Peter Sparrow

  New York

  Nothing in the world was ever fair. Peter Sparrow had learned that harsh truth as soon as he was old to grapple with it, forced to beg on the streets and scrounge through the garbage just to find his next meal. Life was hard, and cruel, and uncaring. There were no miracles, no saviors. Compassion, selflessness, generosity—these things existed only in small, random spurts. A penny tossed his way, a bit of bread left over for him. Besides that, everyone just looked out for themselves, because otherwise they’d go hungry, too.

  Yet, despite how familiar he was with the injustice of life, he never questioned it at all until he came under the ownership of Solomon Peters. Perhaps he was too young, too tired, too hungry to question the world around him. Perhaps his new station, however awful at times, was luxurious enough to grant him the privilege of rebellion. Whatever the reason, all the various injustices of the world had never made him feel so incensed. It was unfair the way Solomon treated him and Leif like farm animals. It was unfair how they toiled day in and day out, how they were berated and beaten. And, perhaps most of all, it was unfair that whatever Solomon did to them, he himself had suffered ten times over.

  It wasn’t just the scourge marks on the old man’s back, either. Peter broached the subject to Leif a few days after he tried to kill Solomon. The guilt of it wracked his heart and conscience, as did the sight of his scars. He tried to keep it to himself at first, but the memory of it haunted his dreams each night he slept. He had to tell someone, to be free of it. Who else could he tell but Leif?

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Peter asked him as they smoked some pork they had gotten from the communal farm. Salting and smoking was the best way to preserve meat for the winter, though it was an arduous and time-consuming task.

  “Sure,” he replied absentmindedly, focused on holding the pig in place.

  Peter hesitated a moment. How was he supposed to say this? How did anyone confess to an attempt at murder?

  “I… the other night,” he began, trying to figure out the words. “When the master threw out my hay… I was so angry at him. I hated him—the way he treats me, the way he treats you. I just… I thought that if he was gone, if he just went away, we wouldn’t have to worry about anything anymore.”

  Leif set the pig down for a moment, and looked Peter in the eyes. They began to water as he confessed, tears streaming down his face.

  “I don’t know,” he said, wiping the tears from his cheeks. “I just… I thought I could fix things. I wanted to… to make him go away. It’s horrible. I’m horrible. I just… I couldn’t think of anything else I could do. But I couldn’t do it, either. I couldn’t bring myself to it. I’m a coward.”

  To Peter’s surprise, Leif wasn’t angry at his confession. He barely had a reaction at all, actually, surprisingly stoic for a boy who was so emotive.

  “It’s alright,” Leif said, his voice quiet. “I tried to kill him too, actually.”

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. Few months after he bought me. Thought I’d be free of my indenture if he died. Didn’t work out that way. I regret it now, just like you.”

  Peter rubbed his eyes, sniffling. It made him feel better, in a strange way, to know he wasn’t the only one.

  Leif squatted down next to Peter.

  “Listen to me,” he said. Peter looked up at him. The older boy’s eyes were soft and sympathetic, but also serious.

  “You think you understand things,” Leif told him. “You think you understand life, the world around you. You don’t. I don’t. He doesn’t. It’s too messy, too feckin’ complicated for any man to get. The only one who knows it all, who really gets it—well, that’s God. The rest is all guesswork, and half o’ it don’t make any sense. Lemme ask you something. Why couldn’t you kill him?”

  “The scars,” Peter sniffed. “Horrible ones, all over his back.”

  “Course. Doesn’t make any sense at first, but it does once you think a bit. Everything he does to us, it’s ‘cause that’s what was done to him. It’s all he knows, all he was taught. And however hard he beats us, he always holds back some. You can believe it or not, but it’s the truth.”

  “I believe you. I… I can’t imagine what they did to him.”

  Leif nodded. The smoke from the fire pit cascaded upwards, obscuring his face.

