The Johansen Woodyard
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.
