Dystopia Pt. 03

By the time the sun had set, Markem with boiling with helpless rage. His mind began to quiet as everyone set up camp with a large fire with wood from a felled tree nearby and a large A-frame tent. He was grateful that he would have at least some shelter from the cold. The body heat of eight people crammed in the tent coupled with his coat should keep him from dying.

As soon as the tent was up he made for it, eager to lie down on a surface that wasn't trying to kill him. He was brought up short though, when Lafou grabbed his shoulder.

"Not so fast there sleeping beauty, you've got first watch. Be careful, night is when the wolves come out to hunt, so if you get attacked...scream real loud so the rest of us can hear you and kill them." Lafou chuckled at the obvious omission of saving Markem, then ducked inside the tent to collapse in his sleeping roll.

Markem was not happy. He'd been looking forward to getting some rest all day. He was never really able to sleep in the cell, always wondering if it really was too good to be true and they were going to hang him after all. Then he couldn't sleep on the road without shattering like glass.

It wasn't fair. Not that complaining about it would do any good, they weren't exactly listening. Even if they did, their tiny brains wouldn't understand. So instead of lighting the tent on fire, he went for a walk around the camp, stretching his sore legs having not used them properly in several days.

He poked around the wagons for a bit, until he found some bread and jerky and quickly scarfed as much as he could. It's not like they would miss it, there were four wagons full of supplies for Ardmore. A single (if hearty) meal wouldn't be missed.

Finally full for the first time in weeks, Markem carefully erased his presence at the wagon even going far enough to scrub the footprints from the light layer of snow that decorated the ground, and headed back to the fire to warm up.

Perhaps he would lie down in front of the fire for a few minutes, let his ribs rest from the pounding they took today. Oh yeah, that feels much better. Maybe just a little closer to the fire...that's the stuff.

Warm, full, and pain free for the first time in a while; Markem fell asleep in minutes.

He woke up shivering. The fire had died completely, so he must have been asleep for a while, and the wind was starting to pick up speed, carrying a real edge of cold to it. Quickly building up a fire so no one would know he fell asleep, he stumbled into the tent and nudged Lafou awake for his shift and laid down on the sleeping roll to pass out.

The next afternoon the caravan rolled into the smallest and shittiest town Markem had ever seen. He would be surprised if there were a thousand people in this godforsaken hellhole.

From Lord Aldridge to Ardmore, quite the contrast.' He thought drearily. 'Well this is home now I guess. There isn't anything beyond this but elk and ice. Better get used to it'

Once the wagons were unloaded and the horses bedded in the stable next to the inn, Markem went in search of work, as the storm landed in full. He began by asking the innkeeper for the local sheriff, to discover that their town was too small to have a law man. When he asked further about work it seemed like no one around was capable of hiring on another hand. Most were concerned with storing supplies for winter or bedding down for the storm, not feeding an extra stomach.

Except for one name that seemed to crop up over and over again. Seems like the wealthy rancher Emil Jackson had been asking around a few days prior looking to hire on an extra hand around the ranch. His parents had died, leaving the poor young man to tend that big ranch all by himself. Surely he would be willing to hire on another hand.

Markem listened carefully about the young, rich, hermit, living so far from town; and a new idea began to take root in his mind. Initially he dismissed the idea, but the more he thought about it the more plausible it sounded.

'Hmmm, I wonder how hard it would be to separate the man from his money. Simple man like him, should be easy enough.'

Chapter 14

Isla woke slowly, eyes fluttering open to stare at a rough wooden wall not two inches from her face. Confusion swept through her as she studied the rough cut planks that had been worn smooth through time rather than proper sanding, and tried to remember where she was.

Reality slowly came back to her as she felt the heavy arm of Emil splayed across her stomach. Obviously not used to sharing a bed, he had rolled and kicked until she was crammed onto the edge of the bed, while Emil was spread eagled over the rest.

She heard a snort, then a small cough. Quickly the coughing became loud and gagging as Emil sat bolt upright and made horrific hacking noises.

