Avarice Secret Unquiet Ch 09

Links in the Chain

There were many bullocks and horses that could still serve to break the soil in the fields. However, these beasts ate copious quantities of forage and performed little other useful work in the Mobilong compound, or the fields beyond. In this new age, the backs of men were cheaper. For a few pieces of gold, a sturdy male could be purchased. Most slaves once they tasted the lash a few times were relatively docile and could work long, hard days on far less of a ration than a large bovine or a horse. They were also easily replaceable.

Aran had been brought to the farmland in heavy chains, making any attempt at escape impossible. Today the weather was somber. The sky an unbroken, deep, steel gray, conditions were far from ideal to be outdoors. There hung an ever-present, atmospheric fog between the red cliffs; uncharacteristic of the usually dry river flats. The dampness clung to every surface and in no time Aran was wet and miserable. Still, he hoped this would be better than starving slowly in the boiler room. Perhaps a way to escape would present itself in time. He had to stay optimistic, to lose hope would be to embrace defeat.

Even though she was his owner and all Aran possessed was now hers. Dahlia had never attempted to confiscate the one possession Aran had on his person, the twin dragon ring which he still bore on his ring finger. However today even in the dim light the avaricious head overseer sighted it immediately.

"Take that off, give it to me." He barked, holding out his hand for the magnificent bauble. Cruel whip ready to strike at the slightest hint of defiance.

The trinket served no real significance to Aran, it was merely another spoil of war, and when he would be free there would be countless more. So at the order, he did not hesitate, at once easing it from his finger, the trinket, pretty as it was, was not worth receiving pain over. He placed it in the man's outstretched palm, only to see the man yelp in pain and drop it like he had been stung into the gray mud.

"What the fuck!" The burly overseer exclaimed exasperated and confused, holding his wounded palm to his chest. Aran caught sight of the angry red welt of a burn in the center of the overseer's solid fist. The bewildered man poked at the ring that now lay in the squelching mud with the butt of his whip. It rolled about embedding in the mire at his feet innocently.

"What kind if fuckin trickery is this!" The oaf accused.

Aran just stood quietly in his chains as expressionless as he was able. Part of him even in his predicament found it very amusing. Fortunately, the greedy man did not share this incident with the others. This prize would be his alone, so he picked up a nearby stick, threaded it through the ring, and retrieved it from the slop. Wrapping it securely in the black and white bandanna he had tied about his wispy and unruly hair, mindful to not let his skin come in contact with it again. He folded it into his tunic and herded Aran toward the others.

*****

Aran stood on the gray-brown field, ankles, and feet caked in the sticky gray mud. It had a heady stench all of its own, of nascent life and places dark and seldom seen. The entire town of the Bridge was permeated with it.

The cold wind whipped his wet hair in his eyes, for it had rained again today. White stones littered the earth in scattered profusion, and it was these the slaves had been tasked to remove and place at the far side of the clearing in an ever-growing pile. The stones would be used later to build the sturdy and artfully constructed rock walls that bordered the farmlands here. Nothing was wasted.

The man next to him groaned. Aran was aware the individual was faltering and had been for some days, and he could see clearly the reason. Though the guards that tended the men had done nothing to ease his misery. The poor wretches' ankles were sloughed open almost to the bone by the heavy leg irons he wore. An infection had set in and the man was weakening by the hour.

Aran tried hard to not tug on the connecting chain as he went about his labors. It was an art to move in unison tethered to so many other men. He shuffled carefully as he gathered up another armful of the stone. His hands were bruised and bleeding, nails torn and sore. He was stronger and faster than the others, and he waited patiently for his companions to do the same so they could proceed in a slow shuffle to the designated rock pile.

The big man shivered, he was wet through. Though his coverings were minimal, just a length of dirty cloth wound about his waist. He watched his struggling companion drop the pitiful handful of stones he carried onto the ever-growing pile. The day before the chain gang had been relegated to clearing scrub, and digging out the iron-hard mallee stumps with long iron bars to clear more farmland. He was not sure which task had been worse. He was tired and demoralized. Aran stood in a dumb daze as he waited for the other men to move.

The foundering man had made it back to the center of the field, to fall there. He pulled the man next to him down into the muddy wet. The man swore rising from the mire covered in the sticky river mud. Aran too heavy to be moved stood there and watched on. They would grow rice here shortly, once the floods came after the snow melt. People were saying it would be a peak flood this year. Aran hardly cared.

A guard showed up and hit Aran and the others. The man was unchained, his limp body carted away. Aran was unsure if the slave was already dead. He was hit some more and the gap in the chain closed, his closest companion now the man covered in river mud.

*****

They had worked all day. From first light to the last rose of dusk. Some evenings they would remain on site under guard, the line chained to a tree or large boulder, and on others they would be escorted back into Mobilong proper, for some thin soup and gobs of suspect meat. Then they lay down beneath the verandas that surrounded the exercise yard. There was no excuse to be detached from the line, unless you were dead or dying you were expected to work.

After one exceptionally long day clearing brush Aran sat, broad, scarred back to the brick wall, running his fingers through his mane of gold hair. It had attained quite a length and as a result, was often very tangled. He found he spent much time in the evenings resting and running his fingers through it patiently tracing out the snarls. Unlike many about him, he still retained the will to care about his outward appearance.

He scratched at his jaw, he was bearded now, not something he cared for but he had little control of. It itched so badly that he greatly desired to shave. He was used to going long periods without the luxury of bathing, but tonight the warrior wondered if he would ever have the sensation of cleanliness again?

Life had swiftly deteriorated into this terrible creature, a creature he was only a part of, a segment. Every man chained to him was a piece of this collective, every tug on the chain, every whisper, cough, and action. Independent once, and now all as one, it was a misery of great magnitude.

Aran was still hungry. The evening meal he had all but fought for was never enough to fill his aching stomach. He was still large but had become very chiseled and lean in appearance since his induction into the chain crew. He cast about and tried to forget his hunger.

There were other sturdy men in Aran's group, and often when he could get the chance he tried to speak to them about uniting and trying to escape. The men looked at him with dull eyes and did not bite. Most would look away, and some shook their heads. It began to seem he was the only one who was not 'domesticated.'

The smaller men mostly did not last unless they were of unusual disposition, most older men did not last long at all. This was the sum of his existence, and every night as he lay down on the hard concrete or the mud in a field to sleep, he cursed Dahlia with all he had.