The Not so Secret Agent

Chapter 10: Unnatural Resources

The lake was deep blue and so wide that a person could see across it only from the high ridgelines a thousand feet up. Along the shore just a few national park campgrounds interrupted the expanse of undeveloped wilderness around the eastern side of the Rika Chorna Reservoir.

Ten criminals followed behind the ranger, he kept his horse at a trot so they were forced to jog along the trail just to keep up. Running with handfuls of rakes, shovels, and pick-axes was about as easy as it was quiet but Danubian criminals were accustomed to hard work. The steady south wind made for an unusually mild October day. In the forest leaves fell like yellow and orange snow, the sort they have in China.

The ranger crossed the small stream near the stables then brought his horse to a stop. He adjusted his wide-brimmed hat and turned back toward the trailing criminal work crew. "You," the ranger bellowed, "American."

He never had a horse, never rode a horse, never wanted a horse, but it was always Arthur who had to take care of the ranger's horse at the end of the day. Arthur didn't have anything against equines in general, but this particular horse had something against him, he was sure of it. Ears folded back, teeth bared, indignant snorts; this horse was evil, and to make matters worse the ranger ordered him to take it down to the creek and wash the damned thing!

Arthur put away his pickaxe and rake in the toolshed, then reluctantly gathered the bucket, soap, and brush used to scrub the hateful beast. Arthur was certain it subtly glanced at him with malicious intent as he unbuckled the saddle and untied the lead; he kept careful watch on the scheming horse as he led it toward the creek.

Ankle deep in cold water with the ranger's horse before him, Arthur decided to get it over with quickly, but as soon as he reached down to retrieve the brush from the soapy water the beast took advantage of his momentary lapse in vigilance and bit down hard on Arthur's left shoulder with its pointy evil horse teeth. He jerked away from its huge jaws and thick rubbery lips and stared with unrestrained fury into its long wicked face. Arthur's sequence of horse-related insults ranged over three languages, lasted a full minute, and gave no thought toward decency, wholesomeness, or subject verb agreement.

Throughout the whole tirade the horse just stood there, like it was completely innocent and hadn't done a thing. Arthur glared at it and rubbed his shoulder; feeling an arc of horse tooth indentions sore under his fingertips.

"Evil deceptive horse," Arthur screamed in half English half Danubian. "Now you act like you didn't bite me?" Arthur looked into the depths of its wicked eye... they were set too wide apart to stare at both. They dared one another- the horse was testing his resolve, Arthur was sure. The hateful abyss of the beast's large black orbs taunted him, but he was determined to meet its defiant gaze.

"What are you doing?" The ranger was back to check on his horse. "Rinse him off and take him to the stable." The ranger clapped his hands rapidly and spoke in a condescending tone. "Hurry up." A dejected Arthur retrieved the bucket and did as he was ordered; the horse had won this time... but next time... ooh, yes... next time.

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A ranger drove Arthur back to Rika Chorna right after work on the 8th of November. He met Samantha outside her host family's house after she had put the kids to bed; they hurried through the cold night air. A band performed on stage as they walked through the criminal's club toward the rooms in the back.

"Arthur, I didn't even know you were coming back today; is the job at the lake finished?" Samantha shut the door and flopped back on the mattress.

"No," Arthur said nervously. "That'll go on until it gets pretty cold, I guess. They brought me back because tomorrow's the 9th."

"The ninth... oh god... the switching, I forgot." Samantha turned white. "I'm really sorry."

Arthur sat down beside her. "Don't worry about it; I can survive another one." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Samantha.

"That policewoman hates you; I watched the way she looked at you."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"I missed you." Samantha leaned over and kissed him softly on the lips. "When do you have to go back up to the reservoir?"

"The tenth," Arthur took a breath as he thought of something. "Uh... Are you busy tomorrow evening? I was thinking about attending one of their church services, I thought you might want to join me."

Samantha looked surprised. "I thought you were an atheist."

"Oh... I don't know," Arthur shrugged. "I believe in whatever's convenient, I guess, but never mind that. See, I think that attending their church could benefit me. From what I understand, a judge sometimes reduces a criminal's sentence for good behavior or an act of heroism. I haven't come up with anything heroic to do yet... well, I have been watching for some tourist to fall off the docks so I could rescue them, but they have pretty good balance so far."

