Part One: Speed Kills

"Do you see him?"

"I can't; your head's in the way. Move."

Bethsaida gently shoved her younger brother aside so that she could get closer to the window. Michael moved without protest. Though he appeared to be slightly older than his sister, he was actually much younger. Michael was a weak and fragile boy... a result of premature birth and the strange circumstances that preceded it. He was a thin, sickly-looking thing... only six years old to Bethsaida's eleven, but the boy looked almost a teenager. A teen with the heart and mind of a six-year old child.

He let Bethsaida hog the tiny window for only a few seconds before he started to whine.

"Can I look now?"

"No," said his older sister.

"Can I look now?"

"No... be quiet."

"Can I-"

"Stop it!"

"I'm gonna tell!"

"Tell what?" said Bethsaida. "You're standing here just like I am. Tell on me and you'll tell on yourself, too."

She let her brother figure out what she meant on his own. It was early.... they were supposed to be getting ready for the day's work, not peeping out of windows. Or the tiny openings that PASSED for windows in the farm's slave quarters.

"Yeah, but you're older," said Michael "You know better... I don't."

He was right. If she told on him, SHE would be the one to get in trouble... not him.

Bethsaida HATED when he was right.

"Fine," she whispered, stepping aside to make room for Michael at the window. It wasn't quite dawn on the plantation. The rough wooden cabins of the slaves were just dark shapes hugging the untended dirt surrounding the work fields. They could have been miniature castles or giant mushrooms for all she could tell... the truth of them wouldn't become apparent for another few minutes when the sunlight revealed them in all their filthy squalor. But for now, they were just nondescript scenery... row after row of shadows leading up to the object of Bethsaida's early-morning secrecy.

The Tree was a monstrous thing... it must have been ancient before there were slaves OR a plantation. Bethsaida wondered what it thought of its 'new' neighbors. Did it care? Did it even notice? Maybe it did. Maybe it liked the way that the slaves looked at it. Maybe it smiled at the fear in their eyes.... enjoying the attention... the reverence. After all, because of the plantation, it wasn't a mere tree any more. It was THE Tree. The Hanging Tree... with roots nourished in blood and death.

Its many twisted branches stretched across the sky like jagged bolts of petrified lightning... sharp and frightening... waiting for the day when more dark fruit would dangle from their embrace. Master Ellis' mansion loomed in the background, almost as if the massive structure had been intentionally placed there so that no slave could ever look at one without seeing the other. They were always together: The Tree of death, and the Master's house. Always.

Yesterday must have been a very good day for the Tree. Bethsaida and the other slaves had been pulled away from the fields to watch the punishment of three slaves that had been caught mistreating the Master's favorite horse... taking their hatred of the Master out on his animals. The three were whipped for most of the day... the punishment administered outside so that their cries would echo out over the fields. And all the while, they were treated by the Master's alchemist so that they would be alive and awake when the Overseer hung them. He usually left their bodies on the tree to rot for several weeks before taking them elsewhere... but this morning they were gone.

Perhaps the Tree ate them.

No, that was nonsense. Obviously the bantika came for them. The elders said that sometimes the spirits... the bantika... came to get the bodies in the night to give them a proper burial instead of whatever the Master had in store. Sometimes the king spirit himself would come, and if a slave looked out at the Tree at dawn, they would see him standing there under the branches gazing out at the mansion... eyes aglow with rage and sorrow.

Bethsaida searched the darkness beneath the Tree, but there was nothing there. No spirit-king. No bantika. No glowing eyes of rage.

"I see him!" Michael gasped. he pointed a long, slender finger out the window. The window had no glass to prevent his hand from going right through. "There!"

"That's a shadow," said Bethsaida.

"No, it moved!"

"Wind."

"The wind's not blowing!"

"Yes it is."

"No it isn't!"

"Shhh!" Bethsaida hissed.

"Saida! Michael!" a woman's tired voice barked from the rear of the cabin. The cabin had no 'rooms'... just different areas of the same dirt floor devoted to sleeping, cooking, or eating. Their mother usually got up well before dawn, but she was still recovering from the beating she'd received from the Master several days ago. She had awakened earlier just long enough to set the children about their chores and apply some healing salve to her whip-wounds, then gone back to sleep... until now. Now she was up again. "I told you to get the cooking ready! Why are you looking out that window!"

"Ma'am?" Michael and Bethsaida's voices both went up several octaves as they spun around.

"I told 'em not to do it!"

Selie, their sister pointed accusingly at them both. She was older than Michael, but younger than Bethsaida. Her skin was a lighter shade of brown than either... even lighter than their mother's.

"Shut up!" Bethsaida warned. Selie stuck out her tongue. Michael did likewise, but Bethsaida knew better. Her lips still stung from the last time.

"What you doin' looking out there at them bodies!?" Kenyari said as she sat up on her straw cot. Their mother was a large woman... once tall and proud, but since Michael's birth she remained hunched over, unable to even stand up straight. She walked with a severe limp, incapable of taking a step without her cane.

And now even that was nearly impossible since the Master had broken her fingers. Her gnarled digits pawed at the cane's head for a few seconds before she got a grip and stood up... leaning unsteadily on the short length of wood. Selie rushed over to her and held the old woman's arm.

"Bad enough they make us watch... you ain't gotta be starin' out the windows!"

"But they-"

"Hush! You go fetch the water like I told you! Better hurry if you want to eat!"

"Yes, ma'am..." Michael and Bethsaida trudged out of the cabin, feet shuffling across the dirt. Each child grabbed a wooden bucket on their way out.

The well was just a hole in the ground surrounded jumble of loose rocks that was supposed to be a wall. It sat at the very edge of the slave quarters... where snakes, spiders, and other wildlife could drink their fill and lay in wait for the next unsuspecting slave to come along with a bucket. The snakes were bad. But even THEY didn't bother the rats.

The two children wandered through the slave camp, trying not to be enchanted by the good smells coming from the other cabins. They were late, and they'd be lucky if they ate at all. This was harvest season; the punishments for being late to the fields were especially severe. Bethsaida wasn't worried about herself, however. She'd worked all day without food before. But Michael's strange metabolism demanded food at regular intervals or else he'd faint. She could sneak a few bacon scraps out to the fields for him to eat... but that'd mean fighting off the other kids who'd immediately try and take it from her.

Not that was a problem. She'd done it before.

They reached the well, and then came the ritual. There was a large stick leaning against the rocks. Bethsaida took it and prodded the rocks surrounding the well, trying to flesh out any creatures that may be lurking in the cracks. There had already been a steady flow of slaves coming for water that morning, so she wasn't expecting to disturb anything. But she'd seen people who'd been surprised before. Her mother usually ended up treating them for snake-poison, wasp-stings, or the flesh-wasting disease that the spiders carried. She shuddered at the very thought.

Bethsaida gave the well a few good whacks with the stick. When nothing emerged, she waved Michael forward. There was a rickety wooden pulley over the hole to lower the buckets into the water Michael attacked his empty bucket to the rope and tossed it in. There was a muffled splash from below. He grabbed the crank-handle and began raising the bucket... or at least trying to.

"unnngh!" he grunted, leaning into the handle. "unnngh!"

Bethsaida just shook her head. Michael's frail arms were barely strong enough to lift the EMPTY bucket... raising one filled with water was simply beyond him. Still, he tried anyway, just as he did every morning.

"Move before you hurt yourself," said Bethsaida.

"I got it!" Michael complained. He put all of his inconsequential weight behind the crank. "UNNGH!"

It didn't budge.

"I said move!"

"Lemme do it!"

Bethsaida slapped Michael's hands away and grabbed the handle. It moved easily in her grasp... squeaking loudly as she raised the filled bucket back up to the top. She locked the handle in place with a rock, then leaned over to check the bucket before untying it. Sometimes rats and spiders hitched rides up to the top along with the water... but not this time. She sat Michael's bucket on the ground and tied hers to the rope.

"Hey." Michael poked her in the side with his finger.

"Huh?"

"Look-" He pointed across the clearing, where two white men were walking through the slave quarters, moving toward the well, but not approaching it directly. Bethsaida recognized them both. The smaller one was Master Percy, Master Ellis' second oldest son. He was supposed to be their owner, since the Master had turned them over to him after the incident in the House... but everyone knew that Percy really didn't own anything. He was just a caretaker for a small section of the plantation. The other man was Percy's friend Hirk. He was a large man with broad shoulders... fully a head taller than Percy. Hirk did nothing that Bethsaida knew of... other than drink and curse very loudly. At everyone. All the time. From the way they were walking, they both appeared to be half-drunk even now... with the sun barely risen in the sky.

Hirk had something slung over his shoulder. At first it appeared to be a large bundle of stained rags, but the way it jostled when he walked told Bethsaida that there was something more substantial underneath them. When he got closer, she could see the tiny arm poking out of the rags... and two bloody feet sticking out of the other end.

Michael saw it too. He gasped.

"Get back," Bethsaida warned as the men approached. Michael was always contrary, but he knew when not to argue. He ducked behind the well, kneeling in the dirt behind the rocks.

Bethsaida didn't move.

"Saida come on!" Michael hissed. "You gotta hide!"

"I'm not hiding," she snapped at him. "I wanna see."

"But-"

"Hush!"

She stood and watched the men get closer... eyes fixed on the body folded across Hirk's shoulder. She couldn't tell who it was, but the arm looked female. Young. It also looked broken; snapped cleanly in half between the wrist and the elbow. The lower part of the arm flapped loosely back and forth in time with Hirk's drunken stride. The legs were covered in dried blood. It had run in streams down from somewhere beneath the rags and dripped off of her naked toes. The rags were dotted with blood as well. As they walked, one of the rags fell away... revealing a young face that Bethsaida knew.

Tenna was older than Zade, but not by much. She had taught Bethsaida how to make dolls out of corn cobs... not the simple dolls, but the bigger ones with arms and legs that actually moved. She was smart and pretty, with big eyes and a funny voice that made everyone giggle when she laughed. But now both of those eyes were swollen shut... blackened from bruises. Her lips were swollen to twice their normal size... with a string of bloody drool oozing from the corner of her mouth. Her hair was matted to her head with blood and sweat. Bethsaida couldn't tell if she were alive or dead. She looked dead.

Master Percy saw the rag fall away, and paused to grab it from the ground. He stuffed the rag into his pocket and kept on walking... not even bothering to cover the girl's face up again.

"Saida!" Michael called again.

"Shhh! You stay quiet!"

