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TITLE: Hand of Freedom, Chp 1-3 By Davita Freeman 04/13/08 |
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This is the beginning of the story, so hoping it is strong enough or looking for ideas to make it stronger, cleaner and more sellable.
Chapter 1
Faded, tattered flags snapped in the sudden cold wind. The mild spring day vanished as dark clouds crept across the deep blue sky.
Isaiah shoved his matted hair out of his eyes, hurrying down the street, his face down trying to keep the swirling dust out of his mouth and nose. The few village signs squeaked as the wind pushed them back and forth on rusted hinges.
Water splashed onto the stone sidewalk from a second story window. The woman never looked as she dumped the next bowl toward the street. Isaiah jumped into the narrow road, the dirty water splattering against his leg.
“Move!”
Isaiah stumbled back onto the walk as a cart rattled past. He nearly fell into a heavy set woman stepping out of the tailor’s shop.
She sneered at him.
He ducked his head and hurried past. He hated coming into the village.
Shrieks of laughter bounced across the wind. Isaiah looked across the street trying to smooth his hair over his forehead. A gaggle of girls and boys pointed at him, laughing. Wesley stood the middle, probably relating some new story of Isaiah’s apparent foolishness or weaknesses, anything to make the slave boy appear ridiculous to the leather booted, cotton clad children. He wondered if they would ever grow tired of laughing at him. He hurried past, avoiding any other condescending eyes and rubbing his burning palm against his chest.
Isaiah looked up at the clank of chains. Beef, mutton, and pork swung on large metal hooks in every form, from thick steaks to skinned legs with hooves still attached. The wind blasted through the raw meat, covering Isaiah in bits of blood and the rancid smell only found on meat sitting in the sun all day. He wiped his face, wrinkling his nose. At least the wind kept the flies from settling on the meat..
“Oi. Boy.”
The butcher glared down at Isaiah, wrapping his thick arms across his chest. “What’s Mrs. Ackerely want today?”
Isaiah stared at his bare blackened feet. “Just a couple cuts of beef, sir.”
The butcher grunted, lumbering to the hanging meat. “Only the best cuts, right?”
Isaiah nodded, shuffling to the side, trying to avoid the splintering boards of the porch. He tucked his burning hand into his pocket.
Two hunks of meat dropped onto the large, red tinged table. The butcher wrapped the beef in thin paper. “Next time any of them Ackerely’s are in town they need to pay me. No more meat on credit until they pay up.” He shoved the packages into Isaiah’s chest.
Isaiah yanked his hands from his pocket just in time to catch the meat.
Isaiah scrambled away from the shop, glad the wind now pushed him forward. A couple raindrops smacked his head. He glanced around. The signs creaked in the wind, echoing along the near empty streets. Shopkeepers pulled their wares inside and mothers ushered their children out of the impending storm. He smiled. No one would laugh or glare at him until he got home.
His hand burned hotter. He wished it would stop. For nearly a week, his right palm felt like it hung over an open flame. But there was nothing on his hand, no reason for the ever increasing pain. Maybe it would go away soon. Just like the dreams, the nightmares, would end someday, hopefully.
“Abisen fayes’oth,” he whispered into the whistling wind. The only words he could remember from the dream, words he didn’t understand. But these words stirred his heart; gave him hope.
He shook his head. Hope belonged to the foolish and the free. “Just forget it.” Pain wrapped around his hand. “Just forget it,” he said through gritted teeth. Several more drops splashed against his head. He pulled the meat to his chest and ran out of the village.
The cold wind ripped at the tall stalks of spring wheat surrounding him as he ran past. Cattle bellowed and the stupid sheep ran in circles, probably trying to find shelter. A half-dozen fields brought the two story whitewashed farmhouse into view, with the large gray barn peeking around from behind. His home, or at least the place he’d lived as long as he could remember.
He pushed the kitchen door open just as the dark clouds released their wet burden.
“Boy, don’t come in here. I don’t need you ruining my kitchen.” Mrs. Ackerely sneered at him, standing over a bucket of peeled potatoes. “And what is the meaning of this weather? It is spring not late summer. What did you do?”
Isaiah shook his head. He should have known he would be blamed for the bad weather, anything strange was always his fault.
Mrs. Ackerely stamped toward him and grabbed the meat from his hands. “Always the innocent one.”
He kept his head down waiting to be dismissed. She didn’t like him around long.
But she didn’t say anything. In fact, she didn’t even move.
Isaiah looked up.
“What’s that on your hand?”
His stomach seemed to do a strange flip as he glanced down at his hands. Blazing like hot iron, the strangest symbol he had ever seen radiated from his right palm. A box within a circle divided into four triangles with a small circle inside. Within each triangle, thin, straight lines glared up at him. He stared at it. “I don’t know, ma’am.”
She glared at him, but backed away. A flicker of fear seemed to pass across her dark eyes.
“Leland!” Her sharp cry cut into Isaiah’s tattered nerves. His breath caught in his throat.
Master Ackerely lumbered into the kitchen, a meat pie in his broad hand. “What is it, Eudora?”
Isaiah backed against the closed kitchen door.
“The boy.” Mrs. Ackerely pointed stiffly at Isaiah. “He’s done something to his hand, Leland, his right hand. Remember what the seller said…”
Master Ackerely dropped his meat pie, his wide set eyes squinting at Isaiah. “Come here, boy.”
Clenching his shaking hands, Isaiah shuffled forward.
