Chapter 8: The Dream House
In his dark cell beneath the earth, Tull was free to remember and dream.
The hay on the cold stone floor smelled of dung and urine and mice, reminding him of barns he had cleaned back home. The chittering of mice in the night reminded him of his own childhood, of how Jenks had chained him in his room when Tull threatened to run away, and at times late at night Tull could hear the rodents squeaking and scurrying through the kitchen.
The food for prisoners here was cold—stiff bread, boiled potatoes left in their own water until it turned almost white as milk, and he remembered milking cows for Hendemon Strong when he was young, the warm milk squirting into a wooden bucket.
Weeks ago, when the ship had reached Bashevgo, the Blade Kin had brought Tull from the depths of the ship into the stunning sunlight, marched him a short distance over the frozen ice with the others, shivering for lack of a blanket or coat.
Beneath the layer of ice, Tull had heard the groan of the sea serpent, eager to free him, but Tull had warned it, “not yet.”
A few yards ahead, he’d seen some people from town marching—Theron Scandal the innkeeper, and Zhopila, his mother-in-law.
There were far too many friends nearby. If the serpent dared break the ice, innocent Pwi would have died.
Yet the serpent knew it was his last chance. Tull could feel the monster brooding, and he could barely restrain it.
Far too quickly, Tull walked the short distance over the ice, and under the archway that led to Bashevgo.
Everywhere, curious Thralls had lined the streets to watch the last free men of the Rough hauled in.
The Thralls seemed confused by the spectacle. Some old Neanderthal women were crying to watch the end of an era. Other Thralls cheered the Blade Kin guard that marched along.
At last the Pwi from Smilodon Bay turned up a street, heading uphill toward the Capitol, but three Blade Kin escorted Tull in another direction.
He had hoped to be put in a cell with some family or friends—but they had all marched away to other buildings, and Tull alone was taken to a cell deep beneath the arena.
And now, here, he dreamed, thinking of his last conversation with Mahkawn. What do you want in life?
After six weeks, he dreamed of Fava’s lips, of sleeping with her under the bear skins in his cabin, of the way that they moved together when cooking a meal or sweeping a floor, as if in dance.
He had wanted a bigger house, and since he was free to dream, he now imagined a house larger than the mayor’s.
He dreamed that he would get free, and someday teach Wayan to read, and that they would be respected, like human shipping magnates or gentleman farmers. He dreamed of food—lemons and oranges shipped north from South Bay in winter, grapes fresh off the vine in fall, wheat bread with leatherwood honey and butter, new clothes.
What do you want in life? Sometimes Tull would look at his thumbs, his clumsy Neanderthal thumbs that would not let him handle small objects with the precision of a human, and he imagined that if he learned enough about human hands, perhaps he could find a doctor who would break the knuckles in Tull’s heavy paws and then somehow twist the thumbs and reset them so that they would work like a human’s.
Days passed in such dreamy pursuits.
Next to Tull was a cell with a strong young Thrall named Khur. He’d been a willing sex slave for a human master, and when she took another human lover, Khur had tossed a spear at his rival, ramming it through the man’s leg.
“It felt good,” Khur had said, “just to watch him bleed. I did not want to kill him, only to hurt him.”
“I don’t see what you accomplished,” Tull said one night as the days passed. “You will probably get killed, and your master will still have her human lover.”
“It makes no difference,” Khur insisted. “Now, she will always know that I loved her, that I was willing to die for her. Every time she tries to make love to another man, she will think of me. I will always be remembered,” Khur boasted, thumping his chest and pacing back and forth across his cell.
Tull puzzled. “I don’t understand. You will die for someone who doesn’t love you? You will make her feel guilty for what she has done to you? It seems a great waste, when you could have found another lover. Tell me, what have you gained?”
“Honor,” Khur said, pounding his chest, pulling his shoulders back. He stood behind his bars and grinned. “People will honor and remember me—a mere slave! And I will have revenge. My master will never enjoy sex more than what she had with me!”
Tull looked into Khur’s big, friendly eyes, his generous smile, and realized that he did not understand Thralls.
To Khur, who had nothing, a little bit of honor and respect seemed worth his own life. Tull turned away, thought of things he had lost.
So it was that Atherkula found him dreaming.
The sorcerer came without his robes of office, wearing instead a simple green tunic and red trousers, with a leather long coat thrown over it all. He had come quietly to the cell door, and found Tull smiling.
“You are a madman,” Atherkula said, “to be smiling down here. As a lunatic you will be worth nothing—fit only for culling.”
Tull looked up quizzically, and for some reason could not place Atherkula.
Atherkula demanded, “Why are you smiling?”
“Have you ever tasted Frog Hollow cheese?” Tull asked. “The land is cool and foggy down there in the winter—almost a swamp—and many of the trees there have rotted at the core, though they still stand. The folks take those old hollow trees and put bladders of goats’ milk in them to age for the winter. The cheese is yellow and creamy, very pungent. You should try it, really.”
Atherkula stared at him, and the old man’s eyes were filled with curiosity. “You are dreaming of freedom, aren’t you? You know, I am the man who took it from you, and I could give it back. Mahkawn wants your ear and would make you a Blade Kin if I permitted it. What would you give me for your freedom?”
Tull looked up, held the old man’s eyes.
“I tell you what I want for your freedom,” Atherkula said. “Among the Blade Kin, we have an old custom. We pick children who may become Blade Kin, and we give them a pet, and give them time to learn to love that pet. Then we order them to kill it. If they can kill the thing they love, we know they are worthy to become one of us. We know they can be trusted to follow our orders. I tell you this: I will trust you when I see you kill the thing you love most. But who would that be? It seems you do not care for your mother or father. So, I will make it Fava. We caught her at Muskrat Creek, you know. I slept with her last night. She gives a bumpy ride. If you killed her in the arena, I would consider you worthy to be Blade Kin.”
Tull closed his eyes, fought back his wrath.
“You’re not going to speak to me?” Atherkula asked. “You’re not going to say anything at all?”
Tull kept his eyes closed, realizing that if he hoped to make his dreams come true, he’d have to kill. In Bashevgo and in the Rough, he had killed without compunction, but never like this.
He imagined his dream house, a great stone house in the woods—cream marble with cedar panels on the interior—and it would sit next to a deep pond where trout would swim and mallards would land at night in autumn. He decided to build it in his mind, design and construct it, and imagined piling stone upon stone upon stone.
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