Benjamin Tate - Well of Sorrows

A moment later, she cleared her throat. “Why is your mother going to kill you?”

Colin groaned. “Because this was my last clean shirt.”

“That’s easy to fix. Take it off.”

Colin hesitated, and Karen rolled her eyes.

“Fine, don’t take it off. Let your mother see you like that.” She scrambled back to her feet, bucket in one hand, and headed toward the stream.

“Wait!” Colin said, grabbing his pot and following her. She’d already retrieved her other bucket and knelt by the stream, one bucket in the water, the second beside her, by the time he caught up.

She looked up at him, then extended one hand. “Well?”

He unbuttoned his shirt, fumbling a little, then handed the shirt over.

Karen gasped at the bruises across his chest and side, a few yellowed and fading, but most blue-black and purple. “How did you get those?”

Colin backed up a quick step when she reached out to touch him, already self-conscious without his shirt on. “Doesn’t matter.”

She gave him a skeptical look but didn’t say anything, turning back to the stream. She plunged his shirt into the water. “This shouldn’t be too hard to clean, since the mud is fresh.” She began scrubbing the shirt vigorously.

Colin watched her from behind. A breeze gusted from the ocean and all of the little hairs on his arms prickled and stood on end. He shivered.

Karen held up the shirt, frowned at it, then scrubbed it again before declaring it acceptable.

“It’s not perfect,” she said, holding it out to him, “but it should do.” She sluiced out her own buckets, then filled them with water. When she turned back, she added, “You should really learn to clean your own shirts though.”

Then she smiled and, buckets in hand, moved off.

Colin stood stock-still, stunned, his shirt held out before him, until the gusting breeze brought him back.

He hastily put the shirt back on, grimacing as the damp fabric stuck to his skin, then filled his pot and headed back home.

His mother gave him a raised eyebrow when she saw his shirt, but she said nothing. His father didn’t even notice.

“Ready to learn the sling?” he asked, as soon as Colin handed the pot of water over to his mother.

“Yes.”

“Then grab it and let’s head down to the shore.”

“The shore?” his mother asked. “I thought you were going to the plains?”

“I changed my mind. We’ll practice on the plains eventually, but for now there’ll be more stones on the beach.”

Colin retrieved his sling from his mother.

“Be careful,” she called after them, hands on hips. “Especially you, Tom.”

His father grunted as they ducked through the door, and then they were moving down through Lean-to, in the direction of Portstown, but toward the northern end. Most of the people they met nodded to them or raised a hand in greeting. A few of the men called out to his father.

When they reached the edge of Lean-to, a group of three men joined them, most craftsmen Colin recognized from the voyage east on Trader’s Luck.

“Mornin’, Tom. Heading down to the docks?” Paul asked, falling into step beside Colin. Shorter than his father and broader of shoulder, he’d been a smith in Andover with hopes of making master in fewer than the typical twelve years as journeyman here in the New World.

“Not today. I haven’t found work on the docks in over a week.”

“None of us have,” Paul said grimly, and the other two who’d joined them murmured agreement. “They’re using those of us in Lean-to less and less, preferring their own men or the crews on the ships, even when it’s obvious they could use the help. I don’t like it.”

Tom frowned. “Neither do I, but what can we do about it?”

Paul traded a look with the others. “We don’t know. But if you haven’t noticed, it’s becoming a little desperate here in Lean-to. Most of us have used up whatever money we brought with us from Andover, and the food is running short. We can’t afford anything in the town; they’ve jacked up their prices, at least for those of us from certain Families. And they don’t want to barter with us for goods or services.”

“And we can’t hunt the game in the forest any more,” one of the others mumbled.

His father halted in his tracks. “What?”

Paul nodded. “The Proprietor just issued a new decree. He’s claimed the forests to the north and south for himself and the Carrente Family. Anyone caught poaching is to be put in the penance locks in the center of town for two days. Anyone caught twice will be hanged. Or sent back to Andover in chains.”

“Which means death for certain.” Colin thought the man’s name was Sam. “They’ll put you in the Armory, send you to the front ranks once the Feud starts in earnest. Most of those here in Lean-to are already criminals, have already been given the choice of the Armory or the New World. If they’re sent back from here…”

A troubled look crossed his father’s face. After a pause, he continued toward Portstown. “Where does he expect us to find fresh meat then?” he asked.

“I don’t think the Proprietor expects us to find meat at all,” Paul grumbled.

“So what should we do?” Sam asked.

Tom didn’t answer for a moment. Then: “Nothing, for now. Except what we’ve been doing.”

“And what about meat? What about food?” the third man snarled. “I didn’t come here to starve at the Carrente’s hands.”

Tom caught his eye and held it. “I’ll think of something, Shay.”

Paul nodded and broke away, Sam and Shay following, headed toward the docks. Colin’s father watched, then turned toward the shore in the other direction, one hand on Colin’s shoulder. He squeezed once and smiled. “Nothing to worry about, Colin. Let’s find some rocks for that sling.”

But Colin heard the lie in his voice, saw it in the troubled look in his eyes.

They moved down from the grass into the sand along the beach, picking up stones as they went. Gulls and other shorebirds banked into the breeze overhead, and waves tumbled and crashed into the strand, foaming white as they drove up onto the beach. Seaweed had collected in clumps, left behind by the tide to dry out in the sun, and sand fleas hopped away in clouds as they passed. Small crabs-too small to be worth catching and eating-crawled among the occasional piece of driftwood. Closer to the water, where the tide was retreating, clams spit jets of water up from where they’d burrowed beneath the sand. The sharp scent of salt filled the air; Colin could taste it when he licked his lips.

Once they’d moved far enough north of the town, they halted.

“Now,” his father said, taking the sling from Colin’s grip and unwrapping the straps, “the sling is a weapon, not a toy. It can be extremely dangerous, and your mother made me promise that I’d teach you how to use it properly.

“See these ties here? They’re used to anchor this end of the sling to your wrist.” As he spoke, his father tied the sling to his own wrist. “The strap on this side is meant to dangle between your thumb and first finger, like this. The other strap, the one with the knot tied in the end, is held in the same hand. This forms a small pouch with the rectangular piece of leather, like a little hammock. To load it, you let the sling dangle down and place the stone in the pocket.” His father placed a rounded stone in the pouch. “When you want to release the stone, or whatever it is that you’re trying to throw, you let go of the knot.” His father let the knot go and the stone dropped down into the sand with a soft thump. His father reached down to retrieve it. “Obviously, you need to get some momentum behind the stone before you release it. You do that by twirling the sling, either to the side if you want to sling it underhand, or if you want more power behind it, overhead.”