Master Ackerely grabbed Isaiah’s right arm, pulling it up with such force Isaiah wondered if his arm would stay connected. “Where did you get this? Who did this to you?”
“No one, sir. I don’t know what happened.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
Isaiah barely registered his arm being released when the back of Master Ackerely’s hand struck his jaw. He stumbled back, blinking against the white spots and tears filling his eyes.
Master Ackerely dragged him toward a large basin of steaming water. “We will not have this abomination in my house.”
Isaiah winced as scalding water covered his hand. He’d seen the master angry quite often, but this felt different, almost desperate.
Isaiah opened his stinging eyes, his hand thankfully free of the painful water. Master Ackerely had a rough stone, often used for cleaning animal skins, poised over Isaiah’s red hand. With an involuntary squeak, Isaiah tried to pull away, his heart pounding faster and harder. But Master Ackerely gripped his arm tighter, growling at him to stay still.
The stone began ripping at his calloused hand. Isaiah bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out. The stone raced back and forth across his palm, Master Ackerely pressing harder if a whimper escaped from Isaiah.
Finally, after what felt like hours, Ackerely stopped. Isaiah peeked out wondering what he’d see. Blood bubbled between the shreds of skin. Isaiah clenched his eyes shut.
Master Ackerely tightened his large hand around Isaiah’s thin wrist. “Let’s see what that’s done to that revolting mark.” He pushed Isaiah’s bleeding hand back into the water, which, although cooler, sent sharp needle-like pains racing up Isaiah’s arm. He couldn’t hold back his cry.
“What’s happening?” Isaiah recognized the whiny voice of the Ackerely’s eldest son, Wesley.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Master Ackerely snapped. “Now get out.”
Isaiah couldn’t help being distracted from his pain. He’d never heard the master speak so forcefully to his children.
“But…”
“NOW!”
Master Ackerely dropped Isaiah’s arm and turned toward his son.
Isaiah tried to find his balance, stumbling against the basin of water. He glanced down at his aching hand. His stomach dropped into his toes; the strange symbol still radiated through his torn palm.
Master Ackerely grabbed Isaiah’s arm again squinting at the bloody hand. “What is this?” he muttered darkly. He dropped Isaiah’s arm and shoved the boy toward the kitchen door. “Get out to the barn.”
Isaiah staggered through the sheets of rain, cradling his raw hand against his chest. He paused outside the barn glancing up at the black clouds allowing water to cover his face. Maybe if he stood this way long enough he’d drown. Water trickled down his throat until he started coughing. He pushed the door open falling into the dark barn.
“Trouble seems to find me,” he mumbled to the black barn cat who greeted him. “You’d think Puratch has a personal grudge against me.” He collapsed on the nearest pile of hay, the cat following him, her bright yellow eyes staring intently at him. “I know I don’t believe in the Ackerely’s gods, but if their god of punishment was real I’d be pretty sure he hates me.” The cat moved closer to Isaiah’s right hand, but he pulled away. “It hurts too much.” He pulled his legs up, pushing the small cat into his chest. “Being a slave hurts too much. Being an orphan hurts too much. Hoping for something more hurts too much, Saires.” Saires rubbed his chin. “I can’t do this forever.”
* * *
The barn door slammed closed. Isaiah blinked, sitting up so fast he knocked Saires off the hay pile. He didn’t know how long it had been, but he must have gone to sleep. Master Ackerely stood before him with a large lantern in one hand and the other gripping something Isaiah couldn’t make out in the shadows.
“Get up.”
Isaiah tried to jump to his feet, but his stiff legs and the uneven hay sent him stumbling forward.
“You’ll wear this, from now on.” Master Ackerely shoved a black glove into Isaiah’s hand. “Never take it off or you’ll live to regret it.”
Isaiah slipped the glove over his sore hand. “Is there another, sir?”
“Just the one hand’s a defilement,” Master Ackerely said. “You don’t need the other.”
Master Ackerely walked past Isaiah into a storage stall. “It’s also time to lengthen your strap.”
His stomach twisted and his heart seemed to stop.
Master Ackerely carried out a heavy iron contraption Isaiah coined as a little piece of hell.
“Today, sir.” He knew his voice squeaked, but he didn’t care.
“Today.” The large iron block dropped with a thud, shaking the boards under Isaiah’s feet. “Come here.”
Isaiah stared at the prison, his throat dry. He glanced around the dim barn.
“Now,” Ackerely growled. “Or you’ll get the rod after this.”
He tried to swallow, stumbling toward his master.
“Sit.”
He obeyed, his legs more like, water causing him to collapse before the stocks.
Master Ackerely shoved Isaiah’s right leg into the largest hole of the iron block, locking it down. He, then, locked both Isaiah’s hands down.
The flickering lamp light glinted off Master Ackerely’s knife and Isaiah saw the thin red, leather strap lying next to his left leg.
“You’re growing too fast,” Master Ackerely said kneeling by Isaiah’s free left leg. With little consideration, his large fingers begin prodding several inches below Isaiah’s knee, around the most recent scars and brighter red strap visible above his mutilated skin. The sign of slave status, the owner’s leather strap entwined around the slave’s left leg, from ankle to knee. The strap-ends would be seared into the skin, making it impossible to remove. Every year since he was three, a new strap had burned into his mangled flesh. Those early straps were hidden beneath his skin now.
The knife cut into Isaiah’s leg. He stifled a scream as Master Ackerely found the top of the last strap. He matched up the previous strap end with the new one and twisted it around Isaiah’s leg, up to his knee.