  “This world wasn’t made for folk like him,” Leif said. “The negroes, I mean. You’ll see it every time you go into the city. They beat them, kill them if they act up or talk back, throw them away like trash. We’re servants to a cruel master, but we will never be slaves. Do you know that means, to be a slave? It means you aren’t a person anymore. You’re a thing, to be bought and sold, to be used and tossed aside. Whatever he does to us, however awfully we’re treated, we’re still human. And it’s a big difference.”

  Peter nodded. He still didn’t understand, not really, but he was starting to. What Mister Daughtrey told him was right—the line between the white servant and the negro slave was a stark one, and regardless of whatever he suffered, it wouldn’t mark him with a back of barbed skin.

  “Can I ask you something?” Peter asked.

  “What?”

  “How’d you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “You know… I mean… how’d you try to do it…”

  “Oh.” Leif’s face darkened. “Yeah.”

  “Sorry,” Peter said. “I didn’t mean to—”

  Leif raised a hand to cut him off. To Peter’s surprise, he smiled.

  “Tried to poison the old bastaird,” he laughed. “Found some mushrooms in the forest. Figured they were the bad kind, you know. Put it in the soup for him at supper. I went hungry that night just to see if they worked.”

  “Did they?”

  “Nah. Guess they weren’t poisonous enough—they didn’t kill him or nothing, just made him right ill for about a fortnight. Man, what a lesson. I had to clean up his boke and runny shits every damn day ‘till he was better.”

  Peter laughed at the image. Leif smiled, though there was a sadness to it.

  “Saw the scars too,” he said. “Every day of it. Had to clean them with a washcloth. Each and every morning, each and every night.”

  “They’re awful to look at.”

  “Yeah. Worse to feel through the rag.”

  Leif sighed. He picked the pig up and set it back over the flame.

  “Tomorrow, I’m going into town with him,” he said. “They’re trying to take away the farm.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know. The city, I guess. The governor. Whatever. English fucks. They’ve been trying for years, ever since they took over the place from the Dutch. Said the Dutch were the ones what gave him and the other free blacks this land in the first place. Since they’re not around no more, they’ve got no right to the land, according to them.”

  Leif spit on the ground in disgust.

  “They’re trying to steal the land right from under them,” he said. “And they can’t do anything to defend themselves. Hell, half of the folk here don’t even speak English. That’s why I’m going with the master, to help speak for them in court.”

  Peter hung on every word as he kept the fire under the pig going.

  “Anyways,” he said. “Me and him’ll be gone for the day. He wants you to come too, keep an eye on you, but I’ll convince him to give you the day off. It’ll help you, I think. Just take the day and relax.

  “Thank you,” Peter said. “What… what do you suppose I’ll do all day?”

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  “That’s up to you,” Leif shrugged. “We don’t have any books or toys, but I’m sure you’ll manage. Just don’t get into trouble.”

  Peter nodded.

  “I won’t,” he said. “Promise.”

  All things being said, Peter really did try not to get into trouble—at least, not at first. Solomon and Leif left early in the morning, leaving Peter to his own devices. Determined to make the most of his day off, he started off strong. He headed into the forest nearby, looking for the right stick to play with. A good stick could be an excellent toy for any boy with enough imagination—it could be a sword, or a musket, or a magic staff. But finding the right stick for the occasion was no simple task. It couldn’t be too tall or too short, too thick or too thin. No, it had to be perfect, and that took time and patience.

  Peter’s breath fogged in the cold winter air as he searched through the woods. He passed by a stick, picked it up, and inspected it. It didn’t take long—he tossed it back onto the ground, unsatisfied with its heft. He went on like this for about half an hour—none of them were quite right for what he needed. This one was too crooked, that one was too gnarly.

  Then, he saw it: the perfect stick. It was sitting at the foot of an oak tree. Almost perfectly straight, not too many knots, and the right size. He grabbed it, looking it over. Well, it’s not perfect. It’s a bit too thin. Maybe I should keep looking—

  Suddenly, Peter heard a twig snap behind him. He whirled around in fright. Nothing.

