The Debt.

A trail of red ooze marked the boy’s progress as he dragged the cloth sack full of remains out the door, his stomach rumbling despite the gruesome contents of the bag. The old woman had waited a few days for him to be available instead of spending a few coins to send a runner to bring him sooner, giving the bag’s contents time to ripen significantly.

Sweat stung his eyes as he pulled the bag across the dooryard towards the hole he’d dug. The old woman stood at the door, watching her husband disappear beside the goat’s pen. If she said a prayer, the boy did not hear it.

Once he was done, he returned for his payment.

“I’m sorry, boy. I don’t have much cash to pay you,” said the old lady. “But I can give you some breakfast. You can have Joseph’s. He won’t be needing it now.”

The boy looked at the woman, wishing she’d told him before he’d started the job but knowing he would have done it anyway. He sat at the small table in the middle of the room and prepared himself for the feast in front of him—a bowl of grey soup, with hair-thin slivers of carrots and wilted cabbage floating on top. The broth had a hint of the goat it had probably been made with last week, but the meat itself was nothing more than a dream. He ate the whole bowl while she watched, trying not to look longingly at the lone stale bun on the table. He knew the old lady had given him Joseph’s serving as well as her own, and he didn’t want to leave her with nothing to eat.

Once finished, he pushed himself away from the table, picked up his pack, and stood patiently at the door while the lady fished around her battered purse for far longer than it should have taken. Finally, she managed to snag a dollar bill and handed it to him for his services.

They nodded their goodbyes, and without another word, he was on the road, heading to his next job for the day. Along his route, there was a stream for him to wash up and get the smell of death off of his clothes. Once, he might have needed something stronger to get it off his mind, but that time had long passed.

Sitting in the sun, waiting for his clothes to dry, he pulled out his battered black book, given to him years ago by his Da. It was the only gift the old man had ever given him, and the boy quickly realized that it was not, in fact, a gift. The book had been grungy when it was passed to him, with nothing in it but a single entry:

March 13, 2035 -$20,000

Since it was given to him, he used it to tally his toils, a slowly growing stack of ones and fives tucked inside the book’s hidden pocket. The numbers in the book marked every cent he’d earned and every dollar he’d spent. After paying for rent, clothes, and food, his personal fortune was now just over $275. A far cry from the $20,000 he owed for being born, but he was young and had a strong back, and he knew he could pay it off, eventually earning a name and the title of Freeman.

***

Jaxon, the wheelwright, had been a good client for the boy, giving him a day or two of work at least a few times per month. He was an old man and no longer able to lift the big wheels he fixed, and he liked the boy because he was quiet and worked hard.

Jaxon was happy to see the boy as he had not been feeling well that day. His chest hurt, and his arm wasn’t working properly, so he sat and told the boy what to do around the small shop. While the boy worked, sweat beaded down the old man’s face, then finally, he spoke.

“Boy – I think today might be the end of me,” said the old man. “I’d get you to run and get the doctor, but he’s gone to Glendor with that fool wife of his and won’t be back until next week. I need you to make me a promise, can ya do that for me?”

The boy nodded, confused but compliant.

“If I die today, I want you to bury me out in the field by the stream. That’s where I buried my wife, then my daughter, so long ago. I don’t have anyone else on this earth, and I don’t want to rot in this godforsaken shop. Will ya do that for me?”

The boy grew concerned as the man’s face reddened, his breathing becoming ragged as he continued.

“If you bury me, come back and look for a jar in the back of the pantry. It says coffee, but it’s been well over five years since I’ve had coffee in this shithole. In the jar, you’ll find my life savings. It should be close to $20,000. I want you to have it – but you have to promise to bury me!” the old man’s voice raised to a yell but was cut off as he started coughing.

“Let me get you some water,” the boy said, running out the door to the handpump in the yard.

When he returned, the old man was silent, his head on his chest, but his chest no longer moved.

The boy waited to see if the man would wake up, and after an hour had passed, he knew the old man had, too.

