Timothy made no attempt to hide his smug smile as the dejected Jones slowly sorted through the stand of birches. Forcing someone to cut their own switch was, besides part of strictly held tradition, a lot of fun and Timothy was making the most of it, snidely pointing out branches that would make the best rod. Across the way, Lyall, his sleeves rolled up and sans collar, stood guard against their prisoner making a fast exit away from the school direction. Not that he would. Timothy could tell when a boy’s spirit was broken, and Jones’ most definitely was.
It took Jones upwards of half an hour to select a suitable branch and to indicate it with a shaking hand. Lyall came to cut it, sawing through the narrow whippy stem with his knife and handing it over to Jones to carry back to Cropper’s rooms.
*
It was all William could do to concentrate on shifting the furniture and cleaning the downstairs room. Jones was to be caned, Brutus said, and for William that brought back memories of his own experience, making his skin tingle as phantom blows scourged his skin in a most delicious fashion.
This, however, looked to be different.
There were no drapes and cushions, no incense or hashish, just cold unadorned walls and a scrubbed tile floor.
He paused, and rubbed his wet forearm across his brow. Sweat stung his eyes, and the lye soap burnt his nose and hands. Surely Andrew would have been better suited to this task? It was too menial for a trainee wolf. But Cropper had instructed and William wasn’t about to argue; his submission to the older boy was too recent to risk it simply to avoid scrubbing a floor.
Voices came from upstairs and William glanced quickly around, checking for any spots he may have missed. It seemed clean and hopefully would pass inspection. With a sigh, he clambered to his feet and stretched his sore muscles before hauling the bucket of dirty water out into the courtyard.
The early sun had yet to penetrate the small private space and the stone felt cold and damp under his feet. He peered up at the slot of blue sky above and narrowed his eyes thinking about the world outside the school walls. When was the last time he had written to his mother? A week ago Friday and he was yet to hear receive a reply from his previous three epistles. That was strange; customarily his mother was as prompt in her correspondence as he was himself; and a brief frisson of concern rattled through him.
“Will? Are you finished down there?”
Brutus’ bellow pulled William from his morbid thoughts. He carried the empty bucket back in and called up the narrow staircase, “The floor is washed, though it will take a while to dry.”
“Good,” the answer came. “Come upstairs and dress.”
William put away the cleaning stuff and trudged up the stairs, wondering what clothing one wore to a punishment. Something loose he imagined, and wasn’t surprised to find cotton drill slacks and a simple shirt laid out on his bed. He searched in vain for shoes and finally had to conclude that they were unnecessary to this costume.
“Ready?”
It was Elijah this time, still looking a little pale, but recovered from his
adventures in the river. A good night’s sleep had served him well, it
seemed. His clothing resembled William’s, though he was wearing a light
jacket over his shirt. A sop to his delicate state perhaps.
“Are they back?” William asked, glancing in the looking glass and
running his fingers through his hair in a vain attempt to lend the curls some
semblance of neatness.
“Brutus is taking him downstairs as we speak,” Elijah said.
William’s head snapped up and he studied his friend carefully. He knew Elijah well enough to recognise doubt when he saw it and it plagued his friend’s face at this very moment.
“He will get his just deserts,” he said, pressing the point home with a nod. It would do no good for Elijah to argue against Jones’ punishment. And, in truth, Jones deserved no less than he was getting. There was naught so despicable as a thief.
“It’s simply that he seems so destroyed by the accusation,” Elijah argued, stepping forward to add his skills to the task of controlling William’s hair. “It is hard to believe that he truly did steal the watch when he reacts in such a way.”
Such simple honesty gave William food for thought and, as he and Elijah made their way downstairs, William found himself reflecting that perhaps Jones’ attitude had been odd. A thief, particularly one such as Jones who was a bully to boot, should be full of bravado and, though he was at first, it had melted away under Craven’s cross-examination. By the time Brutus had escorted Jones from the dorm, Jones was a broken soul, resigned to whatever fate sent his way.
His observations were confirmed when he pushed open the door and witnessed Lyall tightening the cords around Jones’ wrists. The prisoner stood lax against the improvised whipping post, his forehead bowed onto the wooden frame. All protest seemed gone, and when Brutus ripped his shirt from neck to waist, nary a flinch moved him. Neither did he stir when his britches went the same way.
“Excellent,” Cropper commented as he stepped through the door. “All in attendance. Elijah, how are you feeling today?”
William waited for his friend to reiterate his concerns, and of course, Elijah did. A slight frown passed over Cropper’s face before he waved Elijah away and stalked across the room.
“And how is our young friend here?” Cropper asked, lifting Jones’ head by the hair.
“Getting ready to take his punishment like a man.” On the other side of the room, Brolly, stripped to the waist and barefoot, paced the floor, whipping the air with the switch and grinning at the whistle it made.