Tears dripped off Isaiah’s nose. He choked back his cries.
Master Ackerely walked back into the storage stall, returning moments later with a glowing knife.
Isaiah felt his body start to shake as he pulled against the bonds.
Without hesitating, Ackerely knelt down and pressed the hot metal against Isaiah’s leg.
And Isaiah couldn’t stop the cry escaping from his throat, pain seeming to take control of every part of his body. He blinked against the darkness creeping into the edges of his vision.
Still Ackerely held the metal against Isaiah’s leg, the smell of burning flesh filling the barn.
Shadows covered Isaiah’s eyes. He could barely make out the passive form of his master. His stomach rolled from the smell pressing against him. Suddenly Ackerely stood up and unlocked Isaiah’s leg and hands. With the pressure released, Isaiah felt his body collapse against the floor.
Hours later, he woke to the whispers of night. Saires lay next to him. He realized he’d been tossed back onto a hay pile. He thought of the coming morning and groaned, his body still aching from the ordeal of the previous day. He would be expected to be on his feet completing his work with the same speed he always did despite everything.
Saires crawled onto his chest, her cool nose touching his chin.
“There’s no way I can keep up tomorrow, Saires,” he whispered.
She gave a squeaky little cry before butting her head into his chin.
He smiled. This little cat could always make him smile. And, though he didn’t want to admit it, he knew he would live through this just as he had for the last nine years. And he would keep working. But he’d also keep staring at the horizon knowing one day he’d run toward it. One day he’d be free. “I just have to stay alive until then,” he whispered.
Chapter 2
The storm clouds drifted away over the next few days leaving behind a sky more blue than before and the sweet smell of spring. The warm breeze tugged at Isaiah’s dark matted locks as he trudged down the narrow dirt road, newly mended tack hanging off his shoulders.
The thud of horses’ hooves and the clatter of a wagon drew closer, though still out of sight. Isaiah shuffled to the edge of the road, slowing his steps. Wagons rarely appeared this far out of town.
Laughter preceded the wagon rounding the bend. Isaiah tried not to stare as the wagon drew closer, a middle-aged broad shoulder man driving. An older boy sat next to him, obviously his son and five others bounced around the back: the mother with four younger children. All appeared Eyetz with dark hair and skin. But all wore gloves.
Isaiah stopped as the wagon passed by, surprised when the man nodded a greeting at him. People didn’t acknowledged his presence and never with a friendly gesture like a nod. He turned to watch the wagon.
A girl of about ten sat with her feet dangling off the back of the wagon. “Mama, look at that boy.” She pointed at Isaiah.
Isaiah felt his face flush. He ducked his head and turned around, the Ackerely farm in sight.
“What’s wrong with his leg?” the girl’s words floated toward him on the warm breeze.
“He’s a slave, dear,” the mother answered. The rest of her words drifted away in the sudden cool gust shaking the grass around Isaiah’s feet.
“That’s wrong,” The little girl said.
“You’re right, Lissy. It should never be done.”
Isaiah stopped moving. The wind must be twisting the words. Still, he turned around. The wagon continued to rattle away with the little girl and her mother both looking back at him. He’d never heard anyone say anything against the treatment of slaves, nobody ever cared.
“Boy!” Ackerely bellowed.
Isaiah jumped and turned around.
Ackerely stomped toward him. “I haven’t all day.”
Isaiah ran forward the tack bouncing against his back.
Ackerely grunted at him before leading him toward the barn.
Isaiah trailed behind, staying out of arm’s reach.
The master twisted around before opening the door. He glowered at Isaiah reaching his hand out.
Isaiah flinched wondering what he’d done.
“Give me the tack,” Ackerely snapped. “And get into the house. Mrs. Ackerely wants you to clean the floors.”
Isaiah pulled the tack from his shoulders handing it to his master before giving a quick nod and ducking into the house.
Mrs. Ackerely appeared to be waiting for him with several rags in hand. “The floors are horrible,” she said shoving the rags into his hand. “Clean them so they shine.” She pointed him to the large sitting room at the front of the house where a pail of hot water already waited for him.
Isaiah nodded and slipped into the quiet room. He dropped to his knees immediately wishing he’d been more careful. His left leg still ached and he might have broken some of the recent scabs again. He peered down at his leg. A thin trickle of blood escaped from around the recent strap. With a sigh, he wrapped one of the rags around his leg. He dipped the other rag into the pail of hot water. At least the glove protected his hand from further injury. He grinned as he started scrubbing. The Ackerely’s would be appalled to realize they did something that actually helped him. After all, nobody should help a slave.
* * *
A couple hours of scrubbing saw the shadows of the evening creeping into the large room when the door burst open.
“Wes, Mad Shanres is out tonight,” one of Wesley’s friends, Camder, said stomping across the freshly cleaned floor. “Up for a laugh?”
Isaiah sighed seeing the dusty footprints Camder left.
“Oo,” Lari squealed. “I love his stories, especially the ones about phoenixes or unicorns. The dragon ones are a little scary.”
“Those are the most interesting,” Wesley said. “Besides who said I’m taking you into town with me?”
“Mad Shanres is out tonight?” Mrs. Ackerely asked stepping into the room. “Perfect. Wesley, you and Lari can go into town, pay the grocer and go listen to the stories. I need some flour and salt.”
“Mum,” Wesley whined. “I can’t carry flour and salt into the inn.”