  “Hello?” He called out, his heart thumping in his chest. “Is… is anyone there?”

  Still nothing. The forest this time of year was deathly quiet, which made the sudden noise even more jarring. Peter remembered what Leif had told him—that Indians came through these woods every now and again—Lenape and Iroquois. He turned and ran in the direction he came, fast as he could, and he didn’t stop until he had reached the barn. He knelt over, panting heavily. He looked behind him, back at the forest. Whatever it was, it didn’t follow him. He looked at the stick still in his hands. Guess you’ll have to do.

  First, he played pirate. He was rather fond of pirates, growing up begging by the docks. Sometimes the sailors would tell each other stories about them, and if he was lucky, he got to eavesdrop. It all sounded so exciting—being a free man of the sea, beholden to no man or law, living for yourself. Sailing the West Indies, looking for lost treasure. He held the stick like a sabre, lunging forward in mimicked swordplay. It was fun to pretend for a while, but it quickly grew boring with no one to play with. Time to try something else.

  Peter walked over to the chicken coop, and let the girls out into their small yard. Now, at least, he had something to chase. The hens clucked frantically as he ran around the yard, brandishing his stick above his head. That was fun, too—the chickens made good sport of it, running wildly to escape him. Tiya ducked under the coop, and Peter lunged forward to poke at her. The stick got stuck between two slats of wood. Peter grunted, trying to pull it out. All of a sudden, he heard a loud snap, and fell backwards. The stick had broken in two. His fun was over.

  Peter sighed, and put the chickens back in the coop. What to do now? Then, he remembered. He didn’t have to play with pretend weapons. If he really wanted to, he could go into the barn and go into Leif’s secret stash, where the two axes were hidden. That’d be loads more fun than some stupid stick. He crept into the barn and up the ladder, taking off the panel in the wall. Sure enough, they were there. But they were Leif’s, and Peter wouldn’t dare take them, even if just to play for a while. At least, not the Viking axe, the one Leif’s dad had given to him. But Leif said he’d give the Lenape to Peter soon anyway, so in a way, it was already his. Peter looked around, but of course, no one was there. So he grabbed the axe, and put the wooden panel back on the wall.

  Peter just sat there for a while, admiring the axe in his lap. It was a beautiful thing, really. There were small, ornate carvings in the metal, delicate accentuations to a deadly weapon. The more he looked at it, the more excited he got, until he couldn’t contain himself anymore. He scrambled down the ladder, axe in his right hand. Too rushed—he slipped on one of the rungs, falling backwards. He hit the ground hard, a sharp gasp screaming from his lungs as the wind was knocked out of him.

  Another breath, and then another. Each one helped him come to his senses, shaking off the daze from the blow to his head. He looked around on the ground. The axe was there, lying an arm’s length away from him.Thank God I didn’t fall on that, at least. Peter scolded himself for not being more careful before picking himself off. His head screamed at him, and when he went to rub it, he felt a bit of blood. Uh-oh. He felt around. Not enough blood to sound the alarms, but something that would definitely need cleaning up. Peter sighed. The Lenape axe would have to wait.

  Inside the house, Peter got some alcohol and a rag from the medicine drawer. He sat in the kitchen, tending to his scrape with dabs of the soaked washcloth. It stung every time, but Peter knew it was helping.

  Something on the countertop caught his eye. It was a key. He stood up, walking towards it to get a better look. A key with a leather strip through it, like a necklace. But this was not just any key—it was the special key, the one Solomon carried around his neck at all times. It was the key that unlocked the secret door, the room he was told never to enter.

  Peter stood there staring at it, paralyzed. He had never even thought this could happen, and he had no idea what to do with it. How was it here in the first place? They were in a rush this morning, and the master looked really impatient. Maybe he just left it. His hand floated from his side up to it, entranced like a sailor to a siren. He caught himself, and stopped. I shouldn’t do this. The master told me not to. Hell, Leif told me not to.