The men walked past the well... and they both looked at her as they passed. Bethsaida quickly lowered her eyes. A slave never looked a white man in the eyes unless ordered to do so. It implied that they were equal, which was clearly not the case. Bethsaida looked down at the white men's boots and hoped that Michael had stayed out of sight. When the men passed, she could look up again and get a closer look at Tenna-

"Hold on a second," said Master Percy. The boots stopped moving. "Hey you. Girl."

Bethsaida let her eyes wander as far up as their knees.

"Yes, Master Percy?" she said with a slight tremble in her voice. She wasn't afraid... just very, very cautious.

"What's your name?"

"Bethsaida, sir," she replied.

"Hell, I can never remember all these stupid names you have. Look up here, girl."

Bethsaida looked up at Master Percy. Her eyes glanced briefly over at Tenna... the girl's entire FACE was bloated-

"I said look HERE!" Percy snapped. "Not over there!"

She returned her eyes to Master Percy's face. His bloodshot eyes traveled up and down her body, pausing at the swell of her breasts... barely visible through her loose-fitting rags.

"You're the witch-woman's daughter, right?"

"Yes, sir," she replied. The masters called Bethsaida's mother a witch, even though they knew she wasn't really. If she was, they would have killed her a long time ago. Still, it made Bethsaida uncomfortable for them to say it... like maybe they were looking for a reason. Not that they needed one.

"Uh-huh," Percy grunted. The wind shifted lightly, and the smell of him washed over. Beer and sweat. And a musky, pungent stench... almost like fish. The smell made Bethsaida's nose twitch, but that's as far as she let it go. "I thought so. Go fetch her, then. She's got some healin' to do."

Master Percy chuckled, then laughed. Hirk joined him in some unspoken joke that Bethsaida didn't understand. The masters' humor often escaped her. Especially when they were drunk.

"What... what happened to her?" Bethsaida asked.

"Eh?" said Hirk. "You let 'em ask questions now, Percy?"

"So I can tell mother," Bethsaida blurted. "So she'll know what to bring. What happened to Tenna?"

"Tell her to bring everything!" Master Percy laughed. "She'll need it!"

"HA!" Percy added. "Little bitch sure did bleed! Did more bleedin' than squealin', I'd say!"

"You get the witch-woman to... whichever of these pigpens this girl belongs to."

"Hell, I can't remember," said Hirk. "They all look the same. Where'd we get her from?"

"Tenna lives there, sir." Bethsaida pointed out the cabin where Tenna lived with her grandfather.

"Yeah. You get that healer bitch over there to fix this little one up," said Percy. He glanced up at the sky, which was getting lighter by the minute. "And you'd BETTER get to the fields on time! You and that retarded brother of yours! I'll come lookin' for ya to make sure!"

"Yes, sir."

The two men started toward Tenna's cabin. Bethsaida watched them go... not wanting to pull Michael out of hiding until they were further away. Percy didn't like Michael. Percy didn't like any of the slaves... especially the boys... and ESPECIALLY Michael. As they walked away, she caught the first few echoes of their drunken conversation:

"Is she new?" said Hirk. "I ain't seen that one before."

"She was a house slave. Daughter of that healer bitch. Mother got mad at 'em and kicked 'em out here with me... with the rest of the bloody outcasts."

"Yeah, but this is where all the fun is. She's cute."

"Not for long..."

When Bethsaida could hear no more, she turned back to the well.

"Michael! Come on!"

Michael scrambled from his hiding place and grabbed the bucket of water... and promptly spilled it all trying to pick it up.

"Never mind that! Come on!" Bethsaida grabbed his hand and ran back to the cabin, with Michael protesting loudly behind her.

---

When the children came running, Kenyari knew that something was wrong. She'd waken uneasily from her sleep, but she'd blamed that on her injuries... but when Bethsaida and Michael returned, she recognized the 'wrongness' that was slowly fading from the air around her. Something had happened.

"It's Tenna!" Bethsaida yelled. "She's hurt!"

"What happened?" said Kenyari.

"Master Percy was bringing her back," Bethsaida replied in quiet tones.

Kenyari closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Not for her, but for the little girl.

"Selie, gather my things," she sighed.

"Yes, mamma," Selie had been cooking bacon, but at her mother's command she rose from before the fire and fetched the large basket from the quiet, undisturbed corner of the cabin... the corner where the children weren't allowed to go, or even LOOK, unless told to do so. The basket was already heavy... and Selie made it more so with small pouches and bundles of things from the floor.

"You'll have to carry it, girl" Kenyari said. "Saida... you didn't get water."

"No, ma'am."

"Fetch some now and bring it to Ghan's cabin. Then come back here and take Michael to the field."

"But I can help-"

"Michael, you stay here and eat something. Don't go outside without Saida. And DON'T come to see Tenna!"

Michael nodded vigorously. Tenna was his friend, and Kenyari knew he wanted to know what had happened.

"Come on, Selie, we have to hurry."

'Hurry' was a relative term for Kenyari. She'd never been very fast, even in her youth. She'd been blessed with a strong mind and a good heart... not fast feet. Then Michael's birth...and the events that followed... had crippled her so severely that no one expected that she would survive. She did, but it left her with a body almost twenty years older than it SHOULD have been... and internal scarring that not even the strongest roots or potions could remove. She could never have another child. The act of conceiving one was impossible... as was moving any faster than a mild shuffle with the help of a cane. She kept herself useful... and alive... by acting as medicine woman to the other slaves and as seamstress to the Master's wife. Madam Ellis had taken an instant dislike to her, so when Kenyari accidentally stuck her with a pin, the Master's wife ordered her out of the House permanently. AND she demanded that her husband have all of the woman's fingers broken. Still, crippled or not, Kenyari still had her tasks to perform.

Selie helped her mother as best she could. She was all Kenyari had now that the Master had ordered Bethsaida and Michael out to the fields. That hurt Kenyari more than the hammer on her fingers. Michael was far too frail for field work. And Bethsaida had already come so far in learning the medicines that she could almost perform Kenyari's tasks alone. To take her away from it now would just condemn her to a lifetime of harsh labor in the fields with no hope of anything else. But she still had Selie, at least. Together, they set out on what was going to be a long walk across the slave quarters. Tenna and her grandfather, Ghan, didn't live far away as measured by distance, but the time it would take them to get there was another thing entirely.

At first, the little girl struggled with the unbalanced weight of the basket. Kenyari told her to put the basket down and re-arrange the contents so the weight was evenly distributed, and soon Selie was moving faster than what Kenyari's slow, hobbling pace could keep up with.

"Not so fast now," she warned. "Don't go runnin' off."

"Yes, mamma..."

When they reached Ghan's cabin, Bethsaida was already there with water from the well. She'd been waiting there for a few minutes already.

"She's bad, mamma," said Bethsaida. "Her arm's broke, and she's got-"

"Did I tell you to go inside and look at her?" Kenyari snapped. "Did I?"

"No, ma'am."

"You get Michael out to them fields before you get yourself whipped to pieces!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

Bethsaida hurried off while Selie held the door open for her mother. Kenyari didn't like being harsh with Saida... but the girl was so damned hard-headed! She was smart, too... and both were very dangerous things for a slave to be. Bethsaida was too young to realize that, but hopefully she would before it was too late. Before she ended up like Ghan.

Ghan was an old slave... older even than Kenyari looked. But he'd reached that age simply because he was strong... strong enough to survive the three times that various overseers had literally tried to whip him to death in the fields. He had only one eye, and his back had scars enough for four slaves put together. His left hand had only two fingers remaining... a result not of an accident, but of punishment. The missing fingers had been removed one at a time... one inch at a time. And as a result of another punishment, Ghan, like Kenyari, was also not capable of producing any more children. Or even performing the act of conception. The Master kept him around more as a living example than for any real usefulness. But for all he had endured, Ghan still walked tall and proud... or as proud as a slaved dared walk.

Until today.

The old man sat on the edge of his chair, leaning over his granddaughter's limp, motionless form. They girl lay on a table in the center of the room. Drops of her grandfather's tears fell onto her torn, bloody rags.

"Ghan," Kenyari called.

The old slave didn't look at her. He hadn't heard her, even though his one remaining ear was aimed in her direction.

"Ghan, is she-"

"She breathin,'" he wept. "I don' know why she is... but she is."

"She's a strong girl," said Kenyari as she approached. "Almost as strong as my Saida."

"Come look what they did," said Ghan. "Come see what they did to my baby."

"Mamma?" Selie said cautiously. She didn't want to get any closer to Tenna than she was.... she didn't have as strong a stomach as Saida.

"It's okay. I need you to help me, okay?"

Selie nodded reluctantly.

The examination was painful. Excruciating.

Selie didn't want to touch the girl's wounds, but it was necessary. She had to poke and prod... and describe in detail what she felt so her mother would know how deep the bruises were, or if there were any wounds inside her body that couldn't be seen with the eye. Selie was crying profusely halfway through the procedure, and Kenyari thought she was going to faint once or twice. Selie didn't understand what had happened to her friend, and when ever she asked, Kenyari just told her to hush and concentrate on what she was doing.

For Ghan, every strip of cloth that Selie removed revealed new bruises and more brutality that had been visited upon his granddaughter. The wounds ran deep into his soul, yet he refused to take his eyes away as the depth of Tenna's ordeal were laid bare before him. He got up and paced the room as the healer worked... never looking away for more than a second.

Kenyari's struggled through the pained expressions on both Selie and Ghan's faces. Every time either of them winced or hissed, her heart twisted in her chest. But she kept her mind focused on what she saw. She tried to forget that she'd seen this child running and playing with Saida and Michael just the other night. Tenna always asked about Michael. Kenyari thought the girl may have had a crush on him... a crush that Michael was blissfully ignorant of, since his mind was still that of a six-year-old. Still, it would have been good to see them together one day.

That would likely not happen now.

Tenna had been raped. Brutally violated in just about every physical manner possible... all while being beaten continuously with fists and blunt objects. The beatings were bad. For an adult, they were severe. For a child, they were unthinkable... but not fatal. The men that did it were trying to control her, not kill her. And, judging from the lack of fingernails on her hands, Tenna had fought them with everything she had.

It had almost cost her her life.

The little girl's breathing was shallow. Her heartbeat, faint but regular. She had lost blood, but not a lot. Some of the blood on the rags wasn't hers, which explained why she was beaten so badly. Most of the blood that WAS hers had come from as a result of the rape. She had been intact when it happened. No longer... not in any sense of the word.

But she would probably live. She told Ghan this, but there was no visible change in his expression. He was a broken man, now... every bit as beaten and violated as his granddaughter. The fact that she might live through the experience did nothing to change the fact that it had happened to someone he loved more than his own life.

"Do what you can," he said weakly.