"The good behavior route hasn't been going so well either, I started out with a bad reputation and I think it's gotten even worse. So my next plan is to convert to the Danubian religion. I thought maybe that would help my image. Danubians might think I'm reforming myself, finding the Correct Path in Life and all that."

"Arthur," Samantha said. "I'm already a member of a church; I'm not going to join some pagan religion."

"Oh, come on," Arthur urged: "I'm pretty sure they'll not make you sacrifice a chicken or anything, besides you don't have to join. Just go and watch."

"Well," Samantha said. "I... I guess it wouldn't hurt to go watch but I'm not going to do anything."

"I'd worship flying monkeys if I got something out of it." Arthur smirked. "This first trip though, I just plan on observing. I want to know how people are expected to act before I go any further." Arthur swallowed hard and paused. "I have to be extra cautious, especially after what happened during the Day of the Dead."

"No shit! That was the only time I ever saw Spokesman Ralkliv at a loss for words."

Arthur shrugged. "I still don't think it was my fault. I mean I just got back to Rika Chorna that morning... no one explained that shit to me. As I see it, it was their fault for not being clear. If you paint a foreigner up like a zombie, you should make sure that person understands that he is not in a Halloween parade... and that he's not supposed to act like a zombie."

"Arthur, I don't think this place has done good things for your head. Do me a favor and don't go completely nuts, I really don't want to have to date a Danubian. I swear, if I hear one more word about my honor I'm going to puke!" Samantha grinned. "So... what's it like up on the lake? It's not as bad as the labor camp is it?"

"The work's similar but the staff is nicer. I dig, rake, stack rocks, and such. It's not bad work really, except for this terrible horse that I have to take care of. You should see the way it looks at me and it bites me whenever it gets a chance and then it acts like..."

Samantha sighed and stretched back on the mattress. She arched her back seductively and opened her knees wide apart giving her lover a fine view. Samantha wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and held Arthur's attention with her hungry green eyes. Arthur watched her right hand slide down her firm stomach to go between her thighs, rubbing nimble fingers teasingly over her plump sex. Samantha's other hand alternately squeezed her breasts and played with her stiff nipples.

"Ooh Arthur," Samantha undulated her hips and moaned loudly: "When you talk about horses it makes me sooo wet!"

Arthur sat there grinning and enjoying the show: "Really?"

Samantha giggled and grabbed ahold of Arthur's erection. "God, you're so stupid sometimes."

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People wrapped in scarves and heavy winter coats hurried along the sidewalk toward their destinations. Arthur was the last one off the bus; he was also the one person who really didn't want to retreat indoors. He slowed and then came to a complete stop on the bottom step at the entrance to the Police Headquarters. A cold front had passed through the previous night, though the morning sky was mostly clear a few snow flurries blew toward the southeast. Arthur wasn't wearing anything other than work boots but the temperature was the last thing on his mind. He stood there until his skin was numb from the cold. A woman behind him complained about the stupid criminal blocking the stairs while she was freezing to death. Arthur stepped to the side and let the woman, who seemed dressed for an arctic expedition, pass by. It was hard to move forward, so hard to climb those steps and report to his spokesman's office on the day of his third scheduled judicial punishment. There was really no alternative though, Arthur tried to convince himself; it was simply something he had to do. He willed himself to start walking again; Spokesman Ralkliv was waiting inside his office when Arthur arrived.

Ralkliv was very businesslike; he offered some food and coffee, though Arthur refused both. How a criminal could eat at a time like this was baffling and as for the coffee, Arthur felt alert enough already. For fifteen minutes he sat and waited for the policewoman and her partner to arrive. Even though he was on the fourth floor of the police headquarters with a tracking collar on his neck the police still felt the need to handcuff his hands behind his back; with a firm grip on his arm Officer Stashak marched him steadily toward his destination: a long corridor in the basement with five rooms along the right side. Sobbing noises could be overheard as they passed by two of the doors. Arthur was taken to the last room in the hall. The room was almost square, six meters across, with concrete floor, bright lighting, and a thick wooden door. A sturdy metal table stood waist-high near the middle of the room, three folding chairs were along one wall and the camera operator had his equipment set up in the back corner two meters from the judge's desk.

