Chapter 11

Wide Open Cage

Out in the middle of the open sky, by the light of the warm campfire he laid himself out over his bedding. He thought about this boy who existed so many years ago. As if time had melded away, of no consequence to them now, they were connected. But reality being what it was, he knew that were not true. Ben would be of no use to this boy when he would need him the most. No more use than his innocent dove Delphe. Ben would not come to take him out because twenty years ago, he had no more forethought that this boy was alive. If Marie hadn't known, how could he? Does she know now? Did she see her boy's struggles in death? Does she see Ben's impassiveness now? His hesitation to help her boy. This boy who was no longer a boy. This man. This man, who buries his pain within.

Surely, he has grown. Surely, he is troubled. Surely, he is trouble.

This trouble has befallen his younger brother. Both of Marie's boys are in trouble and up until now, Ben's focus had been to save Joe. His sweet, innocent boy, Joe. Joe, who was raised in a healthy, happy home, never tasting these types of hardships; and leave this other one where?

He'd fallen asleep on these thoughts. His night was restless. He'd dreamt of monsters clawing their way to this boy. This boy who was now grown. They were coming for him. Not just him. His other boy too. The monsters came for Joe. When Ben couldn't reach them in time, he feared that would be the end of them. Marie, bright gleaming hair in the moonlight came out of the shadows. Her look. She was accusing him of his failures. His failures to save both boys. But her look was soft, and confident and unaccusing.

I will be there with you. She seemed to say.

There was no accusation from her. He came to realize that the accusations came from his own heart for not knowing. How could he have let her boy suffer like this?

"I'm so sorry."

And now the monsters had come to her other boy too.

Her smile was soft.

~.~

He'd awoken to that same guilt.

Clay's life had been so full of hardship, at least to this point in the story. Does it continue? How long does it continue for. Would it be a worthy read to the average book-goer if not. He'd imagined not. With so much left to the story, he wondered what tragic tail there was left to tell. Having such a personal take in the story, Ben wasn't sure he wanted to continue. If the whole book kept this theme, Ben wasn't sure if he'd be capable of finishing, despite the promise he made to the fated lover. Clay was alive and well, of sorts, so he knew the story was not to end in that type of tragedy, so he at least had that going for him; but just how bad it was to get, he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

After his morning cup of coffee, he put out the fire and mounted his horse. He had put himself in the right mindset to continue this journey.

~.~ ~.~

The boy had become too weak to even squeeze his doll now. He'd lay face down and mutter into his pillow. "You got to help me." When Peter was long gone, he'd continue to whisper. "You got to help me. I can't do this. Help me."

Was he talking to Delphe then, or someone else? His mind would drift.

The next morning he'd awaken to Peter.

~.~

He didn't know if he loved Peter or hated him. He needed something to fill the hole that Delphe had left but Peter was so flawed. Sometimes he would seem so compassionate. When he'd rub his body with salve. Or run his fingers down his cheek like Delphe used to. Peter was the reason he continued to fight. He gave the boy those magical words to live by. But Peter was the reason why his body ached in the first place. Oh, he knew he didn't want to do it. He didn't mean to do it. He was only doing it on the orders of his own father. If only he stood up to his pa. But what the boy was to learn then was that a father was not one you said no to. He might have known this already, had he had one of his own.

~.~

One day they hadn't come in to get him. For three more days they let him stay in his shed until his body gained back some of its strength. Peter stayed and fed him during these days, making him strong. Forcing the boy up and outside after some time to help him walk again. Keeping his skin thinly clad, he had to get him used to moving in the sun again.

He did get stronger.

A week later, he was strong enough to walk on his own now. He'd been brought before the baron. He must have liked what he saw because he agreed it was time to get the boy back to work.

Peter who was standing at his side as if he'd been acting as an advocate this entire time looked down and gave him a wink, as if to say, See. I told you it wouldn't last forever.

~.~

It did last though. Maybe not that test of fire but other torments.

The boy's color had changed. It had filled in, darkened, thickened up. But that didn't stop him from being weak. The sun no longer gave him the problems to the extent it once had but having been a forcibly inert child until now he had not developed the muscles that most kids would have at that age. So, when he was put back to work and still couldn't measure up to their expectations, they hurt him for it.

It had started out as mere insults. What had begun as a jest between the men among themselves while the boy was locked away, was now being spurned upon him; and was coming out with a growing ease. Even the boy's, which he at one time allowed himself to entertain that they might someday be friends, had gotten in on the joke. They would make irregular trips out to the fields it seemed just to degrade and ridicule him.

Garret even told the other's what he used to be called by the servant girl. Convinced them that it was that way of thinking that made him weak. Softened him. He'd laugh in his boisterous way and the others would join in on the fun. Prince was no longer a prince. Now he was dirt. That's what they all called him. This became his name. In time he began to feel ashamed that he was ever allowed to believe he was a prince. That name became dirty in his mouth.