There was a lot of work to be done. Kenyari instructed Selie on how to mix the herbs and apply the salves. As she did, Ghan helped her set the girl's broken arm. Then Kenyari and Selie dressed the wounds, and mixed several drinks for Ghan to give to Tenna when she awakened. If the internal damage wasn't very bad, the girl would be able to walk and work normally. Children? It was too early to tell. A thought came to Kenyari, and she paused to make a prayer to the spirits.... praying that the girl was not pregnant now. That would be too much. Far, far, too much for Tenna's young body... and too much for Ghan.

The prayer finished, she continued her instructions to Selie.

"You grind that hazel-root up real fine... to a powder," she said. "Mix a pinch of it with that other, then crumble in some of that moss-"

"We used all the black-moss already, mamma."

"We'll make due without it. I know another recipe we can use."

"Is she in pain?" Ghan asked.

"She's asleep," Kenyari replied. "May be for some time. Best not to worry 'bout pain now. Getting the body to heal itself first is more important. Sometimes healing takes pain. You know that better than me."

"You fix me up enough times," said Ghan. "After those bastards-"

"Shhhhh..." said Kenyari. "This isn't the time or the place."

"Don't think you can fix me up from this, though," Ghan continued. "Fix Tenna's body... but not her soul. Or mine."

"Not my place to fix those things," Kenyari said casually. "I'm just an nganga... a healer. I can't-"

"What about this?" said Ghan. He reached into the medicine basket and pulled out a tiny scrap of parchment folded into a pouch. Inside it was a fine, brown powder. "Give... give her some of this? In a drink? Spare her the pain?"

"Ghan..." Kenyari sighed. Ghan was trying to APPEAR helpful, but she knew better. Ghan was no healer, but he was old. He knew that the powder was strong medicine for external use, but was poison if taken internally... one of the few such strong herbs that the Master let her have. If she gave it to Tenna to drink, the girl would die. "Ghan, I can't do that."

"I-I know," said Ghan.

"And YOU can't either!"

"Mamma, what are you talking about?" said Selie. "Will that powder help Tenna?"

"Girl... go stand outside while Ghan and I talk."

"Yes, ma'am." Selie stepped outside. Kenyari didn't have to worry about her... she wasn't going to wander off or do anything to get in trouble. Like Bethsaida would the instant she was out of sight.

"They killed my baby, Kenyari!"


"She's still alive."

"For how long?"

"She'll heal. The salves will keep the scars from her skin. Maybe a few marks... nothing much."

"That's not what I'm talking about!" Ghan snapped. Then he took a deep breath and sat down. He hid his face in his hands. "Why?" he said. Kenyari wasn't sure if he was talking to her or not. "Why my baby? First they kill my son then they send his wife away to... to BREED more slaves for Master Hawthorne's new farm. Now... now this? WHY!"

"You know why," said Kenyari. "Because they can. Because we're slaves."

"SLAVES are still people! Just because somebody OWNS me, does that mean I'm not a MAN!"

"That's exactly what it means," Kenyari said bluntly. "You know this more than anyone on this farm."

"But it didn't used to be like this. Bad, yes. They kill us and beat us and break up our families, yes... but... but THIS!?" he pointed to Tenna. "NEVER like this!"

"Yes, it has," said Kenyari. "You're older and wiser, Ghan... but you're still a man. You don't know some things... things that only women know. They break up our families and send the men away, and that makes it easier to hide what goes on..."

"What things?"

"The things we kept from the men... things that happen to their daughters and wives. If we can cover it up, we do it. We lie and never tell the truth because we want our men to live. If they find out the truth... they go out in a rage... and don't come back except as bantika."

"The truth?"

"When girls become women, they catch the eyes of the men. Not the slave men. The overseers and the helpers. The Masters. Sometimes they come for the young ones because..." Kenyari shrugged. "...maybe they get more pleasure from them. Only a man would know why. They take the girls at night, and bring them back in the day. Usually there is not much blood, but sometimes, if the girl fights..."

"You LIE!"

"Its been this way from the beginning, Ghan."

"No!"

"My mother," said Kenyari. "...my sister..."

"You!?"

Kenyari nodded.

"My son's wife? MY mother!?!"

Kenyari nodded once more.

"And you accept this!?"

"We are slaves, Ghan. The only choice is to fight or not... to bleed a lot, or only a little. That's the only choice."

"Which did YOU do?" said Ghan.

Kenyari lowered her head and said nothing.

"And what of YOUR daughters?" Ghan continued. "Soon they will become women. What did you tell THEM to do? Fight... or just lay there?"

"I... I haven't..." Kenyari suddenly felt ashamed. She was having this conversation with Ghan... who, by all rights, should NOT know these things. But she hadn't yet told her own daughters. She had stitched together many horrible wounds, but she simply didn't have the stomach to tell Saida... or... or Selie...

"Don't you think they should know?"

"Yes."

"And Tenna?" said Ghan. "They came and snatched her away last night while they kept me working in the fields! What is to say they won't do it again! Maybe TONIGHT!"

"Nothing," said Kenyari. "If they want her again... they will come. Maybe they'll wait until she heals... maybe she won't fight..."

"THAT is all the hope you give her!? That MAYBE she'll be healed the next time they come to rape her! And that MAYBE, if she doesn't fight, she won't get another BEATING!?"

"There is nothing else to say," said Kenyari. "Nothing we can do-"

"Oh, YES there is!" Ghan snapped.

He stormed over to the table where Tenna lay and picked the girl up. He held her in his arms as he walked toward the door.

"What are you doing!?" Said Kenyari. "You can't move her... what are you-"

"SOMETHING!" said Ghan. "I'm doing what no one else will do... I'm doing SOMETHING!"

He opened the door and walked out, carrying Tenna's unconscious body with her. Selie was waiting outside.

Ghan paused... and the look he gave Selie was so full of sorrow and pity that it stole the girl's yelp of surprise right out of her mouth. She just stood there with her mouth open. Then Ghan kept walking... heading out of the slave quarters and away from the work fields.

"WAIT!" Kenyari called after him. "Where ARE you going!"

"Home," said Ghan.

"But home is HERE!" Selie said innocently, not understanding what was going on.

"No," said Ghan. "It isn't."

---

"Mornin' Mr. Ellis," the guard said with a warm smile. It was kind of smile that laborers and servants usually reserved for one another... not for the sons of their employers. But then, Percival treated them with some modicum of respect... unlike most of the other members of the Ellis family.

"Mornin,' mornin..." Percival returned. "Have a good evenin' there, Derrek?"

"Good enough, sir, and yours?"

"Oh, mine was quite enjoyable," Master Percy winked at the guard.

"I bet it was, sir. Your father is expecting you. They're in the dining room."

"They?"

"Your brother is with him."

The smile vanished from Percival's face. He paused in the massive doorway and looked down the marble hall with an expression that quickly soured from blank to angry.

"They're waiting, sir..." The guard reminded him.

"Yes, well," Percival growled. "They'll excuse me if I take my time getting there. You have a good day, Derrek... better than mine will no doubt be."

"Thank you, sir."

The heavily decorated hallway was lined with marble columns and doorways leading to other parts of the manor. It was an ostentatious indulgence on the part of Horatio Ellis... the distant great-great grandfather who'd designed it. The hallway actually took up more room than most of the other chambers combined... but it DID make the manor look more like a royal palace, which was Horatio's misguided intention. It disgusted Percival. It was too much... and took too many slaves to keep clean.

And there were so many more useful... and entertaining... things that slaves could be doing besides cleaning. What a waste.

Percival strolled past the ridiculous columns and ancient paintings of family members he didn't know. He exchanged greetings with the servants and flashed a scowl at any slave he saw. The slaves mostly ignored him, as they were supposed to do. The servants and other laborers greeted him with smiles and nods. Those were his people.... especially now that he was a bloody outcast in his own 'noble' family. But maybe that would change. His father had sent for him... Percival didn't know what the old man wanted, but hopefully it was something good. For a change.

"Ahh, good day, Matthew," said an older man dressed smartly in a thin white coat. Percy didn't need to look to see who it was. The voice was enough... as was the fact that he'd addressed Percival by his middle name... which he despised.

"Jallan." Percival nodded.

The old alchemist's hair was thin and wispy... yet it still had streaks of its original black color, as if not quite ready to give up those last vestiges of youth. His wrinkled hands were marred with the stains of countless hours mixing ungodly ingredients. Even his face had a few discolored dots that were certainly not due to working in the sun... since the alchemist rarely went outside. Jallan held a glass jar filled with some bright-orange liquid that he sipped greedily. The substance had already stained his lips orange.

"Drinking already, old man?" said Percival. There was no cordiality in his voice this time... he didn't like the ancient toad, but he had to admit that the man was useful. Even when drunk, as he usually was.

Not that Percival could point fingers about being drunk...

"What? Oh, this!?" Jallan held up the jar. "THIS isn't a drink. Oh,... well, I suppose it is, but not the kind you're thinking. Something NEW I've discovered! Or invented... I get those confused sometimes. They're so similar, espescially in my line of wor-"

"And what would that be? Another haste-potion to turn my father's slaves into old men?"

"Ahhh... well, no. This would be a potion of vital nutrients. I call them... ahhh... v-uhhh... well, I can't remember what I call them, but if I'm right, they'll keep a body strong and healthy-"

"A bit late for YOU, then, isn't it?"

"And MAYBE even extend the lifespan of your average slave by a few years or so. If you can keep Grady off of them."

"And if you're NOT right?"

"Well..." Jallan took a sip of the potion. "Certainly tastes good! Care to try?"

"Absolutely not," said Percival. Just then, a young boy stepped out of an adjoining hallway and looked around. He was in his early teens, with dark hair and handsome, striking features that bore more than a passing resemblance to the men who's pictures adorned the hallway. It was Nathaniel, Jallan's apprentice. Percival refused to even acknowledge him as a half-brother... he was just some bastard child that father managed to sneak into the house on the pretense of assisting Jallen. While HE... a full-blooded Ellis... slept out on the farm like a slave.

Percival glared at the boy as he joined them and tapped the alchemist on the shoulder.

"Jallan, you left the-"

"What do YOU want, boy?" Percival snapped. "Can't you see grown people are talking here!"

He and the boy exchanged stares for a moment, then Percival remembered something he wanted to ask the alchemist about.

"And Jallan,.... next time you want to take bodies down from the hanging tree, you let me know, first! Slaves wake up and see 'em gone, they start getting all edgy... talking about spirits and monsters and nonsense."

"Bodies? What bodies?"

"The slaves we HUNG yesterday!"

"Oh... Oh yes! I noticed they weren't there this morning. But... what makes you think I took them?"

