CAUGHT

1529 4D

Wranmar had brought home some roast bird and fried tubers for them, and he and his four sons devoured the steaming, spiced meal in the kitchen.

“Got a few extra coin today,” he told them, still wiping stone caking from his face. Because the food wouldn’t keep, he’d decided to eat first and finish washing later. “We finished a new street today, ahead of schedule. You like the food? It was good, huh?”

“Yes, father,” Martin and Andrew said, mouths full. Raul bobbed his head; Norwell licked his fingers.

“See, you two, your little brothers eat as much as you. They’ll be bigger than you if you don’t eat more. You know?” Wranmar rubbed his big fingers through Andrew‘s hair, then through Martin‘s.

The two boys nodded.

Raul‘s little voice broke into the silence. “You’re not gonna hurt him, are you, Daddy?”

Wranmar looked at Raul, puzzled. “Hurt who?”

Andrew felt a hole opening up under him. He glared at Raul, who looked fearfully at him, and then said, “Andrew.”

Now Wranmar turned on Andrew, his dust-reddened eyes suddenly fierce. “What’s this about? What’s he saying? Did you do something I told you not to?”

Andrew swallowed hard and looked at Raul and Norwell. Raul‘s eyes were wide, as if he’d just realized he’d said too much; Norwell was sticking his finger in a piece of fried tuber, fascinated with its texture.

Wranmar grabbed Andrew‘s thin arm in a powerful hand. “I asked you a question, boy.”

“I took them up to the surface today.” Andrew‘s voice seemed to come from him without his will. He waited.

Wranmar jerked at Andrew‘s arm; pain shot through the shoulder. Andrew, trying to forestall another jerk, added, “I just wanted them to see what the sensi was showing--“

“Shut up!” Wranmar reached over and grabbed Andrew‘s other arm, lifting him straight up from the chair. He carried Andrew into the front room and dropped him into the big formbag chair.

Andrew sat waiting, not moving, not breathing.

Wranmar raged back and forth for a long time, shouting, shaking a finger in Andrew‘s face. None of the other boys came to see what was going on. “Here’s what I’m going to do so you’ll remember what I said to you. Stand up.”

Andrew started to struggle up out of the chair; with a contemptuous “Aah!” Wranmar grabbed his arms again and hauled him upright. He picked up a long, flat stick he kept behind his big chair.

“Turn around and face the wall, boy.”

Andrew obeyed.

“You’re gonna take this like a man, ‘cause you acted like a man. Man’s gotta take what he gets, and shut up about it. You ready?”

Andrew stood frozen with fear.

“YOU READY?”

“Yes, father.”

The first three blows across the backs of his legs almost drove Andrew to his knees, but he wobbled and stayed standing. Each blow made a solid smack against his skin, echoing off the walls, sending an electric jolt up into his spine. Then something strange happened.

Andrew was bracing for the fourth smashing strike on his hamstrings when he realized that the pain was fading. The blow hit him, and it felt like a push, that was all. He swayed, and kept his feet.

The blows kept coming; Andrew lost count. They seemed like someone patting him on the backs of his thighs. He wanted to laugh with relief, to turn and say, “It doesn’t hurt!” but his father would explode at that, so he stayed where he was.

At the end, Wranmar gave him a push, shouting, “Get in that bed, boy!” Andrew staggered, somehow not falling, and made his way through the kitchen and into his cubby. He fell on the bed and lay, feeling nothing at all, and hoped he could go to sleep and wake up and this would all be gone.