The cruel nature of these men didn't stop at just words though. In time, they had begun to get physical with him. Hitting him and pushing him to the ground, telling him that he was no better than the mud they pushed him into. Tell him that this mud was his home and was where he should stay. He'd sink his hands beneath the surface. There was a coolness underneath that felt good to his aching sores. And although his heart wept at the insult, truthfully, he found some comfort in it. He felt like this was where he belonged. That somehow, he and the dirt were connected. If he could stay in it, he would.

When he wasn't improving at the level they thought he should be, the baron became exasperated with him. One day when the boy hit his knees one too many times, he called to Garret. A few minutes later the foreman returned with a bull whip.

~.~ ~.~

"A Bullwhip?" Ben astonished. "My God."

~.~ ~.~

He was nine when it was first used on him. He used it on him that day and the next, snapping it against his tormented skin.

Garret, under Jay's authority had begun to take it up. Then Boomer and a few others were allowed to use it too. Even John, Jay's eldest had used it on occasion.

They abused him and whipped him for things he could not do that they believed he ought to. They demanded more than his little body could handle. More that he could not return. They were cruel to him. They'd work his hands bloody. On those days when he'd refuse to bloody his hands, they would bloody his back instead.

This was a low time in the boy's life. His mind and body were broken. His very soul was muddied and tainted.

Some days it seemed that his only friend was the mud they pushed him into. That and Pete, who would come to him at night on the pretense of bringing viand. He would stay to clean and dress his wounds and offer those encouraging words.

He had two choices in those years. To give up and die or to get stronger. As much as he wanted to get stronger, many times he would teeter between the two.

On those day's when he found himself wishing for death Peter's words would fill his mind. "One more day. Just make it through one more day." But how many days are just one more day? It seemed never ending. But Peter told him, "even this won't last forever".

Every night he'd lift his doll up and talk to it, like he was talking to her. He'd tell it all his problems, all his wishes and desires. He wished she could be with him now. He wished he could be strong enough not to be hurt anymore. Most of all, he wished to be out of this place.

Free.

~.~

Overtime the boy's strength did grow. It never seemed to be enough for their liking though. Other workers took part in Dirt's abuse. No matter how strong he grew and how much he wanted to be seen as an equal member, he never did earn his spot in the bunkhouse. He was the only servant they owned. The other workers there, were all older than he and all paid. For this reason, they took on the same mindset as the baron. That somehow the boy was less than them and would always be.

When the men gathered around the boss to receive their pay, Dirt would stand off to the side wondering what the hullaballoo was all about.

"What are you looking at?" The baron asked one day. "What? You want some of it? You wouldn't know what to do with it if you had it."

He was right of course. Dirt had a very basic concept of money. He'd been told a bit about it by Miss Delphe. The first time he'd seen it close up was when Simon would give it to the men he bought the coaches from, or the rooms they stayed in, or the food and drinks they got at the hotels, or the clothes he bought for him. He'd never held it himself. He really wouldn't know what to get for it if he had it. His food and bed were provided for already and past that Dirt was never even allowed off the ranch.

~.~

There was a game they liked to play with him. It started out simple enough.

One day Garret caught on to something that Dirt had been doing for a while now. Daydreaming. He'd get lost in thought as he'd stare beyond that fence line, wondering what was beyond the thicket of trees, beyond the hills behind.

"What are you looking out there for?" He broke the boy from his thoughts. "Wondering what's out there? Nothing for you. Here's where you belong. This is your home." He'd tell him.

This went on for a couple of weeks before Garret got it into his head to make a game of it. He'd catch him gazing time and again, beyond the line.

He rode up on him during one of these fits of daydreaming. "Looking out there wondering what life would be for you?" He finally asked, breaking the boy of his thoughts. "I'll tell you what, I'm willing to make a little deal with you. If you can make it off this property line, outside of those fences, then I'll let you have your freedom. Don't look so shocked boy. That's right. I'll give it to you. If you earn it."

He couldn't believe it were true. Would he really grant him his freedom? What did he have to lose. He had to try.

He bolted out. He was running. The horseman shot out to chase. It didn't take long at all for him to catch up. But the fence was so close. A snap of the whip brought him down. As if he would think about getting to his feet again. His body's only reaction was to writhe in pain, but the mere simulation of fight and getting to his knees was enough to bring down another snap; at that his will was gone and he was still.

Garret offered to play this game with him the next day, and the next after that. Needless to say, the boy lost each time.

