The Eden Passion (11 page)

At the end of the stables, he saw Samuel, the overseer, look up, pitchfork in hand. "What in the hell. . ." the old man shouted.

Now John feigned a collapse into the manure he'd heaped to one side. He twisted in the brown slime and groaned effectively, all the while keeping his eye on the thundering approach of the squat, square-built Samuel. As the man drew nearer, John closed his eyes as though suffering unbearable pain, although in truth he was praying silently, "Oh, God, let it work."

Since his arrival at Eden Castle, John had labored in a way that he'd not thought possible. Now his days commenced at a quarter past five, with the arrival of Samuel, the overseer, built like a block, with perpetually flaming cheeks and matching hair, when lantern in hand he'd rouse John from his pallet of straw in the odd-boy's cellar and lead him forth into the darkness of dawn.

Again he looked up, curious to see what was delaying Samuel, and saw the man still a distance away. Apparently the dictates of his kidneys took priority over his curiosity to see what fate had befallen his last odd-boy. Take your time, John thought. Give the blood a chance to flow.

In the interim, he again leaned back against the soiled straw and thought of that first morning, recalling the two minor shocks from which he had suffered. One, from the deep rumbling snores he'd heard all night coming from the cell across the way, he'd assumed that lying in darkness there was an army of odd-boys with whom he might share his plight. Hence his surprise that first morning when he'd seen a solitary figure stumbling up out of the night, a flat-faced, dull-eyed boy from Mortemouth named Maddon. Not that the boy had told him his name. Old Samuel had grunted introductions. In fact, if Maddon possessed the art of speech at all, he'd never once displayed the talent for John's benefit. Of course he could scream in an impressive manner. They all could attest to that after yesterday. But up until that tragic moment, poor Maddon had simply gone dumbly about his labors, exhibiting a passive acceptance.

Gingerly John examined his foot, the nerve endings beginning to throb most convincingly, the blood still flowing. With his free hand he reached out for a closer examination of the cooperative piece of metal; a piece of rusted banding of some sort, perhaps from an old wagon. No matter. It had accomplished the purpose.

As Samuel's piss continued to splatter into the hay, John closed his eyes and remembered the second shock of that first morning. He'd thought that the only way out from his cell would be back up the narrow twisting staircase and through Aggie's delicious kitchen court And he'd felt certain that that surprise farewell kiss he'd given her would be good for some preferential treatment. And it would have been, if he only had been permitted to exit up the stairs and through the kitchen court.

But he wasn't. That first morning, Samuel had thrust a dark brown smelly smock and work trousers upon him, then had led the way in the opposite direction, lantern aloft, through a low narrow passageway designed for moles, not men, with poor dumb Maddon following behind, until at last they had emerged into the stableyard through an opening in the castle wall. As Samuel had dished up their morning ale, he'd informed John in clear terms that this and this alone was his access route both into and out of the castle.

"Odd-boys smell," Samuel had pronounced with a grin, and at that point John had not understood him. True understanding had come later that day. While he was still trying to keep down the vinegary ale, Samuel had thrust a brown rag filled with something lumpy into his hand and had announced "Luncheon." John had stuffed the brown rag into his smock in time to catch the heavy

wheelbarrow which Samuel had pushed toward him. Similarly armed, Maddon had led the way to a small shed near the comer of the castle wall, where John was informed of his duties.

Starting here at the shed where the emptyings of all the chamber pots in the castle were kept, stretching that long line up the hill, past the stables, past the cow barns, and farther up past the sheep-shearing sheds, John's duty, all day and well into the night, was to fill the wheelbarrow with dung, human and animal, it mattered not, and empty each load on the muck mountain at a distance of about a quarter of a mile away, where fertilizers were made for the fields of oats and barley, a satanic place of smells and flies and cut off from the rest of the estate by a natural rise of land.

That first day, John had lost count of the number of times he and Maddon had made the hideous trip up the hill and down, trying to keep the unwieldy load in balance, for if it spilled, it meant picking it up without benefit of shovel, and John's had spilled several times, and by noon that day, in the hot sun with the putrid odors causing him to gag, he, along with Maddon, had partaken of lunch, and with dung-encrusted fingers he'd opened the brown rag to find two rolls encrusted with green mold which nonetheless he'd bitten into eagerly, then spit out, vomiting, as he'd found the yeasty interior crawling with maggots. With watering eyes and burning throat, he'd watched, amazed, as with infinite patience Maddon had picked his rolls free of maggots, then with a self-satisfied grin had popped them into his mouth.