Jones didn’t answer. To William, his eyes appeared dull and lifeless, as though something vital had been taken away from him. More mannequin than man. William shot a quick glance at Elijah, whose face had paled still further at Brolly’s display, and then to Brutus who was leaning against the wall, smiling smugly. Was that really the same boy who had been reduced to tears by Elijah’s collapse? The same one who had crept into their bedroom last night, full of worry that the younger boy was not recovering? The change was unfathomable to William. Surely whatever you felt was what you felt, and changing those feelings necessitated changing something fundamental inside yourself.
“I think we are ready to begin,” Cropper said, stepping back to allow Brolly a clear swing at Jones’ back.
William went to be with Elijah, thinking to bring a little colour to his friend’s ashen cheeks, but was stopped when Cropper’s next words were aimed in his direction.
“You remember how to do this, don’t you, William. The second forty cuts are yours as I have no wish for Timothy’s arm to become overtired. It substantially reduces his accuracy.”
Stunned by the unexpected announcement, William neither saw nor heard the first blow fall. Nor the second and third. It was only when a hand brushed his arm and he looked up into Elijah’s concerned blue eyes that sound and sensation rushed back. The whistle of the switch parting the air, the sharp smack of it landing and the choked cry from the beaten boy. Welts, picked out in deep pink, sprung into focus. Ten, eleven, twelve, and the first were turning purple, turning Jones’ pale skin into a mockery of zebra hide.
Something akin to nausea rose in William’s throat. This was nothing like the caning he had given Brolly his first day in Cropper’s study, he understood that now. That had been about a punishment that was welcomed and appreciated; this was brutalisation, the very thing that made Jones so despicable in the first place, and William determined to have no part of it.
“I shall not.” The words left his mouth before he had a chance to control them. Cropper glanced at him quickly and then his gaze returned, colder and more forbidding than William had experienced for many months. William’s stomach shrank to the size of a pea and his early meal threatened the back of his throat. Why had he blurted that out? There were other words, more diplomatic and less confrontational, that would have allowed him to avoid this display. Damn it all, if everything else failed, he could have persuaded Elijah into a fit of the vapours and left to care for him.
“I shall not beat him. And you cannot make me.” And that was also less than wise because now those eyes were fixed on him. Colder than the coldest winter night. The colour of river ice and flecked with scorn.
Brutus saw Cropper’s finger move and reacted before Will could make it
to the door. He grabbed the fleeing boy by the hair and wrestled him backwards,
clutching at flailing wrists and side-stepping kicks until he had him secured.
It was not as easy as it had been six months ago, but he still had a good six
inches and several stones advantage on Will, enough to get the better of him
fairly rapidly.
“Why, William, such a brazen display of temper. I’d rather hoped we were past all this,” Cropper said, tipping Will’s chin up so the back of his head pressed to Brutus’ chest. A shudder transferred itself through Will’s body and Brutus instinctively tightened his grip on the boy’s wrists pushing them another inch up his back.
Not terribly interested in the power games going on under his nose – Cropper was sure to win, he always did - Brutus peered round to watch Brolly. The punishment was continuing despite the disruption and Brolly was well into the second forty strokes. Jones’ back had begun to ooze blood in several places and, from where he was standing, Brutus could see the corner of the rag his brother had forced into Jones’ mouth to stop any screams from penetrating the thick stone walls.
A squirm from Will drew Brutus’ attention back to the posturing before him, just in time to hear Cropper ask, “And who do you belong to, boy?”
“You, sir,” William replied and Brutus knew his eyes were lowered despite his chin still being held high. How did Cropper manage it? Bringing the youngsters to heel so damned quickly. It was something Brutus wished he could do himself but had never quite managed to fathom. Instead he used physical domination which, in Cropper’s opinion, left much to be desired.
“Then you will take up the rod and do your duty?”
“I will, sir.”
“I’m glad to hear it. T’would have been a shame indeed if
someone closer to you had followed our thief to the post.” Cropper was
staring across the room now, past Lyall and straight at Elijah who stood poised
in the doorway, his face drawn with tension and horror.
Well, that explained how Cropper had managed to get Will’s co-operation.
There was nothing like a little blackmail to ensure your own way. A tiny twinge
of guilt flitted through Brutus’ mind but he allowed it to pass. As a
ram, Elijah must learn to take punishment from a wolf, however unjustified he
considered the reason.
“You may release him now, Brutus,” Cropper said. “And Brolly? You may take yourself a short break. William has decided to help you after all.”
Brutus obeyed, letting go of Will’s wrists and taking a step back so the lad could shake off any cramps.
It was at times like this when Brutus wondered about Cropper’s selection of William as a potential wolf. William’s hands were shaking when he took the switch from Brolly, more from fear than anything else, Brutus was sure. His eyes looked suspiciously wet and a distinct tremor wobbled his lower lip.
With a swift glance in Elijah direction, William closed his eyes and swung
the switch.