A New World, Chapter 3: Market Town

CHAPTER THREE:  MARKET TOWN

The road was now bordered by century-old oaks on both sides, planted to arch their branches together and create a dappled shade to welcome travelers to Market Town.

The oaks gave way to a vast sunny vista of the commercial heart of Market Town, the big warehouses of the various merchants’ guilds—the brickmakers, farmers, mariners, lumbermen, mining, textiles, and so on. Surrounding them were the smaller workshops of craftsmen, artists and skilled tradesmen—blacksmiths, leather workers, glass-makers, painters, candlers and carpenters. Entire streets, shaded by canopies, were lined with retail shops and stalls, with various wares displayed for sale, everything from fresh vegetables and hanging hams to fashionable dresses and clothes, from glittering jewelry to whips, leashes and chains. Food vendors held up grilled meat kebabs, fried seafood and fresh baked breads and pastries, letting the aromas do their marketing. The affable citizens and visitors of Market Town strolled about, chatting, bartering, buying and selling the necessities of civilized and pleasant life, or just wandering to see what new and interesting things the world had to offer them, paying no attention to the slaves who scuttled about, going about their tasks, eyes lowered to avoid attracting attention from their betters. If you were a citizen of Market Town, life was good.

Trig caught the scent of the ocean, and saw the masts of sailing ships moored in the harbor. They were small, shallow-draft ships, designed to follow safe coastal routes or travel up freshwater rivers. With their fore-and-aft sails, they could sail close to the wind and required a minimal crew to handle them. The ships were crewed by a mix of men and women sailors; the women’s agility complimented to men’s strength when working the masts and rigging, and women took up less space and required less calories than the men. Some said women sailors were more likely to bond as a crew and easier to work with; less ego, less drama than the men.

He spotted Tiny, still harnessed, tethered to a rail among other small carts and livestock, on his knees, resting. A water dish had been left for him. Eleanor and Alice were nowhere to be seen, probably shopping in the market. Trig was pleased to see that his repairs had worked and the wheel was still intact. Daisy waved to Tiny as they passed, and the big slave smiled back a little shyly, waving as much as his harness allowed.

The high brick walls of the slave market, one of the largest in the known world, (according to the aldermen of Market Town) paralleled the main street. The tops of the walls were lined with broken glass set into the mortar, glittering in the sun, a practical and aesthetic improvement upon the ugly barbed wire which had fallen into rust. The Slavers’ Guild was very proud to have gifted this civic improvement to the citizens of Market Town, and Trig was proud to be an apprentice to such a public-minded organization.

The slave market was always a popular site for visitors and bored residents, who often strolled through the Freemen’s Gate just to see what was for sale or in the holding pens. If a slave execution was scheduled, there was always a crowd, eager to see what creative and amusing methods the slave managers had thought up.

At regular intervals along the wall were rounded brick enclosures, about four feet high and two feet wide, fashioned of newer brick than the wall to which they were attached. Trig knew that each of these contained a recaptured runaway slave who had been immured into the wall alive and left to die of thirst and starvation. The space was two small to stand or sit, and one brick was left out so the slave’s last sight—after his or her brief moment of freedom—would be the slave market itself, while the slave’s world would have shrunk to a space barely wider than their shoulders. The missing brick also allowed the slave’s suffering to be prolonged by splashing in some water, or urination by a passerby. It was also fun to tease them with food or water. Once the begging and moaning and sobbing of the occupant had ceased—or sometimes before—the final brick was cemented into place. This was considered a fit and just punishment, because a slave’s punishment should always mirror the offense.

As Trig’s wagon passed the entrance, he noticed the three runaways that had been brought in by the slave patrol that had passed him on the road. They were in three small cages, barely large enough for a dog, curled up the back corners, hugging themselves or sobbing into their arms. A sign above them read I BETRAYED MY MASTER WHO FED AND SHELTERED ME BY RUNNING AWAY.

That’s silly, thought Trig as he passed by, slaves can’t read. Trig wondered if they would all be immured, or maybe sent back to be tortured to death from wherever they escaped from as a lesson to their fellow slaves.

