And out of his life for the next forty years.
PART THREE
Coming of Age
Chapter Ten
Eric’s breath came in sharp, painful gasps. There was a stabbing ache in his side and a hot, metallic taste in his mouth that burned down the very length of his throat each time he swallowed. The day had been chilly when he’d started his hike, but sweat covered him now as he ran, making the tiny scratches and lacerations on his face and forearms from low branches and briars sting. Fatigue steadily overtook him, causing him to misplace his hurried steps more and more frequently now; he was stumbling more often, and he knew that any lead he once had over his pursuers was beginning to dwindle, if, in fact, much distance remained between them.
He had never taken the main trail this near the town before, and was now beginning to regret having left the grounds at all.
There was a clearing up ahead where the hulk of a fallen tree—an enormous oak, its battered old trunk more than a meter thick—lay across the path. It had been there for some time, apparently, because someone, perhaps a local farmer or one of the townsmen who regularly hunted these woods, had taken the trouble to hack crude steps into the rounded sides with an ax. The steps were little more than boot holds scooped out of the wood and he should have slowed, he knew, and sacrificed a bit of time to scramble carefully over, but instead he made an attempt to leap it. His right leg actually cleared the top as he leaped, but his left shin banged full force into the downed tree, snagging him and sending him tumbling onto the damp, hard-packed dirt of the path on the other side.
Eric rolled onto his back and, staring at the patches of blue sky visible through the treetops, lay still and waited for the ground to stop spinning around him. He closed his eyes, shutting out the dizziness, and enjoyed for a moment the delicious chill seeping through his sweat-soaked shirt from the damp ground beneath him. Listening carefully, he tried to detect the sounds of the boys chasing him, but his breathing was still too labored and, to him anyway, too loud to hear much of anything other than his own blood rushing in his ears at the same accelerated pace as his heart pounding in his chest.
He struggled to his feet, wincing when he put weight on his left leg, and was about to start down the path once more when a sudden, stinging pain thudded against his left shoulder, followed by another further down his back. Eric tried to run, but the weakness in his leg made him stumble to his knees as a third piece of lead shot grazed his ear. His hand flew instinctively to the side of his head and he cried out, against his will, and fought back tears.
“Hold now, pup, or my next shot will crack your skull asplit!”
He clenched his eyes tightly, trying to drive the pain away. Eric felt a warm stickiness in his fingers, but refused to lower his hand and look at the blood he knew he would find there. Instead, he fell to a sitting position and pivoted slowly around to face his tormentor. The boy stood atop the fallen bole of the oak tree, aiming a slingshot at his forehead. His aim was pulled back fully, ready to fire, and if the lead ball contained in the slingshot was of the same weight as those he’d already used, Eric was sure the boast of cracking his skull was no idle one. Still holding his ear, he lowered his head in a sign of surrender.
“That’s a good pup,” said the boy atop the log, barely winded by the chase. He was at least five years older than Eric, maybe sixteen or seventeen, and jumped down from the log with an agility that said he was no stranger to the rugged terrain of the backwoods. There was something about the older boy that was familiar, Eric thought, but he couldn’t quite place him. Perhaps he’d seen him in the village on one of the rare instances McLaren had allowed him to accompany him, or maybe he was a son of one of the servants or groundskeepers at Woodsgate.
He strode casually to where Eric sat, the slingshot never wavering. A grin spread across his face, and Eric noticed the thin beard the boy was attempting to cultivate. The whiskers were very light in color; lighter, in fact, than the long copper-red hair that tumbled unkempt over his collar.
“Paulie! Mobo! Come on around!” There was a thrashing sound from the woods to Eric’s left, and presently two more boys appeared at the edge of the trail.
The three of them were dressed in similar clothing: roomy, belted pants of a dark broadcloth fabric, linen shirts with long blousy sleeves, leather lug-soled boots, and vests of leather and heavy canvas. Their clothes showed obvious wear from repeated hiking in the backwoods, but the colorful nylon knapsacks the two newcomers wore appeared new. Each of the three wore a knife sheath on his belt, while the boy with the slingshot also wore a whip coiled at his side.
“Do you know how easy you were to catch?” asked the first boy, slowly releasing the tension on the slingshot. He put the ball into a small sack dangling from his belt and tucked the slingshot itself into a pocket. “I asked you a question,” he repeated.
Eric looked up, but did not answer, and noted with satisfaction mat his silence had not been taken as fear, but rather as defiance, which seemed to perturb the boy. He nodded sharply to his two companions and they jerked Eric to his feet.
“Cut him, Reid,” said the shorter, heavier of the two as he released Eric’s left arm and discreetly stepped a few paces behind his leader. “Show him what we think of peepers.”
The boy, Reid, laughed and stepped forward. “How about that, now, pup? Did you get an eyeful, and enjoy it?”
Eric had sneaked out of Woodsgate, bypassing the security shielding that surrounded his home, and had spent the better part of the afternoon outside the grounds. He was forbidden to leave the grounds unaccompanied and Master McLaren would be livid when his absence was noticed—again. But any opportunity to ramble through the Kentucky hills, even for a short while, was worth any reprimand the Master might hand out. He had been hiking what he thought was a little-used side path off the main trail when he’d come upon them. He had heard them first, heard the sounds of a woman’s high-pitched laughter in a patch of scrub just off a section of the established trail near the village. Curiosity had drawn him closer and he saw, about a dozen meters distant through a break in the scrub, Reid and his companions—and what they were doing—in a small clearing.
A working whore was with them, one of the women he’d heard about who practiced their trade at the local taverns. She was at least a little intoxicated and seemed to find it difficult to keep from giggling periodically, even as the boys prepared to take their turns with her. She lay naked on a hastily made bed of dry leaves and pine boughs over which she’d spread out her own clothing. Reid unfastened his pants, lowered them to his knees and, not bothering to undress further, climbed on top of the woman, much to her seeming delight.
Eric had watched in fascination and fear of something he knew about, both from his formal teachings and boyhood tale-telling, but had never experienced, never seen before.
“Reid! There!” One of the boys pointed at his hiding place in the bushes and all heads turned toward him. He froze, even as Reid scrambled to his feet and quickly, clumsily, refastened his pants.
“Another!” cried the working whore, her voice showing more amusement than annoyance at the interruption. She rolled unsteadily to her side on the makeshift bed, supporting herself on an elbow, and faced Eric. He stared at her, unable to move. “And a young one, at that!” She laughed again, unbalancing herself as she did, and fell once more to her back.
There was a sharp crackling sound as a lead shot whizzed through the leaves at his right, shaking him from his immobility. Even as he turned, he saw that the three were already moving. Only the fact that they hesitated to grab their few belongings gave him a head start. He turned and ran back down the trail in the direction of Woodsgate, the sounds at his back a mixture of angry cries from the boys at his heels and the even angrier cries of the woman, now suddenly aware that her young customers were leaving without paying…