Song of Oestend (5 page)

They’d reached the barn, and Deacon stopped at the door and turned to look at Aren,

obviously amused by the question. “Not because she’s
old
. I said, she’s one of the Old People.” Aren’s confusion must have shown on his face, because Deacon sighed. “Didn’t you go to some big, fancy school back east? Didn’t they teach you this shit?”

“Shit about old people?” Aren asked.

“
The
Old People! The people who lived here before the settlers showed up and found the coal and the silver and the iron and started making the place their own.”

“Oh!” Aren said. “Sure! The natives. They were incorporated into our society and—”

“Yeah,” Deacon said, turning away. “‘Incorporated.’ Let me give you some advice,

Aren. Don’t go spouting that shit to Olsa. You won’t eat for a week. Now,” he said, finally opening the door and leading Aren into the barn where his many suitcases were piled in a corner, “you won’t have room for all these in the barracks. Take the things you really need, and you can leave the rest here for now.”

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Aren picked out the bags that had his clothes and toiletries. He still had the stack of ledgers, too, so Deacon carried one of his suitcases and led him across the courtyard to the long, low building that served as a barracks for the ranch hands. There was a mark burnt into the wood of the door. It was a circle, with a line segmenting it diagonally, more than midway down. Had it been a watch face, the line would have crossed from the nine to the six, although it continued out of the circle on both sides for about an inch.

“Is that a ward, too?” Aren asked.

“Nope. It’s the BarChi brand,” Deacon said as he pushed the door open and led Aren

inside.

Nine sets of eyes turned their way when they entered, and Aren did his best to appear confident under the scrutiny.

“Vacation’s over, boys,” Deacon announced, looking around the room. “I’m sure Jay

took it easy on y’all while I was gone, but tomorrow it’s back to work.”

This was met by groans from a few, laughter from some of the others.

“This is Aren,” Deacon told them. “He’s the new bookkeeper. That means he’s the one

who tells Jeremiah whether or not he can afford to give y’all a raise, so you might want to be nice.” Most of the boys looked spectacularly unimpressed.

Deacon dropped Aren’s bag unceremoniously on the floor. “See you tomorrow,” he

said as he turned to leave.

“You’re leaving?” Aren asked, and immediately regretted it, because he knew he

sounded inexplicably desperate. Deacon turned back to him, once again looking rather

amused. Aren thought he was fast becoming Deacon’s primary source of entertainment. The other men were still watching them, and Aren lowered his voice so only Deacon could hear him. “Where are you going?”

“I don’t sleep in the barracks.”

“You have a room in the house?”

“No. I sleep in the barn.”

“Oh,” Aren said. He looked again at the group of young men. Some were still watching, but a few had gone back to whatever they’d been doing when he and Deacon had walked in.

It reminded Aren far too much of his years at the boarding school. He knew the games boys played, the alliances they made, the way he’d be shunned because he was small, yet sought SONG OF OESTEND

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out by one or two who were willing to put their scorn aside once the lights went out. He hadn’t had sex in far longer than he liked to admit, and for better or worse, he knew when one of the boys found him in the night, or alone behind the shed, he’d do what he always did—he’d give in to his lust, he’d let himself be used, he’d even enjoy it while it lasted. But later would come the snickers and the embarrassment, especially if the boy he gave in to was the type to brag. Or, even worse, if he was the type who thought he was doing Aren a favour instead of the other way around. Aren would once again be weighing his sexual desires against his pride.

He swallowed the fear that was trying to bloom in his chest. He was being ridiculous.

This wasn’t school. He was older than the boys here by several years. He didn’t have to play their games.

“You all right?” Deacon asked.

“Fine,” Aren said. He didn’t know if he was lying or not.

Deacon left and Aren stood there wondering what exactly to do next. The ranch hands

were mostly ignoring him. He glanced around, hoping one of them would decide to take pity on him. Four were playing poker, two were playing backgammon, two more seemed to be drinking for the sole purpose of getting drunk. The last one sat alone on his bunk with a book in his hand. He wasn’t reading it, though. He was actually the only person in the room who was looking back at Aren.

