Chapter Six

"Last thing I need is an ignorant Speck infecting our pups with a bunch of yangee nonsense." The man looked him over with a mixture of disgust and loathing. "My name is Kemp. I am the Tourinar of this clan and you're nothin' but a Speck. You hearin' me? My word is law, second only to that of the Touri and I'm tellin' you to keep that mouth of yours shut. The next best thing to a dead Speck is one what can keep his trap shut."

"Yes sir. I was only..." Wyatt's words were cut short as stars exploded in his head. The man had backhanded him with an iron fist.

"I knew you was stupid. Didn't I just get done tellin' you to keep your mouth shut?" Kemp glanced around, irritation growing on an already irritated face. "Gilmer? Where'd you git to? Gilmer!" He yelled this last part with spittle flying from his mouth and a vein standing out on his forehead.

"I'm here, my Tourinar," said another equally thin and dried out man, scurrying to Kemp's side.

"Secure this Speck til we can properly deal with him."

"Should I have his feet removed, my Tourinar?"

"No! You imbecile. How much work do you think you're gonna get out of a Speck with no feet?" With that, the leather-faced man stalked away, shaking his head and muttering under his breath, leaving Wyatt under the authority of Gilmer.

The caravan continued rolling as they both watched Kemp. Then Gilmer drew in a deep breath and hawked out a huge wad of phlegm to the road.

"That's disgusting, Gilmer," called out the man in the cart following Wyatt's.

Gilmer turned and walked backwards, laughing but exhibiting no visible sign of humor on his face. "Excuse me, your highness. I didn't realize we was in the presence of royalty. Henceforth I shall display a tad more decorum for those of a more delicate constitution."

He turned, snickering to himself but Wyatt noticed the other man wore a scowl. It seemed obvious Gilmer was not quite the fount of humor he had imagined himself.

"Well get yourself down outta that cart," Gilmer commanded. "You plannin' on givin' me any trouble?" The question must have been rhetorical because he allowed no answer. "I'm here to tell you, if you be thinkin' about givin' me even one bit of trouble, I'll have you flogged. And it won't be pretty. It'll make whatever gave you those bruises seem like a lazy day in paradise."

Wyatt scooted to the edge of the cart and slid feet first to the ground, wincing at the ache in his ribs. Gilmer grabbed the front of his shirt and dragged him from the path of the mule and cart following.

"Ignorant Speck! Are you really that stupid?" He turned toward the head of the caravan and called out over his shoulder, "Keep up Speck. Don't got all day."

Wyatt's head reeled and his knees began to buckle but he managed to follow, knowing he couldn't escape and was too exhausted and sore to resist. Gilmer strode ahead while Wyatt did his best to remain close. His history with Boss and the stick had conditioned him to fight through any discomfort and pain, to always find a way to obey and follow orders. Gilmer didn't seem the type to allow sloth and dawdling any more than did Boss so Wyatt decided he would do nothing to earn a beating. He put his head down and grit his teeth, willing his feet to move. As he passed each wagon or cart, he put out a hand to steady himself, afraid he would topple to the ground and incur the wrath of Gilmer.

After passing what seemed like a never ending parade of carts, wagons, and livestock, Gilmer slowed his pace alongside of one of the few enclosed wagons in the caravan. A brace of oxen pulled it with steady ease, each of the huge beasts plodding along as if unaware of the burden they bore.

"Git up here Speck." Gilmer gave what Wyatt thought must have been a grin. "You belong to Kemp now, you hear? 'Course unless the Touri wants you and that really ain't gonna happen. The Touri just as soon see you staked to a hill as zelinx bait. I guess you oughta be feelin' pretty lucky we ain't in zelinx country!"

Wyatt kept his mouth shut, the ache in his jaw a reminder of his last attempt at speech. He watched with dull curiosity as Gilmer detached a long pole from the side of the wagon. A leather loop was fastened to one end with a hole bored through the other. Its use remained a mystery until the loop slid over his head and Gilmer rolled the pole in his hands, tightening the leather until Wyatt began to gasp for air. Gilmer backed it off a bit to allow Wyatt to breath.

"Kemp told me to secure you, he did. And secure you shall be." He attached the end of the pole to a bracket on the wagon and slid a steel pin through the hole leaving Wyatt helpless. "Oh don't look so down in the mouth Speck. Things could be worse. A whole lot worse. You be tied up to the very wagon of our Touri and when he rejoins the caravan, you about to find out just how much worse it gonna be."