"You didn't-?"

"No. I thought you did."

"ME?" said Percival. "What would I do a daft thing like THAT for? YOU'RE the one that's always begging for slaves to study. Your damned experiments-"

"Not this time," said Jallan. He took another sip of his potion, then handed it to the apprentice. "This needs gin," he whispered. Then he turned back to Percival. "I'm afraid you'll have to look elsewhere for the culprit. I had nothing to do with it."

"Hmmm..."

"If this develops into an interesting mystery, DO let me know how it turns out...." Jallan and Nathaniel started down the hallway back to their laboratory. "...I love a good mystery."

"Creepy bastards," Percival mumbled under his breath. "Father kicks ME out, but he gives THOSE two ghouls their own laboratory...bah!"

"M-Master Percy?"

A young slave boy, no more than seven, had called his name. Percival scowled.

"What gives YOU the balls to say MY name, BOY!?" he growled.

"M-m-master E-ellis is w-waiting for y-you s-sir!"

"I KNOW!"

"Th-They're in the-"

"I KNOW!"

Percival shoved the boy out of the way... sending the youth stumbling into a wall... then made his way toward the dining room.

Two guards pulled each of the double-doors open as he approached. Percival's father... Matthew Ellis Sr... sat at the head of an obscenely long mahogany table. Halfway down the table's length were two other settings... one for Percival, and one for his elder brother Hawthorne Ellis... who Percival called the 'Golden Boy' for his blonde hair. And the fact that he was his father's favorite that could, in his eyes, do no wrong. Hawthorne and his father were already sitting, but no food had been served yet.

Perfect. The two people he liked LEAST in the world wanted to have breakfast with him.

"Glad to see you managed to sober up a little before joining us," said the elder Ellis.

"Good morning to you, TOO, father," said Percival. "Hawthorne."

"Morning, Percival."

Percival sat down, and the servants appeared to bring the food. Food was always handled by paid white servants... not by slaves. To do otherwise was ridiculous.... there were simply too many simple ways to poison a man these days.

A breakfast fit for a king was brought out and placed before them. Master Ellis leaned forward and inhaled the aroma of the food. Then he wrinkled his nose.

"Good GODS, boy," said Master Ellis. "If you're going to spend the night rutting with slave-girls, then the least you can do is BATHE before you come into my house! You stink!"

"Well its not like YOU never-" Percival began.

"But I BATHED afterward! Now the whole room smells like animals!"

Percival held his tongue as sarcastic comebacks and remarks rushed through his brain. Now wasn't the time... at least until he figured out what his father wanted.

"Surely you didn't ask me here to insult me, father," Percival said calmly.

"No, you ARE an insult... I don't need to do any more. But there's some business that concerns us."

"Us?" said Hawthorne, glancing at Percival. The intention was obvious. Hawthorne owned his own farm adjacent to Master Ellis'. Percival owned the clothes on his back... maybe. Anything that involved BOTH of them must be important indeed.

"Well," said their father. "Porterwood had finally relented... he's willing to sell me that island of his."

"The orchard?" said Hawthorne.

"Yes."

"Why, that's EXCELLENT news, father!"

"Not quite yet," said Master Ellis. "He wants some ridiculous price... plus he's not selling the slaves along with it."

"Well what good is an orchard without slaves?" said Percival.

"He CLAIMS he can sell the slaves separately to someone else for some obscene profit. Naturally that's hogwash, but that's what he's claiming. Trying to 'negotiate' me into paying more money for them is what he's REALLY up to."

"Of course," said Hawthorne. "Porterwood fancies himself a master trader."

"We can make a fortune off of that island, with or without his slaves... so I'm buying it."

Percival began to get excited. This could mean... no, this DID mean that he'd be getting some land of his own. None of his other brothers were old enough to assume such responsibility, and Hawthorne had his hands full with his own farm. This was very good news indeed!

"Hawthorne," said Master Ellis. "The orchard will be annexed to YOUR property."

"WHAT!" Percival shouted in disbelief.

"Thank you, father."

"You'll own it. You'll run it. But you'll split the profits with me."

"Until the orchard is paid for? Or-"

"Indefinitely."

"Yes, sir."

"WAIT JUST A DAMN MINUTE! Porterwood's orchard isn't anywhere NEAR Hawthorne's property! Its almost a bloody THREE DAYS journey away! Why aren't you giving the orchard to ME!?"

"Because you're an incompetent boob," Master Ellis snapped. "You can BARELY keep the lesser fields running here... with ME watching over you. You want to run off to some island and run things on your own!? Do you think I am INSANE!?"

"Father, HOW is Hawthorne going to-"

"You're going to help him."

"What?" said Hawthorne.

"WHAT!?!" said Percival.

"Percival, you will work for your brother-"

"Work FOR me!?" Hawthorne objected. "THAT IS OBSCENE!"

"I'll take over the running of the lesser fields here," said Master Ellis. "And Percival will help oversee Hawthorn's farm while Hawthorne gets the orchard running smoothly."

"Oversee?" said Percival. "Like... and EMPLOYEE!"

"Yes."

"Father," said Hawthorne. "Percival will run my farm INTO THE GROUND! You KNOW this!"

"Yes, I do. At which time he will be disowned and removed from this family... cut off from all inheritance. I have too many heirs snapping at my heels as it is... having one LESS could only improve things."

"FATHER!"

"You seem to have a fair enough time fraternizing with the servants and laborers, boy... now here's your chance to become one of them. Either learn some responsibility... or disgrace this family so blatantly that I'll have no choice but to kick you out on your ass. The income from the orchard will MORE than offset the losses you will no doubt incur running Hawthorne's farm."

"That's an expensive lesson, father," said Hawthorne. "I must object-"

"I'm giving him a chance," Master Ellis replied. "I expect him to fail, yes... but he DESERVES that opportunity as a member of this family."

"First you kick me out of the house and send me to live with the overseers-"

"-where your nights have been filled with debauchery since the FIRST NIGHT! And you LOVE it! So don't DARE complain!"

"What is this... a JOKE!?"

"Not yet," said Master Ellis. "Give you a year or two at that farm... THEN it'll be a joke. And by then, your younger brother David will be old enough to assume some responsibility-"

"DAMN YOU!"

"Damn me? I'm giving you a chance, boy! A real, honest-to-gods CHANCE to redeem yourself. Keep the ALE out of your stomach and your MANHOOD out of the slave-girls, and you might surprise everyone and SUCCEED!"

"But you have no faith in me! Even Nathan the BASTARD-boy gets better treatment than THAT! You SAY you're giving me a chance, but you're covering your losses by keeping ownership of the farm out of my hands!"

"Damn right I am," said Master Ellis. "I'm old, but I'm not stupid. Give you ownership and you'll PISS it away in a year... dragging this whole family down with you! THAT I will not allow! You WILL work for your brother... for a GENEROUS salary, I might add. Hawthorne... negotiations with Porterwood will probably take the rest of the month at least. You should start making your plans and preparations now. Take your best slaves with you when you go... you don't want to leave them behind with your brother running things."

"FATHER!"

"That concludes YOUR part of the conversation, son," said Master Ellis. "Now eat your food and SHUT UP!"

"No thank you, I'm NOT hungry anymore!"

Percival got up from the table and stormed out of the room.
---

Bethsaida wanted to stay and see Tenna, but the fields were waiting. The other children would already be there... ready to point out her absence to the first person that asked.

Master Percy's slaves worked the lesser fields, where they grew the food that fed the rest of the slaves. The cash crops that Master Ellis sold were grown on the other side of the plantation... tended by the older, more able slaves under the watchful eye of the Master's best overseers. He didn't really care what happened in the lesser fields. If the slaves there were lazy or inept, then they would simply go hungry. If they went hungry long enough, they would either starve to death and be replaced, or they'd learn to work harder. It was a system that worked reasonably well, even with a drunk like Master Percy in charge of it. Still, order must be kept, so the overseers occasionally rode through to see that all was as it should be.

The early morning rays... and the eyes of a passing overseer... caught Bethsaida and Michael arriving at the cornfields just as the work day was set to begin. Bethsaida took the last two buckets from the cart and walked out into the rows of corn.

"Stay with me," she told Michael. He fell in behind her and kept his mouth shut.

They worked in a line that moved through the cornfield like a scythe... gathering the ears of corn from among the weeds. The younger children moved out in front of the older ones. They each carried long sticks, which they used to shake the cornstalks and tap on the ground to drive any hidden animals away. Then the older slaves came through and collected the corn. When their buckets were full, they ran back to the nearest cart, dumped their load, and quickly sprinted back to their place in line. Michael usually worked with the younger children since he was too weak to carry a bucket full of corn. Because they'd arrived late and without a full breakfast, Bethsaida thought it best that he stay close to her. But being with the older kids had its own problems.

"Look, its the scarecrow," said Kalem, one of the only pair of twins Bethsaida had seen on the plantation. Both of the tall, lanky boys were equally ugly and mean. They were older than Bethsaida... only a year or two away from being taken to the adult fields, where they'd likely be separated. Until then, they were determined to cause as much trouble as they could get away with while they were together. Lately, Michael and Bethsaida were the constant objects of the twins' efforts. Not only were they new to the fields, but they had come from the House. House slaves and Field slaves never mixed. It was an unwritten, unspoken law that neither would be accepted by the other; the jealousy and contempt was just too thick. The only time they were even in the same place was when there was a hanging, and even then, the silent stares between them spoke volumes. Bethsaida and her family had been house slaves, but they'd been cast out. That didn't make them field slaves, however. It just made them house slaves that could be reached.

Kalem tapped his brother on the shoulder. Lazim turned and smiled at Michael.

"Heh, heh. Scarecrow!"

"Leave him alone." Bethsaida stepped defensively between the twins and her brother. Michael actually WAS reminiscent of a scarecrow... but it wasn't funny when the twins said it. Not funny at all. She knew where this was going... the same place it had been going yesterday when they'd been interrupted by the hanging.

"Scarecrow can't fight for himself.... has to let his sister stand up for him."

"I can figh-" Michael started. Bethsaida gently elbowed him in the stomach to shut him up.

"What's that? Scarecrow say something?" Kalem stepped out of line and moved toward Michael. Behind him, Lazim started looking around nervously... It was how they operated: one caused trouble while the other kept an eye out for overseers.

"You leave us be," said Bethsaida. "Go and pick your corn."

"What? You think you an overseer, now?" said Kalem. "You from the House, so that means you can tell us what to do, eh? That it?"

"The House has nothing to do with it-"

"House has everything to do with it! You think you better than us, but you AIN'T!"

"Never said I was."