“That bunk’s open,” he said, pointing to the cot closest to the front door.

“Thanks,” Aren said. He unpacked quickly. There was a wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, and what didn’t fit in there he left in his suitcases and stuffed under the bed. When he was done, he turned to find the farm hand still watching him. He was smaller than all the other men in the room except Aren, and he looked unbelievably young. Aren wondered if he was even seventeen yet.

“What’s your name?” Aren asked.

He saw the heartbeat of hesitation and the way the boy glanced towards the other men

before he answered. “Frances.”

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“
Frances
,” one of the poker players mocked in a sing-song voice, and his friends snickered. The backgammon players glared at them but said nothing. The drinkers ignored them all.

Frances’ face turned red but he didn’t respond. He continued to stare at Aren, some

kind of mute plea in his eyes.

Frances had obviously been deemed the weak link in the group. There was always one.

It was a role in which Aren had found himself many times before, and he was

overwhelmingly relieved that in this case one had already been singled out. It might save him a great deal of pain.

On the heels of his relief, though, came shame. He knew what it felt like to be Frances.

Lines had already been drawn, alliances made, as they always were in situations like this. All that remained was for Aren’s place in that hierarchy to be established.

He put on his biggest smile. He walked over and reached out to shake Frances’ hand.

“It’s good to meet you,” he said, his voice loud and clear, and he saw the gratitude in Frances’ eyes. He then lowered his voice to ask, “Can you perhaps tell me where the facilities are?”

Most of the building was taken up by the room they were in. It held rows of cots against the wall, and a few tables near the back. Frances led him past it all and through a door at the back of the building. It led to a washroom of sorts. There were more tables, a few dishes, and two large hand pumps for water. Frances used one to fill a tin cup. He held it out to Aren with a pleased smile. “You can drink it here,” he said. “Not like in Lanstead. This comes straight from the well in the ground.”

Nobody drank the water back home. It was said to be unhealthy, and if its smell was

any indication, the rumours were true. Aren sniffed the cup of water Frances had handed him. It smelt fresh. Still, Aren was hesitant. He looked over the rim of the cup at Frances. If it had been any of the other hands, Aren might have suspected a prank, but there was no trickery in Frances’ eyes. Aren tipped the cup up and took a drink. The water was shocking against his tongue, ice-cold and sweet with a slightly metallic tang that probably came from the cup. It was surprisingly refreshing. Somehow, it tasted bright. It tasted like spring. He found himself wishing he could paint it.

Aren drank it all and smiled as he handed the empty cup back to Frances. “It’s good.”

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“Glad you think so,” Frances said. “Unless you use your wages to buy alcohol in town, the only things we get are this or milk.”

Another door led them into a small, square space with doors on all four sides. Frances pointed at the one straight ahead. “That goes outside. These two”—pointing to the ones on the side—“are the privies.”

Aren opened one and was pleased to discover they had their own version of flushing

toilets. A pull chain above the seat released water into the bowl while opening a flap at the bottom, effectively washing the filth away.

“The privy water comes from rain barrels on the roof,” Frances told him. “Only use it if you have to, and don’t use more than you need. They tell me it gets pretty nasty when we run out.”

He led Aren back into the wash room, but stopped short before going back into the

bunk room. He turned and looked at Aren, chewing his lip nervously, seemingly debating something. Finally, he sighed. “You want the run-down?” he asked.

“On what?”

“On the guys.” He flicked his head towards the sleeping room.

The guys
. Frances was offering to fill him on the social politics of the group. “I’d appreciate that,” Aren said.

“The two guys drinking? That’s Ronin and Red.”

The drinkers were large and burly, clearly the roughest men in the room. “I assume

Red’s the one with red hair?”

“Right. You can’t tell by looking at them, but they’re twin brothers. They’re born and raised in Oestend, and they’ve worked about every ranch around. That means they think they’re better than all of us from the continent, or even than the men from Lancshire. They don’t talk to me at all, but they don’t talk to Sawyer and his lackeys either. Now”—he pointed to the backgammon players—“that’s Simon and Garrett.”

