or error of judgement.
While the free labour was a bonus, the convicts did not like it one
bit and toiled and groused, and only a single guard was present,
usually Ausse. An iron ball was affixed to each ankle, effectively
negating any chance of escape.
This was the
fourth day of Baus’s incarceration and today Valere, Zestes and
Boulm were on seawall duty. Dighcan, Lopze, Nolpin and Nuzbek
cleaned fish in the yard. Baus and Weavil were assigned to
clam-shucking along the seaward side, a task both despised. A neck
high pile of clam shells rose at their side—rich with the same
fermenting reek with which Baus was altogether too familiar in his
own vocation—or former vocation, should he say.
The land at
this quarter dipped down to the sea. Looking back toward the
barracks, Baus could hardly see the tops of the hazel tree where
the fish-gutters worked.
He stooped
low, clapping a rock to a live clam on a flat chipping stone. The
shell exploded and ripping out the lukewarm meat, he flung it into
one of the wicker baskets. So the morning had passed, and with a
hundred other shell-crackings.
Baus loosed a
sigh. From the frying pan into the fire! he raged grimly. Working
free of charge on seafood-gutting to feed the ungrateful gullets of
Smilly’s taproom or those at Snogmald’s tavern. Something,
somewhere had gone tremendously sour.
Baus turned
his attention to other more profitable pursuits—namely that of
escape. Despite Graves’ emphatic warning, he had bent his mind
hastily on a plan of flight from the outset. Clearly the prison
walls were too high to scale; the rock was too smooth to be
breached by any conventional means; no less did Oppet’s pike-nosed,
flesh-champing dogs pose any helpful backdrop.
Weavil,
heavily dispirited by the glum turn of events, had sunk into a
deeper mire of gloom. The midget was less wont to joke, or join in
on songs with Baus.
The behaviour
disturbed Baus for the reason of pure aesthetics. It had him
arresting his clam-snapping and cheering Weavil out of his
doldrums. “You are flagging, Weavil! We must all look on the bright
side. Where one frets, one languishes. Where have gone all your
infectious drolleries?”
“Flown away
with the ekloons,” sighed Weavil.
“Shameful,
shameful!” Baus scolded. “Like all great men we must retreat to our
stronger place, treat impediments as immutable opportunities to
excel beyond the modes of internal statute imposed upon us by
casual circumstance.”
Weavil’s leer
became a saturnine grimace. “You can seek comfort in all the
‘causalities’ you want, glibster. I wish only my former self—as a
healthy, five foot, nine inch poet.”
“You will,
Weavil!” thundered Baus in a cocksure voice. “We shall confront
this gingerstamp Nuzbek and in due time we will compel him to
renounce his villainous ways. He shall reverse this foul deed of
his! Even if we must move all the asteroids in dreaded Cygnus, we
shall force the magician to do his duty!”
“A fine
ambition,” scoffed Weavil. He hunched in despair in the chill, face
down and tapping his clams with a listless energy.
Baus paused,
stroking his chin with a spark of reflection. “We must venture
cautiously, Weavil. Any attempt to blunder in the dark will doom
us. Lawbreakers, lunatics, maniacs—all are in our midst; they will
make mincemeat of our jejune persons. We must trust to our thinking
intuition, install cunning deceits, concoct suitable strategies to
outwit the evil around us!”
Weavil stared
in contempt at Baus. “Where were these cunning ‘strategies’ while I
was being pickled like a common crab-apple in Nuzbek’s jars? As I
recall, you augmented your own blamelessness by enhancing my own
guilt.”
Baus gave a
cry of resentment. “This accusation is based on a flawed concept!
Chagrined and upset at the turn of events, I was forced to adopt
desperate measures to maintain existence—an act with which you can
empathize. You are my comrade, Weavil, nothing
While the free labour was a bonus, the convicts did not like it one
bit and toiled and groused, and only a single guard was present,
usually Ausse. An iron ball was affixed to each ankle, effectively
negating any chance of escape.
This was the
fourth day of Baus’s incarceration and today Valere, Zestes and
Boulm were on seawall duty. Dighcan, Lopze, Nolpin and Nuzbek
cleaned fish in the yard. Baus and Weavil were assigned to
clam-shucking along the seaward side, a task both despised. A neck
high pile of clam shells rose at their side—rich with the same
fermenting reek with which Baus was altogether too familiar in his
own vocation—or former vocation, should he say.
The land at
this quarter dipped down to the sea. Looking back toward the
barracks, Baus could hardly see the tops of the hazel tree where
the fish-gutters worked.
He stooped
low, clapping a rock to a live clam on a flat chipping stone. The
shell exploded and ripping out the lukewarm meat, he flung it into
one of the wicker baskets. So the morning had passed, and with a
hundred other shell-crackings.
Baus loosed a
sigh. From the frying pan into the fire! he raged grimly. Working
free of charge on seafood-gutting to feed the ungrateful gullets of
Smilly’s taproom or those at Snogmald’s tavern. Something,
somewhere had gone tremendously sour.
Baus turned
his attention to other more profitable pursuits—namely that of
escape. Despite Graves’ emphatic warning, he had bent his mind
hastily on a plan of flight from the outset. Clearly the prison
walls were too high to scale; the rock was too smooth to be
breached by any conventional means; no less did Oppet’s pike-nosed,
flesh-champing dogs pose any helpful backdrop.
Weavil,
heavily dispirited by the glum turn of events, had sunk into a
deeper mire of gloom. The midget was less wont to joke, or join in
on songs with Baus.
The behaviour
disturbed Baus for the reason of pure aesthetics. It had him
arresting his clam-snapping and cheering Weavil out of his
doldrums. “You are flagging, Weavil! We must all look on the bright
side. Where one frets, one languishes. Where have gone all your
infectious drolleries?”
“Flown away
with the ekloons,” sighed Weavil.
“Shameful,
shameful!” Baus scolded. “Like all great men we must retreat to our
stronger place, treat impediments as immutable opportunities to
excel beyond the modes of internal statute imposed upon us by
casual circumstance.”
Weavil’s leer
became a saturnine grimace. “You can seek comfort in all the
‘causalities’ you want, glibster. I wish only my former self—as a
healthy, five foot, nine inch poet.”
“You will,
Weavil!” thundered Baus in a cocksure voice. “We shall confront
this gingerstamp Nuzbek and in due time we will compel him to
renounce his villainous ways. He shall reverse this foul deed of
his! Even if we must move all the asteroids in dreaded Cygnus, we
shall force the magician to do his duty!”
“A fine
ambition,” scoffed Weavil. He hunched in despair in the chill, face
down and tapping his clams with a listless energy.
Baus paused,
stroking his chin with a spark of reflection. “We must venture
cautiously, Weavil. Any attempt to blunder in the dark will doom
us. Lawbreakers, lunatics, maniacs—all are in our midst; they will
make mincemeat of our jejune persons. We must trust to our thinking
intuition, install cunning deceits, concoct suitable strategies to
outwit the evil around us!”
Weavil stared
in contempt at Baus. “Where were these cunning ‘strategies’ while I
was being pickled like a common crab-apple in Nuzbek’s jars? As I
recall, you augmented your own blamelessness by enhancing my own
guilt.”
Baus gave a
cry of resentment. “This accusation is based on a flawed concept!
Chagrined and upset at the turn of events, I was forced to adopt
desperate measures to maintain existence—an act with which you can
empathize. You are my comrade, Weavil, nothing
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