Dystopia Pt. 02

Markem tossed back the last of the swill in his cup, wiped his stubble with the back of his sleeve and rose to leave glaring at the barmaid who had basically ignored him all night. She obviously thought herself too good for him, with her short skirt and tiny cleavage. He preferred women who had a certain...plumpness about them. Her meager offerings spoke more of hunger and sickness, than attractiveness in his eye. Not that he would have turned her down, had she been interested. His current circumstances and distinct lack of coin saw him more desperate in his love life than he was used to, lacking even the resources to visit one of the local brothels.

He slunk through the crowded establishment, keeping a wary eye on several cutthroats and his hand over his coin purse, out the doors and into the frozen night. Pulling his coat around his narrow shoulders he staggered through the muddy streets of Colvain, heading more or less in the general direction of the post office. As he slogged through the frozen mud he saw even less scrupulous types watching him from the alleys, the light reflecting in their desperate eyes. He understood that feeling now more than he ever had before.

He trudged up to the post just as snow started to fall lightly in small flakes. He brushed a little snow off the painted sign outside the door, reading the destinations and departure times of the delivery coach. There would many routes heading from Colvain, it was a small town but strategically located for cargo traveling through the countryside to the port city of Tampico in the southeast.

Tracing a finger down the list he ticked off the cities and prices posted. As much as he'd love heading south to the more civilized part of the world, he knew his skills would stand a much better chance of survival in the more untamed north; where the law was loose and man with a good sword arm was worth his salt. Deciding to head in the exact geographic opposite of Mazatlan, he headed back to the bar hoping they would let him sit in the common room and stay warm for an hour or two before ousting him back onto the streets to fend for himself.

The chill wind cut through his clothing as if it wasn't there and made mockery of his unprotected ears, which were now burning with the beginnings of chilblains. Shivering now uncontrollably,Markem ducked between the buildings trying to mitigate the wind, instead trading it for deeper snow on the unkempt ally. His progress slowed considerably, as he had to stomp through the icy mounds of snowdrifts, hands stuffed in his armpits, wishing for pockets in his coat for the millionth time. Lord Aldridge fancied himself after the ancient ship captains depicted in the art he loved so much, and had his men dress in ridiculous outfits with tassels, and of course pocket-less for "good discipline".

Deep in his thoughts, it came as a huge surprise when Markem was abruptly smacked in the face with a chunk or wood, presumably a board from some broken crate. Blood fountained from his now broken nose in a spectacular fashion. He instinctively reeled back and clutched at his face while bellowing every obscenity he'd ever heard, and even made up a few.

Quickly blinking the stars and hate out his eyes, he saw a scrawny man in even worse rags, rearing back for another blow. Stepping into the hit allowed Markem to take it on the shoulder instead of the face and grab the man by his neck, squeezing even as he took blows in his side.

He was furious. Furious about life, about hunger, about his pockets, about the cold...and now this asshole thought he would rob him in a frozen alleyway?! Markem slowly squeezed the waif's throat, cutting off his air. A stinging ball of ice struck him in the side of the face, bringing his attention to the boy who had hidden behind some crates in the alley. Likely he was trying to defend his father, and succeeded as the man wriggled out of his grasp, and turned to bolt.

Markem lunged at the fleeing man, tackling him around his thighs, and dragging him into the snow. Piling all his weight on top of the man, he snaked his arm around the assailant's neck and rolled over onto his back in a move he learned as a foot soldier. Slowly applying sideways pressure, he twisted the man's jaw around until at last he heard a grinding pop, and the man went limp. Shrugging the now limp weight off his chest, he doubled checked to make sure the man was indeed dead by peering into his now glazed eyes.

Markem quickly went through the pockets of the thief, taking what few coppers the man had. Ignoring the quiet sobbing coming from behind the crates, he pocketed the coin, tore a strip from the man's shirt, stuffed it with snow and applied it to his face.