Either way, their owners were going to forfeit their security deposits when the slaves were “put down.” While owners or their employees, such as Trig himself, enjoyed the right to kill a slave for any reason at any time, they would have to make financial restitution; likewise, if the slave had to be put down after an escape attempt. It was a practical system designed to encourage diligence on part of the owner, and discourage wanton destruction of a useful resource. If an owner felt the execution had been a justifiable or necessary action, they could appeal to a board of slave managers to have their deposit returned. He had never been to such an appeal, but would need to attend a least one before he was promoted from apprentice to journeyman slave manager.

Although the punishment cages were placed as a warning to other slaves, none of Trig’s slaves looked in the direction of the cages, looking down at the dirt at their feet. Daisy turned her head away. Had Trig noticed, he would have seen her eyes watering, probably pricked by the ocean wind.

It didn’t take long for the slaves to unload Trig’s wagon at the Farmers’ Warehouse, the baskets and crates of fresh produce measured and weighed, with the value credited to Mr Kim’s farm.

Trig remembered a lesson Mathias had taught him, to deal with the chronic problem of food theft by slaves. He put aside thirteen red and ripe tomatoes from the dozen-plus crates, leaving them conspicuously displayed on the bench of the wagon. If there was no food theft, each slave would get a sweet, juicy tomato; if he even suspected one slave has taken one bite, or popped a cherry tomato or a handful of blueberries into his mouth, no one would get anything. Additionally, they would all be punished, for the theft, for allowing the theft, or failing to prevent the theft, whether or not a theft had actually occurred. In this way, the slaves became allies of the master, policing their own ranks in hope of a small reward. The cost of thirteen tomatoes was much less than the anticipated ‘shrinkage’ of theft, and simpler to supervise. Trig was impressed by Mathias’ skill at slave wrangling. “It’s not just about the whip,” Mathias said, “You must get into the slave’s head, like training any animal.”

Once the wagon was unloaded, Trig walked along the length of the team, tossing tomatoes for them to catch. “Nice work…good boy,” he praised them like good pets, as they nodded and thanked him for this small boon, and ate them greedily like apples. He saved the largest one for Daisy.

Of course, thirteen slaves, twelve dicks and a bitch, was more than would usually be used to haul a produce wagon to market and back, but it was the second task of the trip that required more intensive labor, loading and hauling a load of cedar planks back to the farm to re-roof the females’ slave shed. The task was made more difficult because the road from harbor to highlands was a gradual uphill grade.

Once the produce was unloaded and the wagon empty, Trig didn’t bother re-harnessing the slaves, and had them pull the wagon by the cross-trees. They seemed a compliant team, even Jonas, and he anticipated no problem as he steered them through the busy avenues to the warehouse of the lumbermen.

They were now in a more industrialized part of Market Town. They passed huge bins of the Mining Guild, with piles of crushed glass, shredded plastic and rubber, twisted rebar, iron and aluminum, concrete rubble, all salvaged by mining into the ancient buried cities and ready to be recycled into new uses. The loss of slaves in this industry was high, burrowing into cramped, unstable and sometimes toxic spaces, but the rewards for the people of the new world were well worth the loss of slave lives.

Trig had learned in school that the burdened lives and deaths of slaves was the necessary price that had to be paid to keep the world in balance, to enjoy his comfortable and pleasant life, and his family and friends. “Some must be burdened so that others may prosper; the world demands it. There is no other way,” Trig had heard since childhood.

The Lumbermen’s’ Warehouse smelled sweetly of freshly milled pine and cedar, and the sharper scents of oak. Stacks of lumber were piled high, with sawdust underfoot, planks and beams stacked by dimension and type of wood. Trig checked his notes and found his way to a pallet-load of stacked cedar, tagged with Mr. Kim’s name.

The unharnessed slaves carried the planks to the wagon, while Trig supervised. Even diminutive Daisy tried to help, but as the odd bitch in a team of twelve dicks she never quite fit in, awkwardly carrying individual planks while the males efficiently worked in pairs, carrying stacks of lumber. Trig was pleased that she was trying to help. She really is a good slave, and he was glad he allowed her a treat from Alice earlier, he thought as he watched her. She was pleasant to watch, and Trig a felt his cock stiffen in his pants, a little uncomfortably. He was too self-conscious to reach into his trousers and arrange things in a more comfortable orientation.

