Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

Walter and his gang.

His eyes narrowed and he clenched his jaw.

“Hello, Colin,” Walter said, flicking Colin’s ear with one finger. Colin flinched, but refused to react in any other way. “This isn’t exactly what I had in mind for you when I summoned the Armory. But my father needed something from your father, and, as usual, his needs came first. I wanted something more damaging, perhaps even more permanent, like what the others got.”

Colin wondered where the guard had gone, realized that Walter had probably ordered the guard away.

“Oh, well,” Walter said, standing with an exaggerated sigh. “It was fun watching you shake in terror on the gallows. However, Brunt and Gregor haven’t had their fun yet, so we brought you a little present.” He heard Walter retreat, heard fumbling, the rustle of cloth, low anticipatory chuckling.

And then something struck him in the face, a stream of liquid, joined a moment later by another, then two more. He spluttered, tried to pull away, then realized it wasn’t water and pressed his lips tight, closed his eyes, ducked his head, and breathed in tight, infuriated heaves through his nose, hands groping the darkness uselessly. The laughter rose with the stench of piss, until all four streams trickled off and died. He shook his head like a wet dog, felt a momentary thrill of satisfaction when Walter and the rest cursed and leaped back out of range. But the satisfaction didn’t last.

He thought they’d return again, try something else to humiliate him, but even as he tensed he heard their voices fading into the distance.

The guard returned a short time later but said nothing, even though the reek of urine was obvious.

No one else visited him that night or the next morning. When the time came to release him, his parents were waiting, along with Karen and her father, Sam and Paul, a few others from Lean-to, and Patris Brindisi. The guard who had allowed Karen to help him and the commander of the Armory released the lock, sharing a dark glance when they got close enough to smell the piss, the priest presiding over it all. Colin couldn’t stand, his muscles cramping. He cried out and fell to the ground, his mother at his side instantly. His father and Sam finally made a seat by clasping hands, lifting Colin and carrying him from the square back to Lean-to, his arms over their shoulders, escorted by a covey of grumbling supporters.

Once home, his mother washed off the urine, the dust, and cleaned the wounds on his neck and wrists, the water burning the scrapes and cuts. She fed him, slowly, in small doses, and massaged his arms and legs, shoulders and back, until the cramps subsided. Colin moaned and cried out as she did so, and tremors shook his body.

But he did not weep. He buried that urge beneath the anger, beneath the hatred.

He buried the tears deep.

Night found Colin sitting on the rock that offered a view of the plains, his satchel and sling resting on the stone beside him. He’d used the sling to hunt rabbit and squirrel and prairie dog since his day in the penance lock three weeks before-had hunted that evening in the dusk after his father sent him to warn everyone to prepare, to be at the wagons in the morning, ready to go-but the intensity of the hunt had died. He no longer felt the dark thrill of excitement when he touched the cords or held the smoothness of a stone in his hand. That thrill had come from the anticipation of using the sling against Walter, and he had no intention of doing that again. He hadn’t even been down to Portstown since the Armory had dragged him there and Sartori had put him in the locks.

He was done with Walter, with Brunt and Gregor and Rick. In the morning, he’d be on the plains, heading far away from Portstown, its Proprietor, and his son, passing beyond the farms, beyond where even he had hunted. The thought stirred something deep inside him, a prickling in his chest, a quickening of excitement that tingled against his skin.

He sat in the moonlight and stared out across the silvered grass, his knees pulled up to his chin, his arms wrapped around them. In the distance, he could see the eight covered wagons, already loaded and ready to go, like black stones against the plains. A few guards wandered around them, mostly Armory mixed with a few of the chosen settlers from Lean-to, there to protect the wagons from the dissidents and conscripted prisoners who’d banded with Shay. Crickets chirruped, and something small rustled in the grass nearby. Wind gusted against his face and brought with it the smell of earth, sea salt, and the smoke from the tents in Lean-to. He breathed in those scents, held them, exhaled slowly as he rested his chin against his knees and smiled.

He heard Karen approaching long before she arrived, her dress swishing in the stalks of grass. Resentment stabbed through his exhilaration-he’d come up here to be alone-but that died as she reached the rock. Karen and her father had become part of the main group intent on heading into the plains and establishing the town everyone had started to call Haven. She and Colin had stolen away more than once while their parents and the others argued over what was necessary for the trek and what was not, who to allow into the party and who to leave behind, and how to protect everyone. Those excursions-down to the darkened beach, or more often here, to the edge of the moonlit plains and the flat stone-leaped to the forefront of Colin’s mind as she settled down beside him, her legs folded beneath her.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said. She brushed her hair away from her eyes, tucked the strands behind her ear. It had grown long since he’d first stumbled into her at the stream, but it was still wild. In the moonlight, it appeared black, her skin a pale white. “Our parents are discussing-”

“Food,” he said, cutting her off. “I know. That’s why I left.”

“They don’t think we have enough, not for as many people as are going.”

“We’ll have to hunt as we go. The wagons won’t be able to move that fast, not without a road to follow. We’ll have plenty of time to scout ahead and forage for food.” The words were his father’s, and he said them with the same curt tone. Beside him, Karen stilled, then shifted position, adjusting her dress as she too pulled her knees up to her chin.

After a long moment of silence, she said, “Aren’t you afraid?”

Colin turned toward her, brow furrowed in confusion. “Of what?”

“Of what’s out there.”

“Oh.” He relaxed. “No.”

“But it’s so open. So… empty.”

“It will be better than the trip here to Portstown, trapped in the hold of the ship, only coming up on deck an hour every day, crammed in there with all the other people, with goats and chickens. I hated the ship. I hated the ocean. And I hate Portstown.”

Karen flinched, and Colin suddenly remembered that she’d lost her mother, brother, and sister on the voyage here. Grimacing, he added, “Besides, it can’t be empty. There’s got to be something out there.”

“What?”

“I don’t know, but the other expeditions-the ones the Proprietor sent out before us-went somewhere. Something had to have happened to them.”

Karen gave him a look. “That doesn’t exactly make me feel any better.”

He shrugged. “I think it’s exciting. We’ll be the first to see it, the first to experience it.” He felt the hairs rise on the backs of his arms. “We’ll be the first ones there, with no Proprietor to tell us what we can and can’t do.”

“But the Proprietor will be there, or at least a representative of the Family.” She gave him a significant look.

He waved it aside. “Doesn’t matter. Whoever it is will be outnumbered.”

Karen snorted, but didn’t argue any further. Instead, she lay her head down on her knees, pulled them in tighter, and sighed. “I hope you’re right, Colin.” But her voice was still troubled.