Sure he may have a broken nose, but with his new coin he could now afford a night in the hotel before his journey north tomorrow morning. Tugging his coat straight around his skinny shoulders he brushed the snow off his hips, and held his newly made ice pack to his face in effort to ease the pain. He trudged out of the alleyway making a beeline for the hostel, shouldering the door open and stumbling inside. He tossed a copper to the arrogant barmaid for the key to the washroom.

Standing in front of the cracked and dirty mirror, he took in the wreckage of his face. Both his eyes were already starting to blacken, and his nose was cracked at a horrific 45 degree angle. He would need a healer to fix it properly.

Not for the first time, Markem considered how all his problems could be fixed but a simple abundance of coin. If he had even a few gold, he could turn his life around in a very significant way.

Bellowing in pain Markem straightened his nose as best he could, getting it only mostly straightened, and causing fresh blood to gush from his nose as his nasal passages were re-aligned and cleared of the coagulated blood. He let the majority of the blood drain, and then began to clean himself up as best he could, scrubbing his face with the frigid water from washbasin. Once the blood had slowed to a trickle, he stuffed some pieces torn from his new rag into his nose to stopper the last of it.

Taking one last look at his disfigured face, he kicked the door open and stumbled over to the bar paying for a room with the silver that he had relieved from the thief's corpse, grumbling his thanks to the red faced woman who seemed to have a scowl permanently attached to her face.

A short trip up the narrow and rickety stairs found him in a large room with multiple stacked beds and several shapes already snoring beneath tattered blankets of rough wool. Finding a the least objectionable mattress in the corner where he could keep an eye on the door and most of the room.

Tomorrow he would get on that coach, and head for one of the only places in the world that was even worse.

Dallas.

Chapter 10

Emil stared at Isla from across the table, her fidgeting exemplifying her nervousness. He wasn't sure why she seemed so terrified, he hadn't done anything to her. Hell, he'd even carried her across the yard so she didn't freeze. Then again, he'd never bought a slave before, maybe there was some sort of training or expectation that made them all that way. Either way, she'd figure him out sooner or later.

"So Isla, where are you from and how did you become a slave?"

Isla's eyes turned down and as she toyed with her food, organizing her thoughts.

"I was born and raised in a town very far from here, in Africa called Marrakesh. It was a nice town, our King was always throwing these lavish parties and feasts for the city. I have many fond memories of those times. My sister tugging my arm and pointing at the silk dancers, my father buying us some roasted chestnuts."

"We weren't a wealthy family in the beginning, we only had a small bathhouse that doubled as a laundry. In reality it was just a small natural spring that my mother had accidentally hit while trying to dig a garden." Isla chuckled remembering all the mud and her mother's frustration. "We started making a little money, with my mother and I washing clothes at night, and offering the bathhouse during the day."

"Eventually we had enough money to build a second small laundry building and soon we became the main laundry in the town. We became the best by working our asses off. While my father spent most of his time running the baths, my mother, sister and I stayed up all night and washed. We worked so long sometimes we slept there. Needless to say, when you start making money, people start targeting you.

"My father was killed when a bandit broke into the house to rob us; broke his skull with a cudgel. We got lucky and there was a group of people walking home from the pub and when the bandit came running out of the house they grabbed him, wondering why he was running and covered in blood. Turns out the bandit was the son of the local lord, who had been ousted from the home of one of his mistresses, a lady from a rival family. Needless to say the scandal was going to be huge.

"My mother reached out to the father of the bandit, who agreed to keep the whole thing quiet. The son turned up dead and my mother received gold in compensation." Isla blinked back a tear, and tried to steady her voice.

"My father's life was worth one hundred gold. That's all. You'd think that a human life would be worth so much more, but I guess not.

"My mother took that gold and expanded the business, building a huge stone bathing room. It was really pretty. Painted stone bath and tapestries on the walls of birds in flight. She always loved things of beauty, and dreamed of the life of a Lady; surrounding herself with furs and silks from every corner of the globe; never having to work again.

"The problem was, mother spent all of the money on the onsen. She assumed that if she built a beautiful bath that people would come from all over the country to bathe in it, and she'd get the lifestyle she wanted. But no one came.

