Unfamiliar Territory

Mr. Mallard and Stallion emerged from the woods a half an hour later. Stallion was carrying a few dead squirrels and rabbits over his shoulder. Neither of them had guns or anything that could have killed those animals.

But I didn’t say anything. I remained sitting on the stairs by the backdoor where Kat had told me to sit. I didn’t look at her once since she threatened to kill me, but I felt her looking at me.

“Good to see you are up, Foxy,” Mr. Mallard’s strained voice spoke up, making me look up from the ground to see him smiling at me. He had a long gash close to his ear, but otherwise appeared fine. I looked away from it and saw that he was carrying a dead animal himself. It was a fox.

“How are you feeling?”

I didn’t answer him. I stared at the dead fox, wondering if it was on purpose. If it was some twisted warning. Mr. Mallard waited for my response until it was apparent I wasn’t giving one. His smile faded.

“What did Kat tell you,” he said in his commanding voice, any trace of weakness gone.

I looked to his big eyes and shuddered as they stared down at me, un-blinking—a frown set into those once friendly features.

“I am going to need an answer, kit. An honest one.”

Kit? He said it like an insult. What was that supposed to mean? The look he gave me was almost as bad as Kat’s. I shrunk up under his gaze. I averted his glare. But I had a flicker of hope. He wouldn’t like Kat threatening me with death. He didn’t operate like that. Mr. Mallard was calm, restrained; he kept me at bay with kindness, not with threats.

“She said...that I was to do as I was told...or else...”

I didn’t finish. I couldn’t finish. His frown remained. “Then this is what it has come to. You really should have been patient; it would have made it easier for you. But now there is no time. You will make up for your disobedience this morning by collecting the apples that will be needed for dinner.”

I only stared up at Mr. Mallard. This didn’t sound like him at all. And that look in his eyes. It was like he had become an entirely different person.

A force hit me across the face hard enough to send me from the stairs and into the ground. I held a hand to my face; it hurt worse than all the soreness in my muscles combined. Stallion and Kat were looking away from the scene. Mr. Mallard still had his hand up.

“I am your Master, kit. Do not look me in the eyes.”

I watched his worn down, brown shoes as they ascended the stairs. Everything turned blurry as hot water ran down my cheeks.

“Now, I gave you an order. Follow it and get out of my sights.”

....

I grabbed a bright red apple. I didn’t know how to tell if it was ripe, so I squeezed it, and every one after it. If it didn’t squish in my hand then I would drop it in the basket. I didn’t bother to check if any of them had a safe landing.

Mutt was out there—maybe he was supposed to help me, but he just watched from his position at the top of the hill. I couldn’t see him through the branches, but it didn’t matter how far away he was.

We all knew I couldn’t outrun him.

The sound of thunder rolled overhead as I picked out the last apple I could reach. I squeezed it and it resisted. I squeezed it harder and it remained firm. I gripped it tighter. My fingers broke the surface.

Why?

Rain started to fall from the leaves above me. The apples out of reach began to dance. The wind was cold, as it always was. I could no longer feel my hand gripping the apple, but I did not let go. It, my hand, my entire arm, my entire body, all of it shook uncontrollably.

Why won’t things go back to normal?

Why can’t I wake up?

Why won’t it all just stop.

The apple burst in my hand. I relaxed it and watched the pulp and juice run down.

My arm went slack as I stared up into the rain slicked branches and the shiny red apples. I closed my eyes when the rain hit my face.

My body was weightless, light as air. I could fall forever.

The wind was knocked out of me when I hit the ground. My entire body tensed up. Something had to be broken. Mutt shouted at me to get up and bring the apples with me.

There was a sharp ringing in my ear as I stood up and hauled the heavy basket of apples from beneath the tree. The rain was strong; I was already soaked by the time I made it to the base of the hill.

Mutt was still at the top, looking back down at me. There was no smile on his face, no semblance of the person I had come to know. The ringing stopped.

I didn’t make a move to go up and Mutt didn’t appear inclined to come down. We both watched each other, soaking in rainwater.

“I’m not scared of you anymore, Mutt!” I shouted over the rainfall. “I hate you!”

Mutt didn’t say anything. Instead, he lowered his head and began to advance down the hill. I dropped the basket of apples in the mud and clenched my hands. He was halfway down when Mr. Mallard appeared at the top.

“Heel!”

I watched Mutt go limp. I watched him tumble down the hill like a rag doll. I tried to call out to him, but I took one step and was brought to my knees. I couldn’t move them. I couldn’t move anything. I could barely keep from falling facedown into the mud.

I tried to stand up as Mr. Mallard moved down the hill, a white umbrella blockading him from the rain. Mutt stopped tumbling close beside me. He was coated in mud and cut up pretty bad. His eyes were open, staring up into the dark sky as he lay still on his back. He looked dead, void of all emotion. He looked the way I felt.

“How—Why are you doing this?” I got out, though my body begged to let go.

“So, the young kit still has the nerve to speak up to its Master?”

He reached the base of the hill. I flinched when he got close, but he only looked down on me with that unfamiliar contempt. I looked back at him. I stared him right in those big blue eyes. He slowly lowered the umbrella. The corners of his lips twitched.

“What did I tell you, kit?” Mr. Mallard breathed.

