Lesser Beings Read online

  ‘Don’t waste your efforts. Since I came on board, I’ve seen too many dead thrown to the sharks. If he’s to die, he will die.’

  Ari shook his head, though he knew the boy would most likely die, he was not prepared to stand by and do nothing. Besides, what else was there to do, in the bowels of their cage? Wallow in self pity while children died?

  Ari managed to shuffle his way to the base of the steps and rattled the gate that blocked his way. Eventually, he drew the attention of a bare-face.

  ‘What do you want?’ snarled the bare-face.

  Ari answered in his own tongue, ‘There’s a sick boy. He needs clean water and fresh air.’

  ‘Enough with the monkey gibber,’ the bare-face said.

  Ari gestured for water and mimicked the act of drinking.

  In response, the bare-face shook his head with bafflement, but Ari suspected he knew full well what was being asked of him.

  ‘He’ll die,’ Ari said in his own tongue. ‘And then what value will he be to you?’

  Another bare-face appeared at the top of the stair with a pale in his hand. ‘What’s the matter?’ he asked the first.

  ‘Troublemaker, asking for water.’

  ‘But they have water down there,’ the second said.

  Except it was warm and no doubt laced with the diseases carried by others, Ari thought. Somehow, he had to make them understand he was not asking out of his own need. He dared to utter a single Drac word. ‘Boy,’ he said, pointing back into the gloom.

  ‘He wants water for one the younguns down there.’

  Ari nodded. Perhaps this second one would show the boy some kindness.

  ‘Do you think he knows what we’re saying?’ The first one said, narrowing his eyes.

  Ari immediately regretted his utterance and schooled his features into bland ignorance.

  ‘Come up ‘ere,’ the second bare-face said, ‘And I’ll give you some.’

  Ari pretended not to understand.

  The bare-face gestured for him to come. It was the same gesture his countrymen used to beckon each other. He wondered if the bare-faced Drac understand the significance of this commonality but guessed not. To the bare-faced Drac, he was nothing but a slave.

  Ari shuffled up the steps. From behind, he heard his kinman call out, ‘It’s a trick. Don’t go.’ But Ari did not heed the advice. He had to try for the sake of the boy.

  Once he was halfway up the stairs, the second bare-face said, ‘you want water?’ And hefting his pale, threw its contents down the narrow stairwell. Ari sputtered as acrid piss splashed his face.

  The two above roared with laughter and then disappeared.

  Ari stumbled down the steps and wiped his face with his arm.

  ‘Told you it would do no good,’ his kinman called.

  Later that afternoon, the small boy died.

  *

  Ari was ill all evening. The stench of waste, sweat, and disease, the cloying perfume the Dracs burned to try and mask it, the rock and sway of the vessel as it surged through the waters, the despondency Ari felt as the small body cooled beside him, made his insides cramp. By morning his body was covered in a fine sheen of sweat, his branding scab had started to itch again, and he could not rise from his shelf when the crew called them for the morning meal.

  Eventually two bare-faced Dracs were sent to fetch him, and they dragged him up the stairs and onto the deck.

  For the first moments, the light stung but sweet, fresh air revived him a little. How was it that one could come to appreciate such a simple, unconsidered thing as breathing? He would never take it for granted again.

  The Dracs dumped him on the deck and retreated behind a barricade. As Ari’s eyes grew accustomed to the bright light, he noted that his fellow prisoners had lined up and were being fed from a large copper urn. Among them, there were many Benami just as the man in the shelf above him had said but there were also many Du, obvious amongst his countrymen because of the ritual scars they bore on their bodies and faces.

  He was shocked by the presence of Du countrymen because they were known to be in league with the Drac, capturing and selling neighbouring kin in exchange for Dracodian kill-sticks and pretties. He wondered what these men had done to cause their enslavement.

  Before long, a bare-face came up to Ari and kicked him. ‘Get in line with the others,’ he said.

  But Ari could not face the thought of food. He shook his head and turned his face away.

  ‘You’ll eat when we say eat,’ the bare-face continued, jabbing Ari in the ribs with the end of his kill-stick but Ari continued to ignore his tormentor. Though he knew it to be unwise, he could feel a tide of rage rise inside. Who were they to say when a man should eat, or drink or breathe?