"Four months after we opened the new spa, things went bad. With no one coming to the new bathhouse, even at reduced prices we couldn't afford to heat the pool. Then we couldn't afford to heat the house. Then we ran out of food.

"In a move of desperation, my mother reached back out to the Lord and demanded more money or she would tell everyone about the scandal and the murder his son had perpetrated. He didn't like a laundress threatening him, so he had her killed and took our home from us. Everything. The house, the laundry, the onsen... all of it. They kicked my sister and I out on the street.

"With no food, no shelter, no parents, it didn't take long for us to start stealing food, and of course we were caught. Since we couldn't pay we were forced to work in the lord's manor. The same lord who had my mother murdered because she was inconvenient. We worked there for over a year, scrubbing floors, mucking stables, painting walls, and they entire time we were charged rent and food expenses."

A small mirthful chuckle escaped her. "Rent. We were forced to sleep in a barn and they charged us rent. Our debt kept growing and growing. One day my sister was carrying dishes from the dining room to the kitchens when she ran into a visiting lady, spilling wine all over her gown.

"They beat my us. They beat her, they beat her so bad. When they were done there was more blood on the outside than on the inside. After that night we were sold as slaves to pay the debt on the Lady's gown.

"I haven't seen my sister since we were sold. I don't even know if she's still alive."

*****

Isla finished her story and sobbed quietly to herself, reliving the past she'd spent so much time intentionally suppressing, shoulders shaking with grief as she mourned not for herself, but for her sister. The last time she had seen her she had been so broken, and bruised, she had barely even looked human. She couldn't even remember what she looked like before then. She couldn't see her smile, or hear her laugh. She just saw the blood and broken bones piled in the bottom of a slave cage, unconscious, even to Isla's screams as she was hauled away for her auction.

"Master, may I please be excused?" Tears streaming down her face, she barely waited for his nod before fleeing to the washroom and letting the tears come unrestrained. She cried until her tears ran dry, and her soul became numb.

When her she had nothing left in her, she cleaned herself in the bucket of water kept and attempted to regain her composure. A difficult feat since her owner had just seen her come completely unglued.

"Great, now he's going to think you're weak and emotional," she berated herself. "If you don't keep your act together he'll decide you're more work than you're worth and dump your body in his garden for fertilizer."

Opening the door she marched meekly back to the kitchen, ready to apologize for her outburst, only to find the dishes done and the kitchen empty. She checked Masters bedroom, but it was empty. Looking out the window she could see only the fury of the storm. The snow was falling so thick and fast that she couldn't see anything. He must have gotten so irritated that he stormed off, preferring mother nature's wrath to her instability.

"Well... Shit."

Chapter 11

Emil busied himself in the barn checking the rabbits, making sure they were handling the cold. The temperature had dropped from the mid thirties to negative ten in a little over an hour. There was an arctic front coming down from the north, whipping over the tundra and bringing its subzero temperatures with it, and no sign of letting up anytime soon.

Emil considered his rabbits. They could handle average temperature changes, but they weren't really cut out for sub zero storm. Their coats were nice and thick for the winter, but the ice was already forming on the walls from the residual moisture in the air. Better to be safe than sorry. Grabbing a nearby length of rope from a shelf, he looped it through the wire mesh of the cage top, and drag the whole cage rabbits and all to the mudroom. Stashing them in a corner of the room would protect them from the worst of the elements and their natural herd mentality would keep them warm enough to ensure survival. They also didn't much care for being drug over three hundred feet of ice and snow, and Emil figured bunny rage probably wouldn't hurt anything.

With that done he ensured that the sheep were well penned in their rain shelters, trusting them to rotate the herds to share the cold. A caribou herd wandered by the eastern fence line, heads bent and heading south towards warmer climates. The sheep were well situated in the shadow of their shelter, and the goats were bleating obstinately at the caribou; just generally being retarded asshloes.

Emil hauled in the goat hanging from the corner of the house that he had killed earlier that day, chuckling that there was at least one less goat. With the outside chores done and the house shuttered up he eyed the door tentatively. He hoped enough time had passed for Isla to pull herself together, and then pondered the irony that as a slave owner he was forced into the cold because of his crying property.

