#10 (Part IV)

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part IV)

     “It’s too late for that.” He said. “You’re going home, Ms. Applewhite. And you’re going to be hobbled.”

     “I’ll run!”

     “No money and no food. I doubt you’ll have much beyond the few clothes you brought along. What things you have left in your apartment will be gone forever. No. No, you won’t run.” He held up his hand so that his two fingers angled the gold circlet they pinched to catch a glint of the dim compartment light. “Not if you want your ring back.”

     My heart froze. Instinctively I looked down to the hand he had held so tightly just moments ago. A pale band of skin circled one finger, the marriage finger, where a ring is set when a woman is wed. My gaze jerked to where the man with the newspaper stood.

     Or had been.

     I heard a faint cry, a broken cry, an infant’s cry, not mine. I was desperate and voiceless. 

#10 (Part III)

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part III)

      He was not done.  “You misunderstand me.  You see it was the smart slave owners who found more unique ways to hobble a thief.  Some slaves were, after all, more important if they could run.  But they wouldn’t.  Not after the master was done with them.”

      “I’m no thief!”

      “Oh, but you are.  You’ve not completed your job to the best possible outcome.  This is what you will be judged on.  This is what I was judged on.  You got on this train without what you were sent for.”  He tapped Thorn's apology letter against his bottom lip.  His green eyes studied me.  Abruptly he stood, tucked his newspaper under his arm and started down the isle.

      I caught up with him only a few rows away.  “I’ll get off on the next stop, go back and force Thorn to give me the journal.”

      He turned to face me, his legs braced apart.  For the first time I appreciated the sleek muscles of his body.  His pants and shirt molded to him almost like a second skin.  Here was another man my grandmother would have written great things about.  Once she had said there were men who knew how to properly use a chair.  I wondered if the man with the newspaper was one such man.

      “It’s too late for that.”  He said, “You’re going home, Ms. Applewhite.  And you’re going to be hobbled.”

      “I’ll run!”

#10 (Part II)

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part II)

     My head snapped round to face him. “I didn’t steal it! I met with Thorn. He said plans fell through.”

     "Our employer won’t see it that way. Do you know what hobbling is Ms. Applewhite?”

     “N-no.” The word whispered from between numb lips.

     His fingers tightened on mine, a warning. “In the old days a slave stealing away in the night – even if it was simply to cross from his master’s fields to the neighbor’s fields to visit a loved one – was seen as thievery. Most masters would hunt down the slave, chain the slave in the yard for all to see, and serve punishment with a sledgehammer or axe. Either one left the thieve unable to roam far.”

     “I’m not a thief.” I tried to free my hand. His fingers tightened.

     He was not done. 

#10 (Part I)

#10 Ominous Foreboding (Part I)

     I must have slept. Someone sitting beside me moved, and the cushion under me moved as well. The same someone bumped my arm. I heard the distinct crackle newsprint has when it is being folded back for the first time, when it is still fresh and un-creased.

     “I find it tiresome to have to repeat myself.” The cultured, foreign voice of the man with the newspaper cut through my thoughts.

     “I don’t have it.” I pulled the letter from my pocket.

     His slim fingers lifted it from my hand. He was careful not to touch me. After a day of Thunder’s big-brother treatment I felt the lack of contact disturbing. I reached for the man’s hand only to pull back at the last moment. What was I doing?

     “I’m sorry.” I turned my face back to the window.

     “It’s not me you have to worry over.” His tone said he was annoyed. A moment later his cool fingers curled over mine. “In the old days thievery was not taken well.”

     My head snapped round to face him. “I didn’t steal it!”

   

#9 (Part I)

009 The Note (Part 1)

      Laughter rumbled from the big man standing not more than six feet away. He took his leather cap off, rubbed his hand over the cloth tied over his head. His stained leather vest matched his pants. There were spikes on the toes of his boots. Three spikes. “I’m a professor.” He held a hand out to me, the palm itself as big as a dinner plate.

     “You?”

     “I’m Thorn.” Then, at once, the self-assurance of a professor and his prison arrogance melted away. “I don’t have the journal. You’ll have to tell your employer –“

    I interrupted, temper wearing thin. “You lied! How could you do that to me?”

    “Ms. Applewhite . . .” Thunder’s tone was warning.

     I looked up at him. “He lied to my employer. He said come get the journal. My employer sent me. What do you think my employer is going to do now?”