"You ain't even LIKE us. You don't talk like us. You don't look like us. You don't even smell like us-"

"Why? Because I BATHE!? You can bathe, TOO, you know! There's no shortage of water in that well!... or are you just too stupid to learn how to use soap!"

"You sayin field slaves stupid?" Kalem dropped his bucket of corn... a known precursor to trouble. The other kids slowed their harvesting enough to look and see what was going on without seeming suspicious.

"No," Bethsaida said calmly. She dropped her bucket, too; then folded her arms defiantly across her chest. "Just you."

"You hear that, Lazim?"

"Uh-huh..."

"Pick your corn," Bethsaida said through clenched teeth.... arms still folded... staring unflinchingly at the boy who was both bigger AND stronger than her. She wasn't afraid of him. She'd fought off enough amorous servants in the House to know how to make a boy leave her alone.

"You pick YOUR corn. Bitch."

The other children muttered beneath their breaths. Trouble was coming.

"A overseer can call me that," said Bethsaida. "You can't."

"So whatcha gonna do about it?" Kalem took another few steps toward her... well within arms reach. "Bitch."

"Saida..." Michael tugged at Bethsaida's arm. "Come on, lets go somewhere else."

"You stay outta this, scarecrow," said Kalem. "Your sister wanna stand up like a man... lets see if she can take a beatin' like one. And then maybe she can take somethin' else.... like a woman! HA!"

"You try, and I'll hurt you." said Bethsaida. "Bad." Kalem reacted as if she'd slapped him. He jerked back, eyes wide with surprise. He'd been expecting any manner of insult or retort... but not a threat. Not from a girl. Not spoken so calmly and evenly that it really wasn't a threat at all... merely a statement of obvious fact.

"Hey, Lazim... you hear what she say?"

"Yeah. House bitch talk like she an overseer. That what you think you are?" Kalem shoved Bethsaida, pushing her back a step. Bethsaida did nothing. "Eh? Answer me, bitch!" Bethsaida said nothing. Kalem pushed her again. "Oh, so NOW you don't wanna talk no more.... what, you too good-" When Kalem's hand reached for her again, Bethsaida grabbed his fingers and forced his hand downward, putting a painful strain on his wrist. It was a trick that she'd seen some of the overseers use to control slaves much bigger than they were.

"Aaah-" Kalem began. They cry became a yelp of surprise when Bethsaida hooked her foot around Kalem's ankle and shoved him back... tripping him. The boy fell at her feet, landing heavily on his rear end.

The other slaves gave a collective gasp. Not only had Bethsaida stood up to Kalem... but she'd actually knocked him down! Her victory was short-lived, however. Kalem reached for her legs, and when Bethsaida hopped out of the way, Lazim slammed into her, driving his shoulder into the center of her chest. Bethsaida landed beside Kalem, pain radiating from her chest with every breath she tried to take.

"Saida!" Michael cried.

"GOTCHA!" Kalem, still on the ground, grabbed both of her legs. Lazim grabbed the front of her shirt and pulled her up... but the thin material ripped away in his hand, exposing Bethsaida's developing breasts to all who cared to look.

"Heh!" Lazim laughed. "She talk like a man, but she don't LOOK like one, eh! LOOK at those-"

Bethsaida clenched her fingers and delivered an upper-cut... right into Lazim's crotch.

The slave's small, white eyes seemed to get as big as cantaloupes. He stood motionless for an instant, clutching his crotch with both hands while trying to find the strength to breathe. Before he got the chance, Michael hit him over the head with an empty corn-bucket. There was almost no strength behind the blow, and it ended up doing more good than harm. When the wooden bucket bounced off his skull, Lazim snapped out of his daze. He grabbed Michael's arm and twisted it behind the boy's back.

"AAAAAH, SAIDA!!"

But Bethsaida was in no position to help. Kalem had thrown himself on top of her, and the two of them were wrestling on the ground, rolling back and forth in the weeds as Bethsaida tried to dislodge him. She had little room to slap or kick or punch, but Kalem was simultaneously driving one fist repeatedly into her side while his other hand alternated between holding her head down and groping her breasts. Bethsaida jerked her knee upward into his crotch, but her bony kneecap missed her intended target. She struck only a glancing blow, but it was enough to get Kalem's attention. He relented just enough for her to strike again... this time raking her fingernails down his face. Her nails were neither long nor sharp, but her anger drove them into his skin like razors. She peeled four thin strips of flesh off of his face... missing his eyes by mere luck.

"AAAAEEEEEEIIIIII!!" Kalem howled. He rose up off of Bethsaida, and instead of scampering away, she drove the heel of her foot into Kalem's stomach. "UCK!"

Kalem's hands left his bleeding face and curled around his gut. He was on his knees, swaying unsteadily back and forth... as if trying to decide whether he should fall down or not.

"I told you I would hurt you," Bethsaida spat.

"SAAAIIIDAAA!"

Bethsaida turned to see her brother on his knees, similar to Kalem. The boy's face was swollen and bloody, and was growing more so as Lazim took perverse joy in slapping him repeatedly.

-smack-

The older slaves open hand struck like a clenched fist-

-smack!-
-smack!-

Over and over again-

-smack!-

While Michael cried and did nothing. Lazim's other hand had him by the shoulder; the poor boy couldn't even fall down.

"House-boy can't fight like a man," Lazim boasted. "So I beat him like a woman!"

-smack!-

"Maybe he'll grow breasts like his sister!"

-smack!-

Bethsaida didn't bother to shout or scream for him to stop... she just charged. Fists clenched and nostrils flaring, she sprinted for Lazim...

...who quickly shoved Michael away and turned, swinging his arm and catching her across the face with his fist.

KRAK!

The boy's large knuckles thundered into Bethsaida's left temple. Everything went black for an instant... then the world returned, spinning wildly around her as she fell. She didn't even feel the ground when she hit, the world just kept right on spinning for several unruly seconds. Finally it came to a sudden and VERY painful halt as her senses returned. A fist of nausea squeezed what little breakfast she'd eaten right out of her stomach and sent it roaring up her throat...

...where it halted suddenly, unable to pass by the death-grip that Kalem had around Bethsaida's neck.

"BITCH TRIED TO KILL ME!" Kalem hissed as he choked her. He was kneeling over her, with one knee on either side of her waist and both hands clamped to her throat. Droplets of blood rained off of his ruined face onto her face, neck, and chest. "BITCH TRIED TO KILL ME! SHE SCRATCHED MY EYES OUT!"

"AK!" Bethsaida tried to breathe, but it only angered her attacker further. No longer content with just choking her, he began to throttle her as well... driving her head into the ground repeatedly.

-thud-
-thud-
-thud-

Each impact shook Bethsaida's senses... and each time, the world took slightly longer to snap back into focus.

Michael and Lazim both watched the display in shock.. although Lazim's expression was tainted with amusement. Tears rolled in streams down Michael's face. He tried to get up, but Lazim slapped him and knocked him back down again.

"Let her go!" he cried.

"HA!! BEG, little house-boy! BEG for your sister! She can't help you now! I'll slap you around like an overseer-" Lazim paused in his taunting long enough to look back at Kalem... and Bethsaida, who had stopped moving. Her lips were beginning to turn purple.

"KALEM!" Lazim shouted. The smile quickly faded from his lips. "KALEM, STOP!"

Lazim grabbed Kalem by the shoulder and pulled him off of the motionless girl.

"STOP!" he cried. "That's ENOUGH!"

"Do you SEE what she DID to me!" said Kalem as he stood. He pointed to his face. "SEE!?!!"

Lazim wasn't looking at Kalem's face. He was looking at the girl. She wasn't breathing. Her purple lips weren't turning back to their normal color.

She was dead.

"...Kalem..." he muttered, pointing at the dead girl. "...Kalem, look what you did..."

When Kalem looked down at the unmoving girl with the purple lips, all the anger drained out of his face like water from a cracked bucket. His lips trembled. His breaths became quick and shallow as the realization sank in.

"You killed her," said Lazim.

"Noooo!" Michael cried. Up on his hands and knees, Michael crawled over to his sister and tried to wake her up. He grabbed her shoulders and shook her. Her eyes didn't open. Her chest didn't move. "SAIDAAA!"

Michael threw his arms around her and hugged her... no longer trying to wake her up, but just holding her... frantically clinging to his sister's body as if he could keep her soul from floating away with just his arms.

"SAIDAAAA!" He screamed into her ear. She didn't elbow him out of the way. She didn't tell him to shut up.

She didn't do anything.

Michael's screams degenerated into tortured squeals as he held her close to him. His eyes were welded shut with tears... tears that dripped onto Bethsaida's face and mingled with Kalem's blood. He didn't see anything around him... didn't see the other slaves looking around and slowly backing away. Didn't see Lazim and Kalem standing beside him, looking wide-eyed at each other in panic.

"You killed her!" Lazim repeated. "You KILLED HER! MASTER ELLIS gonna hang you for SURE!"

Kalem was too frightened to speak. He looked around at the other slaves, but the few that he saw only reflected his own terror back at him. Those that weren't too frightened to hide or run, had already done so.

Everything was deathly quiet.

...and in the distance there came the sound of a rider approaching.

An overseer.

Kalem had killed a slave, and an overseer was coming.

The crotch of Kalem's pants flashed to a much darker color. The stench of fresh urine filled the air as the stain spread down his legs.

Kalem grabbed his brother's arms.

"HELP ME!!" he cried.

"I...I...I..." Lazim stuttered.

"HELP ME! PLEASE!" Kalem was crying now. "I'M GONNA DIE!!"

"I...I...I..."

"LAZIM, PLLEEEEASE! You have to HIDE me!"

"I...I..."

Michael could hear none of this frantic conversation. He couldn't hear anything... because there was no sound where he was. There were so many layers of shock and sorrow between him and the rest of the world, that he may as well have been dead himself. He certainly wasn't with THEM anymore... with Kalem and Lazim and the other slaves. They all lived in a horrible nightmare that he didn't even realize he was having until this very moment. In that nightmare, they had killed his sister right in front of him. Choked her to death... banging her head against the ground...

But THAT was just a dream.

Only a dream.

THIS was real... yes, THIS was real... not fake, like the dream.

...but then, if that were true...

...why was Bethsaida was still dead?

When Michael opened his eyes, he saw that the world had gone mad around him. Everything moved in sudden jerks... stopping and starting at random. Lazim and Kalem stood just a few feet away, yet Michael couldn't understand a word of what they were saying. They didn't APPEAR to be saying anything... their mouths were open, but no words came out. It was like they were frozen, with Kalem's mouth hanging wide....

Kalem...

