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
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
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