Arthur recognized the judge as the woman who had sent him to the hard labor camp. A witness was present. The woman looked about thirty, attractive but underweight and far too pale, her sharp features and black hair, matched her cold expression; yet she looked somehow familiar. Everyone in the room except Spokesman Ralkliv seemed hostile and ready to enjoy his pain.

Arthur lowered himself before the policewoman and kissed the shoes of his tormentor, seconds passed between this degrading act and the tap on his shoulder.

"Criminal # 88588, you will position yourself on the punishment table before I lose my patience."

Arthur stood up and walked to the end of the table that faced the Judge, he put his ankles against the leather restraints that were bolted securely to each steel table leg. Watching closely, Officer Stashak tapped her switch impatiently against her left palm. He knew he couldn't delay; Arthur bent forward at the waist ninety degrees exposing him to the punishment that was soon to come. He stretched out across the cold metal tabletop and placed his wrists across leather restraints that were polished from frequent use.

As Stashak strapped him down, Arthur glanced toward the witness. He realized where he had seen her before: in the newspaper. It was the wife of the injured policeman here to see justice done. It only got worse. Stashak efficiently bound his ankles, wrists, and midsection to the table then she stepped back and swished the flexible switch through the air a few times to let her victim sweat it out in anticipation of the first stroke.

Arthur heard the high-pitched whistle and the snap of leather against skin. Then a line of burning pain formed along the right side of his buttocks. Arthur wasn't expecting the first hit so soon, he jerked, and a barely audible gasp escaped his lips. As the pain faded he concentrated on being calm, still, and defiant. The officer struck nine more times, moving lower with each vicious blow. Stashak paused to run her fingertips over painful welts looking for a reaction; not getting one, she stepped to her left and took aim at unmarked skin.

Methodical and cruel, Stashak struck hard and then paused many seconds to give Criminal # 88588 plenty of time to dread the next brutal stroke of her switch. It was not just the pain but also the wait that wore on a criminal's mind during a punishment, knowing that a police officer could take as long as she wished to inflict the fifty strikes. Ten welts on each side and criminal # 88588 was desperately trying to remain still, his skin was wet with sweat and he pressed his forehead hard against the table. She struck mercilessly five times along the back of his right thigh, and observed the criminal's uncontrolled tugging against his restraints with every stroke, it wouldn't be long she knew. Stashak started her methodical assault on the left side. Criminal # 88588 groaned after the switch landed, she knew she was close to breaking him now. Four more strikes in quick succession caused the American to finally cry out. Stashak was pleased, she glanced to the wife of her former partner, who came to see Criminal # 88588 suffer for his crimes. The woman looked even more pale than usual.

Officer Stashak had gotten a good response with her last hard strike but now was not the time to hurry; she would give the American spy the long painful beating he deserved. She waited for his breathing to slow before getting back into position; there was a solid mass of red welts that had swollen across the criminal's bottom; it would be excruciating when she began to overlap them.

On the next strike Criminal # 88588 made a suppressed groan and then couldn't even breath for several seconds, after a long pause she put all her strength into a stroke across the center of both cheeks. He screamed. Ralkliv, the arrogant spokesman that got the American out of the death sentence he deserved, rose out of his chair to check for blood. There was none of course, there were plenty of broken capillaries under the surface, but Stashak knew exactly what she could get by with without breaking the skin and stopping the punishment early. Criminal # 88588 would have no such luck. Six more strikes resulted in more agonized screams as swollen tortured skin took more punishment, she was sure to wait minutes in between strikes to let the American appreciate the pain fully and dread her next blow.

Ralkliv watched carefully now for broken skin, at length he decided to direct her blows to the back of his client's thighs. Officer Stashak was pleased to accommodate him by striking twice on each leg, covering previous welts in new lines of pain for the American spy to feel. The final eight hard blows were directed to the unmarked skin of the criminal's shoulders; Stashak put all her strength into these last blows and got the loud responses she wanted. Ninety minutes under her care had reduced criminal # 88588 to a trembling mess who was hurting so bad he could barely breathe. Officer Stashak looked over to see Mrs. Andreis's disturbed expression; she had probably never witnessed a judicial switching up close before.