“Of course not,” Mrs. Ackerely said turning to Isaiah. “He’ll pick them up and bring them back. I don’t trust him with the money.”
Isaiah struggled to his feet trying to keep his face expressionless. His stomach though jumped at the announcement. Mad Shanres hadn’t been out for several months.
“Well, come on,” Wesley barked.
Lari hopped along next to her brother.
Isaiah trailed behind hoping no one became bored with the walk into town and decided to throw things at him or something.
Speculation of Mad Shanres’ stories for the night filled the time, so no one even noticed Isaiah. Wesley barely glanced at Isaiah as he paid the grocer, though he stuck a few coins in his pocket.
Isaiah stood back until Wesley led Lari and Camder out of the shop toward Meric’s Inn where Mad Shanres usually sat telling his stories.
Isaiah picked up Mrs. Ackerely’s order and then headed toward the inn.
Many townsfolk filled the large room giving Isaiah cover to sidle along the wall toward the bent old man sitting off to one side. Mad Shanres’ thin gray beard brushed the floor and his worn, tan tunic fell to his ankles. Isaiah wondered if the man even wore trousers.
“Daril pursued the unicorn through the depths of the forest,” Mad Shanres croaked, his dark eyes glassy and unblinking.
The blind man stopped speaking. The listening children sat up straighter staring anxiously at their storyteller.
Isaiah heard people murmuring behind him. He scanned the room and saw the broad shouldered father from earlier and his eldest son walk into the room. The two walked up to the bar not seeming to notice the stir they caused.
“No,” the old man croaked. “Tonight is not a time for unicorns, pegasi, or dragons. Tonight hear my story of whence you came.”
Isaiah saw Lari sit back, disappointment written across her face. Several adults, including the stranger and his son, turned around, eyeing the blind man curiously.
“In the days when the Eyetz were new in the land, they lived in the mountains of the south growing in number and strength,” Mad Shanres began, staring over the children’s heads, his glazed eyes seeming to find the strangers at the bar. “A band of Touweil entered the mountains striking fear in the hearts of the Eyetz. The battle that followed changed the Eyetz people and all Turin.”
Isaiah shifted a little closer. He’d never heard this story before.
“No Eyetz could touch the Touweil until Taremin of Adrastes flew to the aid of his brethren, bringing with him twenty of his strongest.
“Eyetz and Touweil alike were stunned when Taremin and his men successfully struck down two Touweil men. A truce of arms was called brining the leaders of the two sides to a table of negotiation.”
Isaiah frowned. This story didn’t seem like the fun tales Mad Shanres usually told. Most the children seemed confused, but Isaiah noticed many of the adults eyeing the storyteller suspiciously, but the strangers appeared to be listening intently, watching the old man while sipping their drinks.
“An Eyetz lord spoke first,” the blind man continued. “Asking why the first Eyetz who battled the Touweil could not touch them. Magic was the answer given. Naturally, the Eyetz lords scoffed…”
Isaiah heard several of the adults listening also scoffing.
“But the Touweil captain raised his right hand revealing a silver mark upon his palm, like a square within a circle with four strange symbols imbedded within.”
Isaiah grabbed his gloved hand, his eyes widening.
“Taremin and his men stood raising their own hands. Identical marks were evident on the Eyetz men’s hands.
“’Within the mountains is found the core of magic, the Touweil said.’”
Isaiah pressed his back into the wall feeling his face warm. He peeked at the strangers. Both still stared at the storyteller, though Isaiah noticed they both had stuck their hands in their pockets, their drinks now forgotten on the bar.
“At this announcement, many of the Eyetz fell back in fear. The Touweil were expelled from the Eyetz cities and Taremin and his men banished to the depths of the mountains. For great strength and numbers the non-magic Eyetz still held. Soon after, most Eyetz left the mountains, determined to avoid the curse of magic falling upon them. And magic staid in the mountains of the south for many years.
“But the magic Eyetz grew in number until many began to move beyond the mountains, establishing small areas for themselves in the broader Eyetz world. They were tentatively accepted due to the aid their magic brought to many, but the two groups remained distant until a final war drove the magic Eyetz into hiding, their numbers smaller and their trust gone. It has been more than an age since magic has been seen beyond the mountains,” Mad Shanres said, waving his hands in emphasis. “Or so we believe.”
Isaiah saw the strangers stand up.
“Taremin and his descendents have not gone nor has magic vanished from Turin. It is around us, just open your eyes.”
The room broke out in cries denouncing Shanres’ sanity, but the old man ignored them pulling his crooked cane toward him and standing up.
Isaiah backed up.
“Boy,” Wesley cried over the din. “Get back to the farm.”
Isaiah’s face warmed as everyone turned toward him. He grabbed the bags of flour and salt and hurried from the room.
“Umph.” He bounced of a man’s chest. “Sorry, sir.”
“It doesn’t matter, son.”
Daring to look up, Isaiah realized he ran into the older of the two strangers. The man stared down at him, his eyebrows rising slightly.
Isaiah tucked his gloved hand under the flour bag, his face hotter than ever. He ran from the inn.
* * *
“I don’t know why everyone’s dealing so much with these strangers,” Master Ackerely growled. “We have all we need here.”
Isaiah trudged behind the Ackerely family waiting to be laden with goods.
A week had passed since Mad Shanres’ story. Somehow the story made his previous nightmares worse and more vivid. Even when awake he could see the dark eyes of a woman moments before she died. Every night he studied his palm in the dim light. Like a square within a circle… A symbol of magic?