The wagon lurched forward dragging Wyatt in its wake. Each bump in the road jolted the wagon which in turn transferred that jolt directly to Wyatt's throat, causing the leather to dig and chafe at the skin around his neck. His hands remained free and he pulled at the strap trying to gain a bit more room to enable a full breath but each step was a fight. He wanted to rest, to find a spot in the shade and breath, to gain some strength. Then, as the wheel of the wagon dropped into a large hole in the pavement and drove the end of the pole into his throat yet again, he wanted to cry out and give up. This is no way to live, he thought. I can't go on like this. I should just stop walking and fall to the ground. Then it will end. This will all be over.

Gilmer nodded in satisfaction and walked away, pausing only to hack out yet another wad of spit to the road.

Misery. That's what the youngster Bryant had called this place and he hadn't been exaggerating. The dull ache in his ribs and back intensified into a roaring pain as he struggled to remain on his feet and even to breathe. He found himself stooping over as he walked, finding this position allowed him to inhale more fully but the stooping, even ever so slightly, exacerbated the pain throughout his side. The muscles in his back felt like someone had plunged a flaming dagger into his spine. Standing upright to ease the pain, he was unable to breathe with the leather digging into his neck until his vision narrowed and he was forced to bend over yet again. It was a merciless cycle, repeated countless times throughout the day in the inferno that was Misery.

Children raced by as the caravan plodded ever onward, chasing and yelling, yet oblivious to his plight. Thirst raged and his tongue felt like it had transformed into an useless, dried out mass of flesh just taking up room in his mouth. He gasped and choked, begging for water but they ignored him. Even had any stopped to listen, the leather strap had dug into his throat and rendered his attempts at speech into little more than croaks

He was a Speck.

The sun was descending and shadows lengthening when the caravan drew to a halt at a lengthy bridge that crossed over a road below. Men called out directions and with a seasoned perfection the lead carts and wagons swung into place, blocking the elevated road from any potential threat that may come from the south. Had he been able to turn in the leather strap and look to the north, Wyatt was sure the carts bringing up the rear had likewise blocked the opposite end of the bridge. Only a handful of wagons remained in the center of the bridge, including the one to which he was tethered.

Wyatt sunk to his knees, grateful the pole attached to the wagon pivoted just enough to allow him the luxury of sinking to his knees. Finally able to rest and no longer having to fight the jolts and jars of the wagon, breathing proved easier. Although he was unable to turn his head more than a bit from side to side, he watched the camp take shape. The men worked at further securing the wagons at the southern perimeter and presumably the northern one, then wrestled heavy containers from the nearby cook wagons which they handed off to a swarm of women who descended on the supplies like a colony of ants, transforming the barrels and sacks of provisions into the beginnings of a meal. Meanwhile the children wrangled the livestock into makeshift pens located along the east and west guardrails of the bridge. Water and feed were dispensed by the older children while the younger ones manned short-handled shovels, keeping the bridge free of droppings. The goats, mules, oxen, and horses produced manure at a prodigious rate it seemed, straining the capacity of the youngsters to keep up. At first glance, Wyatt assumed the shoveling was mere busy work, much like sorting scrap for Boss had been. Then, as he watched scoop after scoop shoveled over the railing to fall to the ground below, he realized it made sense. For if this bridge were a regular stopover, and if the animals always manufactured droppings at this volume, the bridge would soon be overrun in manure.

The pavement radiated heat like a hot stove, almost too hot to touch, but as the sun continued its descent, a shadow crept over him affording blessed relief. He had never been this exhausted, he thought. Nor this thirsty. Even during the worst of times with Boss, there had always been the pump out back of the shop with its never ending stream of clear, cool water.

Enticing aromas of food mingled with smoke wafted past, and his stomach rumbled. Giant griddles had been placed over the fires and tiny cakes sizzled on the hot surface, churned out by the women in assembly line fashion who then heaped them in baskets when they turned golden brown. Others stirred large pots nestled in the hot coals, stopping only to taste and toss in a bit of some spice or vegetable of some sort. Still others turned skewers loaded with what appeared to be chickens, basting them with a amber colored liquid which dripped off the birds, spitting and hissing when it hit the hot coals beneath.

It was a glorious smell. Had thirst not already consumed him, hunger surely would have. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Certainly not since Cairo. It was torture watching the entire caravan make its way down the serving line, holding their platters loaded with food and not a one showing a hint of concern for him. He was of less value than the livestock who had already been watered and fed.

After watching the line of people amble through the serving lie, he spied Bryant, the youngster he had met earlier. Wyatt gestured wildly, hoping for water at the very least. Could that be too much to ask? The young boy glanced up from his platter and Wyatt was sure he had been noticed and understood the urgency of his need. Yet Bryant turned his back, ignoring him as did the entire caravan. Despair sank in and Wyatt knew he could not live through another day like this one. He wanted to die. Escape had no appeal, nor did revenge for his mistreatment. The only sanctuary, the only escape, was death. The pain, the excruciating thirst, the hunger, and that cursed leather strap around his neck, it was too much to bear.