"Are you ok Master?" She contemplated whether or not she should get him some water, but realized she'd have to crawl over him. He probably wouldn't thank her for that while he was dying.

Reaching what seemed to be half a fist into his mouth, Emil slowly pulled out a long dark hair out of his throat; glaring at it as if it was the devil. He shifted his accusatory gaze over to her and seethed.

Isla stared at him with a contrite amusement written on her face. She hadn't meant to choke him, but honestly; it wasn't as if she had done it on purpose. Her hair didn't listen to her commands ever, and it was really his own fault for chewing on her in his sleep anyway.

Emil just glared at her some more, before pulling his boots on and stomping out of the room muttering under his breath. She heard a door deeper in the house slam shut, as she assumed he attended natures call.

Taking this opportunity, Isla stretched out in the messy bed; her back and ankles popping in a very satisfactory way. It had been years since she slept in a real bed with springs and blankets. Even if it was a stinky boy's bed, and the thick hide blankets didn't help the overall level of funk that permeated the room. It would take many more washings to undo this level of grody.

'Come to think of it, the last time I slept in a bed was with Lyanna the week before mother ruined everything.' Isla thought wistfully about her previous life, and wondered if she'd ever see her sister again.

The washroom door opening down the hall brought her out of her nostalgia, and alerted her to the fact that she still had yet to commune with nature herself. With that done, she wandered into the kitchen to find Emil had already started the stove and was heating some sort of grain in water.

She wasn't super familiar with this area of the world, but she knew grits when she saw it. A simple staple of any household, it had all the basics to start the day. A small kettle was warming in the corner of the rusty stovetop, as Emil dug around in some nearby cabinets pulling out dented tins with colorful images of flowers.

"Do you know how to cook?" he asked in an exhausted tone as he filled two small wooden cups with pinches of the herb he pulled from the tins.

"I know some of the basics Master, but I learn very fast!"

He sighed, and she tensed. It had been less than twenty four hours and she was already failing in her tasks. She would need to learn faster than he could teach if she was to remain useful. Waving her over, he explained the kitchen arrangement, and where the oats, tea, spices and various other kitchen staples were kept; as well the layout of dishes and various cooking implements.

She already knew how to cook grits, that hadn't changed, though he added a thick brown syrup to the tea before he passed it over.

"Thank you master" she said dipping her head. Blowing gently on the steaming liquid, she took a small sip. Flavors exploded across her tongue, her eyes widened as she tasted several different types of grasses and berries mixed with a sweetness she couldn't identify. She had to stop herself from gulping down the whole cup.

"What is this master?" Her wide eyes met his as a small smile curled his beard; her hands clutching the cup as if it was liquid gold

"It's called tea. You told me you've tried it before." His unasked question hung in the air.

'Trying to see if I lied? Who would lie about something like that? Maybe he thinks me dull.'

"I've had something that tasted similar, but it was bitter and heavy. This is refreshing and sweet. I could drink this till I burst and still not get enough." She said very seriously, savoring the beverage on her tongue to make it last a little longer.

"Ah that would be the syrup. I guess you've never had it before." He said half to himself. "It's made from a tree that grows around here. I used to harvest some of it myself, but since my parents died I haven't really had the time. "

"Parents?" she said quietly. It wasn't really her place to ask, as it had nothing to do with her station or her duties; but she was curious.

"Dad died a couple years ago to bandits, and mom last year to sickness." Emil shrugged his shoulders, as if it was no big deal. Death was just a fact of life in this harsh world.

'Probably even more so in this desolate tundra' she mused

Isla mumbled her thanks as he ladled a bowl full of the grits and topped it off with a thick slab of butter and a drizzle of the syrup. She stood patiently next to the table until Emil sat down and started eating before she joined him.

The rest of the meal was quiet as they each focused on their meal. Isla quickly gathered the dishes, washing them and putting them away in their respective homes. Scrubbing the sink and counters until there was not a speck of dust left, she waited patiently for Emil to give her some new instructions.

Stomping back in the room, he was wearing a new outfit, which was comprised of many layers and obviously designed for the blizzard that was still raging outside.