At one point Dirt tried to get smart. He tried to play the game when Garret wasn't expecting it. He maneuvered his way over until he thought he was close enough to the fence before going for it. The whip coiled his neck and yanked him backwards off his feet. He immediately lost the ability to breathe. He tried to stand and tear the whip away but was only drug further back, instilling a panic within him when he couldn't get air in. Garret pulled him upwards by the whip and forced him to face him. It was as the boy struggled to breathe that Garret made the terms of the game clear to him. This game was only to be played when all players were ready. Otherwise, it would just be him running away and would be seen as insolence and any act of insolence would be severely dealt with. He made it clear that if he did ever make it off this ranch outside the terms of the game, he'd be hung for it; pulling the whip upwards to get the boy off his feet, further driving in the point.

After three weeks, word had gotten back to the ranch-owner of the game the foreman played with the young'un. Jay came out to the field to watch. Dirt had half a heart to believe that Jay would make it stop. Instead, he bade Garret to perform for him. He wanted to see how the game was played. He must have liked what he saw because the next day, he wanted to join in on the fun.

The two horsemen, one on either side, as Dirt ran between, toyed with the boy, not letting him get out from between them before finally bringing him down. Jay had finished that chase in heavy breath and a rare smile, slapping his foreman on the back for thinking it up.

This game had put the foreman in a renewed favor with the boss. This was a game that made the aging rancher feel young again. Some days Dirt didn't have the energy, or will, to even try. On these days, the mere act of not trying would be seen as insolence and he'd be abused for it. At least if he tried, there would be a chance he could make this all end. His heart was out there in those trees and hills. That longing for freedom would grow until it became an unmanageable ache. If he could just get out there, he could be free and rid of all this, so, he'd shoot for it. A couple of times as he got stronger and faster at running, he got close. Too close for their liking. A couple more days like that one and he was sure he could make it out.

He found this would be harder to achieve. His reward for getting close was that others, their most trusted workers, had been invited in on the fun.

This game was played throughout the coming years. It became a favored pastime among them. They'd hunt this boy down like he was no more than a wild fox. When the game was ended, they'd walk away, patting themselves on the back, leaving this boy writhing in the dirt.

The boy had to get better at strategizing and planning his route. He even tried positioning himself close to the fence during work hours, so he'd be close enough when the game would start. The men caught on to what he was doing. They learned to draw him away before the game would begin.

No matter how hard he ran, or how close he got to that fence, he would always be on the losing end. That line remaining just out of reach.

~.~

The days stopped being as hot. The leaves on the trees changed colors and eventually many of them lost their leaves altogether. The winds came, turning the pleasant coolness freezing.

When the first winter came, he got sick from the cold. His tattered blankets did little to keep him warm in that shed. His hands and lips had cracked and blistered. He hated being this cold and miserable but as much as he begged for companionship, he learned to love this shed. It was safe to him. When he was here the men weren't hurting him. He hated how he longed to be away from them. Away from this whole place. This whole countryside was cold and miserable, but he'd take that over being trapped on this ranch. Though large enough, it made his world small.

He had prayed for Delphe so much in that first year. But we know she was not to come. In time he realized how foolish it was to keep praying for something, he knew would never come. It was easier on his soul to let her go. In time, he even learned to forget her.

~.~

What makes an entire group of men commit such actions against the smallest and most vulnerable among them?

Some might question the improbability of a whole slew of men participating in such atrocities upon a small boy. Well first, let me clear the air. To say that every one of these men actively participated in this boy's abuse would be an unjust accusation. For not all of them did. Most actually, kept their heads low and their hands to the plow. In their mind and soul, they knew that what was happening to this boy was wrong. They also knew that if they kept their heads low and their minds to themselves, they wouldn't be asked to participate which was what really mattered. Their hands would remain untarnished. Of course, they would never rise in rank or status. They would never be seen as trustworthy; just one of the guys. There would be no promotional opportunities bestowed upon them. But that was okay. As long as they made enough money to bring home to their families, they could get by. They could look at themselves in the mirror and believe that it was all worth it.

Please, allow me to rephrase my question.

What encourages entire groups of men to move against their own morality, to allow such atrocities to take place?

I don't know.

What makes entire civilizations agree to the ownership and abuse of their fellow human beings? When slaves populate their neighbors' backyard; men, women, and yes, even children; all wailing under the lash; what makes the righteous turn their head. When whole states, and even nations participate in this practice, it's not so hard to believe that this same type of atrocity could take place on this small little ranch in the northern territory of Oregon. But that still doesn't answer the question. What makes this continue? What makes men turn their head?

Fear of bucking the system. Fear of standing out and finding yourself standing alone. Fear of succumbing to the same fate they are rising against. Sometimes, it's in seeing the efforts of those who did have the courage to stand out, not be enough.

For this reason, it's easier to keep your head down and your blinders on. Not everyone has to actively participate in such atrocities for it to be allowed to continue. Doing nothing to make it stop is enough.

Not my pain. Not my problem.

~.~

For three years life went on like this.