  ‘Do as he says,’ a countryman urged. ‘It won’t go well, if you refuse.’

  However, Ari could not stomach the thought of eating and turned away.

  Next, a pair of rough hands grabbed him and pounded his head against the deck. Another sat on Ari’s chest and pinned his arms under his knees. A wave of anger surged through him and he thrashed his head from side to side, trying to buck the man off but now there were two more holding him fast and then one of them gave him a sharp kick to the groin. Ari groaned as his gut knotted in sudden pain. Someone forced his mouth open and inserted a metal device so that he could not close his jaw. They poured a stream of warm mush down his throat until he gagged. Repeatedly, they tried to force their food down his throat, but he could not swallow. Finally, they pulled him to his feet and dragged him over to a wooden mast. There they tore the tunic from his back and tied his arms around the wood.

  ‘You’ll eat when we tell you to eat, Beast,’ a voice growled in his ear. ‘And if you don’t, this is what you’ll get.’

  He did not expect the first strike, it all happened so fast, and he cried out with the pain. But he was ready for the second lash, and the third and grit his teeth so that he would not betray himself. By the tenth strike, he drifted above the pain. He returned - for a moment - to his home by the sea. He imagined he saw his granddam pounding grain by the well and his sister’s children playing with their stones in the dirt nearby. He wanted to call to them but did not. In his fuddled mind, he worried they might follow him back to the ship.

  When the bare-faces finished with him they rubbed salt into his wounds, and again Ari could not stop from crying out. As they rubbed, he felt ribbons of loose flesh slap against his back and after they had finished their sport, they left him, tied to the mast.

  Throughout the day, he lapsed in and out of consciousness. At times he was aware of the fresh sea air on his face, the call of gulls wheeling overhead, the flutter and snap of the sails as they emptied and filled again but underneath everything he felt and saw and heard, was the constancy of throbbing pain.

  Later, he did not know when, someone came and washed his wounds with water. This other’s hands were gentle, careful not to cause more pain. ‘I will get somebody to cut you down from here,’ he said in Drac. ‘And perhaps you should rest on your stomach for a while. The wounds are clean, and they will heal.’

  ‘They can’t understand you,’ another Drac said. ‘They have their own type of gibberish. And few of them seem to understand each other either.’

  ‘All the same,’ the gentle voice said, ‘he will know my intention.’

  ‘It does no good to be soft on them, you’ll see soon enough. Apply a firm hand and they soon learn their place. More unhappiness and strife comes from treating a Beast with kindness – just makes him wish for things he cannot have.’

  ‘So you keep telling me and yet what I see is treatment you would not wish on a mongrel dog. My father charged me to see why there are so many losses between here and Yawmouth and I think I am beginning to comprehend why.’

  ‘Remember your place son. You think you know, but you do not. I’ll do what I must, to ensure there’s no whisper of mutiny on my ship. For that is what a soft hand is like to bring. Just remember that, wh
en your downtrodden Beast holds a knife to your neck in the dead of night.’

  The stern voice, perhaps the leader of this wicked band of men, strode away. The other, the one who thought in gains and loss, but pretended kindness with his hands, called for someone to cut him down.

  A Tinker's Life

  Warm, yellow light glanced through the gap in the curtain. It lit the shelving on the wall opposite MaKiki’s cot, revealing rows and rows of books, it glinted off the handle of a brass pot, hanging from a hook, and flickered across the twitching lips of the slumbering girl.

  Outside the wagon, MaKiki lit the fire, fed Old Hodder, fetched the water and spooned oats into a blackened pot.

  Try as she might, Lita never managed to wake first and this morning she was gripped by a dream. Once again, she raced through the meadow, foxes snapping her heels. Her feet were useless paddles and the stream writhed like a snake in the grass, so that she could never quite reach it.

  Just as a fox caught her tail between its teeth, bells and pans clanged rudely, jarringly, insistently.

