Date: Sun, 28 Dec 2008 18:03:20 -0800 (PST)
From: Kris Gibbons <bookwyrm6@yahoo.com>
Subject: CatTale2

				  CatTale
			   by Kristopher Gibbons

Copyright 1996, 2008


This story is a work of fiction. It often contains references to both
sexual and violent behaviour, along with expressions of physical affection
and compassion. If you find this type of story offensive, or if you are
underage and it is illegal for you to read it, please exit now. All
characters are fictional and in no way related to any persons living or
deceased. Any such similarity is purely coincidental and uncanny.

This work is copyrighted by the author and may not be reproduced in any
form without the specific written consent of the author. It is assigned to
the Nifty Archives under the provisions of their submission guidelines but
it may not be copied or archived onto any other site without the direct
consent of the author.


I can be contacted at Bookwyrm6@yahoo.com

How I pronounce the names: Pwerid - (p-where-id) Shaleton - (Shall-et-tun)
Tuenn - (Tiu-en) Krilwkut - (Krill-e-cut) Ferikgroeln - (fair-ic-gruln)
_________________________________________________________________________

                                       CHAPTER TWO

     The late-autumn sun had set when Pwerid had the chance to step
outside. By the time he cleansed the supper service and aspersed the
kitchen, the distant Temple bells had tolled-in the first hour of
evening. Earlier, Tuenn had left to clean up the dining hall and see to the
Master's comfort. Shalleton had been clinging like the Master's shadow all
through the meal, so Pwerid doubted Tuenn would have much to do.
     The kitchener moved away from the manor-building and sniffed the
night. The air smelled sweet to him, free of any trace of food or
leavings. Chill, brusque winds whipped at him, making his skin prickle, but
Pwerid refused to retreat, enjoying his illusion of freedom and moment of
quiet solitude. Stolidly, he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dusk,
then looked up.
     Twinkling and taunting, stars only lightly peppered the bowl above;
distant, individual predators, stalking the heavens. Later, Pwerid knew,
the skies would look like a field does, when moisture speckling the grasses
glitters with sunlight. Still, looking up at the distant, unchanging
expanse brought neither comfort nor awe. Quietly, to himself, he repeated
the worn lament which each day evoked, murmuring the very mold and texture
of his despair.
     "Am I going to die Nikraan property?"
     Long ago, watching his fellow slaves and the ever-present Nikraan, he
learned without instruction or reprimand what slavery truly meant: the
liberties he had, by grace of Nikraan laziness or indifference, and the
sweeter ones denied him. More, he saw the psychic barter, that which
slavery must have devolved into at some point in the past. The fear of
losing the food, clothing and roofing - which the Hramal now looked to
Nikraan for - had replaced the once universal threat of torture and
horrible dying.
     Torture and death remained a very real threat for Hramal. But only
occasionally, as the whim of some Nikraan dilettante might dictate out of
boredom. Quicksilver savagery and impassible cruelty, which had been
universal and which had frozen the heart of any Hramal disobedience or
rebellion, had diluted with the passing of two generations. Now, the
kitchener thought bitterly, with the conqueror lulled, Nikraan saw no
Hramal disobedience or rebelliousness.
     At first, Pwerid supposed he and his people had merely become inured
to the Nikraan, a numb endurance of necessary evil. Until the day he joined
Master Ferikgroeln's retinue on a condolence visit to another manor, at the
death of its Master. There he had seen Hramal garbed in threadbare linens
and hemp weave. Many, undernourished, suffered from rickets, from bone
breaks and fractures which healed too slowly. He had seen a manor weighted
down in futile splendour; gaudy funereal cerements draped over tastelessly
expensive ornamentation. Eating utensils which the lord had displayed every
day, either of poisonous metals or useless with costly gilding and exotic
damascene. A rich land and manor, with servants constantly being
replenished. During the visit a number of slaves proudly displayed, in
front of mates and lovers, their spavined children gotten of the late
Master. A few cried from anxiety about their future Master.
     And all of them, all the fellow Hramal Pwerid saw, wept and genuinely