I screamed as the old man gripped my wrist and pulled it up above my head. The strain on my muscles was made even worse by the way he was twisting my arm with one wrinkled, liver-spotted hand. Still, I gritted my teeth and turned my head and glared into those enlarged eyes.

“So, another difficult one then?”

He raised his other hand which still gripped the handle of the umbrella and I looked away, waiting for the terrible pain.

“Mr. Mallard...don’t...”

It never came. I opened my eyes to see Mr. Mallard’s focus had shifted to Mutt who was still lying on his back. Mutt’s head was turned towards us. Maybe it was the rain, but he appeared to be crying.

“Don’t...hurt...Foxy.”

His voice was still dead, still void of anything, but I could see it in his eyes. He was in pain. My own pain diminished when Mr. Mallard released my wrist. He was watching Mutt, but his expression softened. He looked between us, almost as if at a loss of what to do.

“You wish...to take his punishment? Mutt?” Mr. Mallard said. He said it in his soft voice. I almost smiled, not realizing how much I missed it.

Mutt nodded and Mr. Mallard walked towards him.

“Stand, dog,” Mr. Mallard said, the strong, forceful voice back once more. Slowly, Mutt rose; it looked like any movement pained him greatly.

I struggled to remain kneeling. “Mr. Mallard, please,” I begged, gripping the muddy ground to keep from collapsing. “Please don’t—!”

“Silence, kit!” Mr. Mallard ordered, and it was like some external force was gripping my throat. I tried to speak, but all that came out was weak air. The force gripped my throat tighter and I coughed violently. “See this as a new lesson, Foxy. Your disobedience puts more than just you in harm’s way.”

Mr. Mallard then closed his umbrella. Mutt caught my eye in that instant. There were no words, no hidden messages, no comfort. There didn’t need to be. His smile told me everything.

The first blow struck him against his head. Mutt staggered a bit, but remained standing. The next swing caught him behind the knee. I knew he wanted to cry out, but he clenched his jaw when he fell to one knee. Mr. Mallard then brought the umbrella down across his back with more strength than an old man his size should muster. Mutt did cry out this time and I had to look away as he fell to the ground.

There were several more hits that followed, but I couldn’t watch. The rolling thunder did little to dull Mutt’s cries of pain and Mr. Mallard’s blows.

I still couldn’t move. I couldn’t even yell for him to stop. My body gave out and I was in the wet ground. I cried and chocked as my throat tightened again. I could not breathe any longer. I was dying, but I could not stop crying. It shook what little energy I had left. It tore me down. It took away everything.

I woke up.

I was sitting before a large table. Numerous animals had been ripped open, their organs and blood spilled out across a white table cloth. Apples, bitten down to their core, littered the table space around the bodies.

There were other people sitting around the table, but they were bathed in shadows from the candlelight which kept my surroundings in darkness. It was directly in front of these individuals that the torn up animals were situated. Nothing more than bones and skin. The smell was horrid.

“It has been quite a long day. You must be hungry, Foxy.”

One of the others at the table spoke. I couldn’t be certain which one. My head felt light, fuzzy.

I really was hungry. It was a pain that sunk deeper than all the other pains in my body.

A hand, covered with a white glove, revealed itself from the shadows and waved to something in front of me. I looked down and saw a duck. Full grown, white feathers, dead. It lay with its plump stomach protruding out to me.

My stomach growled, but I was disgusted by it. It wasn’t cooked; it didn’t even look like it had been touched. It still appeared alive.

“Do you feel unwell?” the same voice asked. “Perhaps you would like to start with some tea?”

A myriad of motions then began as a red, orange, and yellow porcelain cup—looking as if it was on fire—was passed down the table. Hands wrapped in bandages handed the cup to me.

It was fresh, steaming. It burned my hands as I held it. I was incredibly thirsty, but I didn’t want to drink it. Something dark and fragile inside my head was telling me it was bad. Poison.

“Drink it.” That voice—once soft and caring—now cold, demanding.

I heard that voice and gripped the cup tighter. I wanted to hunt the voice down. Stalk it in the darkness. I wanted to catch it by surprise, grip it by the throat. I wanted make it stop.

The cup in my hands trembled.

I saw the hands wrapped in bandages return to the light. They held my own inside theirs. Cupping mine as my hands cupped the tea. The trembling stopped.

“It’ll be okay, Foxy,” a new voice said. It sounded miserable and happy at the same time. It was strange. It broke my heart. “If you drink it everything will be okay.”

The voice, like the other one, was familiar. I wish I could remember who the owner was. I wanted to tell them that they were a terrible liar.

Still, the hands that gripped mine were comforting. I did not stop them as they helped raise the cup to my lips. I drank the entire contents of the cup. I don’t remember the flavor—only that it burned.

“Now, eat,” the other voice commanded. The comforting hands returned to the darkness and I felt the desires return in their absence. For the first time since waking, I could put a voice to a face.

But I was hungry. Too hungry to do anything with my hatred.

I looked back down at the duck. I saw no knives, or forks, or any other utensil. I stared at my hands, still gripping the cup. I dropped it. I heard it shatter as I tore into the soft white belly.

There was little resistance. Its insides were warm. I pulled free what I could, shoved it into my eager mouth, and swallowed. It was better than anything I had eaten before. Then again, as I ate its red insides, I could no longer remember eating anything before this moment at the candle-lit table.

I ate until the duck was no more than feathers and skin and blood. I enjoyed every last bite.