...Kalem

He was the one that did it!
HE was the one!
HE WAS THE ONE!

It came out of nowhere... engulfing Michael so quickly that he could not control himself. The rage took him over. It didn't care about overseers. It didn't care that Lazim and Kalem were bigger or stronger or better fighters... All it knew was that his sister was dead and the one that did it was standing right there as if nothing had happened.

Not for long.

Michael rose to his feet and took three steps, clenching his fists as he charged.

Kalem didn't even look at him. He and Lazim didn't even move. Nothing moved... nothing made a sound... except for Michael.

The boy drove his fist into Kalem's gut with all his strength. The rage that controlled him had no plan for what to do next... all it wanted to do was HIT and HIT HARD-

-but it wasn't expecting what happened when the blow landed.

Pain exploded up Michael's arm, racing from his wrist all the way up to his shoulder. The sudden agony snapped Michael out of his fugue... or deepened it... he couldn't tell. Either Michael blinked, or the world went black for a second. Whatever happened, when the boy opened his eyes a spray of blood was erupting out of Kalem's mouth. The world had started moving again... but very, very slowly.

The gush of deep, deep red poured out from Kalem's lips like a fountain in slow motion. The older slave's eyes slooowwwwly rolled up into his head so that only the whites were showing, and sprays of blood from his nostrils joined the larger fountain spewing from his mouth. Kalem's feet were no longer on the ground, and it appeared that the slave had suddenly learned to fly as the force of Michael's blow threw him backward... floating slowly... gracefully... leaving a trail of blood in the air... slowly falling...

Lazim shouted, but his voice was low and warped... sounding like an inhuman moan to Michael's ears. When Kalem landed in the cornstalks, even THAT sound was somehow mutated... muffled and transformed into something unrecognizable.

Then there was another strange sound. Behind him.

Michael turned to look at where Bethsaida's body lay. She was still there... but something had happened. Bethsaida lay on her side now, her exposed chest contracting violently... but slowly... as her stomach emptied itself onto the ground beside her. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her lips were still purple... just not as much as they had been before. She was moving slowly... impossibly slow, just like everything else... but she was still MOVING! She was alive!

She was alive!

Relief flooded Michael's soul... followed by a sudden storming blackness as something within him went terribly, terribly wrong...

---

Dizziness and nausea almost pushed Bethsaida back into the darkness from which she's just emerged. Pain throbbed in her head and neck, while the rest of her body was mercifully numb. She could feel herself throwing up... the heaving mingled with buzzing and ringing sounds in her ears... all in time with the frantic booming of her heart. She opened her eyes... unsure of whether they were open already or not. They weren't.

The first thing she saw was dirt. As the feeling returned to her body, she managed to sit up... and that's when she saw that, while the ringing in her ears must be a result of the blood rushing back into her brain... the buzzing she heard was something else entirely.

She didn't know what it was. Just a large brown blur on the ground in front of her.... an area of nondescript solidness surrounded by a vibrating haze... like a bee's wing when it flew. She thought it may have been one of the bantika... a spirit that had come to take her away. Perhaps she was dead after all?

But she FELT alive.

The nausea... the pain... was that supposed to follow her to the other side?

Still not quite in control of her faculties... or common sense... Bethsaida reached out her hand toward the thing. The edge of the blur was vibrating just past her fingertips. She felt wind rushing across her hand. The buzzing made her hand tingle down to the bone-

-bzzzzzzzzz-

-it didn't hurt; but then, she hadn't TOUCHED it yet.

What would it do to her if she did? At the moment... still dizzy and half-delerious from near-death... it seemed like a very good idea to find out.

She leaned forward just a little, bringing her fingers closer-

BZZZZ-T!

It stopped. The blurred thing stopped. It didn't just stop, it vanished just as Bethsaida's fingers were about to seize it. And it had left Michael in its place!

Bethsaida gasped.

Her brother was hurt. His face was a mess... covered with bruises, but that wasn't the worst of it. He was having some kind of fit. His thin arms and legs flapped around as if each limb had a mind of its own... and each mind determined to shake itself loose from the body to which it was attached.

It was a horrible, horrible thing to behold.

"Michael!" Bethsaida cried. The boy couldn't hear her. His eyes stared blankly off into space as spittle flew from his mouth. His lips opened and closed... jaw clenching and relaxing at random. It was only a matter of time before he bit off his tongue. Bethsaida reached for him-

TZZZzzzzzz-

And he was gone! The brown blur returned, occupying the space where Michael had lay. And then-

zzzZ-T!

He was back... still convulsing wildly. Before Bethsaida could move to help him-

TZzzz-

The mysterious blur took him again. It took several iterations before Bethsaida figured out what was happening. The blur WAS Michael! He was still there... all the time. But his convulsions were speeding up... becoming literally too fast to see for several agonizing seconds before slowing back down to normal-

-bzzzT-

Michael...

-TZZZzzzzz-

...blur...

-bzzzT-

Michael...

-TZZZzzzzz-

...blur...

This was bad. Not because it just LOOKED bad... Bethsaida had seen this before, when she was smaller and Michael was still sick. It was the hasting... one of the Master's experiments to create faster slaves. Michael had been born in a state similar to what he was in now... and he remained so for the first year of his life, during which he had aged FIVE years. But he was going much faster now. Michael needed help, or her younger brother could soon be her OLDER brother. Much older. If he even survived-

"KALEM!!!"

Bethsaida's attention had been so focused on her brother that she didn't even notice what was going on around her. Kalem, the boy who'd beaten and almost killed her, was laying in the corn... rolled over onto one side and coughing up mouthfuls of blood as he twitched. Lazim knelt over him, weeping and calling out his name... trying to rouse his brother from whatever sickness had befell him. Trying to pull him up onto his feet.

But Kalem wasn't going to get up.

Bethsaida knew that just by looking at him. He was dead... his brain just didn't know it yet.

"KALEM!!" Lazim cried.

...and all the while, the sound of hoofbeats was approaching. They were at a fast trot at first, but when Lazim started shouting, they became a roaring gallop.

HE was coming.

A gallop that Bethsaida recognized. A bolt of icy fear shot down her spine. She got to her feet and looked around for something to cover Michael. HE couldn't see the boy like this!

The cornstalks started rustling as the other young slaves emerged from their hiding places... each wearing an identical expression of stark fear. Most were crying... some bawling uncontrollably, and a few had already soiled themselves. They wanted to run. They WANTED to hide.

But they knew better.

HE was coming.

Bethsaida couldn't find anything to hide Michael... maybe if she grabbed him when he was slow, she could drag him-

"HOOOOO!!!!"

A voice boomed.

Bethsaida snapped to attention... stepping quickly in front of her brother as an enormous black stallion burst through the stalks. The monstrous animal slowed and halted beside Lazim.

"WHAT THE BLOODY HELL IS GOING ON HERE!!!" The horse's rider roared. The voice was like a fist slamming repeatedly into Bethsaida's gut. All the slaves who weren't already crying, immediately began doing so as soon as they heard it. They weren't crying for sorrow, but out of terror.

The man on the horse wasn't an overseer. It was THE Overseer.

Mr. Grady was a large, ugly man... cruel beyond words. He was the supervisor of the other overseers... a position that gave him full reign over every slave on the farm... full authority to unleash his cruelty onto whoever he wanted for whatever reason he saw fit. The other overseers, the non-slave workers, and even Master Percy were afraid of him.

He was evil.

Bethsaida's mother had told her that he was a demon in a man's skin, and Bethsaida believed every word of it.

Mr. Grady perched atop his stallion like a statue... predatory eyes peering down at the children around him. Like all overseers he had a crossbow and a short sword hanging from opposite hips. And a whip. Only HIS whip was longer... thicker... and HIS whip had tiny shards of sharp metal embedded in the tip. They shredded skin and muscle as easily as a razor through air, turning the instrument of pain into a deadly weapon... a weapon made even MORE deadly by the wicked skill with which the Overseer wielded it. Bethsaida had seen him swat a fly out of the air with it... and remove the eye from a running slave while leaving the rest of the face untouched.

Mr. Grady's hand rested on the hilt of his whip as he stared down at the slaves.

"I SAID WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON!!!" He bellowed. Several of the younger slaves started talking at once... each saying something only remotely similar to what the others told. One child... a little girl... fainted. "Damned babies... SHUT UP!!"

A dozen mouths snapped shut at once with almost comical precision.

Grady saw Kalem laying on the ground with blood still leaking out of his mouth and nose. The boy had stopped moving. Lazim stood beside him,... eyes cast downward and tears rolling down his cheeks.

"THAT BOY IS DEAD! WHAT HAPPENED TO THAT SLAVE?!"

"I...I...We..." It took Lazim several attempt to get a sentence started. "I dunno, Mister Grady! We... we was just wrestlin' and... and-"

"Wrestling? WRESTLING! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE WORKING!"

"I-"

Bethsaida saw it coming. She didn't WANT to see it, but she did... she saw the muscles bulge in Mr. Grady's arm an instant before he snatched up his whip and lashed out-

WHA-KASSH!

"AAAAAAAAA!!!!"

The barbed tip sliced a chunk out of Lazim's chest, just below the throat. A few inches higher and it would have torn his throat out. Lazim staggered back, arms clutching his wounded chest-

WHA-KASSH!
WHA-KASSH!

Blood and bits of clothing flew away from Lazim's dark body as he dropped to his knees. Two long, deep grooves across his chest wept blood into his pants. Lazim dropped to his knees.

"Mr. Grady PLEAS-

WHA-KASSH!

Overcome with pain, Lazim fell over and curled into a tight ball on the ground.

"THAT was for PLAYING when there's WORK to be done!" Grady spat. "Now TELL me what happened!"

"I don' know Mister Grady-"

That wasn't the answer Grady wanted.

WHA-KASSH!
WHA-KASSH!

With the boy rolled into a ball, the slave's exposed back was a perfect target.

WHA-KASSH!
WHA-KASSH!

He rained lashes onto the bare skin until it was obvious that the boy couldn't speak even if he WANTED to. He'd reduced Lazim to a sniveling, shaking lump of bloody flesh. But none of the wounds were even remotely fatal.... Grady knew how NOT to kill when he didn't need to. That would be a waste of good property.

"You! House-Girl!"

Bethsaida felt the Overseer's eyes on her.

"Y-yes, Mr. Grady?" she said softly.

"Up here!"

Bethsaida raised her eyes until she was looking at Grady's face. Unlike most overseers, Mr. Grady LIKED it when slaves looked into his eyes... so he could see the fear and watch them tremble. His eyes burned into hers. His knuckles tightened around his whip.