"So I'm going to assume that you know nothing about ranching. It'll just save us some time, because even if you did, every rancher does things differently." Isla nodded silently, at his logic. "Get dressed in the warmest clothes you can find. Today I'll show you everything we can do during the storm."

Isla scampered off to the bedroom off the hall, where she had gotten her current outfit, and began rifling through the closet. Her hands froze on a rather ugly but warm looking sweater, as realization slammed into her like a tidal wave.

'These are his mother's!! This entire time I've been wearing the handmade clothes left behind by his deceased parent, and he never even mentioned it.' She tried to analyze the complex and confusing emotions threatening to overwhelm her brain, but had to hurry since Emil was waiting for her.

She shoved her thoughts into the background to be analyzed later and threw on the warmest clothes she could find, then added another layer of socks and jackets just to be safe. The end result was mismatched and lumpy shades of grey and brown, but she wasn't afraid of freezing to death.

Running back out to kitchen, her padded feet thumping on the wooden floor she rounded the corner a little too fast. Her double layer socks lost traction on the well-worn surface and slipped out from under her sending her sliding and flailing into the dividing wall between Emil's room and the mudroom.

Reeling from her crash, she attempted to right herself; arms wind-milling desperately she teetered back and forth for a few seconds before her left foot lost traction again. With almost comedic slowness, Isla's precarious balance tipped, as the inexorable might of the earth's gravity pulled her into its embrace.

She landed with a thump on her back, head bouncing off the floor. She laid there for a second as her brain recalibrated, and ran a system scan. Other than the bump on her head and tailbone, she was alright. A snicker from the kitchen made her blood run cold.

She turned and looked at her master who simple smiled. "I'd give it an 8/10. Good form overall, but needs work on the landing."

Isla narrowed her eyes and glared at him, 'Oh yeah yuck it up asshole,' she thought scrambling to her feet. Her face heated with her humiliation. Her old self would have launched into a tirade, berating him for laughing at her; but she had learned over the last couple years that it was a good way to end up with broken bones and sleeping in a cage.

Emil was already in the mudroom and pulling on his boots. She quickly followed after him and took the boots he handed her. Unfortunately, the first pair she tried on were too small to even get her feet into; and the second pair were so large that no amount of extra socks would make up the difference.

Her master looked at her feet with a frown. "Great, yet another trip I need to make into town. Dammit," he said sighing heavily. "Wear the boots for now, and as soon as the storm lightens up, we'll head in and get you some proper boots. Clothes can be modified, but a good cobbler is irreplaceable."

Obediently she tugged on the boots and laced them as tight as she could, even running back for a third and fourth pair of socks; and followed Emil out into the storm. It quickly became apparent to Isla, that no matter how many coats she was wearing she was not prepared for the level of fury that Mother Nature could bring.

The storm raged just outside the sanctuary of the house, with absolutely no regard to life trying to eke out an existence. The wind howled, and felt like being pelted with machine gun blasts of icicles. Her hands and face immediately began burning in the bitter cold, and her legs began to feel heavy.

Steeling herself, Isla forced herself to follow her master to the pasture where the sheep were huddled in the shelter of a clamshell shaped structure. It took her a few extra seconds to wiggle through the fencing that Emil simply hopped over, but she managed it without falling flat on her face.

These large and hairy animals were slightly terrifying. They looked nothing like the cute and fluffy dogs that were depicted in the drawings she had seen before. Rather instead they were large, black animals with knotted and matted hair that hung in clumps. Several of them had stumps of horn that had been sheared off.

All together they formed an imposing image. Like giant dogs, some of them even had fangs! Well, maybe they were just overly large teeth, but it was still terrifying. Yet here Emil was wading through them as they huddled in their shelter like they were no more dangerous than deep mud. One animal even got a little aggressive and tried to head-butt him, but he barely seemed to notice; slowing down just long enough to punch it in the face knocking it over and then continued on his way.

Isla on the other hand watched from a very safe distance, preferring instead to stand out in the wind where her soul was safe from the devil sheep. She watched Emil wander through the herd, pausing to check various animals and picking some up off the ground and checking their legs, before dumping them unceremoniously back on the ground.