Trig had enjoyed both male and female slaves, but his inclination was towards females. When he was horny and distracted, needing a hole, any hole would do, but he preferred the softness and delicacy of a bitch slave, their vulnerable weakness, the tender flesh, the smallness of their shoulders, how their hair draped over your belly when you lay back with your cock her mouth, how they yielded to a forceful kiss, opening their thighs, so grateful for a man’s gentle attentions and touch….

“You must be Trig,” said a male voice behind him. It was a declaratory statement, not a question, coming from a man who often issued such confident statements of fact.

Trig turned and beheld a man about twice his age, old enough to be his father, but clearly still in the prime of life, physically fit, unlike his own paunchy father. His clothes were dusty and dirty, faded and frayed at the cuffs. Pencils and notes spilled out of his shirt pockets. From his belt hung a coiled tape measure, a plumb-bob, a carpenter’s square, other tools Trig did not recognize, and a short-coiled whip. His face was framed by a close-trimmed beard, and the corners of his eyes showed the crinkles of someone who worked outdoors, or smiled often.  He held out his hand in greeting.

“I’m Alexander. I think you met my wife and daughter today.” Alexander’s handshake was firm and confident; Trig was no weakling himself, but like most young men he was still learning the art of the handshake. He let Alexander pump his hand up and down a few times.

“Thank you for helping them out. I don’t know what happened to the wheel—I rotated those wheels myself, and I’d hate to think I’d forgotten to tighten the lug nuts!” Trig was taken aback, struck that this man, who radiated confidence and authority, would so easily accept responsibility for an error, not blaming it on an underling to be scolded or a slave to be whipped.

“Anyway, I’m glad you came along. Believe me, I got an earful from my wife about it!” Alexander said with a chuckle. “They said you’re an apprentice slave manager?”

“Yes sir,” said Trig.

“Please, call me Alexander” the man continued. “I’m building a warehouse for the Textile Association, and just stopped in to pick another load of lumber. I’m glad I bumped into you! Where do you work?”

“The Kim farm, a few miles out of town.”

“Really? I rebuilt the tread mill there a few years ago. Kim wanted it enlarged from ten to twelve-slave size. How’s it holding up?’

“Works great, no problems,” said Trig.

“And here is the lovely little Daisy.” Alexander walked towards Daisy, who immediately dropped to her knees, palms and elbows flat on the ground, her buttocks on her heels, breasts pressed against the floor of the warehouse, licking and kissing Alexander’s dusty boots. Trig was pleased to see that she was alternating between both Alexander’s left and right boots; he would been embarrassed if one of the slaves in his charge had not greeted a master properly.

Alexander used the toe of one boot to gently push Daisy into an upright kneeling position. “Stand up. Display.”

Daisy rose to her feet, legs wide, up on her toes, hands clasped behind her neck, breasts thrust out, eyes lowered. Alexander regarded her silently. Trig noticed Daisy’s nipples seemed to have grown perky from the pink aureola of her breasts. There was sawdust clinging to her bosom. “Look at me,” Alexander commanded. Daisy raised her eyes to meet his. “You’re as beautiful as ever, Daisy,”

“Thank you master”

Alexander reached out to caress one of her breasts, then down to Daisy’s crotch and gave a soft tug on her small bush, making the slave wobble a little.

“I think you look better without this, but I’m not your owner. Are you well?”

“Yes master. Master Trig is not cruel.” Trig was pleased at her choice of words; had she said he was “kind” it would have diminished him.

“Relax,” said Alexander. Daisy moved to stand with her feet together, arms clasped wrists to elbows behind her back, head down, in the position of a slave waiting for instructions.

Alexander turned to Trig. “Have you used her yet?”

“Just her mouth. Today was the first time I had the chance.”

Alexander laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder. “She gives a great blowjob, doesn’t she?” When Trig smiled and nodded, Alexander said, “You can thank me for that. Isn’t that right, Daisy?”

“Yes master, this slave is very grateful Master Alexander trained her to suck cocks properly.”