Stashak admired her work as she freed the American from his bonds, virtually every centimeter of the criminal's buttocks and thighs were covered in purple welts and the eight red lines across his back were already turning dark and swelling. She ordered him to his feet, and brought him close to the judge for inspection; there could be no doubt he got the full punishment today. Watching Criminal # 88588 kiss her shoes and thank her for the punishment in a hoarse trembling voice made Officer Stashak feel smug. How could one not feel proud after a job so well done?

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Arthur carefully got up from the recovery table and decided to make his way outside. He shuffled slowly through the busy lobby at the ground floor of the Police Headquarters, people all around turned to see the welts covering the backside of the humiliated criminal. A cold west wind hit Arthur in the face as he stepped out the main entrance. Most of the people outside wore winter coats; Arthur hadn't bothered to even put on boots. He stood on a patch of brown grass and turned his back into the wind; it felt good. The throbbing burning of the fifty welts eased somewhat. Five minutes in the cold had reduced the pain considerably, though his hands and especially feet were almost frozen and the metal collar seemed to suck all the heat out of his skin on such a cold day. Arthur boarded a bus headed west toward Jakt's house. Free people on board the bus whispered and openly stared at his punished body as Arthur walked down the aisle; in Danubia a criminal's humiliation and torment was a spectator sport.

Arthur shivered uncontrollably as he walked the last hundred meters to Jakt's front yard; shivering hurt, walking hurt, breathing hurt; when it was warm out even sweating seemed to hurt after a switching. With hands too numb to grip, Arthur pushed the gate open and walked past the concrete mixer that Jakt had been working on in the front yard. The junky antique doorknob had to be twisted just right as the warped door was pulled flat against the doorjamb. Arthur got it right after a few attempts, when the door swung open Jakt was right in front of him.

"Arthur it must be two below! You're going to freeze... you're not even wearing shoes!" Jakt started to help him inside until Arthur waved him off; he didn't want anyone touching his shoulders.

"Thought the cold air would... do me good." Arthur rubbed his numb hands together. "Reduce the swelling, maybe."

Jakt shut the door. "Humph... Freeze to death more likely. Go over to the stove and warm up. Are all Americans as crazy as you are?"

"I can tell you that they don't want me back."

"You have family and friends, I'm sure." Mr. Jakt said.

Arthur's laugh was rough and dry as his throat. "Dad's dead, mom's ashamed of me, none of my old friends have even bothered to write, and the US government isn't going to lift a finger to help me." Arthur's legs trembled as he stared down at Mr. Jakt's old gray linoleum. It was weathered and lined with age like the old man's face. Everything within the house was old, frozen decades in the past.

Mr. Jakt grasped Arthur's forearm to gain his attention. "Arthur, I want you to know that you have a home here now. You are always welcome at my table."

"Mr. Jakt, I..." Arthur tried to control the shaking. "I know the way most people feel about me here. I imagine your neighbors didn't like it when you took me in."

"I'm too old and cranky to worry about what everyone else thinks. I make up my own mind, no matter what meddling relatives or neighbors say. When Hradekt... Spokesman Ralkliv asked for my help I couldn't turn him down, you see he and my son used to be good friends back in school, as a boy he spent more time at my house than he did at his own." There was a look of pain and sadness, Arthur knew he had a son who died long ago but Jakt never talked about it.

"You would have liked my boy, he was always laughing; my wife thought I was a bad influence on him. He was a little rebellious but never did any harm... well, he painted the cat lime green one time but that was it. He loved animals, sometimes he would catch lizards or snakes and bring them right into the house and his mother would scream." Jakt had a distant look. "We used to camp out by the lake all the time, he loved to swim..."

Arthur warmed up by the stove and feeling returned. Jakt noticed the pain in Arthur's expression. "I have just the medicine that will make you feel better, and old friend of mine brought me a couple bottles last week, and I haven't tried it out yet; made from black currants." He retrieved a dark wine bottle from the cabinet and poured two small glasses.