mourned their Nikraan Master's demise.
     Standing outside his kitchen, head still tilted to the evening skies,
Pwerid grimaced at the memory - the shock and indignation he had felt
then. His surprise had long faded with time. Indignation remained.
     Trying to be fair, Pwerid acknowledged that as Nikraan Masters stood,
Master Ferikgroeln treated his Hramal well. The Master roused for only two
concerns: His horses and his comfort. This meant that he had no interest in
mutilating, torturing, raping, or gelding. It also meant that he gave his
slaves whatever kept them healthy and productive, to spare himself any
extra effort or unnecessary bother. To most slaves, the kitchener thought
sourly, this manor must look like a haven, where a Hramal might almost
forget being a slave.
     Pwerid could never forget.
     On clear nights such as this, his grandmother would sit him down to
tell him all she remembered of the old days. "Before the Nikraan," she
would say, "a Hramal prospered or starved on her own merit." He wondered,
as he often did, how he might have fared in such a world. A world where
'Hramal' did not mean 'slave', where every month he didn't hear of someone
he knew being brutalized to relieve some Nikraan's moment of ennui, where a
Hramal had a chance to make choices other than obedience or death.
     'No,' Pwerid concluded in disgust. 'All the Nikraan could disappear
tomorrow and I would not shed a tear.'
     He shook his head at his own meanderings and walked back through the
kitchen, into the corridor. Turning left would bring him to the dining-hall
and, eventually, Master Ferikgroeln's apartments. Pwerid turned right, and
strode past his helpers' rooms to where the passageway ended. Two
apartments stood at this end of the corridor, the one for himself and
Tuenn, and the other for their Nikraan overseer Hultten.
     Ever soft-spoken, Hultten made an even-handed overseer, gregarious and
charming at all times. Unlike most Nikraan supervisors, Hultten treated his
Hramal with leniency, humour, and an imperturbable disposition. Whatever
the moment or mood, the overseer's face always bore a cat-like expression
of private amusement, self-satisfied and secretive. A hulking, straw-haired
giant, Hultten liked the younger servants. He preferred girls before they
bled and boys before they whiskered. Since shocky and panic-ridden servants
created countless hassles and crises for him, Master Ferikgroeln ousted any
Nikraan even suspected of damaging his property - his slaves. So Hultten
got their trust and affection before anything else, to ensure their
silence.
     Before Master Ferikgroeln's ascension, a child's willingness or
silence did not matter. So Pwerid kept himself unmolested by rubbing the
leaves and sap of certain weeds along his skin, causing lesions and wens
that repulsed the Nikraan. When his body developed a resistance to the
plants, and Hultten became unavoidable, Pwerid peppered his groin with
moistened and ground-up dried white corn, and loaded his meals with salt
and heavy spicing. The night Hultten claimed the boy, Pwerid's mouth and
lips looked like one huge, festering sore, and his genitals seemed
infested. Pwerid left Hultten's den untouched, and branded 'cursed.'
     Pwerid became cook when Ferikgroeln became Master, and Hultten had to
deal with a Hramal who could not be charmed into ignorant complaisance nor
cowed into mute complicity. The kitchener and the overseer both knew which
of them would lose if Pwerid had cause to complain to the Master. So Pwerid
and his workers laboured in comparative safety, and Hultten, unwillingly,
played the gentleman.
     Pwerid entered his room to find a fire burning in the hearth and Tuenn
already abed and asleep. Master Ferikgroeln had grudgingly granted them the
one room in their wing with a fireplace, for he could not endure a sick
cook and an infectious steward. Pwerid added more faggots to the fire, then
gratefully removed his overtunic and boots. When the kitchener pulled the
bed cloths about himself, Tuenn roused from his sleep to slide an arm and a
leg around Pwerid before relaxing back into slumber.
     The Temple bell tolled the second hour of darkness, and Pwerid lay
awake and alert, Tuenn's arm still slung over his abdomen. He had known
nights of insomnia before, and had taught himself to rest quietly so as not
to arise already worn and exhausted. Yet tonight, simple rest eluded
him. His ears seemed to amplify every sound, his night-adjusted vision had
