1st 5 Pages March Workshop - Schunemann

Name: Lisa Schunemann
Genre: YA fantasy
Title: RAISE THE BLACK

“This one’s bad tempered.”

Strong fingers bit into the flesh of her chin, squeezing with a sadistic bite of pain. Those fingers forced Drei’s face to each side and back.

“She tried to take a chunk out of Darnul when we first shackled her,” said the skin runner. “Had to shut her up.”

It took more than a little effort for her to quell the snicker at those words. The gag, roughly rolled cotton, spread her mouth into a grimace, but it helped disguise her smile. Her cheekbone throbbed from the last smack, but instead of stoking her anger higher, the welcomed veil of calm tumbled over her mind.

Remembering she had a job to do brought her focus back.

The captain spat a wad of chew at her bare feet, his gaze shrewdly calculating. He seemed disappointed when she didn’t flinch or cry when the glob slid down her leg. But Drei knew what he saw – her bloody feet, torn pants and stained shirt showing a bony shoulder.

“I’m not about to ruin my reputation with the buyers, tossing ‘em slaves with rotted stumps in their mouths.”

“Well, I sure ain’t removing that gag to check her teeth.” The skin runner cradled the log book and poised the ink point above the paper. “You do it. I need my fingers.” He winced, shrinking back when the captain raised a fist.

“You’ll do whatever I tell you.” His yell caused a ripple of fresh tears and cowers amongst the row of chained bodies. “This is my ship. You filth should be grateful I let you hide your merchandise in my hold.”

Creaks and groans from treated boards and pillars mingled amidst the soft crying. A single oil lamp swayed from the low-hung ceiling, but the scant light was better than the pit the hull where the rest of the human cargo was stashed.

How much time did she have? Two days had passed since she’d stashed herself on the merchant chartered ship, inserted for an inside job. It should have only been one day, tops, but a nasty squall had hit soon after entering Faulto Passage. They’d been forced to anchor the brig for a day and wait it out.

Stuck below in the smuggler hold, she’d been crammed against bodies stinking of sweat, vomit and fear while the storm raged outside. But if this was what it took to make money on the job… she’d gone through worse.

“Sorry, Captain, but you should see the chunk of skin she took out of his arm. Makes me a bit leery getting so close.”

He snorted, but gingerly tugged on the cloth strip cutting into her lips. Testing for the tightness of it for good measure.

“Shut your mouth and log her down. Sloppy records when we pull into Ceissames will reduce my cut.” His hand moved to her chin again, but he pulled it away to fist both on his hips. “Girl, young. Mark her as sixteen, it’s the best number. Five and a half feet.” He moved in a slow circle. “Skinny as a birch rod. But pretty.”

“Earmark her for the brothels?”

“Lotus likes the darker-skinned ones on her roster. But that bruise better fade by the time we pull into shore,” the captain growled. “And who chopped her hair off? Nobody wants a girl with hair like a boy.”

“I didn’t do it.”

No, it hadn’t been any of them. She liked her hair short, trimmed close to her head. Made it easier to clean the blood and mess out of, at the end of the day. The only problem was that it didn’t hide her eyes, or shield her face. For this to work, playing the mole, she couldn’t let her anger, her contempt show in her face or eyes.

Slaves bartered and shuffled across the Skettion Sea didn’t resemble anything but beaten baggage; no emotions, other than fear, would work.

Drei forced her lips to quiver, gave a breathy squeak at the rough hands roaming over her hips and chest. It was inside, down in her soul that she raged in the cold places. But like a good little slave, she stood still.

“Well, if any of them don’t want her, she’ll do housework. A firm household can beat the fight out of her—eh!” The captain hauled her hands to eye level and glared. “Damaged goods. Her little finger is clean chopped off.”

She forced her muscles to go limp. The finger and a small portion of flesh from her right hand were missing, a fierce webbing of scars marring her skin. Lighter than her burnt brown coloring, they stood out even in the bad lighting in the hull.

He spat again, this time hitting her shoulder.

The runner leaned closer and scrunched his nose. “No good for the brothels, then. No customer wants to pay for that hand to touch him.”

“You’d be surprised,” the captain said, squeezing the bones of Drei’s hand painfully hard. She met his leering eyes with a deadened face. “I know of men who’d pay. They desire the ugly, don’t have to care if they damage them even more.”

He pushed her down with a harsh shove. The iron shackles jerked against her wrists and ankles as she hit the bench. Squeezed between two other slaves, there wasn’t enough room to breathe. The dampness of the wood seeped into her thighs, through the threadbare pants. Her eyes remained downcast, fixed on the slimy hull floor beneath her toes. Worn down by the feet of hundreds, probably thousands, of others like her, even the runners slipped on the surface in their boots. They caught themselves against the barrels, boxes, and stacks cluttering the sides of the hull.

The captain, his greasy hair and fair skin burned from the Skettion sun, threaded the chain through the shackles. His dirty shirt gaped near the waist and the handle of a knife peeked out for a moment. Drei’s fingers twitched in response at the sight of the polished wood. Nice piece.

He roughly locked her in place and moved on. He pulled the next captive, a young boy, to his feet. The process would continue down the long bench row. Inspected, catalogued, priced, guarded closely. Just like they were the same as the lifeless items crowding the hull. Then group would be forced back down to the dark pit of the bilge and the remaining human cargo brought up.

Smuggler ships needed to be fast and light, with enough space in the hull for storing wares of legitimate jobs while hiding the illegal ones below. Many brigs, like the one now churning through the island waters, were heavily modified. Fast and small, the lowest bilge areas were turned into hidden storage units. The rest of the human cargo sat in the disgusting darkness below the wood under her heels. In the cargo hold containing the spices, cloth, food, and equipment, small portholes helped to bring in enough light for the runners to continue their ‘cataloguing.’

There would have been ample more sun had the crew bothered to pull open the metal screen of the cargo hatch. An eight by twelve foot hinged gate of sorts, the checkerboard wood had been closed up tight because of the last storm. Little fresh air circulated as a result and the smell was horrifying.

Drei tried to breathe through the gag, choosing stilted breaths instead of scenting the nauseating smells of man, slave, and sea life.