Mrs. Ackerely smoothed her lace shawl raising her chin a little higher.
Isaiah covered his grin with his gloved hand. the warm weather made the shawl quite useless, except for the sake of pride.
“All we need, yes,” Mrs. Ackerely said with a little sniff. “But they do have some pretty things. Yesterday I saw a lovely vase Mrs.-“
“Things for ladies to get and men to waste money and goods on.”
Mrs. Ackerely sniffed again in what she probably thought was a dignified way. “Just wait and see, Leland.”
Scarcely outside of town, the strangers set up camp bringing people in from several miles away. As Isaiah followed the Ackerely’s they entered the brightly lit camp. Several large tables bore odd artifacts and trinkets while another table appeared to be serving fried bread, sweet bread by the smell of it. Wesley kept glancing at the table with sweet bread. Isaiah figured, he’d soon wheedle some coins from his parents and spend the rest of the time around the bread table.
Leaving Wesley at the bread table, as Isaiah predicted, Mrs. Ackerely eagerly led the rest of her family to the various tables, Isaiah shuffling behind. At each of the five tables, different members of the family waited to help the buyers.
“Oh Mama,” Lari squealed at one table. “Look at this bracelet. It looks like different colors were woven through the stone, like magic.”
“It’s beautiful – “ Mrs. Ackerely peered over her daughter’s shoulder.
“There’s no such thing as magic, girl,” Master Ackerely grunted.
Lari batted her dark eyelashes at her father giving her well practiced innocent smile. “I know, Papa. It is just so beautiful.”
Master Ackerely stepped closer to the table eyeing the middle-aged woman behind. “How much?”
Isaiah stood back as the two haggled over a price for the bracelet taking time to look at the strangers. The husband and wife stood next to the largest tables, while the other their three sons headed the other three tables. The youngest of the boys didn’t look any older than Isaiah. Two younger girls danced between their parents’ tables. The youngest, probably no more than six or seven, absentmindedly walked between the buyers appearing to never even notice them. The other, the one who’d noticed his leg, smiled brightly at the shoppers even greeting a few who smiled back at her.
“Deal.” Master Ackerely boomed, coins clattering to the table.
The woman smiled tightly, carefully wrapping the bracelet. “Here you are, sir.”
Master Ackerely ignored her outstretched hand, walking toward another table. “Give it to the boy.”
Isaiah hurried forward, his head bowed as he reached for the small package. The woman seemed to hesitate before laying the bracelet in Isaiah’s gloved hand, her own covered fingers brushing his. He jumped back, a shock sending a tingle through his fingers. He glanced up, the woman staring intently at him, her gaze resting on his covered forehead. He nervously smoothed the hair, wondering if she’d seen the mark, the scar Master Ackerely always wanted covered. He ducked his head and ran after the Ackerely’s.
Master Ackerely was in a heated discussion about a stunning dagger laid out on the man’s table. The blade looked more silver than iron.
“It’s not worth that,” Master Ackerely said, his eyes narrowed at the stranger. But the man held Ackerely’s gaze without flinching.
“It is, sir,” he said. “The metal is something never found in this part of Turin, in fact, only found in the southern mountains. It will never dull. I can go no lower.”
Master Ackerely wrapped his large arms across his chest. “How can I believe you?”
“You only have my word. If that is not enough for you than you are free to leave the knife.”
Isaiah glanced at the stubborn man. He seemed as broad as Master Ackerely, though not so wide. Still he appeared as ominous and threatening.
“What’s your name?” Master Ackerely growled.
“Ahren Terom,” the man said. “You are free to use my name against me if the knife does not live up to the claim I have made.”
“Leland,” Mrs. Ackerely whispered over his shoulder. “Do you really need another knife?”
“The one I used on the boy last time can’t take the heat. It twisted. If this one can, then we won’t need a new knife again, even with the boy growing.”
Isaiah moved back, glancing at the red welts raised up on his leg. He noticed Ahren Terom also looking at his leg. He wished he could wear full length trousers.
“Deal,” Master Ackerely grunted, slamming coins onto the table.
Ahren Terom bowed, pulling out a black leather sheath.
Master Ackerely walked away without another comment, his wife chasing after him. Isaiah reached for the dagger, desperate not to look in the man’s eyes.
“Be careful with this, son,” Mr. Terom said. “It is like no other dagger.”
Isaiah nodded, the seller finally placing the knife in his hand. Isaiah tried to pull back, but Mr. Terom gripped his fingers.
“Come see us again.”
Isaiah couldn’t help it, he peeked up. The man appeared sincere.
Mr. Terom glanced down at Isaiah’s glove before releasing him.
* * *
A week passed in which Isaiah avoided the Terom family. He’d never visited any family before and he’d be in trouble if the Ackerely’s ever found out. Besides, he was scared. Isaiah couldn’t say why, but every time he walked past the Terom’s camp, his stomach knotted and his heart beat a little faster. Just like now.
Isaiah shifted the bag of flour onto his other shoulder trying not to look at the three small tents tucked back from the road.
“Boy.”
Isaiah jumped, almost dropping the flour.
Ahren Terom and one of his sons stood in front of him, both with small smiles on their faces.
Isaiah forced himself to swallow despite the lump trying to block his throat.
“What’s your name?” Mr. Terom asked.
Isaiah blinked, glancing up at the man. No one ever asked his name. His mouth suddenly felt dry; he turned his eyes back to the road.