He maneuvered the man into a wheelbarrow, grabbed a shovel, and then pushed the man to the stream to lay him beside his wife and daughter.

When he returned to the shop, he found the coffee jar and was surprised to actually find the wad of bills, bundled up and cleaner than any he’d seen in his life.

The boy tucked the windfall into his pack, then headed into town to go to the banker and pay off his debt so he could begin life as a Freeman as soon as possible.

Little dust clouds puffed up around his boots as he strolled towards town.

***

The smell of food coming from the ancient bar was overpowering, and without realizing it, the boy found himself sitting at a table, trying to decipher the one-page menu. There were a handful of people sitting at the bar, but none at the few well-worn tables. When the waitress came over to tell him the tables were only for customers buying food, he pointed at an item on the menu, then at his chest.

“You want the steak? Are you sure? It’s very expensive. Do you have enough to pay for it?” she asked.

The boy smiled and nodded, then reached into his battered book to take out his life savings. Clearly surprised, the waitress gave him a polite smile, then returned to the kitchen to inform the cook.

While the boy waited for his meal, the waitress brought him a glass of fresh, cold water, his dirty hand a stark contrast to the clean glass. He drained it quickly and then said, timidly, “I’d like a beer.”

With a nod and a swish of her patched and faded dress, the waitress turned for the bar to pour him a draught. When she returned, he noticed a faded badge on her dwindling chest, and said, “thank you, Sarah.”

While his steak was cooking, the boy caught glances of the cooks coming out to see who ordered the rare treat. He’d never been the centre of attention before and thought this must be what it’s like to be a Freeman.

Every nostril in the room followed the scent of the tray crossing the room. The chef brought it out personally, his greasy gray-whites tented over his once propitious proportions. With a flourish, he presented the meal to the boy.

The boy stared at the plate. Three wedges of potato, a steaming mix of carrot and parsnip with actual butter, and a dark brown slice of beef, nearly half an inch thick. He’d had weeks where he hadn’t had this much food, and here it was, served on a plate just for him.

He sliced into the meat first, overwhelmed by the rich aroma. The meat was tough and gamey, but it was real beef from an actual cow, and he savoured every bite. He tried to pace himself, but the plate was picked clean in less than five minutes.

“Would you like anything else?” Sarah asked as she removed his empty plate.

“Today is my birthday, and I’d very much like a cake.”

“Aye, well, it’s been a long time since there’s been a cake in this old place,” she sighed.

A man at the bar who had been pretending not to listen to the conversation spoke up. “My brother-in-law runs the bakery and might have something if you’re willing to pay for it. I’ll even go get it, if you can spare me a slice.”

The boy handed the man a pile of wrinkled bills from his dwindling stack, and without another word, the man was on his way.

Treating himself to another beer and waiting just long enough to worry that he’d been a fool and given his hard-earned money away, the bar doors opened, and the man came in, balancing a small cardboard box in front of him.

“Sarah,” the boy asked, “do you think the cook can slice the cake so everyone can have a piece?”

“That man can slice tomatoes thin enough to read the paper through, so I imagine he can cut up your cake well enough,” she replied and then took the box to the kitchen.

A few minutes later, Sarah, the cook, and the cook’s boy returned to the dining area, each balancing plates of cake up their arms. An old lady at the back of the room started croaking, “happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you,” and the rest of the bar joined in, voices enhanced by anticipation for the sweet treat.

***

The smile he had worn into the banker’s office disappeared as the fat banker took the bundle of bills from him, entering the amount into a thick ledger.

“Oh laddie,” laughed the obese man. “$20,000 doesn’t even cover the interest, and it’s a far cry from your total debt. Keep bringing me this amount every year, and you’ll have paid off your debt by the time you’re 25. Or 30, maybe. And then you’ll be a Freeman, like me.”

The boy picked up his pack and his book and left the bank. A life of misery, hunger, and emptiness ahead of him.

He walked down the road, little dust clouds puffing up around his battered shoes as he headed towards his next job.

~fin~