Behind her, Michael had thankfully slipped into a period of 'normal' speed. His convulsions weren't quite so bad now... but still more than enough to draw attention if Grady didn't leave soon...

"Were you involved in this 'playing' too!?"

"They attacked me, Mr. Grady... I was just defendin' myself."

The Overseer glanced back at Kalem. His permanent frown deepened.

"YOU did that?" he growled.

"No, sir!!" Bethsaida blurted. "I don't know HOW it happened! Kalem was choking me and when I woke up... he was like that!"

"You're lying, girl!"

T-ZZZZzzzz

Michael's convulsions kicked into high speed again...

bzzzT!

....then slowed down just as suddenly.

"What's that behind you, girl!" Grady barked.

"M-m-my brother, Michael. Kalem and Lazim beat him... he's s-sick!"

TZZzzzzzz...

...zzzzT

Grady's eyes widened in surprise. He'd barely caught a glimpse of it the first time... but THIS time he was sure what he saw.

"Sick, hell... step aside and let me see-"

Suddenly, a horn sounded... the loud, warble of the escape alarm. The other overseers in the adjacent fields started shouting back and forth to each other-

"ESCAPE!"

"WE GOT ONE ON THE LOOSE!"

"HOUNDS! LOOSE THE HOUNDS!"

"WHERE'S GRADY!?!?"

"SECURE THE SLAVES! GET A HEADCOUNT!!!"

"SOMEBODY GET GRADY!"

"WHERE ARE THOSE DAMNED HOUNDS!!!?

Mr. Grady quickly did a count of the other children, then snarled at Bethsaida.

"ALL OF YOU get back to the slave quarters. You! House-Girl... get these slaves to the witch-woman!" he barked, nodding at Lazim and Michael. "I'll find out what happened here, girl... you best believe that! I'M the only one that can kill slaves around here! Might be a FULL DAY at the hanging tree tomorrow! HAHA!"

Grady spurred the stallion, and the mighty beast took off toward the other fields, where the crowd of overseers were assembling. Bethsaida could already hear the howling of the hounds as the tracker gathered them from the pens.

An escape.

Bethsaida wondered who it was. Was it someone she knew? She'd find out tomorrow at the hanging... assuming the hounds left enough of a body to hang. It's be better if they didn't.

Whoever the runway was... Bethsaida wept for them.

---

The wooded area east of the slave quarters was actually part of a long, thin ridge of trees that separated the Master Ellis' farm from that of his eldest son, Master Hawthorne. More than a few ignorant slaves... of those stupid enough to attempt escape in the first place... had sought it out in hopes that freedom lay on the other side. They were wrong.

But Ghan had something else in mind. Real freedom lay to the west, not the east. Beyond the woods there lay untamed land as far as anyone had ever gone. The Master owned some of it, but even HIS riches reached only so far. Ghan kept to the trees as he circled the plantation, moving slowly from the slave quarters... past the lesser fields... past the House... then the gardens and the greater fields. The trees didn't conceal him the entire distance, however. There were large stretches of open area where he was visible to any laborer or overseer who bothered to look. Several saw him, but they paid him little attention. With his granddaughter sleeping fitfully in his arms, Ghan kept his progress slow and steady, surviving the overseer's curious glances only by the simple fact that he wasn't running.

Runaway slaves, by definition, RAN away. They didn't walk boldly out of the trees in plain sight. The overseers probably thought that someone had ordered him to take the injured girl to the alchemist, which was not an uncommon occurrence. They were curious, of course, but they had their OWN slaves to watch and their OWN duties to perform. As long as Master Ellis or Master Percy or Mister Grady didn't spot him, Ghan could reach the other side of the farm without molestation.

But once he got beyond the greater fields... where the burly male slaves harvested the Master's cash crops... things were different. Now he HAD to stay hidden, for once he passed the fields there was no other place he could pretend to go. His presence stopped being a curiosity and became a certainty. He was escaping. He was a runaway slave. And if someone saw him, they would come after him.

Ghan prayed to the spirits to conceal him, but he knew full well that they would not. He'd spent more breaths cursing them in his long, hard life than he had praising them... they owed him nothing, and would happily provide it even without his wasted prayers.

And so Ghan was not at all surprised when, at fifty feet away from the relative safety of the trees, he heard a shout ring out from the greater fields. The one shout became two... then five. Ghan increased his pace, which wasn't all that fast to begin with. Dozens of old wounds slowed him down to a moderate walk at best. He could run... but only for a few steps, and certainly not carrying his granddaughter's. He walked quickly into the trees just as the overseers fired their crossbows at his back.

But their aim was bad and they were hopelessly out of range. Ghan had chosen this spot for that very reason... this was the only place where he could cross the open area and yet keep a distance from where the overseers were likely to be. To them, he was just a speck in the distance.

But horses and dogs would soon change that.

Ghan knew they were coming. He knew they would chase him even before he'd taken the first step. But that foreknowledge didn't stop his heart from pounding fearfully in his chest when he heard the escape horn. He was one of 'them' now. One of 'those' slaves... part of the small minority who confused bravery with stupidity... who actually thought they could just run (or walk) away and not be found. Not be captured. Not be punished. He was one of them.

Or was he?

"...daddy...." Tenna mumbled. He looked down at her bruised and swollen face. Her eyes were open, but they weren't looking at him. They were looking at her father, who, of course, wasn't really there. Grady had killed him a long time ago. She was delirious. "...daddy, it hurts... daddy, why won't you stop them... it hurts..."

"I'm here, baby," said Ghan. He kissed her on the forehead and whispered in her ear. He told her to go to sleep, and, miracle of miracles... she actually did. She mumbled and groaned in her sleep. Her broken arm... which Ghan had set and Kenyari had re-set... twitched painfully. Behind her closed eyelids, her eyes jerked maddeningly back and forth... side to side... viewing some nightmare that Ghan didn't even want to imagine.

He kept moving.

He heard the dogs back at the edge of the woods... howling and barking as they sought out his trail. They would have it soon. Ghan tried to move faster, but found that he was already going as fast as he could. Unless he put the girl down.

The thought never even finished forming in his mind. He wasn't going to leave her, so there was no use wasting the energy on it. He just moved on.

The trees closed in around him, swallowing him like the teeth of some giant. Ghan's progress slowed to a crawl as he stepped over roots and ducked under branches. Thorns, briars, and spider webs seemed to leap out at him at every step. Startled birds flew from their perches... betraying his position to the beasts behind him. The beasts and their dogs.

The dogs' howling suddenly changed in pitch and ferocity. And it was joined by the shouts of men. They'd found his trail.

Ghan closed his eyes and breathed deep. His remaining life was now measured in minutes. Maybe seconds.

But he'd known that all along. A young, healthy slave could never outrun the dogs.... and he hadn't been young OR healthy in a very long time.

His prayer finished, Ghan started walking again. Vines and hanging roots lashed out at him as he passed, but he paid them no mind. He wondered how far anyone had ever made it through these woods? No one had ever escaped... but he wondered how far they'd gotten. Would he even come close? Would the overseers talk about how far the old man made it... almost to freedom? Only a few steps away from the promised land?

Probably not.

"Gran-daddy..." Tenna sighed. She was awake again. Awake and actually here with him. "Where are we going?"

"Home, baby," Ghan said.

"Ohhhh...." Tenna drifted off again.

"Home," Ghan repeated. The wall of thick vines before him presented a problem, but he didn't have time to go around. He sat Tenna down for a moment and tore through them with his bare hands. Most of them were too thick to tear, but he found an opening. He reclaimed his granddaughter and squeeze through... the thorns tore at his rags and caught in Tenna's hair. He ignored them, literally tearing both of them free and stumbling into a small clearing...

Ghan gasped.

The clearing was unremarkable in every sense... a small, treeless area surrounded by dense undergrowth. But at the very edge of it... lording over the emptiness like a king in his court... was something that drank the strength right out of Ghan's legs.

The Hanging Tree.

It was here. It didn't BELONG here... it was back at the farm, but the monstrous tree looked JUST like it. Huge and twisted. Almost identical. No... EXACTLY identical. This WAS the hanging tree!

But how? Why?

Ghan knew why. The spirits had not totally abandoned him. They had remained by his side just to taunt him... just to terrorize him with false visions. The tree LOOKED solid and real, but it could not possibly be here in the these woods.

It was a sign.

A sign that Ghan totally and completely rejected.

"No," he said... the strength returning to his legs. "No... not my granddaughter's."

Ghan turned his back to the tree and left the clearing. He wanted to glance behind him to see if the tree was still there, but he didn't. He didn't care. That tree was NOT in his or his granddaughter's's future. Death, yes. But not the Tree.

The dogs were closer now. Being smaller, they had less of a task wiggling through the roots and hard passages through the trees. Ghan could hear them barking frantically, calling out to their masters with howls and snarls.

A few steps later, Ghan could hear them moving through the woods. He tried to turn away from the sounds, but they were everywhere. Several teams of dogs were closing in on him from different directions-

ROOOORROOOORROOOO!

Their howling caused Ghan's heart to flutter. Instinctively he looked up, searching for a tree with branches low enough to climb. There were a few, but they were useless to him. His climbing days were long past. And if he treed himself... he would just be captured and the vision the spirits showed him would come to pass.

RRRROOOOOROOOOROOOOOOOROOOOO!

Ghan heard the hounds tearing through the undergrowth not far away... back the way he had just come. And up ahead, as well. To the left and right.

Surrounded.

Ghan knelt down and lay Tenna on the ground under an old tree-

ROOOOORROOOOOOROOOO!

They would not take his granddaughter. They would not take him. There was a large rock nearby... protruding from the half-exposed root ball of the tree. Two tugs and the rock came free. It was heavy in his hands... with a sharp edge.

Tenna opened her eyes.

"Grandaddy?" she said questioningly. "What's happening?"

ROOOOROOOOOROOOOOO!!!

"Nothin' you need to worry about," said Ghan. "You just close your eyes, baby."

"Okay..." Tenna closed her eyes tightly... like she did when she played hide and seek with the other slaves. The barking dogs caused her muscles to twitch in fear. Each twitch brought a wince of pain to her young face.

Ghan raised the stone over her head... the sharp edge pointing down...

"You jus keep your eyes closed baby..." he said.

"...okay..."

ROOOOROOOOROOOO-
ROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!

"....why are the dogs barking granddaddy?"

"Shhh... hush now," Ghan blinked the tears out of his eyes so that he could make sure the rock was steady. "You be quiet and grandaddy's gonna send you home..."

Six animals... six huge dogs... burst out of the undergrowth. They were large, horribly inbred beasts... with sores and tumors mottling their thin fur. Their teeth were crooked, but sharp... filed down to even sharper points by their keeper.