Mr. Terom bent his head lower trying to look Isaiah in the eye. “You do have a name, don’t you?”
“No one uses it, sir. I’m just a slave,” Isaiah mumbled, gripping the bag of flour tighter.
“Just a slave,” Mr. Terom said. “I doubt that.”
Isaiah frowned. The man looked serious, but Isaiah still didn’t say anything.
“We would like to call you something besides ‘Boy.’ I suppose we could make up a name for you, though,” Mr. Terom said, his dark eyes twinkling.
“Like Flour,” Terom’s son said. “Since you’re carrying flour.”
“Or Tack,” Mr. Terom said thoughtfully. “I believe that’s what you were carrying the first time we saw you.”
Isaiah glanced between the two, baffled. He struggled to keep a smile off his face. “I…um…it’s Isaiah…sir.”
Mr. Terom smiled, but his eyes looked as he remembered something old, something nearly forgotten. “Isaiah. That’s a good name, a very good name. Do you have a family name?”
Isaiah blinked at the man. “I don’t know it, sir. Sorry.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Mr. Terom waved his hand. “Isaiah’s a good name. You must come meet the family some time.”
“Sir, I’m a slave,” Isaiah said slowly. “I don’t think I should …”
Mr. Terom reached out and grasped Isaiah’s empty shoulder causing Isaiah to flinch. “Even a slave needs friends, Isaiah. My family doesn’t hold with the ideas of slavery anyway and you look like you need a friend”
“Besides,” the boy said. “Slaves usually know more of what’s happening in a town than anyone else.” He gave Isaiah a wink.
Isaiah gave the boy a weak smile. “Thank you, sir. I probably should go, now, I can’t be late.”
“Of course.” Mr. Terom patted Isaiah’s shoulder before releasing him. “I hope we see you again, soon.”
Isaiah nodded before running down the road, his stomach still knotted and his heart racing, but something new, something warm began to fill his chest. He’d be back.
* * *
Over the next three weeks, Isaiah found the courage to visit the Terom family twice. Spring was fading into summer the heat driving most families inside which meant Isaiah spent more time outside lugging water, chasing animals, weeding the massive garden. This meant Isaiah enjoyed a little more freedom as the Ackerely’s didn’t pay attention to his every move.
Today he had another chance. Mrs. Ackerely sent him to the cobbler with several shoes to be repaired. After leaving the shoes with the cobbler, Isaiah hurried back down the road and hopped of where the Terom’s still staid.
“Isaiah,” Mr. Terom greeted him with a smile. “Good to see you again. In town today?”
“Yes, sir,” Isaiah said. “The cobbler.”
“Well then, I’m glad for worn shoes.” Mr. Terom smiled. “The day’s hot. Come inside and have some water. Sally could even make you some tea if you like.” Mr. Terom ushered him into the largest tent. “Or a meal if you stay more than ten minutes.”
Isaiah grinned. Mrs. Terom, Sally, seemed to delight in feeding people, always sending Isaiah home with a cake or sandwich in his pocket.
“Oh, Isaiah, dear. I’m glad you’ve come to see us again.” Mrs. Terom pulled him into a hug.
Isaiah managed not to pull back. This was the second hug she’d given him. He still didn’t know what he should do in response.
Mrs. Terom nearly pushed him onto a stool a cup of water and small cake almost immediately appearing in front of him.
“Mama, where’s my gloves…” Lissy, the ten-year-old girl, ran into the tent. She stopped, staring wide eyed at Isaiah, before turning and running out.
“Girls are really strange,” Sine, the Terom’s youngest son, said, sitting next to Isaiah. “And I think my sisters’ are the strangest.”
Isaiah shrugged. Lissy’s question made him realize no one wore their gloves as they usually did.
Mrs. Terom bustled up to him. “Have another cake, dear.” Isaiah took the small cake, glancing at the first cake still untouched in front of him.
Sine reached for a cup of tea, his right palm momentarily visible. Isaiah nearly dropped his cup.
“What’s that?”
Sine sipped his tea. “What?”
Isaiah didn’t miss the boy’s glance at his father. “That mark on your hand?”
“Nothing,” Sine said. “Why?”
“I’ve just never…” Isaiah noticed the studying gaze of Mr. and Mrs. Terom on him. “It’s nothing.”
“That’s because we wear gloves.” Mr. Terom sat across from Isaiah. “Like you.”
Isaiah turned his eyes back to his emptying cup.
“Would you be willing to take it off here?” Mr. Terom’s voice was kind.
Isaiah shook his head, placing his cup back on the small table. “I need to go. Thank you for the water and cake, ma’am. Sir.” He jumped to his feet, running from the tent.
“Isaiah, wait.”
Isaiah slowed his steps, glancing behind him.
Sine ran up next to him. “We didn’t mean to scare you. Honest. We just want to help you. Mum and Dad really think we can and we should.”
“Because of the things on your hands?” Isaiah asked.
Sine shook his head, his eyes brushing over Isaiah’s forehead. “Not just that. You shouldn’t be treated like you are, and you don’t belong here.”
Isaiah nervously smoothed his hair over the mark on his head. “Where do I belong?” he whispered.
“I don’t know. That’s why Mum and Dad wanted to see your hand. The answer may lay on there.”
Isaiah glanced down at his hand. If the answer lay hidden under the dark leather, did he actually want to know? “What if it says I have to stay here forever?”
“It won’t.”
He looked up at Sine. The boy’s gaze appeared sincere and confident.
