Calvin Baker - Dominion

“It was not on purpose. I will let him loose, just as soon as I figure out how to do it.”

“You’ll figure out something,” Adelia said.

“Where is he now?” Magnus asked.

“I think Caleum put him to work already.”

Magnus was thankful at least to hear the younger man had done so sensible a thing. That evening at dinner he tried to conceal his own thoughts as he asked his nephew how the day had gone with the harvest. Caleum, sensing his uncle’s true concern, replied that no other healthy body lazed about while the sun was up, so he saw no reason why Sam Day should be allowed to either. “Slave or no slave, he has to put in an honest day’s work.”

It was impeccable logic, but Magnus knew he had done something gravely wrong, and they had not yet seen the end of suffering for that year.

“I’m going to turn that man free, just as soon as I lay a plan for what to do with him,” he said to his family. No one at the table objected to his words, though no one else thought it was quite so dire as he.

When the harvest months arrived Magnus began estimating the yield from his lands, and it looked to be slightly more than the year before, which had been a good season all around, and this pleased him despite the earlier events in the summer.

Sam Day watched the harvest process with disbelief, as the men all arrived in the morning of their own accord, and only very few had disappeared from the fields by the time the sun reached midday. There was no lash and no prison for idlers either. When he asked one of the other men about it, he was told they were paid for their work according to how much they gathered, and besides this wage there was also a prize at the end of the season for the man who had pulled in the most. “It is a solid gold coin, Sam, worth I couldn’t say how much, but, if it’s yours, I doubt you would have to work the whole next year.”

Sam Day had never touched money before in his life. He was paid for his farm work not at all, and for his root work in kind — mostly favors of food and cloth so that he never went lacking for what he needed, especially as old Master Smith had been on the stingy side with both cornmeal and shoe leather. Sam, though, had managed to live like the priest of a well-devoted temple, and he carried himself in accordance with this authority of position whenever he was called on as a healer. In his other labors, by contrast, he was more humble, even to the point of being lazy, as he resented having to do anything other than his born calling.

When he heard about that gold coin for the man who was best at harvesting the fields, though, he could not help but daydream about it. He thought, if he won it, he would first get something for Effie; then, if there was any money beyond that, he imagined to himself he might use it to have a great party that would last the better part of a week. He got himself so worked up with the idea that he showed up on time next morning, without having to be sent for after the others went out into the fields.

Having never worked in earnest before, though, he was not so quick as the other men and could barely walk on his tender feet by the end of the day, as they were burned and bleeding from use against the thorny weeds and hot ground. Being so unused to physical exertion, he could not help but comment on his condition that night when the workers gathered for supper. “How much you think that gold coin could be worth to get all of us killing ourselves for it?”

“It isn’t just the money, Sam, but the sport as well,” one of them answered him.

“I see,” he replied, without being convinced of anything other than his own pain at that particular moment.

When he went to sleep that night, his joints were still aflame from the day’s work and he thought he would rather be paid in kind for divining than gold for physical labor. In his dreams that night, which were wild and deep, he was dressed all in finery, and people came from far and wide to seek him out and ask his favor. He was seated throughout on a claw-footed chair, and whenever anyone approached he would listen from a distance to what they had to say but not allow them to come any nearer to him.

“I dreamed I was a king last night,” he told any who would listen, as they ate breakfast early the next morning. “I was sitting on a throne in the middle of my country, passing out solid gold coins to all my subjects.”

They all laughed at him. “What did you call your kingdom, Sam?”

“Laugh all you want,” he said. “I just wanted to let you know fair that I had a vision about winning that coin, so the rest of y’all can stop trying for it.”

The men were still filled with mirth as they returned to the tobacco, but Sam was a proud man, and his dream had infected his imagination. Their laughter only raised his cholera and determination to win.

When Sam returned to the fields the next day he put himself back into his labors as if his life was at stake. No one was laughing at him by the time the sun went down on that day. In a week they had all legitimate respect for him, as he stripped stack after stack of the broad green leaves, and by the end of the month they allowed he might even have a fair chance at the coin.

The only man among them who begrudged these efforts was one called Angus Carson, who had won the prize the year before, and was counting on winning the money again to see his family through the winter. “He’ll win it over my dead body,” Carson said, once he saw the threat from Sam Day was real. “It will be the same day he takes food from my little ones’ mouths.”

As they went into the final week of harvest, which according to the ledger Magnus kept was a fortnight earlier than the year before, the other men around them had all chosen sides and laid wagers as to which of these two headstrong men would win the prize. At supper each night that week the contestants would occupy opposite ends of the table, with his followers seated beside him, attending to his needs. In the middle of the bench were two empty chairs to keep distance between the two camps, and they hectored each other from across the divide.

At his end of the table Angus sat bare-chested, drinking bock and otherwise silent as his men boasted of his exploits.

“Angus Carson is the strongest man in all His Majesty’s realm,” they taunted. “He’s also the fastest and will never lose, especially not to the likes of one like you. It’s folly, Sam Day — nay, madness’s mischief, if not the thing itself — to think ye can compete against him.”

Sam Day governed the other end of the board, looking to all like a leader among his men, but he too was silent, allowing them to speak their minds on his behalf.

“Sam Day has been blessed with the gift of fore prophecy and can see well into the future,” they called and countered. “What he saw there last time he looked was Angus Carson coming to borrow a shilling.”

Thus were all the men in good spirits as the autumn rain started to come in and they hurried to draw the harvest to a close. Each could look forward then not only to his pay but also his profit from betting, as none imagined losing what he had wagered, and they boasted of it each chance they got.

Such was not the case for the chief adversaries, who eyed each other stealthily around camp, each trying to measure his opponent. Angus, at first, had thought Sam Day all blowhard and nothing hale about him, due to the slightness of his physique. Then he saw the work the man did and thought perhaps he was aided by the harpies and demons it was said he could conjure at his beckon and call.

Sam Day, on his end, had seen men bigger than Angus Carson, and he would even bet half the men in the barracks of Stonehouses were stronger than his foe, but he had never seen a man want something so bad as Carson seemed to when his fingers reached out to harvest the plants. Even his own friends said of him, “He’s stubborn as he is mean, and the only thing that loves him, besides his wife and children, seems to be tobaccy leaves.” For no sooner had he fingered one than it seemed to be in his stack, as he moved down the rows like a drowning man who had figured out a way to harvest air.