Never, John had vowed sternly to himself. But on the third day, when the hunger pangs had joined the sharp pains caused by the poisonous odors, he had joined Maddon in picking his own rolls free of maggots, and with eyes closed he had shoved it all into his mouth and swallowed quickly.

But that had not been the worst of it. The worst of it came every day at midafternoon when the other workers took their tea break, and naturally, wanting diversion from their own mind-numbing and back-breaking labors, selected as their entertainment the two odd-boys, who would be ordered to climb upon the muck mountain, with bare feet and bare chests, smocks removed, and with their hands, work into the putrid slime the ingredients which were daily delivered in a small cart from Mortemouth, an equally smelly enrichment which consisted of sugar-bakers' scum, soap-boilers' ashes, hogs' hair, malt dust and horn shavings.

To the accompaniment of about seventy men laughing, John and

Maddon were forced to strip down to their breeches, enter the fenced pen, dragging the cart between them like oxen, scatter the white chalk over the brown slippery muck, then, using their bare feet, work the mixture in. If they slipped and fell facedown, which they frequently did, the men cheered enthusiastically, and at the end of the "fun," the boys were placed in the back of the cart and dragged, stinking, to the large pig trough, where they were thrown into the stagnant brown water and emerged, sputtering, and in John's case, usually vomiting. He had vomited more the last eighteen days than he'd vomited in his entire life, his stomach churning constantly, his arms and face and back baked red from the sun.

How many times he had considered running away. But something had prevented him from doing this, the daily hope that word from London would arrive, that perhaps one day crossing the barnyard he'd spy old Dana or Aggie, and they'd remember him and take pity on him, or more fanciful yet, that Lady Eden would relent and lift him out of this horror. But nothing had come from any quarter, and the days had stretched on, and in a frightening way he'd accustomed himself to the odors, the slime of body waste, the humiliation, the bullying. He'd even grown accustomed to poor dumb Maddon's company, and in the last few days had grown as silent and as unre-sponding.

Then only yesterday, working too near the smith's fire, Maddon's smock had caught on fire. John, working at the far end of the stables, had heard his screams and had looked up in time to see the boy, his entire body engulfed in flames, dancing in a macabre jig about the anvil. The smithy had quickly thrown water on him and after a few minutes had doused the flames. And with what kindness had the group of men looked down on the poor boy, his arms blackened and still smoking, his eyes wide with pain. Carefully they had given him a large supply of ale and placed him in the back of a cart and had hauled him down to Mortemouth for his mother and the physician to attend to. And John had finished the day alone, his head churning with both revulsion and inspiration, nothing so permanently damaging as setting himself on fire, of course, but a moderate injury which would free him at least for a day or two from the inhuman burdens which had been placed upon him.

Hence, a few minutes earlier, he'd spied the rusted, razor-sharp banding, had arranged it carefully beneath a light covering of straw, had slipped off his boot, climbed up onto the manger, and taking careful aim, had jumped downward, directing his foot toward the in-

visible metal, and smiling in spite of the pain as he felt his foot sliced open.

Now with old Samuel standing before him, buttoning up his cock, John again lay back against the pile of manure, waiting for the old man's kindness to waft over him, as it had descended over Maddon the previous day.

Instead, "You dumb bastard!" the man shouted down on him, still arranging his genitals inside the heavy soiled trousers. "What have you gone and done now?"

"It's my . . . foot, sir," John said in a gasp, as though the pain were increasing.

"I can see that," Samuel snapped.

"I was cleaning the manger, sir," he began, "and when I jumped down, I didn't see—"

"Where's your boot?" the man asked, his face a map of suspicion.

"I'd removed it, sir," John began. "A thorn was lodged—"

"Thorn, my ass," the man shouted down. "I ought to lodge me whip against your backside, that's what I ought to do."

For a moment John was intimidated by the old man's fearful mood, though he doubted seriously if he would really whip him. "No matter, sir," he said, releasing his foot, inspecting it for the first time, an impressive cut which laid bare the flesh on the bottom of his foot and stretched across his instep. And blood, he'd never seen such blood, his entire foot red and glistening, a small pool forming on the smelly straw.

