Abernathy: Chapter 3
The Abernathy Trilogy
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
Abernathy
Chapter 3
Brian
After breakfast, I take Justin out to the stables to fetch the horses. I discover quickly that William has the bay out with him in the fields, so Justin and I must share the roan mare. Fortunately, she is stout enough to carry two men. I mount the horse without a saddle and shift forward to its withers. The animal is quite large, and Justin looks confused as to how to mount it without stirrups. I reach down for his hand, gripping the horse between my thighs so as not to send us both to the ground. After some difficulty, he is up and behind me, settled on the mare's croup.
"Move forward a little," I instruct, "and hold tight to me." He shifts forward against me with his chest and hips, and wraps his arms around my stomach. I set off at a canter in the direction of the village, all the while pretending not to notice the warm pressure of his inner thighs squeezing my hips.
After a short ride, we come upon Warbidge, less a village than it is a scant number of houses and buildings clustered around a dirt square. We stop in front of a corner shop and dismount. As I tie up the horse, I notice Justin looking at me curiously, and I realize I haven't given him any clue as to the purpose for our visit.
I reach out to gently touch the heavy iron slave collar around his neck, idly looping a finger through the chain ring. "You can't enjoy wearing this," I say. "I thought you might like to have it removed."
I usher him inside and call out for Stryver, the blacksmith. He appears presently, a tall, brutish man with leathery skin and few remaining teeth.
"Well, Kinney," he addresses me, though his gaze is fixed on Justin. "What have you brought me?"
"I want this collar to be removed," I say. "I haven't a key for it."
Stryver looks pensively at me for a few moments, then turns to Justin. "Sit," he orders, pointing at a chair across the shop.
Justin does so, and Stryver turns to me. "Well, Kinney, you certainly have managed to find the most pathetic slave in all of Britain."
I smile coldly. "Thank you, sir, but I am paying you for your services, not your opinions."
"Fair enough," he recants. "But do understand that I have your best interests in mind when I recommend against this."
"Against it? Whatever for?"
"Look at him! He's none of the brawny, dark-skinned types that most men hold for slaves. If you remove that collar, he'll run off and could easily be mistaken for a commoner in any town! No one will know him for a slave to catch him, and you'll never get him back."
I admit I hadn't thought of that. Actually, I hadn't thought at all of Justin running away. But why wouldn't he? What reason at all would he have to stay with me, aside from fear of getting caught? And even that was negligible, once he was able to get far enough away from the farm.
Stryver must notice my hesitation, because he is nodding as though his words have fully convinced me. "You see, it is not wise. You can never trust a slave."
I look over at Justin then, who sits patiently, eyes fixed on the hands folded in his lap. No doubt he has heard every word, as Stryver made no effort to lower his voice. I watch him, willing him to raise his head and look at me, to give me some sign that I can trust him. That Stryver is wrong, and that if I treat Justin well enough, he will not want to leave. But he does not move.
I shake my head, and clasp Stryver on the shoulder, in thanks for his advice. "Take it off, friend."
He shrugs, and goes to fetch his tools.
I wander idly around the shop as Stryver sets to work. According to him, it is merely a matter of finding the appropriate tool, as the lock is old and simply fashioned. After a few minutes, I hear a snap, and Stryver lifts the collar from Justin's neck.
"Aha!" he cries, laughing. "Look, Kinney, you were right! There was no need to worry at all!"
I walk around to see what he is pointing at, and feel my heart sink a few inches into my gut. There, on the back of Justin's neck, formerly hidden by the wide collar, is some sort of writing. The ink has been turned blue by time, but the letters are still legible. It is a single word.
"Abernathy. Do you know what it means?" Stryver inquires.
I shake my head in response.
"A former owner, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, in any case, your problems are solved, friend. There is no mistaking him for a free man now!"
Stryver begins to put away his tools, and I watch as Justin raises his hands to his neck, no doubt feeling the strangeness of skin newly exposed after so long. Something compels me to pick up the collar from where it lies, discarded, on the table.
It is indeed as heavy as it had looked.
Justin
As we leave the blacksmith's shop, my master looks particularly pensive. He lays his hands upon the horse's back, as though preparing to mount it, but does not move. Just stands there for a few moments and then seems to change his mind.
"I may as well take care of a few things while we are here," he says. "If you don't mind." I shake my head, and he begins walking across the dusty square.