  Lita bolted upright. ‘What!’ she called, still fuddled by the dream. Her heart thumped, and her body tensed but once she realised where she was, she flopped onto the bed again. It was all right. There was no fox. The kettles and pots bumped against each other with a residual gonging. It was only MaKiki, fetching a kettle from the back of the wagon.

  She rubbed her eyes and shook her head. Several grass seeds fluttered to the blanket and she recalled all that had happened. The rabbits. The foxes. Her flight of terror through the grass. She had come close to death last night. So stupid. So, so, stupid. With a shiver, she promised herself that she would never be a rabbit again. No fear. It would’ve been much smarter to Change into a fox.

  Clatter, clang.

  ‘I’m awake!’ Lita yelled irritably and scrabbled for her clothes.

  She pulled on a tunic hemmed just below her calf muscles – almost immodest for a girl of her age. But it couldn’t be helped. She’d grown rapidly in the last few months, and MaKiki had not had the coin to buy a new one.

  Before leaving the wagon, she glanced at her reflection in a shiny silver kettle, noting that her eyebrows and hair were unruly. She licked her finger and smoothed her brows into place and then tidied her thick, brown, mop into a loose braid. There, she thought, nodding with mild approval. Maybe she wasn’t the most fetching maiden in the land, but she certainly wasn’t the plainest either.

  On her way out, she reached for her slateboard and chalk, thinking it would lessen MaKiki’s ire if it looked as though she’d been studying. As part of her ruse, she thought to scribble some sums and became so intent in performing her part she stumbled down the steps and almost tripped over a bucket. Lita glanced at her guardian to see if she had noticed but MaKiki ignored the charade.

  Her guardian was not an old woman, even though Lita thought of her that way. In fact, very few wrinkles lined her face; it was a face others might have described as striking, beautiful even, if she had not put so much effort into appearing plain. Sometimes bold or rude folk commented on the unusual cast of MaKiki’s single hooded eyes and her high cheekbones, and it had been said more than once that she had the native look of the Moelibok folk who lived in the islands north of Dracodia. But on this subject, MaKiki remained tight-lipped. Lita could not have said how old MaKiki was, nor did she really consider the matter. She just assumed her guardian was old because of her hair. Though others noted the silvery splendour of MaKiki’s thick tresses, Lita saw only age.

  MaKiki glanced up as Lita settled on the other side of the fire. With a great show, Lita dropped the slateboard into her lap and flicked the little beads as if she were adding up sums.

  MaKiki sighed and shook her head. After several moments of silence, she said, ‘It’s dangerous to Change when I’m not there to watch over you.’

  Lita tightened her lips. How did she know?

  ‘Remember what happened last-’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Really Lita. Do I need to lock you in at night? Anyway, why didn’t you wake me?’

  ‘I tried!’

  MaKiki said nothing but raised one eyebrow.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You can’t have tried very hard.’

  ‘Well, if you didn’t snore so loud, maybe you’d hear.’

  MaKiki stirred the pot vigorously. ‘If I wasn’t so tired by driving all day, perhaps I would wake more easily. Next time give me a shake. I want your word you’ll do that.’ She locked eyes with Lita. ‘You know I say it for your own good. It’s what your mama would want of me.’

  You don’t know what she would have wanted anymore than I do, Lita thought. But instead she muttered, ‘It won’t happen again.’

  When it seemed MaKiki might say more, Lita said, ‘Fine. You have my word. Happy now?’

  MaKiki merely sighed and tapped the side of the pot with her spoon. Two oaten globs fell into the fire. MaKiki sighed often during her exchanges with Lita. It was like a last word, because Lita had not yet found a way to respond, except with silence.