Deciding that freezing to death wasn't really an option, he crossed himself in an ancient prayer to the old gods and headed inside, dragging the goat behind him. If worse came to worst he could try to distract her so she could feed on the goat instead of his soul. Like the giant predator from the old earth documentary, chronicled by the noted historian Michael Crichton.

He kicked open the mudroom door listening for the sobs coming from the washroom. Instead he heard nothing. Picking up the goat he carried it into the kitchen and dropped it on the table. He went to the cabinet and pulled out his leather roll of skinning knives and sharpening block, preparing for the task ahead. A squeak behind him made him turn and he saw a very somber slave standing in the doorway with her eyes downcast.

"Please forgive me for my outburst Master. I spent a lot of time not thinking about how I got here, it was a lot to remember all at once." She raised her eyes to look at him, waiting for a response.

Completely baffled as to what to do next he simply waved and coughed something about not worrying about it. He looked at her standing there all meek and contrite, he couldn't help but feel sorry for her predicament. Despite her circumstances, it didn't seem that she was a bad person, just a victim of tragic circumstances.

All that being said, she was still dangerous. Oh sure she was vulnerable and insecure right now -"And damn is that hot," he thought- but she was still a dangerous, naive, caged animal; who was completely unprepared for the harshness of the farm. Out here in the tundra an untrained hand was just as dangerous to herself and others as a bandit raid.

Pulling out several knives, Emil quickly set to sharpening them while Isla watched from the other side of the room. Making long slits down the animal's neck, legs, and gut, he quickly removed the entrails and placed most of them in the sink for washing and later usage, discarding the colon and other unmentionables into the refuse bin for composting. Then he peeled the hide from the carcass, and quartered the beast. Hanging the limbs from several hooks from pantry that was double walled on the inside, but thinly sealed on the exterior wall. The effect was not unlike that of the fabled fridge-boxes of old. Rubbing them with salt, Emil made a note of the date in charcoal on the wall next to two others set there for some rabbit he had hung last month.

Isla watched him with a queasy expression on her face, and a ramrod straight spine. She was the very picture of stubbornness. Waving her over to him at the sink, he showed her how to clean the knives, oil them, and roll them in their case with strict instructions to never sharpen them. It was a delicate procedure and new knives were very expensive.

"Clean the table and floor, while I hang the hide" he said handing her a bucket and rag. He almost laughed out loud at the look of horror that briefly crossed her face before it was again hidden behind demure acceptance. She looked so cute when she was out of her element and screwing up her courage.

Pulling the hide out of the sink, Emil intentionally let blood drip from it as he walked to the mud room. He refused to look back but he was sure that her face was just crushed as she surveyed the grisly scene that was his kitchen. He wasn't quite sure why the thought of her being put out was pleasing to him, but those were new feelings he would have to analyze later.

Emil quickly stretched the hide up on a wooden rack, and salted it with the same rock salt he used for ice build up. Satisfied with his work he left the rack in the mudroom until the weather cleared up and he could relocate it to the barn. It wasn't exactly warm in the mud room, so he wasn't particularly concerned with the smell getting out of hand.

He returned to the kitchen and saw Isla on her hands and knees scrubbing the floor for all she was worth, with an adorable expression of hate and determination. Emil stepped over the clean bit of floor she was currently working on and over to the sink, to start washing, sorting and storing the gizzards for later stews.

The heart, lungs, liver, pancreas, stomach and most of the small intestines were thoroughly cleaned and set in a large pot of water to boil. Boiling would toughen the meat, but it was the best way to preserve the meat without freezing it. This way he could keep cool in some clay pots and it would last for months without spoiling, and would be added to meals later as a protein.

Finishing his task Emil washed his hands in the basin, and dried them on one of the bits of rag that his mother had affectionately called "tea towels". She insisted on it, always made a point of purchasing some for the winter solstice. She talked often of an even more rare beverage called coffee, but they had only been able to buy it a handful of times in his lifetime. Emil hadn't tasted the bitter brown brew in some time now, and doubted Isla had ever tasted it despite her mother's grandiose machinations.