“Father, why are we here?” I clung to his pant leg while we shuffled deeper into the tunnels.
Men shoved us forward, torchlight roaring in time with the clatter of shackles. Barred alcoves lined the damp brickwork, arms reaching for freedom. Wails followed the snap of leather, moans of hunger echoing through the chasm. The villagers spoke of a hoosegow, but this felt like purgatory.
I stumbled, Father grabbing my arm. “Keep moving. Don’t let go.”
“But why?”
“Quiet!” Something smashed into the back of my knee.
I collapsed, sewage splashing onto my cheeks and into my hair. The muck masked my tears but not my racing heart.
“Stop. We’re cooperating.”
“Then keep moving. Silently.”
Father’s arms lifted me onto his hip. Rubbing my back, he pushed onward into the darkness. We didn’t stop until the men forced us into an alcove filled with others. Some men, a couple women. All terrified and dejected. The men left with their torches, and we were left in black.
“Are you okay, Carter?”
“What did we do?” Tears choked my words. I clung to his shoulders, praying for daylight.
He hushed my sorrow, holding tight. “Nothing, son. They just fear what we are.”
“We’re not anything special.”
His hands stalled on my back, breath catching for a moment. “Do you remember the rabbit you made?” I nodded, face scratching his worn tunic. “Not everyone can do that. It’s a gift given to special people. Those men fear that gift because they don’t understand it.”
“So they imprison us?”
He grew silent, moans and wails permeating the darkness. Father never replied, perhaps because the truth hurt more than the quiet.
was scarce, water a luxury. The wails grew quieter and the decay more pungent. I kept one hand in Father’s palm and one on the bars. My gaze craved light.
Squinting at the sudden firelight, metal boots clicked on the cobblestones. “Few months in the hoosegow and they’re still breathing. They must be witches.”
Witches? I knew better than to voice my wonder. Especially when the bars rattled open. Excitement staved my hunger.
Forced up the tunnel, sunlight burned our skin. They pushed us into a prison cart where we rode past familiar homes and faces. My bones rattled with the wooden wheels. By the time we stopped, my sore muscles felt battered and my skin bruised.
Father helped me out, the men directing us with long spears. We hobbled through ornate double doors and down a carpeted hall. Light flooded through the large windows and danced along intricate portraits.
The guards forced us through another set of doors where we stood before a banquet. Men in teased wigs and collared coats whispered to each other. The outlier sat in the center, ebony skin and braided hair contrasting the cream walls and baby blue upholstery. He observed us carefully, not falling into the aimless wonder of his colleagues.
When he rose, the room quieted. He picked something off the table. I flinched when he threw, a clatter echoing near my feet. “Do your magic.”
One eye open, I spotted a block of wood and a metal chisel. Sweat beaded on my neck when I looked at Father. Features tense, he watched the men at the banquet carefully. Licking my lips, I considered my options.
The men behind us grabbed Father, dragging him back. He shouted, only to be silenced.
“Father!”
“Do your magic, boy. Or he’ll be harmed.” The man’s black eyes sucked the color from the room.
Heart sputtering with a thousand worries, I lifted the tools and began my work. Father had only taught me a couple shapes, so I picked the easiest. My hurry didn’t thwart the finer details of the whiskered nose and floppy ears. Biting my lip, I finished with the eyes.
Setting the wood figurine and tool on the ground, I stepped back. The men rose and leaned on the table, trying to view my creation. Wrinkles crisp and scowls increasing, the whispers began again.
The wood twitched. All grew quiet.
Rising on large paws, my figurine came to life. The wood creaked when it turned its head. The ears perked and fell, tail twitching while it hopped along the floor.
An uproar filled the room.
The man grinned with uncertain intentions. He tossed a plate of food onto the floor, a turkey leg rolling on the ground. “You’ve earned your meal for today.”
My stomach grumbled. I reached carefully, watching the guards. Finding no resistance, I snatched the meat and tore at the roasted flesh. I kept looking to Father, his expression grave. Gulping down a mouthful, I asked, “What about Father?”
Ebony skin glistening in the light, his grin grew more malicious. “You’ll have to earn him back.” With a snap of his fingers, the guards dragged Father away.
I tried to follow. Men ripped me off the ground while Father’s shouts battered against the closed doors. The feast continued, the men thoroughly entertained.
As were all the guests of Felix Sherman. Until the day I ran back to the cursed hoosegow, though it felt like a grave.