  It was the jibe about her mama that irritated Lita. Why must Kiki bring it up at all? And how could she presume to know what her mama would want? Though they’d only spoken of it once, Lita could recall every word MaKiki uttered on the matter of her parentage – few as they were. According to MaKiki, she had found Lita in a little wicker basket on the top step of the wagon. There had been a note – long gone now because MaKiki was not sentimental and had tossed it away - but she claimed to have remembered the words. The note said, ‘This is Lita, please raise her with love.’ And that was it. No clue about the author or why she had abandoned her babe. In the years since learning these few meagre facts, Lita had often pondered on it. Who was her mama? Who was her papa? Had they known she would someday bud wings, fangs, bristle or fur when the moon took to the sky? Had they been afraid of what she would become? But, the note… The note led her to believe there was another reason. And Lita had not yet figured out what that reason might be. This question had begun to worry her lately. For how could someone know themselves, if they did not know the truth of their past? And, just recently, visions that felt like memories plagued her, except they did not fit MaKiki’s version of the past. In the visions, Lita often saw a little stone cottage on the shores of a lake. A great oak tree sheltered the cottage and a raspberry vine rambled up the side wall. Sometimes a woman inhabited the scene, brushing her long dark hair in the sunlight. On other occasions the visions were quite visceral – Lita could almost recall being pushed on the swing by the woman with the long dark hair. She felt herself whizzing through the air, the trees and sky a blur. Yet, when she spoke of it to MaKiki, her guardian had said, ‘You’ve only ever lived in this wagon, Lita.’

  A mysterious past. Strange visions. The Change. It was all very unsettling. A year ago, she had some sense of who she was. She was Lita, the foundling daughter of a tinker. But now there were many questions and no answers.

  Late at night, when she could not sleep, Lita often mulled over these questions and a disturbing notion had recently crept into her thoughts. MaKiki was hiding something about Lita’s past.

  *

  Tinka-tinka-tink, the pots chimed with the gentle sway of the wagon. Lita was rarely conscious of the sound until they drew close to a town or port. On still days, customers commented that it could be heard from miles away.

  ‘Remember,’ MaKiki said, ‘no wandering off when we reach the docks. You’re too old for that now and I could do with your help.’

  Lita did not bother to reply. It was the same whenever they entered a new town, though it had not always been this way. When she was younger, Lita had been allowed to play with children while MaKiki traded, but not since the Changing began. Now MaKiki rarely took her eyes off Lita when they entered a town. Her excuse was that she needed Lita to scribe letters for illiterate merchant wives – though the need had lessened of late. It seemed anyone with money was learning to read these days.<
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  Yawmouth was the main Port in the district - favoured by merchants for its deep harbour. Like many seaside towns, it had two faces. The labourers and the riff-raff lived down near the docks, close to the rotting kelp and stench of the tanneries while the merchants and gentlefolk lived on the hill above the port, amongst tall, leafy trees and sweet fresh air. It was through such a street that Lita and MaKiki now travelled.

  Lita’s hands fluttered with excitement as she pointed out places she remembered from their visit the year before.

  The houses were all newly whitewashed, pleasantly uniform, with red tile roofs and twin chimneystacks. Drifts of flowers scented the air and shade trees stood sentinel in the front yards. Nobody wandered through the front gardens, or strolled down the leafy avenues, they were merely for show. The back alleys were used by maids, guildsmen, and for the delivery or disposal of goods. Behind a high rear wall, a child’s laughter punctured the still.

  Tinka-tink. The wagon sounded too loud, too demanding for such a fancy place. Despite the racket they made, nobody came out to have a pot mended or buy a new kettle. Lita twisted in her seat and catching MaKiki’s eye said, ‘Where are all the folk?’

  With an almost imperceptible nod MaKiki replied, ‘They’ll come to the docks. That’s how it is in this town, or don’t you remember?’ She patted Lita’s knee and then turned her eyes to the road ahead, sitting just a little straighter against the backrest.

  What if they don’t this year, Lita wanted to say. But she knew MaKiki was probably right, and that later, after they set up on the docks, the merchant wives would send their maids to buy pots, pans, and kettles. Perhaps a few of the bolder wives would come to the docks to buy MaKiki’s books. In towns filled with rich and idle women, MaKiki often did a better trade from books than mending tin or selling copperware.

  Before long the merchant quarter petered out. Smaller, weathered houses clung to the respectable side of town. Below that, grey stone cottage rows rambled down the hillside. And then they were in the workhouse district. Through open doorways, Lita spied women and children wrestling looms, spinning yarn, and pounding leather. The cacophony of clacking and pounding flowed down the street, washing over folk, wagons and handcarts as though they were stones in a river.