The Banned Angels
Aran settled into life at Ben Johansen's wood yard. Often in the quiet of evening stopping to ponder why he had been sold? Had Dahlia sought to spare him, or was the transaction purely coincidence? He liked to think that Dahlia's anger was not infinite. He knew instinctively that if he had remained on the chain gang, he would have eventually perished no matter his great size, or the resolve to be free in his heart.
The big man was still very much a slave. However, life was better here. He ate well, and the work though constant was not too hard. Aran had much admiration for Ben Johansen, the way he worked right alongside Aran loading carts and cutting lumber. There was no division in the duties of a slave or owner here. Simply put, there were tasks to be done and whoever was available at that moment saw to them.
The weather that had ravaged the landscape slowly cleared. Giving way to warmer, sunnier days, gentle rains that promoted the new crops, and a sense that normalcy had at last returned to the land. The citizens of the Bridge seemed less panicked, and an easier way of life set in for those of the southeastern side of town.
Aran had been correct in judging he now lived amongst the poorer folk. A collection of displaced refugees who had years ago, and some even recently, sought new lives here. Some would leave the ghettos to rise above the grinding poverty of the southeastern district, men like his owner. Some would never escape the winding dirt alleyways that became a mire of mud and septic refuse in the rains, the gnaw of an empty belly, and the grinding crush of poverty.
In the woodyard, Aran watched the entire city pass by. For comfort was a great leveler, every citizen, needed wood for cooking fires and to heat, or lumber to build new structures. So the warrior who had become a slave, glimpsed both the wealthy and the poor, as they drove their carts to his doorstep.
Aran spent most of his days outside. Though he did get to dine with his owners in the early mornings and evenings, and the atmosphere was pleasant. At night he was housed in a secure concrete block building, which at one time had been a public convenience. The toilets and bathroom fittings had been long ago removed. His sleeping space occupied one half of this structure, a tool shed the other. He had for his comfort a simple straw pallet, along with a fur blanket, though the warrior considered this luxury after so long sleeping in the field.
The days he spent shackled to a thirty-pound iron ball, most men could not have bore such a constant weight, however, Aran was not like most men. This enabled the enslaved warrior to move about to perform tasks but seriously limited his escape options. Aran had originally decided he would kill Ben Johansen with this iron ball. A swift blow to the skull would easily end the man's life. However, as the days wore on Aran found he could not do so. He watched the man toil as hard as he did, and care for his comely daughter Imogen, and her five-year-old son Ewan. Aran had also witnessed Ben Johansen's many acts of kindness. Ben coming from the shanty town felt a very obvious compassion for those around him, and for the less fortunate. Often adding twice the load to a struggling man's cart, and insisting he not pay, or do so when he could find his way into a better circumstance.
Aran being a wild man of the wastes, did have considerably fewer morals than many had. However he was not a mindless killer, and he instinctively understood that if he killed Ben Johansen it was very likely he would be torn to pieces by the local population. So Aran shelved that idea. Perhaps in time, he may negotiate for his freedom? Ben Johansen was after all a compassionate and reasonable man.
So as the afternoons lengthened into pleasantly warm ones, Aran began to learn that even among all this industriousness and good, there lurked bad undercurrents. As with all success came the parasites and sharks to feast upon the hard work of others. This came in the shape of a group of rough-cut men called The Banned Angels.
The day had been a very normal one. Just an endless stream of carts come to fetch firewood, interspersed with some lumber cutting. Both Aran and Ben had worked hard, and were taking a welcome drink from the terracotta cistern of water that collected the runoff from the roof of the house. A good freshwater well here was out of the question, as the groundwater was full of salinity and therefore undrinkable. So potable tanks were a must, though, with the long breaks in between sustaining rains, the river water was a lifeblood and was carried and carted in great quantities to the thirsty city. The sun had begun to feel warm in recent days. Hardly the blistering desert heat, but it seemed the fiery orb had returned, finally. Promising to be a force to reckon with in the coming months. The cool, clear, rainwater tasted good to Aran, and he drank it in greedy gulps, eyes closed, quite lost in the simple pleasure.
Aran had heard them first, they did not drive into the compound in a cart as all the others had, they had arrived on foot. A knot of men, ten or so. Bearded, long hair in ponytails, and braids, all black leather, fur, and metal. Bristling with weapons. They scuffed their steel-shod boots in the gray dust, making no effort to be subtle.
Aran turned, for a moment he thought of Dahlia, and well expected to see her silk-wrapped form emerge from among them. A flower amongst the rye. He heard Ben sigh, it was a truly troubled sound.
"You stay here." His voice was toneless though Aran sensed fear. The warrior tensed his muscles and strained his ears, wishing he was not anchored to the thirty-pound ball and chain. If trouble started he would not be able to cross the gap swiftly.
One of the men stepped forward, he sported an immense gray beard shot with white. He had been smoking a hash joint, the only real tobacco to be had here. He crushed the remainder carelessly under his iron-shod sole. Ben though a big man looked apologetic, almost humble before him.
"I'm sorry...I could not get the money. I will... I promise... pay it very soon..."
Aran did not catch the entirety of the conversation. However, he had picked up enough of it to understand the general tangent of the exchange. His ears pricked as he heard the word Finks uttered by the impressively bearded individual, and it was spoken with a strong accent of distaste. He watched Ben's shoulders slump forward to appear even more humble.
"I...I just buy my wood from them. It's no more than that. A simple exchange. I have to get my stock from somewhere... and well they are the ones clearing."
It bothered Aran to watch Ben backpedal and apologize to these rough-shod men.
Imogen ever the most thoughtful daughter had come out of the house to see if her hardworking father had wished for any refreshment. The visiting men's eyes eagerly devoured her.
"Go inside." Ben turned to warn her, he was clearly stuck in the middle of the terrible exchange. She turned and left immediately in a flurry of gathered skirts.
Aran was tense in a way he had not been for a very long time. He desired to take up the metal ball, and possibly advance to lend his collective threat to Ben's cause, as he would have done in his own clan. However, the eyes of the men were on him and he didn't want to further aggravate the situation. So he stood like a mute pack animal in the background. This too bothered him in a way he could not rightly explain.
There was more talk. The man's voice was so low Aran strained to hear. The few words he did catch were not insightful. There was some pushing and shoving, a show of needless dominance. Ben did not retaliate. Oddly no customers had arrived in the woodyard, perhaps they had seen the trouble and elected to load up another time? It was probably a wise move.
Ben finally turned from the men and went into the house, he was not there long. Aran knew the pack of leather-clad men were observing him closely, he did not know whether to feel pride or shame.
Ben Johansen returned shortly. He bore a leather purse containing all his valuables. He placed the wallet into the bearded man's gloved hand. The man didn't open the bag, he simply bounced it up and down on his palm a couple of times testing its weight.
"I want the rest and soon, or we'll take your daughter. You got seven days."
Just as swiftly and silently as they had first arrived, the men were gone into the dusty street.
*****
However, the ominous mood the men's visit had generated did not depart so easily from the Johansen household. That evening dinner was unusually silent, at least at first. After little Ewan had been put to bed and the dinner dishes were being cleared away, it was Imogen who found her voice.
