the engines that push this ship are
below us, and the lords live in the space above the Commons, but I have seen
neither."
"The warriors. Are they lords?"
"No, they are not lords. The lords seldom fight for
themselves, I am told. The warriors are also from the Earth of our time, but
from another part of England."
"Why do we never see them or the artisans on our
walks?"
"The lords have made all of us different, too different
to be comfortable together, perhaps. Sometimes, a farmer will talk with an
artisan about a problem within the ship. The warriors keep to themselves. If
you are ever close to one, you will understand why." He pointed at a
dusty cloud clockwise around the central column. "You have seen something
of the warriors almost every day in our walks. The dirt in their practice area
has been ground to powder by their feet. When the dust is in the air, they are
training."
"Could I watch?"
The horrified expression on Forset's face almost made Tommy
laugh aloud.
"No, of course not!" Forset said.
# # #
For a while after his first meeting with Forset, Tommy's
mornings at the stables became harder. The boys didn't appreciate his new
confidence and tested him at every opportunity. Whenever the first Jack and
the second Jack were out of sight, one of his tormentors picked a fight. Tommy
held back in these scuffles, and they made noise without much injury, but the
fights always drew one of the Jacks to see what was happening. Jack would
threaten, and things quieted down for a day or so, until the next clash.
Except for bruises, the fights mostly made Tommy hungry. He
couldn't get enough to eat, and by the time he was talking with Forset about
artisans and warriors in walks through the decks and the Commons, he had twice
exchanged his shirts and pants for larger sizes.
One day, the first Jack told Mark to accompany the second
Jack to pick up some equipment, and Tommy had to unload the feed wagon alone.
When this had happened before, Tommy had jerked the bags off of the wagon, one
at a time, into the wheelbarrow. This time, he was thinking over the previous
day's lesson and the essay he would write that afternoon, and, without being
aware of what he was doing, he brought a feed bag to his chest and threw it
into the wheelbarrow. He stopped. That felt good , he thought. He
picked up another bag and threw it after the first. That felt easy!
The third bag he lifted over his head before sending it after the others,
filling the wheelbarrow. That was unbelievable!
He climbed into the bed of the wagon and danced around,
holding his arms in the air and congratulating himself. That was fun!
On the second turn, he calmed down and glanced around guiltily. I mustn't
be caught playing instead of working.
Movement at the far edge of the stable caught his
attention. That's the first Jack talking to a group of boys , he
thought. They looked like... Yes, they are the boys I've been fighting.
What is that about?
The wheelbarrow rolling over loose straw muffled any sounds
the boys might have made, and his eyes adjusting to the dim light inside the
stable prevented him from seeing their ambush. A blow across his upper back
sent him stumbling forward into the wheelbarrow. If the impact had been six
inches higher, the attack might have ended then. Instead, it knocked his face
into the stack of feed bags and gave him time to turn around. For months, the
fights had been with bare hands. This time, each of the five boys stood in
front of him with a weapon.
I might have a chance against the sticks , he thought, but I need more than my bare hands against the two with pitchforks. He
looked around for a weapon of some kind. They had backed him inside the
wheelbarrow handles against a stack of immovable feed bags. The handles
confined him to a space two feet wide.
Maybe not so immovable , he thought. In one whirling
turn, he picked up a
below us, and the lords live in the space above the Commons, but I have seen
neither."
"The warriors. Are they lords?"
"No, they are not lords. The lords seldom fight for
themselves, I am told. The warriors are also from the Earth of our time, but
from another part of England."
"Why do we never see them or the artisans on our
walks?"
"The lords have made all of us different, too different
to be comfortable together, perhaps. Sometimes, a farmer will talk with an
artisan about a problem within the ship. The warriors keep to themselves. If
you are ever close to one, you will understand why." He pointed at a
dusty cloud clockwise around the central column. "You have seen something
of the warriors almost every day in our walks. The dirt in their practice area
has been ground to powder by their feet. When the dust is in the air, they are
training."
"Could I watch?"
The horrified expression on Forset's face almost made Tommy
laugh aloud.
"No, of course not!" Forset said.
# # #
For a while after his first meeting with Forset, Tommy's
mornings at the stables became harder. The boys didn't appreciate his new
confidence and tested him at every opportunity. Whenever the first Jack and
the second Jack were out of sight, one of his tormentors picked a fight. Tommy
held back in these scuffles, and they made noise without much injury, but the
fights always drew one of the Jacks to see what was happening. Jack would
threaten, and things quieted down for a day or so, until the next clash.
Except for bruises, the fights mostly made Tommy hungry. He
couldn't get enough to eat, and by the time he was talking with Forset about
artisans and warriors in walks through the decks and the Commons, he had twice
exchanged his shirts and pants for larger sizes.
One day, the first Jack told Mark to accompany the second
Jack to pick up some equipment, and Tommy had to unload the feed wagon alone.
When this had happened before, Tommy had jerked the bags off of the wagon, one
at a time, into the wheelbarrow. This time, he was thinking over the previous
day's lesson and the essay he would write that afternoon, and, without being
aware of what he was doing, he brought a feed bag to his chest and threw it
into the wheelbarrow. He stopped. That felt good , he thought. He
picked up another bag and threw it after the first. That felt easy!
The third bag he lifted over his head before sending it after the others,
filling the wheelbarrow. That was unbelievable!
He climbed into the bed of the wagon and danced around,
holding his arms in the air and congratulating himself. That was fun!
On the second turn, he calmed down and glanced around guiltily. I mustn't
be caught playing instead of working.
Movement at the far edge of the stable caught his
attention. That's the first Jack talking to a group of boys , he
thought. They looked like... Yes, they are the boys I've been fighting.
What is that about?
The wheelbarrow rolling over loose straw muffled any sounds
the boys might have made, and his eyes adjusting to the dim light inside the
stable prevented him from seeing their ambush. A blow across his upper back
sent him stumbling forward into the wheelbarrow. If the impact had been six
inches higher, the attack might have ended then. Instead, it knocked his face
into the stack of feed bags and gave him time to turn around. For months, the
fights had been with bare hands. This time, each of the five boys stood in
front of him with a weapon.
I might have a chance against the sticks , he thought, but I need more than my bare hands against the two with pitchforks. He
looked around for a weapon of some kind. They had backed him inside the
wheelbarrow handles against a stack of immovable feed bags. The handles
confined him to a space two feet wide.
Maybe not so immovable , he thought. In one whirling
turn, he picked up a
Similar Books