Isaiah held his hand up, glancing at Sine before starting to work the glove off. Finally the leather fell away; Isaiah’s heart jammed itself in his throat.
Sine stared down at Isaiah’s palm, the scars from the tanning stone still fierce red. “What happened-“
“Oi, what are you doing here?”
Isaiah’s stomach plummeted to his feet. He turned to see Wesley striding toward them, a couple other teenagers behind him.
“You aren’t supposed to be talking to anyone.” Wesley growled stepping up next to Isaiah and Sine. He reached out and grabbed Isaiah’s left arm with such force, Isaiah dropped his glove. “Get back to the house.” He shoved Isaiah toward the road.
Isaiah stumbled forward, sparing Sine a quick glance.
The boy’s mouth dropped open, but his eyes narrowed.
“Leave him alone,” Sine snapped at Wesley.
Isaiah stopped. “Sine, don’t.”
Wesley looked between the two boys glaring. “Slaves don’t make friends. Slaves shouldn’t even be talking to anyone.” Wesley stepped toward Isaiah and pushed him. “Wait til I tell Dad.” He raised his hand to strike Isaiah again.
“I’m going back,” Isaiah said, stumbling backwards. Hoping Sine would stay quiet.
“What’s going on?” Sine’s eldest brother, Will, stuck his head from one of the tents.
“Nothing,” Isaiah choked out.
Wesley sneered at him. “Let’s go.”
Isaiah nodded, ignoring Sine and Will.
Wesley grabbed Isaiah’s arm and started to drag him back to the road.
“Hey!” Will yelled behind them.
Wesley released his arm and Isaiah ran. He knew Wesley would start yelling at the Terom’s and, in the end, Isaiah would be in greater trouble.
Chapter 3
A couple hours passed of relative silence. Perhaps Wesley decided not to say anything to his father. Isaiah fervently cleaned the stalls, hoping beyond hope Master Ackerely wouldn’t care he’d been talking to the strangers. And even more so, that he wouldn’t notice Isaiah’s missing glove.
The barn door slammed open.
Isaiah’s stomach plummeted.
“Boy!” Master Ackerely bellowed from the front of the barn.
Isaiah cringed, gripping the rake tighter. He stepped out of the stall.
Master Ackerely stalked toward him. “What have you been doing talking to those strangers? Making friends? You’re a slave, slave’s don’t have friends. Especially friends that try and hit their masters.”
Isaiah blinked, wondering what happened after he left.
“Your strange little friends tried to hit Wesley after you ran away,” Master Ackerely growled, inching closer.
Isaiah saw the rod in Ackerely’s hand. His hands went cold, but a strange warmth started to fill his chest. Somebody had defended him. “Wesley probably tried to hit him,” he said. “Sir.”
Ackerely stepped back his eyes widening. “What? Are you blaming Wesley for your stupidity?” Ackerely’s voice had dropped into a cold whisper.
“I didn’t start any fight, sir,” Isaiah said, wondering how wide Ackerely’s eyes could go.
Ackerely stepped closer, glaring. “Those people were willing to fight for you. Like you weren’t a slave.”
“Even a slave needs friends, sir,” Isaiah repeated Mr. Terom’s statement. The fire in his chest grew hotter as he forced himself to keep his head up.
“What?” Ackerely choked through gritted teeth. “You belong to us. Only people have friends, not slaves.”
“I am a person,” Isaiah clenched his hands by his side holding Ackerely’s gaze. His right hand felt very hot. A sudden gust pulled at his hair.
Ackerely stepped back, glancing around the barn. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” Isaiah said his jaw clenched. The hay circled around their feet.
“STOP!” Ackerely bellowed, swinging the rod at Isaiah.
Isaiah jumped back, the rod catching the side of his shoulder. He glared at Ackerely, blood pounding in his ears.
“Foolish boy.”
The floor boards shook beneath them as Ackerely raised the rod again.
Isaiah stepped back hitting the wall of the stall.
Ackerely moved closer with a wicked grin. He swung the rod.
But Isaiah raised his hands up. “No more,” he whispered through clenched teeth. The rod flew from Ackerely’s hand to the other side of the barn. The hay twisted into a cyclone encircling them both. And a beam creaked above them.
“STOP!” Ackerely screamed, eyeing the beam nervously.
“No,” Isaiah said.
A sudden crack forced both Ackerely and Isaiah to dive in opposite directions, the beam giving way and crashing to the ground in a dozen pieces.
Isaiah pulled himself to his feet staring at the shattered beam. The hay fell back around the barn and the sudden warmth inside him gave way to a painful chill. “What did I do?”
“You abomination!” Master Ackerely screamed, leaping over the broken beam and landing atop Isaiah.
Isaiah gasped, air driven from his lungs. He wiggled trying to get out of his master’s grip, but Ackerely wasn’t letting go. The large man gripped Isaiah’s throat and proceeded to kick and hit every part of the boy he reach.
Isaiah twisted trying desperately to escape, or at least breathe.
“Leland!” Mrs. Ackerely’s scream seemed to break into Master Ackerely’s rage. “Don’t kill the boy.”
Master Ackerely released Isaiah’s throat dropping him to the floor.
Isaiah tried to pull himself away, while taking deep gulps of air, but pain gripped his body.
“You will never do that again,” Ackerely said through gritted teeth, staring down at Isaiah. “Never.”
Isaiah gasped, pulling his trembling arms over his face. He waited for another blow, another kick. But nothing came. Moments later, the barn door slammed shut.
