortage of wood here living in a wood yard. Sturdy wooden furniture with plain lines gave serviceable utility to the space. The roof in the building was low, a boon to heating but probably a menace in summer.
“My! He’s not what I expected Papa?” A youngish woman announced. Aran turned wearily to gaze at her. “Oh, his eyes are very pretty, so green.”
Aran should have felt aroused, for this woman was to his eyes visually appealing. Thick straight blond hair pulled back in a well-ordered plait, all feminine curves, and lovely blue eyes.
“At least he’s more pleasing than the last man.” Her father commented.
The collar was coming off, and Aran was glad to be able to move his chin forward and let his head slump on his breast. He so wanted to sleep. The man then clipped off all of Aran's shaggy beard leaving only a short raised stubble, he was glad of it. The constant itch drove him almost to insanity. He had never understood how many men could wear such full beards even in this day and age. The pretty woman sat behind brushing out his hair. The man again set to cleaning his wounds, with more care than he had shown outside. Then applying salve with strong fingers, that looked as though he was no stranger to hard work.
“This is my daughter Imogen, and remember what I said.” The man pressed his fingers into Aran's shoulder meaningfully, that the pain may serve to jog the brutes memory. In response Aran screwed up his lip in pain, baring his teeth. The young woman saw this gesture and backed a distance away, bone comb in hand. The man continued the treatment.
Things went calmly until Aran's new owner sought to return the collar. Aran had already decided he could not bear the confines of it again and bit the man squarely on the hand. He drew blood. He heard the man gasp in pain but surprisingly the man got up and made no move to retaliate. Though Imogen had backed away and was looking at her father somewhat afraid.
“It’s all right dear, just a scratch. Let’s finish treating him and get him bedded down.”
Aran liked the thought of that, truly all he wanted was sleep and to be left alone. The man did not remove the irons to treat Aran's torn ankles, but deftly worked around them. He also was more mindful of the distance between him and his fierce acquisition this time.
After Aran had been treated, the blond man and his lovely daughter left him for some time. Aran could hear glass bottles clinking in the room beyond and it was not long before the man returned with an old jam jar filled with clear liquid. It was not water.
“This might help the pain a bit. Drink up.”
Aran eyed the jar and stared back at the man suspiciously.
“It’s rice wine, well more rice shine.” The man took a sip from the container to show goodwill. Aran slowly took the jar, he smelled the contents wrinkling his nose. Indeed it smelled like alcohol, and not the poor and suspect substances he had mostly grown used to drinking. This was real shine, he hesitated no longer and had soon drunk the jar dry.
There were ramifications to this. On an empty stomach, coupled with severe exhaustion, the strong liquor worked very well. Even on a very large man. Aran found he had no will to stand, and he slumped forward his cheek coming to rest on the stone floor in front of the blazing hearth. He felt the man touch him and lift his head, something in his mouth sliding cold over his tongue. But he was too tired, and he didn't much care...
*****
It was a rude awakening. The side of Aran’s face was wet, saliva mixed with straw, he had been drooling uncontrollably. He was no longer situated inside before the hearth, that had been his last vision preceding the numbness of sleep. The wide metal bar ground against his back teeth and pulled hard at the corners of his mouth, fastened tightly with a chain that locked closed behind his neck. He could not budge the cruel device or lessen its pull no matter how he tried, and he was quite unable to close his lips or swallow with efficiency.
He tried to touch his face but his wrists were chained tightly to his waist, the best he could do was attempt to rub the side of his lip on his shoulder. That too off limits as his neck was again bound in the stout and very stiff latigo collar. He looked about him, he was lying beneath an open shelter on a bed of clean straw. He had not even been chained to any immovable object. His mouth was dry, and he craved water. He rose and plunged his face into the horse trough, it was difficult to drink.
The cold water restored his senses some. Aran looked about him, perhaps now he could escape. Though being hobbled as he was it would not be easy. It was only then he noted that he had been dressed sometime during his sleep. He now wore a very serviceable pair of hide pants, they fit him well, though the clothing felt alien and almost restrictive to his body after being so long without. His ankles had been bandaged and he had been given a pair of scuffed but still very useful boots. The clothing must have belonged to his new owner, the two men were after all very similar in size.
He rose from the trough, wheaten hair dripping with water. He had not successfully quenched his thirst, but at least his tongue felt moist.
His awakening had been noted. His new owner came toward him, he carried no whip or visible weapon. If you did not count the sharp curved tomahawk, tools of the trade tucked into his wide belt. He had been loading a customer's cart with firewood. The black mules strained in their harnesses as the load was hauled away and out of sight down the muddy street.
“You should not have bit me.” The large man reprimanded, as he casually wandered over. “You will learn not to in time. I don't like the idea of slavery, but it’s become a necessary evil in this world. I don’t enjoy flaunting this kind of violence around my family though. So you will stay out of sight and endure your punishment. If you continue not to learn you will be muzzled at all times, you hear me?
“Aran just stared at the man in brute defiance.
“It’s up to you how well or badly you live, now get to work, we have carts to load.”
The man unchained Aran’s hands, but not his ankles, leaving him free to work tossing him a pair of sturdy leather gloves. Going back to the gate just time to greet his next customer. Head down Aran began his task, though his stomach screamed today with hunger. If anyone noticed him none gave comment, for no one really cared about the suffering of a slave.
The morning passed in silence, it was not as though Aran could speak anyway, and his new owner showed no inclination to converse with him, though he did talk at length with many of his clientele. Aran was very aware though the man watched him closely, and he sensed he seemed pleased at how hard he worked.
It was an agonizing morning, Aran kept his head low and found he did not wish to make eye contact with anyone around him. Being a warrior he was new to the feeling of humility, and he liked the emotion not at all. Glad of the golden mane that covered his face from the frequent procession of onlookers who drove their teams into the woodyard. It was a very long morning.
By midday the pain in his jaw was deep, Aran longed for no more than to just close his mouth and rest his tongue. He was ordered to stand down from his labors at noon. Aran simply stood unmoving, shaggy mane hiding his face, head lowered in the language of defeat.
“It hurts, don’t it?” Ben chuckled. He bore a tray of food.
Aran suppressed a growl. He realized any misbehavior would only serve to further extend his misery. Besides he was hungry and dearly wanted to eat. He was drooling uncontrollably all over his hair and chest, his body’s blind reaction deeply shamed him.
“You going to be good this time?” Aran’s owner asked, voice devoid of all challenge, and sarcasm.
The ration looked so good and Aran wanted it so badly. He had not eaten a decent meal in weeks. Real crusty bread stew with good meat, the aroma of the food was driving his poor body to a frenzy. He nodded beaten this time. All he wanted in this world was the food, and the bar across his mouth removed, those two desires had become the sum of his world.
Aran’s jaw ached and he found it difficult to chew the rations he had been provided. He tried not to think about what the life of captivity was doing to him. He should have brained the guy, chained or not he should have escaped. What was wrong with him, why had he not done it? Was he just tired, sick, and sore? Was that all it was? He had to admit he would be more reserved with his impulse to bite next time, yet he should not be, but fears were creeping into his head. Things he’d never seen before, things like hopelessness, defeat, dare he say it domesticity.