Darkness had crept over the camp, lit only by the faint glow of the embers still smoldering from the cook fires and the faint sheen of the sliver of moon hanging in the night sky. Guards patrolled the perimeter, some with long lances at the ready should the camp come under attack, others with short, stout bows. Wyatt recognized one of the guards as the driver of the cart who expressed disgust at Gilmer. It was truly baffling, however. What could possibly live in this desolate landscape that could pose a threat? What were they guarding the camp against?

Wyatt heard a faint rustling sound approaching from behind and he cringed, expecting the strike of a lash or club. He tensed awaiting for the blow to fall.

"Psst. Hey Speck?" came a cautious whisper. "Try not to move much or make a sound. Got it?"

Wyatt was unsure how to respond while lacking permission to move or speak. He elected to just remain still and let whatever would occur run its course.

The faint noises drew closer until Wyatt could see movement from the corner of his eye. It was Bryant. "Don't make no noise. I've got some water and some biscuits, but you gotta promise if you get caught you ain't gonna turn me in."

Wyatt took a chance and nodded slowly, anxious for water. Bryant slowly lowered a mug and a tattered cloth to the ground and nudged them with his foot, attempting to watch in all four directions at once.

"Hide the mug when you're done. It won't do to have anybody find it." Then he was gone.

Wyatt strained to reach the mug and with trembling hands, raised it to his lips. The water was warm but nothing had ever tasted so delicious in his entire life. He wanted to gulp it down without pause but forced himself to stop and reach into the cloth for whatever it was Bryant had called "biscuits." These were, without a doubt, come of the cakes he had seen the women cooking earlier. They were slathered with butter, somehow still warm from the griddle. They were crispy on the outside with a tender moist interior. He devoured them in an instant and wanted to eat the very cloth in which they had been wrapped. He decided right then and there this was the very food he wanted to be served if he should ever end up in paradise. As he drank the rest of the water, he felt a trickle of normalcy creep back into place. It was interesting how food, water, and rest could turn things around.

With full stomachs and work for the day complete, most of the adults congregated around the dying fires, swapping tales and airing complaints, shooing children to their bedrolls, or just staring into the night sky. The placement of the center wagons hid him from the majority of the camp yet allowed him to see, or at least he saw enough to understand most of what was happening. He envied their companionship. Other than Boss, Wyatt had been alone and isolated for as long as he could remember. And Boss certainly wasn't a sterling example of camaraderie. The idea that he could belong somewhere--fit in or have friends--almost seemed crazy. He was a Speck, barely worth the food that kept him alive. It was a waste of time and a useless expenditure of emotions to fantasize about a life where he had value, where someone cared and could look at him with anything other than disdain or disgust. He thought for a few fleeting moments Rison might have cared, that she might have exhibited some compassion. But she was gone and any hope of comfort from her had vanished with her.

He thought of Bryant, sneaking a mug of water and a pair of biscuits to him. Why? Why would he do that for a Speck? It wasn't as though he had anything to gain by helping. It left Wyatt confused by the apparent kindness of a kid he had talked to for not more than a handful of minutes.

The voices from the caravan, the conversation and laughter, even the adults scolding the young ones carried through the night air, filling him with a longing. A desire to belong, something he had never experienced but wanted. He realized then the intensity with which he wanted it. Could it really be out of reach? Would it be possible to find a life beyond the misery and abuse, the life of a Speck?

No. The leather strap around his neck bore testament to his chances. He was just as much a Speck here in the Wastelands as he was back in Cairo with Boss and the stick. He was born a Speck, he would die a Speck and that was a fact. He had better get used to it.

A shadow moved, cutting across the glow of a campfire. A man approached. Wyatt hid the mug in his shirt, hoping he would not be searched. He wanted--no, needed--to protect Bryant, to spare him the punishment of aiding a Speck. He knew there would be questions and he prepared himself for the beating that was sure to follow. But the man moved without noise and seemed to be carrying something in his hands. The darkness masking his face grew deeper as the man drew close.

"Say nothing, do nothing." Wyatt recognized the voice. It was Bryant's Pa, Bono.

The man knelt and unwrapped a parcel, setting it beside the cloth left earlier by his son. "Not all in this clan behave and believe like Kemp and Gilmer. But we must be cautious lest Rusk finds out when he returns." He placed a mug on the pavement within Wyatt's reach. "And that would not be good."

Without another word, he too disappeared into the darkness.