Alexander turned back to Trig. “Next time we meet, I’ll ask you which of her holes you like the best, and we can compare notes!” Both men laughed, Trig’s laugh a little forced.

Daisy’s gaze was fixed on the dirt at her bare feet, and she had allowed her brown hair to veil her eyes. Neither man could see her face clearly. Trig didn’t want to. He was afraid of what he might see there, and wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

They chatted for a little while longer, as Trig’s slaves stacked and covered the load of lumber, returning to their places along the yoke, harnessing one another in place, waiting for their master’s command.

Alexander glanced over at wagon bench, as though looking for something. “You don’t have a whip?”

“Just the carriage whip,” said Trig.

“Do you have one of your own?”

“No, I just use whatever is hanging in the barn when I need one.”

Alexander unhooked the short whip from his belt and handed it out to Trig. “Here, take this.”

“Sir, you don’t need to repay me—”

“It’s not a payment. I wouldn’t insult you with such a thing. It’s a gesture of thanks. Please, I have others.”

Trig accepted the gift, and attached the hook to his belt and arranged the whip so it hung coiled at his left hip, the grip on top and facing forward for ease of access, as Mathias had taught him this kind of whip should be carried. Trig knew this whip was better quality than any of the old, well-used and worn whips in Mr.  Kim’s barn; it was newer, and the handle was made of different materials than the leather of the lash. The grip was a gray leather of a type he had never touched or seen, and the knob on the butt was some hard, polished and lacquered white material. The lash was clean and gleaming black, with a wider “dragon tail” at the tip.

The two men shook hands, with friendly smiles. “Say hello to Kim for me,” said Alexander.

“I will. Say hi to Eleanor and Alice,” said Trig.

“Say it yourself sometime. Alice works at the beach most days. She’s the first person you see there,” said Alexander, with a smile and a wave, walking away to his business at the lumber warehouse before Trig had a chance to ask him to explain his cryptic statement.

Trig checked the slaves’ harnesses, especially Jona’s, giving him a warning look, and secured Daisy’s leash. He climbed up to the driver’s bench and rang the higher-pitched “go” gong, and cracked the long carriage whip here and there along various slaves, not really aiming for any one in particular; the lashes were light enough to elicit no more than a few yelps, meant as a stimulus and signal, not a punishment.

He had considered—and wanted to—using his new whip instead of the carriage whip, but he knew enough about whip-handling to know it was too short for carriage use, and the dragon-tail tip would lose velocity and energy at maximum extension. It was a tool for close use, a master thrashing a slave who was bent over a whipping rack, or cringing at his feet.

As they passed the spot where Tiny had been tethered, Trig was disappointed to see that Eleanor and Alice’s cart was gone. He would have liked the opportunity to chat with them again, and ask Alice where she worked at the beach. Would she think that was ‘creepy?’ He wasn’t sure. After all, her dad had shared the information; he must think Trig was a good guy. Would she resent that, her dad trying to fix her up? Girls were so complicated and confusing.

He was pondering these complexities when they passed the slave market again on their way to the main road. There was only one male in the cages of the runaways now; the other male and the female had been removed elsewhere. A few yards away, a bricklayer was building the first layer of a small semicircle of bricks against the wall of the slave market. A male slave was bringing him the bricks as he mortared them in place, from a wheelbarrow piled high.

 Trig paid no attention.

She’s the first person you see at the beach, Alexander had said…what did that mean? Trig hadn’t been to the public beach all summer; he wasn’t really a beach person. When he had time off, he’d rather relax at the farm, sleep late in his room, or join the other staff in playing games with the slaves. He resolved the go to the beach his next day off.

Once he reached the open road, Trig pedaled the gong again and flicked the carriage whip here and there, just hard enough to let the slaves know he wouldn’t accept any slacking. Traffic was lighter now, mostly shoppers returning home. Most of the commercial traffic had already left Market Town; the only other cargo wagon he saw was horse-drawn cage wagon, carrying a load of female slaves in various stages of pregnancy, curled up in the straw with a tarp to protect them from weather, on their way to a breeding farm somewhere. He exchanged waves with driver.

It had been a long and tiring day for him, and he was eager for dinner and having Daisy chained in his bed. It would be dark soon, very dark.