They had found him.

The hounds didn't delay. They knew where Ghan was before their savage eyes saw him... they just continued running the path that they'd been following since they caught this scent. The path that led right to Ghan's throat.

More dogs came behind them... and more behind THEM...

"It's better this way-" Ghan said as he brought the stone down-

"HOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" came a shout from the woods. It was followed immediately by-

ttthwwwACK!

Pain exploded in Ghan's left shoulder. He lurched forward over his granddaughter's, dropping the rock to one side as he fell. He managed to prop himself up with one arm... blood streamed down the shaft of the arrow protruding from his shoulder.

"...UNGH...."

"Granddady!"

"...Tenna..." Ghan tried to get up-

"I wouldn't be doing that if I was you," said a voice. A small, ugly man stepped out of the woods. It was Harriek, the dog-trainer. He fancied himself a tracker of slaves, but he was really just as much of an inbred, ignorant brute as the dogs he raised... the only difference being that he could walk upright and speak.... sometimes both at the same time. He had another bolt loaded into his crossbow, but it was hanging at his belt and not pointed at Ghan. He didn't need the bow any more. He had the dogs.

The snarling animals had gathered in a circle around Ghan and Tenna. They growled hungrily at them... saliva dripping from their crooked fangs as they pawed the ground in eagerness. Only Harriek's command had kept them from tearing the slaves apart... and even that hold was tenuous at best.

One of the larger beasts darted forward to grab Tenna's foot.

"HA! GET BACK!" Harriek shouted. The dog retreated... but slowly... reluctantly... growling deeply with every step... glistening eyes still fixed on the tender morsel.

Harriek came forward and stood behind the ring of foul-smelling dogs, adding his stench to theirs.

"What the hell were YOU thinkin' boy!" he grunted.

With blood still pouring from his shoulder, Ghan collapsed beside Tenna. The girl was shaking... terrified, but too weak to even sit up. She just lay there crying as the dogs inched closer despite their master's order.

ROOOOROOORROOORRROOO!
RAH!
ROOOROO!
GRRRRRRRRR!

"Do it!" Ghan spat. "DO IT! LET THE DOGS GO, DAMMIT!"

"Grandaddy, no!"

"Let 'em go! Let 'em take us! ...let 'em go, damn you..." Ghan wept as Harriek smiled down at them. "...I'm sorry, Tenna..."

"Eh," Harriek grunted. "Makes no difference ta me!" He shouted at the dogs: "TEAR 'EM APAR-"

"WHOOOOOAAAAA, THERE!!" Master Percy shouted. He and several overseers appeared out of the woods, all out of breath from having barely kept up with Harriek. "Those are MY slaves you're about to feed to those damned mutts! You weren't about to deprive me of my entertainment now, were you, Harriek?"

"Uhhhh... well, he ASKED-"

"As bad a day as I'M having, you wouldn't be mistreating my property, would you?"

"Well?" Harriek shrugged. He had no fear of Master Percy... except maybe in a drinking contest. "Ya just gonna kill 'em anyway. What's the difference?"

"You know what the rules are, Harriek. You know what happens to escaped slaves."

"They ain't MY slaves," Harriek shrugged... as if his comment had anything to do with what Percy said. "So what now?"

"Take 'em back to the House and feed 'em to Grady for a while." Percy waved at the overseers, who stepped forward with ropes. "Call those dogs back."

"YAAAH! BACK!"

The dogs reluctantly backed away from Ghan, allowing the overseers through with the ropes. Ghan kicked one of the overseers in the crotch-

"OOOOOOoooof!"

Then rolled over and tried to stand-

"KRALE!" Harriek shouted. "HETH!"

Two of the largest dogs shot forward... weaving past the overseers toward Ghan. One hound grabbed his angle, the other bit down on his forearm. Their sharp teeth sank down to the bone. They dragged him back down to the ground and began to shred mouthfuls of flesh from his body.

"AAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEEEEGH!!!"

"Grandaddyyyy!"

"Tie the girl up," Percy ordered. "When the old man stops moving, drag him back to the house. Make sure there's enough of 'im left for the Tree." He turned to leave.

"You're not gonna watch?" said Harriek. "Thought you wanted to watch?"

"Naaah.... seen this before. The beatings and the hanging will be MUCH more exciting, trust me... that man Grady is a real master at makin' 'em scream..."

---

"Ahhh, the life of an alchemist..." Jallan mused aloud as the overseers brought the body in. The young slave was quite dead... and the overseers were quite unhappy about lugging his corpse around. "All the experimental subjects you could ask for."

"Don't think you'll be 'sperimentin on this one, doc," said one of the overseers. Jallan couldn't recall his name. Simply wasn't important enough to remember. "He's dead."

"Yes, I know that," said Jallan. "Doesn't mean he isn't useful. Drop him over there-"

Jallan's laboratory was typical for an alchemist... two long benches crammed with vials, beakers, crucibles, long arrays of mysterious potions sitting in wooden racks. Strange equipment that served functions that even HE didn't remember sometimes. An enormous fireplace for heating substances to ungodly temperatures. But in addition, there were several elevated tables placed against one wall. Some where marble, and quite immobile. Others were of wood, and were set into a contraption that could lean them at odd angles to the floor. All of them were large enough for a man... and had thick leather or metal straps for just that very purpose.

The overseers dropped the young slave's body on one of the marble tables and quickly excused themselves. They had other, more entertaining places to be...

Jallan removed a tray of instruments... mostly small knives... from a drawer in one of the lab tables.

"I thought we were supposed to be making potions for Grady?" said Nathaniel. He was busily mixing ingredients over the fire... using long metal and ceramic tools to manipulate the beakers in the flame. Sweat rolled down the boy's face.

"Actually YOU'RE supposed to be mixing potions," said Jallan. He took a knife from the tray and inspected the tiny blade. It was very, very sharp.

"They're almost ready."

"Good, good. Have to keep those slaves alive so that Grady can continue to torture them... no use torturing a corpse, eh?"

Jallan pressed the knife to the slave's abdomen and began an incision that began just below the rib cage and extended almost to the crotch. The blade went deep... slicing into the severely bruised flesh. The slave... being dead... didn't respond to the violation of its abdominal cavity.

"So is that the one that ran?" Nathaniel asked.

"Goodness, no. You'll hear THAT one screaming in a bit when Grady gets warmed up. This one is something else... dropped dead in the fields, they say."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Of what?"

"That's what they want me to find out. Looks to me like he got kicked by a horse... except it'd have to be a very small horse."

"Why's that?"

"Come here..."

Nathaniel finished the mixture he was working on, then joined Jallan at the examination table.

"See this-" the alchemist pointed to a deep black bruise on the slave's abdomen. It was the size of a fist. A small fist. Jallan's initial incision went right down the middle of it.

Nathaniel nodded.

"I see what you mean."

"Oh you do, do you?" Jallan grinned. "What do you see?"

"Doesn't look like a horse's hoof to me. Too small."

"And we don't have any shrunken horses running around. But lets see what it looks like from the INSIDE, eh?"

After two more incisions, Jallan was able to peel the slaves flesh back like a pair of wings, revealing the organs beneath.

"Oh, my..." Jallan gasped.

Nathaniel's eyes widened.

"Where... where's his stomach?" the boy gasped.

"Here..." Jallan pointed to something deep within the bloody mess. "And here... and here... and a piece of it here... Looks like he had a big breakfast."

"Its... ruptured...."

"Exploded more like it... but yes. As a matter of fact..."

Jallan put the knife down and retrieved a long, thin metal rod. The rod allowed him to poke and prod things without actually having to touch them... as he did with the dead slave's innards.

"Looks like the surrounding organs, too," said Nathaniel.

"Ruptured. Like a bomb went off in his gut. What a mess."

"What could do that?"

"A bomb going off in his gut. Or maybe being kicked by a very, very, very large horse."

"But you said-"

"Hand me my glasses, boy."

The alchemist had perfect vision, but he still wore specially-crafted magnifying glasses when he needed to examine tiny things... like seeds or powders.... or the skin surrounding mysterious bruises. Nathaniel fetched the fancy spectacles, and Jallan put them on.

"Interesting," he said as he inspected the slave.

"What do you see?"

"What I DON'T see... is a lot of dirt. You'd expect to see that if he'd been done in by an animal. I do believe we can rule that out."

"But SOMETHING hit him. From the outside. And it was strong enough to rupture every organ in his abdomen."

Jallan took off his glasses and thought for a minute.

"The scratches on his face are definitely from a human hand" he said. "but no man could hit that hard..."

"Have you been experimenting with a strength potion and not telling anyone?" said Nathaniel.

"No," Jallan replied. He turned to his apprentice. "Have you?"

"I could never-"

"Ahh, yes... I'm not supposed to know you've been sneaking down here fooling with my potions when I'm out. So sorry... forget I mentioned it..."

Nathaniel turned red.

"We'll talk about THAT later," said Jallan. "The question is... what is strong enough cause this much damage... or maybe we're thinking about the wrong term of the equation..."

"What equation?"

"Basic alchemy, dear boy. It took force to do this... and force is..."

Nathaniel shrugged.

"Stop playing ignorant... I know you've been reading my books."

"Well..."

"Here-" Jallan took the metal rod, which now had a bloody tip, and threw it at Nathaniel like a dart. The rod bounced off of the boy's chest and clattered onto the floor.

"What'd you do that for?"

"Are any of your organs ruptured?"

Nathaniel gave him a curious look.

"Now imagine that rod traveling ten times faster."

"It would hurt," said Nathaniel.

"Now, a hundred times faster."

"It... would kill me."

"Now imagine that it was my FIST instead of that rod..."

Realization dawned on the boy's face... followed by confusion.

"You can't punch that hard-"

"Not HARD... FAST. I can't punch that FAST! How HARD I punch has nothing to do with it.. its how fast my fist is going when it hits you that matters."

"But you can't make your fist move that fast. No one can-"

"Normally, yes... unless a haste spell or potion is involved."

"But we haven't made any. Have we?"

"WE? No. But I do remember an experiment... before your time. One of my greatest... uhh... failures. Ellis wanted faster slaves, but we kept running into the same old rapid aging problems. Get a slave to move ten times as fast, and he AGES ten times as fast. And even worse, one of the female subjects turned out to be PREGNANT at the time. THAT was a mess, let me tell you, but we... oh... oh, my... oh, dear..."

"What?"

"I think we may have a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

Jallan pointed to the dead slave... to the wound that killed him: A single punch to the stomach.

"THAT kind of problem."

[To Be Continued]