* * *
“Isaiah. Are you here?”
Isaiah blinked against the shadows pressing around him.
“Isaiah?”
He tried to twist toward the voice. Pain lashed out encasing his chest; a moan escaped from his throat.
A moment later, Sine knelt down next to him. “What happened? Mum said you might be in trouble, but…”
Isaiah squinted, trying to make the fuzzy edges around Sine’s face disappear. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“You need help.”
“Can’t,” Isaiah gasped, pain seizing his body. “They’ll kill me.”
Sine shook his head. His dark eyes seemed to be smoldering through the surrounding shadows. “You’ll die if I leave you. You’re a mess. I need to get you to my mum, she can help you.”
Isaiah tried to move his head in protest. “Ackerely…will ruin…your family.” His words sounded weaker with each syllable.
“We were thinking of moving on, anyway.” Sine gave a strained smile. “Can you move at all?”
Isaiah tried to move his arm, but excruciating pain ripped across his back. He tried, unsuccessfully, to choke back a cry.
Sine frowned. “Guess not. I’ll get help. It’s late so no one should notice anything. Don’t die before I get back.” His voice sounded light, but Isaiah heard a note of pleading as well
Isaiah gasped in the darkness, wishing he’d pass out again. The pain racked through his body worse than anything he’d felt before, every breath hurt.
Saires crawled up next to him touching her nose to his.
“Maybe, I’m actually…dying, Saires,” he whispered. She blinked her large eyes and gave him an almost pleading look. “Not yet? It’d be easier.” She licked his nose and wrapped herself around his head.
He tried not to breathe too hard as every breath seemed to cut into him like the master’s blazing knife. Saires purred, the soft vibration lulling him toward a pain free darkness.
Groaning boards and squeaking boots pulled him away from the longed for darkness.
“He’s a mess.” Isaiah recognized Will’s voice.
“That’s why we need to hurry,” Sine hissed.
“Be careful moving him. He can’t shout out.” Mr. Terom.
Isaiah tried to open his leaden eyes, but to no avail. Saires shifted against his head. “Saires.”
“What did he say?” Will asked.
Isaiah felt a soft touch on his shoulder and realized someone was leaning over him. “It’s okay, son. We’re here to take you away,” Mr. Terom said.
“Saires,” he hissed through the pain. “Cat.”
“He wants to take the cat?” Will said. Isaiah could hear the disbelief in his voice.
“If she let’s us, we will,” Mr. Terom whispered. “Sine, see if you can coax the little cat into your arms, or a basket, if you can find one.”
Isaiah heard Sine shuffle away.
“Now, let’s get you in this blanket.”
Isaiah had no idea what Mr. Terom was talking about, but moments later he felt himself rolling onto a coarse fabric. He choked down the cry desperate to escape.
“That’s a lot of blood, Dad.”
“Your mum can help him.”
“I found a basket,” Sine said.
“Good, see if you can get the cat inside.”
Isaiah hoped Saires would let Sine touch her. She didn’t trust many people.
“Now, Will, let’s get this boy back to your mum.”
Isaiah felt himself raised up, almost like a hammock, swinging between the two men carrying him.
“Got her,” Sine announced. “Quite the friendly little cat.”
“Let’s go.”
The swinging increased, jarring Isaiah keeping him from passing out. He knew he should be concerned with what he would do next and what this meant for his life, but he couldn’t think beyond each jolt of pain and the flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, his life was going to change.
“Good gracious.” Mrs. Terom’s voice broke into Isaiah’s pain-filled fog. “What did they do to the boy?”
“Something that will probably take more than your brews,” Mr. Terom growled. “Doesn’t matter now, though. By the looks of the barn, we need to leave tonight.”
“Suppose not. Put him on the table. And we’d better finish packing. Quickly.”
Isaiah felt a jolt as Mr. Terom and Will laid him on the table.
“What is that, Sine?” Mrs. Terom asked, the clatter of pans ringing around them.
“Isaiah’s cat, Saires.”
“So he did have one friend, here. That’s good. Better pack her into the wagon and get the girls up.”
Isaiah felt Mrs. Terom’s hand feeling his face and chest. He tried not to cry out, but her fingers seemed to find places as painful, if not more so, as the blistering knife.
“Dear, dear, dear,” she tutted. “Sine, we’ll need one of your or Kalin’s tunics. His is ruined.”
He flinched as cold air washed over his chest.
“Well, that explains the blood,” she murmured, gently laying her hand against his right side. “Rib right through the skin. It’s a wonder he’s still alive.”
“Mum, which brews do you…” Sine stopped abruptly. “Can you help him?” His voice dropped to a whisper.
Isaiah wondered how bad he looked.
“I can,” Mrs. Terom said. “But I’m going to give him a sleeping draught because it’ll be painful. I’ve already got the jars I need out, pack the rest away.”
Sine must have quickly grabbed his mother’s jars because the tinkling of glasses soon faded away.
“Now, dear,” Mrs. Terom whispered into Isaiah’s ear. “I’m going to give you something to help you sleep. You probably won’t wake until we’re on the road. Try not to worry. You will never go back to that family again.”
Isaiah tried to look at her, uncertain what she said.
She dripped a cool liquid down his throat, his body immediately relaxing. “Sleep dear,” she whispered. “And don’t worry.”
He blinked slowly, trying to grasp what she meant. But his mind didn’t seem to care as it pulled him away from her into quiet darkness.
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