him starting at phantoms, and his very body seemed to tremble with nervous
energy.
     Cricket-chirrup accompanied the slow passage of time, as Pwerid strove
to divert himself. His mind turned to the morning's encounter with
Shalleton. The woman saw him as a double-threat - a man who would not
acknowledge her appeal, incapable of responding to it, and a man-lover, a
man encroaching on her territory. For all her giggling and exagerrated
posturing, Shalleton worked like a destitute merchant to seem
intriguing. Being exotic and desirable ruled her life, informed all she
did, said, or thought. And so - except on the one occasion when she had
cornered Tuenn in the storage room, when Pwerid had wanted to drown the
minx - Pwerid could not take Shalleton seriously. She didn't seem a living
person, more like some stock character in a ballad. Even this morning she
had acted in typical, predictably offensive fashion; like warding against
Tuenn giving her ill-luck!
     Tuenn stirred, briefly restless in his sleep. Pwerid gazed at the pale
profile, quiet still in its communion with the unknown, and recalled that
same face smaller, gaunt and haunted with shadows of pain and memory. He
thought back to when Master Ferikgroeln had bought Tuenn, as one of a
group, and Hultten had gleefully assigned the young Nikraan under Pwerid.
     The second week of Tuenn's tenancy, shouts awoke the cook,
night-noises coming from the kitchen. He arose and investigated, a
dinner-knife in hand, to find the Nikraan lad asleep near the ovens,
weeping and tossing about in some nightmare's ride. Beside the young
slave's head lay a damp rag which, Pwerid then supposed, the Nikraan had
been stuffing in his mouth so as not to arouse others. Even in the dim
moonlight, blood clearly stained the wadding. The kitchener recalled his
first serious, and appalled, look at the Nikraan who had been forced upon
him. At that time Tuenn had fifteen or sixteen years, but weighed maybe
eighty pounds at most.
     Keeping a distance, Pwerid prodded him with the kitchen
wood-stoker. The Nikraan snapped his eyes open, saw the stick and
screamed. When the slave realized that his dream-antagonist was not who
faced him, and that he had roused the master of the kitchen, he curled up
into a ball and trembled and sobbed with relief and shame.
     Pwerid had ordered the Nikraan wipe the soot and tears from his face,
then bade the lad to follow. In the relative privacy of his own room,
through question and mimickry, the kitchener learned a sliver of the
tongueless slave's history.
     With no little amusement, Pwerid recalled how, throughout Tuenn's
anguished tale, he would find himself holding his blue-veined hand or
offering a linen - and then belatedly realize he comforted a Nikraan. Soon
enough Tuenn could convey no more, but sat on the floor numb with fatigue,
shying at every sound, anticipating abuse. And had the ghostly pale youth
been the very Nikraan who had axed his ancestor, Pwerid wordlessly decided
that night, he himself could not leave Tuenn to suffer alone in the
kitchen. He had cradle-lifted the startled slave and set the lad on his own
bed, despite Tuenn's protests. Then he had feigned slumber until his
frightened but exhausted bedmate succumbed. When the thrashing and shouts
began, as Pwerid had expected they would, he murmured lullabies to Tuenn
and lightly stroked his head. Slowly, the nightmare ebbed. Foul dreams
returned a couple of times that night, and Pwerid awakened each time to
dispel them.
     The next day, Pwerid the cook told Tuenn the kitchen drudge that his
sleeping place would no longer be in the kitchen but beside the cook. When
Tuenn saw how protest changed nothing, he voiced his acceptance by kissing
the cook's hand, tears rolling down his cheeks. But where others assumed
gratitude, Pwerid read despair, and a fearful acquiescence. So he had
pledged to the Nikraan, there before his bemused helpers, that Tuenn's body
would remain his own at this manor, inviolable. It took many weeks to
reassure the nervy, hag-ridden youth. Throughout those weeks, and through
many more, Pwerid kept the night-terrors at bay as best he could until,
gradually, they diminished.
     Caught up in his round of remembrance, Pwerid paid no attention to the
tolling of another hour.
     Months passed, and the dreams faded. Tuenn stopped flinching at sudden
movements, or when someone inadvertently touched him. Under Pwerid's
fostering, Tuenn began to regain his natural weight. Confidence emerged