Behind a row of shops and taverns, we come upon a narrow, three-story building, which appears to be an inn. He takes me inside, and through the main sitting area, to a tight staircase in the back of the building. We ascend to the top floor, where we find ourselves in a small, stuffy room with only one window that looks out onto the roof of the adjacent building. Inside it are a desk and several shelves, piled with papers and boxes.
"Welcome to my office," he says, smiling weakly. There is not even room to walk around without falling over a pile of papers, so I stand still as he continues. "I am the tax administrator for this part of the shire. It's not a difficult job, but the former administrator was corrupt, and managed his accounts very poorly. Trying to undo the damage has consumed half of my career to this point.
"Perhaps, while you are here, you could help me with some things?" he continues. He always asks, rather than orders me to do things!
He disappears back out the door and returns moments later with another chair, which he sets down at the desk, near his own. He places a stack of paper receipts in front of me, and asks me to order them by date. I set to it as he begins to write, and we sit working, side by side,
into the afternoon.
The room begins to glow an amber yellow as the lowering sunlight drifts through the windows. Brian has gone to fetch some drinks for us, as the day has grown quite hot. He returns with some water, and as he walks behind me, I sense his pause. His silence hangs heavy in the air, and I can almost feel the heat from his gaze upon the back of my neck. I know what he is staring at.
"Abernathy," he begins quietly. "Is it a surname?"
Already I can feel my heart begin to race while my breath quickens. He must notice my hesitation, because he speaks again. "You are under no obligation to tell me if it pains you."
Feeling foolish, I compose myself. "He was my master before Nicholson," I answer.
Brian sits down next to me, busying himself with his papers. After a moment he speaks again, though feigning preoccupation with his notes. "A good man?"
My heart stops. Nervously, I search for the right answer. In any other case, my response would have been a resounding 'yes', as that is a slave's duty. To praise one's former masters without hesitation. It is simply too risky to do otherwise. And yet...somehow I suspect that Brian wants the actual truth from me. My real opinion, not a careful lie. But it is too dangerous.
In the end I say nothing. Which says everything. And somehow, I believe he understands.
Abernathy, Abandon, America
by Kristen
Abernathy
Chapter 3
Brian
After breakfast, I take Justin out to the stables to fetch the horses. I discover quickly that William has the bay out with him in the fields, so Justin and I must share the roan mare. Fortunately, she is stout enough to carry two men. I mount the horse without a saddle and shift forward to its withers. The animal is quite large, and Justin looks confused as to how to mount it without stirrups. I reach down for his hand, gripping the horse between my thighs so as not to send us both to the ground. After some difficulty, he is up and behind me, settled on the mare's croup.
"Move forward a little," I instruct, "and hold tight to me." He shifts forward against me with his chest and hips, and wraps his arms around my stomach. I set off at a canter in the direction of the village, all the while pretending not to notice the warm pressure of his inner thighs squeezing my hips.
After a short ride, we come upon Warbidge, less a village than it is a scant number of houses and buildings clustered around a dirt square. We stop in front of a corner shop and dismount. As I tie up the horse, I notice Justin looking at me curiously, and I realize I haven't given him any clue as to the purpose for our visit.
I reach out to gently touch the heavy iron slave collar around his neck, idly looping a finger through the chain ring. "You can't enjoy wearing this," I say. "I thought you might like to have it removed."
I usher him inside and call out for Stryver, the blacksmith. He appears presently, a tall, brutish man with leathery skin and few remaining teeth.
"Well, Kinney," he addresses me, though his gaze is fixed on Justin. "What have you brought me?"
"I want this collar to be removed," I say. "I haven't a key for it."
Stryver looks pensively at me for a few moments, then turns to Justin. "Sit," he orders, pointing at a chair across the shop.
Justin does so, and Stryver turns to me. "Well, Kinney, you certainly have managed to find the most pathetic slave in all of Britain."
I smile coldly. "Thank you, sir, but I am paying you for your services, not your opinions."
"Fair enough," he recants. "But do understand that I have your best interests in mind when I recommend against this."
"Against it? Whatever for?"
"Look at him! He's none of the brawny, dark-skinned types that most men hold for slaves. If you remove that collar, he'll run off and could easily be mistaken for a commoner in any town! No one will know him for a slave to catch him, and you'll never get him back."