First making certain that Samuel had seen it as well, he then reached for his abandoned boot and commenced to pull it over the injured foot, again wincing, though not for effect this time, closely monitoring the old man's reaction as he struggled to his feet and commenced limping toward his abandoned shovel, a tremendous show of determination which he felt certain was bound to make a difference.

Finally it did. "What do you think you're doing?" the man yelled now.

Without looking at him, John bent over and lifted his shovel, no longer performing for effect, feeling a painful throbbing in his foot and up the side of his leg, feeling his boot beginning to grow damp and sticky with his own blood.

Still Samuel watched, permitting him to lift one shovel full of manure, when suddenly John felt dizzy and lost his balance and fell

yo

again onto the manure, his eyes closed against the increasing discomfort.

Then Samuel was upon him, squatting down, still grumbling, but something soft and approachable in his sun-baked eyes. "Here now, lad," he scolded, tugging the boot off. "You're not Hercules, you know."

John lay quietly back, giving the man all the time he needed for his untutored examination. Then came the words for which John had staged the entire and rather extreme theatrical. "We can do without you for a day or two," he muttered. "Best get off this for a while, or it'll swell on you."

Soberly John watched as the old man shuffled off to the far end of the stable and returned with a thick brown bottle of something and a length of soiled cloth.

Apprehensively John drew back. "What is—"

"Never you mind," Samuel scolded. "Just hold yourself rigid and think on the day you was born." And with that he turned about and grasped John's leg as though he were a horse to be shod, uncorked the brown bottle with his teeth, and commenced pouring the liquid directly onto the cut.

Suddenly John came to life, one yell punctuating the silence of the barn, followed by a series of inarticulate curses as he felt his foot aflame, runners of pain now shooting up the length of his leg. His head first flattened in the manure, then lifted as new agony washed over him. Indulging in a wrestling match now with old Samuel, who continued to hold his leg between his own, he was forced to pinch his eyes shut and fall helplessly back, the burning at last beginning to recede.

"Good soldier," Samuel muttered at last, releasing the foot. Then he lifted the brown bottle and carefully replaced the cork. "Old Samuel's magic elixir." He grinned. "My own blend of lye and lime. You'll be right enough in a day or two."

Listlessly John raised halfway up, still gasping. The bleeding had stopped right enough, the cut itself gaping white and pink like a large opened toothless mouth. God, he'd not counted on the treatment being worse than the injury. And as Samuel commenced to bind the entire foot in the strip of muslin, John closed his eyes and still smelled the acrid fumes.

"There!" the man pronounced at last, surveying his handiwork with a look of pride.

At last John forced his attention down to his bound foot In spite of the heat, he began to shiver.

Now old Samuel grinned down on him. "You may count the hours tonight, lad, but come morning, you'll feel better."

John nodded and again reached for his boot. But Samuel interceded. "Wouldn't do that if I was you," he warned. "There'll be some natural swelling. Give it room to breathe."

"But I-"

"Off with you," the old man grumbled. "Youll be no good to me for the rest of the day. Get to your cell and stay off it, so you can work double tomorrow."

Apparently the man's tenderness had been depleted. Now he looked down on John as though still in a mood to whip him. "Be off with you," he shouted. "The sight of you makes me sick."

Before he changed his mind, John scrambled to his feet, grabbing his boot in the process, and started limping toward the door. Still the man shouted after him, "Stupid, that's what you are, you hear? That's why you'll never be anything more than an odd-boy. Taking off your boot," he cried, scoffing, " 'cause of a thorn. Well, you'd best learn to live with thorns, lad, 'cause that's all life has in store for you."

As John beat a painful retreat, the harsh voice continued to fall like rocks upon his head. "And keep to your cellar, you hear? Smelling like you do, decent folk don't want you near them."

How could he not hear? As he reached the barn door, he saw that others had heard as well, a grinning congregation of workers. Still he cut a torturous path across the yard, leaving the jeering men behind, taking small consolation in the realization that someone else would have to climb the muck heap today and fight the flies and feel the brown slime growing encrusted on arms and legs.

Then the pain in his foot became unbearable and he pushed weakly against the low door and slipped into the cool darkness of the underground tunnel.

He closed the door behind him and grasped the wall, blinded by the quick transition from sun to blackness. For a moment, alone, the facade cracked, and leaning over, he moaned and pressed his forehead against the mossy wall.