She tried to figure out what he was doing, but his movements seemed random and without purpose. She would have to ask him later when he wasn't throwing sheep around like last night's dinner refuse.

When he was finished with....whatever it was he was doing, he wandered back through the head and over to a small shed outside the fence line. The shed contained large barrels of some sort of dried plant matter, that Emil quickly began scooping into several large troughs. The sheep were apparently familiar with this routine, as they came -literally- out of the woodwork to begin feasting on the feed.

She watched carefully counting out the number of scoops and the number of sheep per trough and tried to calculate the amount required for each animal. Extrapolating she even tried to figure out how much feed there was stockpiled in the shed. Her brain began to hurt with all the maths.

Emil finished the task quickly and with no wasted movements. She was surprised at the small amount of feed it took to sate such a large herd. There had to be well over two hundred sheep here, get they only needed half a barrel to sustain them.

"The sheep don't really mind the cold, but if one of them dies in the middle of the herd it can make the other sick. It's also dangerous if one of them slips in the ice and breaks a leg. Unfortunately it's too expensive to fix the leg, so if that happens we just eat well that night."

Isla listened carefully and nodded along at the appropriate parts. So far it seemed fairly simple and straightforward. Broken sheep bad. Got it. Emil watched the sheep for a minute before turning to the goats penned on the other side of the house. His face fell as though he had smelled something awful.

She followed in his footsteps, perhaps a little closer than she strictly should have, but she was hoping his wide shoulders would provide a decent windbreak. She wondered why Emil stopped by the corner of the house to pick up a shovel, before stomping over to the goat pen.

'Maybe the sheep are really tidy, but the goats make messes. Oh goodie! I get to shovel goat shit. Fan-fucking-tastic.' Her mind played images of trying to get the smell of goat crap out of her hair. Had her hands not been stuffed unceremoniously into her armpits, she would have pet the shoulder blade length locks.

Now quietly obsessing over a hot bath, Isla watched him climb over the goat fence shovel in hand. Her mouth fell open, as immediately Emil was attacked by a charging goat. Head down and shaved horns in prominence, the goat lunged. Right as she was about to call out a warning, Emil pivoted smoothly on his left leg, and swung the shovel....straight into the goats charge.

The shovel rang out like a bell as the goat was easily floored by the blow. Emil didn't lower the shovel though and stood ready for round two. Isla wondered what sort of deranged animal would attack like that. This was obviously not the first time this had happened. If she looked carefully, she could see a myriad of dents adorning the shovel blade; standing testament to many duels.

The goat had decided that a single bout was enough for its taste and, struggling to its feet, sauntered off into the herd as if nothing at all had happened. Emil quickly went about performing the same inspections as he had with the sheep, and Isla could now understand his movements a little better.

She looked around for a feed shed, but the only one nearby was empty of grain. There were large hard white disks with holes in the middle stacked in one corner and she could see one hanging on a fence post a dozen yards from her. As to their purpose, she couldn't even hazard a guess. She would ask once Emil was less occupied.

Another clang of shovel-on-goat warfare brought her attention back to the pen as Emil beat a hasty retreat back towards the fence line. This time warding off two different goats who seemed eager to test their mettle. He swung the shovel in broad but controlled swings, keeping them at bay long enough to dive over the fencing, swearing like a barmaid the entire way.

"Fucking stupid ass, bullheaded, frog eyed, good for nothing, parasites! I swear to beelz I will end your miserable lives, and skin you for a sweater!!" Emil raged on as he threw the shovel back towards the house, and stomped off to the garage. Isla followed quickly, but made sure to keep a fair distance this time. She didn't him to mistake her for a goat in her current clothing, especially not in his mood.

Once inside the relative comfort of the garage, Emil checked on the truck, making sure that some sort of green fluid in the engine was topped off, and that several knobs were tight. Grabbing several handfuls of what looked like long moldy grass, and began dumping it in her arms. Completely unprepared she caught it as best she could and stumbled after him as he kicked open the door to the mudroom and held it open for her.