I admit I hadn't thought of that. Actually, I hadn't thought at all of Justin running away. But why wouldn't he? What reason at all would he have to stay with me, aside from fear of getting caught? And even that was negligible, once he was able to get far enough away from the farm.
Stryver must notice my hesitation, because he is nodding as though his words have fully convinced me. "You see, it is not wise. You can never trust a slave."
I look over at Justin then, who sits patiently, eyes fixed on the hands folded in his lap. No doubt he has heard every word, as Stryver made no effort to lower his voice. I watch him, willing him to raise his head and look at me, to give me some sign that I can trust him. That Stryver is wrong, and that if I treat Justin well enough, he will not want to leave. But he does not move.
I shake my head, and clasp Stryver on the shoulder, in thanks for his advice. "Take it off, friend."
He shrugs, and goes to fetch his tools.
I wander idly around the shop as Stryver sets to work. According to him, it is merely a matter of finding the appropriate tool, as the lock is old and simply fashioned. After a few minutes, I hear a snap, and Stryver lifts the collar from Justin's neck.
"Aha!" he cries, laughing. "Look, Kinney, you were right! There was no need to worry at all!"
I walk around to see what he is pointing at, and feel my heart sink a few inches into my gut. There, on the back of Justin's neck, formerly hidden by the wide collar, is some sort of writing. The ink has been turned blue by time, but the letters are still legible. It is a single word.
"Abernathy. Do you know what it means?" Stryver inquires.
I shake my head in response.
"A former owner, perhaps?"
"Perhaps."
"Well, in any case, your problems are solved, friend. There is no mistaking him for a free man now!"
Stryver begins to put away his tools, and I watch as Justin raises his hands to his neck, no doubt feeling the strangeness of skin newly exposed after so long. Something compels me to pick up the collar from where it lies, discarded, on the table.
It is indeed as heavy as it had looked.
Justin
As we leave the blacksmith's shop, my master looks particularly pensive. He lays his hands upon the horse's back, as though preparing to mount it, but does not move. Just stands there for a few moments and then seems to change his mind.
"I may as well take care of a few things while we are here," he says. "If you don't mind." I shake my head, and he begins walking across the dusty square.
Behind a row of shops and taverns, we come upon a narrow, three-story building, which appears to be an inn. He takes me inside, and through the main sitting area, to a tight staircase in the back of the building. We ascend to the top floor, where we find ourselves in a small, stuffy room with only one window that looks out onto the roof of the adjacent building. Inside it are a desk and several shelves, piled with papers and boxes.
"Welcome to my office," he says, smiling weakly. There is not even room to walk around without falling over a pile of papers, so I stand still as he continues. "I am the tax administrator for this part of the shire. It's not a difficult job, but the former administrator was corrupt, and managed his accounts very poorly. Trying to undo the damage has consumed half of my career to this point.
"Perhaps, while you are here, you could help me with some things?" he continues. He always asks, rather than orders me to do things!
He disappears back out the door and returns moments later with another chair, which he sets down at the desk, near his own. He places a stack of paper receipts in front of me, and asks me to order them by date. I set to it as he begins to write, and we sit working, side by side,
into the afternoon.
The room begins to glow an amber yellow as the lowering sunlight drifts through the windows. Brian has gone to fetch some drinks for us, as the day has grown quite hot. He returns with some water, and as he walks behind me, I sense his pause. His silence hangs heavy in the air, and I can almost feel the heat from his gaze upon the back of my neck. I know what he is staring at.
"Abernathy," he begins quietly. "Is it a surname?"
Already I can feel my heart begin to race while my breath quickens. He must notice my hesitation, because he speaks again. "You are under no obligation to tell me if it pains you."
Feeling foolish, I compose myself. "He was my master before Nicholson," I answer.
Brian sits down next to me, busying himself with his papers. After a moment he speaks again, though feigning preoccupation with his notes. "A good man?"
My heart stops. Nervously, I search for the right answer. In any other case, my response would have been a resounding 'yes', as that is a slave's duty. To praise one's former masters without hesitation. It is simply too risky to do otherwise. And yet...somehow I suspect that Brian wants the actual truth from me. My real opinion, not a careful lie. But it is too dangerous.
In the end I say nothing. Which says everything. And somehow, I believe he understands.