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5: A Bloody Problem

Quince was wondering how to make himself bleed—preferably in the least painful, least obvious way. He sat naked on the mattress, really a large burlap sack filled with dried grass. He studied his dark skin, the veins in his arms, his legs, and his ankles, which were red rimmed from shackles. How would he draw blood?

He had told Dirk the plan, and now Dirk was squatting, looking exasperated in the far corner of the cell under the barred window. "Brains of a pig," he muttered, "you got the brains of a pig. Worse than that. You got pig shit for brains. Pig shit."

Quince studied the room again and found nothing of help: whitewashed cinder block walls, rebuilt from the ruin of some ancient hotel; two mattresses; a tiny window with Thomas Bay visible outside if you stand on tiptoe; the door, thick steel with a food tray slot; empty plates. The plates. Maybe he could bend one of the tin plates until it broke. He could slash himself with the jagged edge.

No. Ach. He hated this. He was a scribe, not a warrior or hunter. He hated blood, especially his own, and he hated pain. This made him think of doctors—their leeches and fever rooms and scalpels. He remembered himself as a little rugger in the waiting room of a doctor, a vile old blood-letter who seemed to thrive on fear and agony. When the doctor's assistant pushed through the door and motioned for him, little Quince had fallen forward in a dead faint onto the planking. His nose had broken, and ever since. . .ah, this was the answer, of course: Ever since, his nose had bled very easily!

He stood and snatched up an empty cup from the floor by the door. "Dirk, I have it. You will punch me in the nose. I will bleed, easily, I know it. Like Waterfall of the Wise—and it will only hurt a little."

Dirk still looked perturbed, but he pushed away from the back wall and stopped at an arm's length from Quince.

"I won't do it," Dirk said. He stared now at the floor, embarrassed to refuse his friend and cell mate, a fellow Rafer. "Your plan is dangerous—it will get you killed. They say we will be boated to the mainland any day now, so why not wait? On the mainland, there will be more places to run. On this island you will be found quickly."

Quince had been holding the cup under his face expectantly, but he frowned now and dropped his hand. "If we leave the islands, I'm afraid that we'll never see home again," he said grimly. "What is the word now—how many have died among us? Ten? More?"

And then Quince's vision was filled with a large brown fist, followed by a blinding light. He found himself on his back, staring at a cockroach on the ceiling. Tiny streams of moisture ran across his face and down his throat. There was a grumbly voice, Dirk's, and his head had not cleared enough to gully the meaning: "You bleed beautifully, my friend. Now go out and get yourself killed."

 

Jay-Jay was gnawing on his eighth pork rib when the screaming started. The portly young man slammed the bone to his plate, shoved his chair back and huffed himself to his feet.

He was locked into this corridor of malodorous green carpet, and it was his job—with no arms but a billy-banger—to cruise up and down the row of steel doors delivering food, emptying slop buckets and handling the miscellany. Screaming red-leggers—that was miscellany.

The guard waddled down the hall, licking barbecue sauce from the stubble on his upper chin. A sweat mark crossed his broad shoulder blades in the shape of his chair back. He knew it was cell 243, those two red-leggers Dirk and Quince hollering their fool heads off. Hold a gang of pig-pokers for weeks like this, you get to know the voices. Even if they don't know any English, you know 'em by the sound.

He threw the crossbar back and opened the window. Dirk, the dumber one, was right there by the window practically spitting in Jay-Jay's face, for crissake. He was slapping his stomach frantically and pointing at Quince, who was rolling on the floor. On and on, Dirk was blathering in that Rafer tongue of theirs, sounding like, "Blad-de-la-de-la-de. . .."

"Back! Back ginst the wall!"

They don't know English much, but they know that anyway. Dirk edged back, still gibbering.

"What's a matter wichu, boy?" Jay-Jay shouted. That one on the floor, that one Quince, was always a pussy. "My Mama's slop gone to your tummy, Quincey-poo? Huh? Get up, jerkoff."

Quince lifted his head a little, all grimy from the floor, to look up at the window. He does look pretty pitiful, Jay-Jay thought, and what's that—stomach convulsions? Gawd, I don't want ta clean up more barf today. Pleeeease don't barf.

Just then Quince retched crimson down his chin and onto the concrete.

Jay-Jay's stomach tightened, and he worried about holding down his own dinner. He slammed the window shut, locked it, and ran down the corridor, making the floor quake. We'll be needing a stretcher for this one. And Big Tom's gonna be piss-angry if we lose another red-legger 'fore they ship off.

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Framed