     I found myself lifted, turned, and staring right into Thorn’s eyes. It was from this perspective that I was reminded of the resemblance between Thunder and Thorn. It was in the deep chocolate color, the flecks of gold, the way their noses wrinkled up when unhappy with something.

     “Do you know what I do?” I asked with all the quiet dignity a woman dangling feet off the ground could muster. 

#3 (Part III)

#3 The Man With The Newspaper (Part III)

     He lifts his hand to brush his cool fingers across my face.  He drops his hand at once.  His fingers twitch and curl as if I’ve scalded him some way.  “I’m just making sure.”

     The last person to touch my face as such was my husband.  That this man took such liberties . . .!  I couldn't help my frosty, “Of?” 
     “You are alive.  I had wondered.”   
     Outside on the platform I peer into the dim windows of the compartment, going on tip-toe, to see if I can once more spot the man with the newspaper. 
     Someone tapped me on the shoulder.

#3 (Part II)

#3 The Man With The Newspaper (Part II)

     I felt as a bug under a glass – as if he missed nothing of my messy hair, or the circles under my eyes, or the tiny sore on my chin heralding in an oil spot. 

     His smile is at once certain and apologetic.  “No.  I don’t leave the train.”
     “Never?” 
     “I make sure the connections from one package to the next are made.  In this way our jobs are similar.  Where they are different is you are free to leave the train.  You are free to travel.  I am locked in here by my own hubris.”

     We sit quietly for several minutes.  I notice then the words on the paper are not in English.  “If you could go anywhere,” I say slowly as the question is slow to form on my lips, “Where would you go?”

     “To the islands.”  He gives a quick laugh at this.  The self-derisive sound is swallowed at once by the dullness of the air inside our compartment.  It does not travel far.  The train begins to slow down, the metal-thunks coming just a little slower between rotations of the great iron wheels. 

     He folds the newspaper into thirds.  “This is your stop.  Welcome to the City of Tamorace.”  He stands and helps me take my bags down.  I notice he has thin fingers, elegant fingers.  When the train stops he steps aside.  There is no traffic in the isle for him to block. 

     He grasps my elbow, and I look up at him.  I am aware of the cold of his hand through my sleeve.

#3 (Part I)

#3 The Man with the Newspaper (Part I)

     Someone sitting beside me moved, and the cushion under me moved as well.  The same someone bumped my arm.  I heard the distinct crackle newsprint has when it is being folded back for the first time, when it is still fresh and un-creased.  “I came for the Toothpick Journal.” 

     The voice is cultured, foreign.  British?  I lifted my head to blink bleary eyes at the man.  He is tall, crisp as the pages his eyes skimmed over.  His business shirt is pristine and clean.  His skin . . . his skin was like looking at my reflection in the window.  Pallid.  The lights were still dim in the cabin.  I attributed the color of his skin to the bad lighting.  He had green eyes.  Beautiful, crystalline, green eyes that skimmed the page in unhurried sweeps. 
     He turned the newspaper page.

     I found my tongue.  “I don’t have it yet. Did you want to come along?”

     His gaze shifted to me. 

#1

#1 Two Envelopes

    I simply have to trust.
     Resting on the side table are two envelopes.  They are not equal. 
     The first, labeled “Thorn”, is of a thin and blue paper.  I could imagine the wild-men of the plains soaking this offering in kerosene to hang up in the hollows of their walls as windows.  The writing on the outside is heavy, blockish, and printed out.  It is as if a child had written it using a template.  In some spots, especially the curve of the ‘o’, the paper was torn.  In others it was easy enough to see the press of the pencil left scratches behind. 
     The second envelope is of heavier stock, is of ivory cream color, and bears a formal weight to it.  It is labeled ‘Teach’ with the writing done in elegant calligraphy.  I’ve seen the second envelope before, or a very precise duplicate.  I shy away from choosing this envelope, and reach for the envelope labeled “Thorn”.
     Inside is a round trip ticket circa the railways.  Nestled behind is a hotel voucher for a room in the City of Tamorace with the guest’s name as Tracy C. Applewhite.  Wedged between both is a small prayer paper, no richer than a slice of onion skin, with the words, ‘Toothpick Journal.’
     That is it. I’ve no other information. No notice of who or whom to talk to. No contact details or even a calling card. I simply have to trust.