Simon and Garrett were the only men in the room who were older than Aren. Aren

guessed them to be twenty-six or twenty-seven. No one else in the room was more than

twenty-one. It went a long way towards explaining why they held themselves apart from the others.

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“Simon and Garret are decent,” Frances said. “Came here together a couple of years

ago. They’ve been here longer than any of the rest of us, and they don’t take any shit from Sawyer. Can’t say they’re exactly my friends, but they’re not assholes either.”

“Which one’s Sawyer?” Aren asked, although he thought he already knew.

“The one you saw make fun of me,” Frances said without embarrassment. “He’s been

here almost a year. Thinks he’s pretty hot shit. The two on either side of him are Calin and Aubry. They’ve been here a few months, and when Sawyer says ‘boo’, they jump. The one opposite Sawyer’s only been here a few weeks. His name’s Miron. Still not sure what to think of him. I don’t think he likes Sawyer any better than I do, but he knows better than to cross him, too.”

“They sound like such a lovely bunch,” Aren muttered.

“Yeah,” Frances said, looking away. “Lovely.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two weeks.”

So he was the new guy—or had been, at any rate, until Aren had showed up.

“Listen.” Frances dropped his voice so low that Aren had to step closer to hear. “About Sawyer—you see how he is when everybody’s around. But don’t let him get you alone.”

Frances’ cheeks turned red as he talked, and his voice shook, but his gaze was level and steady. “He’ll do nasty things to you if you let him get you alone.” He paused for a moment, and when Aren didn’t answer, he asked, “You know what I’m saying?”

Aren felt his own cheeks turning red. He had the horribly uncanny feeling he was

looking in a mirror, somehow facing his own psyche, having a conversation with a younger version of himself. He half expected to wake up and find it was all a dream, nothing more than a trick his all-too perceptive subconscious had played on him. But no. This was real.

This young boy with the bright blue eyes that suddenly seemed full of damaged innocence was staring back at him, waiting for an answer.

“Yes,” Aren said, although his voice didn’t sound like his own. “I know what you’re

saying.”

He saw the relief on Frances’ face. “All right.” He turned to head back into the room, but Aren stopped him.

“What about after everybody else is asleep?” he asked.

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“No,” Frances said, shaking his head. “He’d never risk the others finding out.”

Just like boarding school
.

Aren eyed Sawyer. He wouldn’t have called him attractive, although he seemed to be

well-built. He probably had a great body. Aren felt his heart begin to race when he thought about the possibility of having sex again. It had been far too long. Masturbating the night before had helped, of course, but facing weeks or even months with no other option was bound to get old. Aren had sacrificed his dignity to his own lust before. Still, as he watched Sawyer, as he listened to him laugh and boast, a cold knot of dread formed in his stomach, overriding any sense of arousal he might have felt. He’d met guys like Sawyer before. He’d been used by them and abused by them, sometimes willingly, sometimes not. He hoped he would never be that desperate again.

Frances went to bed soon afterwards, and Aren followed suit, for all the good it did

him. The hands kept him awake far into the night. It wasn’t that they were mean, or even that they particularly cared that he was there. But they were young and obviously a somewhat rowdy bunch. The poker players and the drinkers seemed to be having some kind of contest to see who could be the most obnoxious.

Eventually, the backgammon players, Simon and Garrett, went to bed. Ronin and Red

passed out. The poker game devolved into an argument, which quickly turned into a fistfight between Calin and Aubry, which awoke the entire barracks. The other boys pulled the combatants apart amidst much cussing and yelling. Red and Ronin drunkenly threatened to kick “all you fuckers’ arses”. More arguing and general chest-thumping commenced.

Eventually, they all went sullenly to their beds, and Aren breathed a mental sigh of relief. He felt as if he’d barely fallen asleep when he heard a distant bell ringing. What followed was the tumultuous chaos of nine boys cursing and swearing and yawning and, in the case of one of the drinkers, vomiting. Finally, they all filed out of the door, slamming it shut behind them.