slowly, aided along as many Hramal around him came to trust and rely on his
willing helpfulness, and as the kitchener continued to encourage him. Even
those who would not see beyond his lightning-bolt tattoo, and all that it
signified, often chose indifference over malice in his presence. But over
two years passed before Tuenn glimpsed the depth in Pwerid's staunchly
inoffensive regard.
     One night, after Hultten had approached him with poorly veiled
intentions, Tuenn awoke out of a nightmare to catch Pwerid trying to sooth
it away.
     Pwerid remembered staring, frozen with surprise, as Tuenn calmed from
the dreams. When he finally thought to remove his hand from Tuenn's
forehead, the youth had clasped it briefly in his own before letting it
go. Shaken, the kitchener had tried to explain what he had meant to do,
what he had been doing every time the memories threatened. Tuenn did not
respond immediately, and his face told the apprehensive cook nothing about
his state of mind. Pwerid had sought to apologize for any felt trespass,
but the Nikraan motioned him to silence. Tuenn then lit and ensconced a
torch, sat back beside the kitchener and looking into Pwerid's face, had
laboured to speak lucidly. The precise words had blurred with time, but
Pwerid would never forget the moment itself.
     "Thank you. You help me when you should hate me for a Nikraan. I know
how you feel about this," He had slapped his forehead, and its indelible
smudge. "You have been like a father to me. I don't mean to repulse
you. But when I saw you just now...looking down on me in bed. I realized
that I did not want you to be like a father. I love you,
Pwerid. Master. Not like a son. I have felt this strongly ever since I
could feel anything other than anger or fear. If this disgusts you, or
makes you uncomfortable, just say so. I would rather sleep in the kitchen
than worry you..."
     He recalled pleading for silence himself, then. His mind had deserted
him completely, leaving him in a fog of anxiety. The first reservation he
had had, that Tuenn merely sought some assurance of his manhood or
desirability from a safe person, had toppled unspoken. Tuenn had spent
nights, with Pwerid's uneasy foreknowledge, enjoying the company of other
young manor-slaves. His second reservation, that the ordeals Tuenn had
endured might have marred his ability to separate sexual from filial love,
met with no certain answer, only the resolve that he must trust Tuenn to
know his own feelings.
     Pwerid's panic - his most vivid memory of that night - stemmed from
the fact that Tuenn's confession mirrored his own feelings. Smiling at the
man now sleeping beside him, Pwerid could not recall exactly how he had
replied to the younger Tuenn. He felt sure that he had babbled quite a bit
before finally admitting how Tuenn had been his heart for some time. He
told Tuenn that he had chosen to keep silent, rather than lose the
affection they had, or cause Tuenn to doubt his own safety around the
kitchener. Pwerid vaguely remembered confessing jealousy and anxiety during
those nights Tuenn had spent with fellow slaves. He had been afraid a
callous bedmate might deeply wound Tuenn - evoke foul or dread memories in
him. And he had seen every single one as either too flighty or too shallow
for his gentle, intense helper.
     He remembered they had held each other a lot, both shaky with nervous
release. Then, careful in their mutual uncertainties, they had kissed.
     Face ever impassive, but with eyes damp, Tuenn had tried to pledge his
fidelity. Pwerid, seeing a youth set on denying himself what he might later
crave or rue the lack of, had sought to temper his beloved's fervor.
     "Hush, Tuenn. You have only nineteen or twenty years to you, and only
this year felt whole enough to seek out love. Do not shackle yourself so
quickly."
     Tuenn would not be deterred. "And you have but twenty-nine years. Old
man!" He flashed a smile. "What better pleasure could I find but where my
heart is housed. I will never give you reason to doubt me, nor give you
cause to be jealous. I pledge this to you."
     Five years had passed since that night of intimacies, and the memory
of Tuenn's words still humbled the kitchener, the delight they gave him
made his heart ache sweetly, as did the daily confirmation of them in
Tuenn's steadfast affection. Gently, as of old, Pwerid stroked the
Nikraan's sigil-scarred forehead.
     The Temple bell tolled the fourth hour of dark.