Manacle: Some bonds can't be broken by Chris Aslan

Author:Chris Aslan
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781782642565
Publisher: Lion Hudson
Published: 2017-11-10T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twelve

Life takes on a monotonous rhythm, but one thing I like about spending most of every day working is that it doesn’t leave much time for thinking. I have to work at not thinking, though. I’ve taken to scraping and scouring with my back to the pomegranate trees with their ripening fruit now the colour of blood that’s about to congeal. I still wake from nightmares every morning. I try reminding myself of the Master’s promise that the spirits will never be allowed to torment me again, but I feel empty. I want my life to be full of something else. What would be the opposite of spirits? That’s what I want. It feels like an itch that I can never reach because it’s inside me. Again, I try not to think about it but it’s always there.

Nicanor never asked me what happened to the manacle. A local butcher brings us sheep, goat and cow skins which we also tan. We’re still mainly working our way through the pigskins, though. We boys do all the work, Rabba does the deals and Demarchia keeps us all in order. She still calls me Trouble, but says it with more affection now. She and Rabba seem happy with my work and don’t push me to talk about myself. It occurs to me that the blacksmith – a virtual stranger – knows more about me than Nicanor does.

I vaguely keep track of the days and weeks, mainly by the waxing and waning of the moon. Soon there are enough skins for us to join Rabba on another trip up into the city. We reach the main road when Rabba whispers to us, “Keep your eyes on the road.” From his tone I can hear something is wrong and glance up to see what’s ahead. There are people milling around, including a number of foreign soldiers, and tall posts have been hammered vertically into the ground at the crossroads where the road up the hill to the city begins. Each post has a cross-beam and hanging, nailed, are naked and bloodied men contorting weakly.

I gasp and Nicanor puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing too tight. I know it means I’m to shut up and say nothing. As we come closer we can hear the weeping of women and the moans of the nailed. I look – I can’t help myself. There are five posts. One of the condemned is unconscious – maybe dead, I don’t know. The others, though, they use the large nails that have been hammered through their feet to push themselves up to breathe, gasping and then collapsing. They keep repeating the process and it looks horrific. My mouth fills with bile.

“Mercy, the sword,” I hear one of them whimper. I want to run, I want to be sick, and I want to help them – whatever it is they’ve supposedly done. I don’t do any of these things. We pass them and a sign chalked on a large piece of slate.

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