  He looked over to the door. It exuded some aura into the room, some palpable feeling of creeping mystery. It could be anything in there. It could be a dead body, or a heap of gold, or—or… well, I don’t even know.

  In the end, his curiosity got the best of him. He had to know where Solomon crept off to every day, what he was doing. Peter got the feeling—whatever was in there, it would explain everything. Why Solomon bought Leif and Peter, why he was so mean to them. Maybe even why he was brought to this New World in the first place, why he had been born a beggar.The door and its secrets had haunted Peter’s mind for so long, tormented by the unknown that lay beyond it. What could it possibly be?

  Peter took the key. He crept up to the door, gazing at its knob. He reached towards it with the key in hand, trying his hardest to make no sound, to not even breathe. He put the key in, pushed it until it stopped, then turned. A loud click resounded in the room. Peter swallowed. Can’t go back now. He turned the knob, bending his head through the crack in the door that was forming to peer inside. It was a bedroom. A rug on the floor, two bookshelves packed with books, a nightstand with a lamp. A bed next to it, and a man atop it.

  Peter’s stomach leaped into his chest as he saw him. The man stared back at him, his eyes just as wide as Peter’s. He was sitting cross-legged, a book lying open in front of him. He had black skin, but much lighter than Solomon or the girl Delia who worked for Mr. Daughtrey. His hair was thicker and rather unkempt, and he had a sizable beard. He looked young for a man, at least to Peter, but he couldn’t tell how young or how old exactly, given how the beard obscured a good amount of his face.

  “I…” Peter began, trembling to try and find the words. “I—I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t have done it. I—”

  “You’re not supposed to open it,” the man said. “No one else is supposed to open it.”

  “I—I know. I’m sorry. Really, I am. I’ll just—

  “Are you a Mason?” The man asked him.

  “What?”

  “It’s a simple question. Are. You. A Mason?”

  “I… I don’t know. I’m a boy. My name’s Peter.”

  The man inspected his face for something. Peter had no idea what possessed him to do so, but he found himself opening the door wider and wider, until he could step into the room.

  “No,” the man said, like it relieved him. “You’re far too young. They wouldn’t let you in yet. What are you doing here?”

  “I just saw that the key was here. The master left it here, and I… I just wanted to see what was inside.”

  “Oh. Well, it’s just me.”

  “I… I see.”

  “You can come in if you like. I won’t tell him. I like keeping secrets from him, anyway.”

  Peter hesitated. His entire body was practically shaking. I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be doing any of this. But despite his best instincts, his body carried him forward. He walked into the room, closing the door behind him.

  “What’s a Mason?” Peter asked him.

  “Short for Freemason,” the man explained. “They run things, control people—the Dutch, the English. Them and the Rosicrucians. Don’t you know that?”

  “No. Should I?”

  The man shrugged.

  “What happened to the other one?” He asked.

  “What other one?”

  “The other kid. Like you.”

  “Oh. He’s here, he’s just in town with the master.”

  The man grimaced. Did he dislike Leif? Peter couldn’t tell. He looked around the room, trying to relieve himself of the silence.

  “I’ve never seen so many books,” Peter said in awe. “Have you read them all?”

  “No, not yet. He brings me new ones every now and then. I could probably have gotten to all of them, but I like re-reading the good ones.”

  “Are there bad ones?”

  “A good amount. He can’t read, so he doesn’t really know what he’s buying. Some of it’s trash, some of it’s mediocre. Some of it’s good.”

  “Why don’t you pick them out?

  “I’m not supposed to leave the room. You know that.”

  “Oh.”

  Peter stood there, trying to stand still in the uncomfortable heat of the man’s gaze.

  “Can… can I ask you something?”

  “Only if I get to ask you something back.”

  “Who… are you?”

  “Oh, me?” I’m Rehoboam.”

  As he said those words, Peter hardly heard them. All he could think about were the man’s eyes. He stared into them, paralyzed in a dread he had never felt before. They looked just the same as Solomon's.