The Slave

Patrick ran as fast as he could, because the horsemen coming through town weren’t friendly looking. He got as far as the crossroad near his house when a hand grabbed his shoulder. He looked up, his heart pounding. The big man had ruddy cheeks, a bright orange beard, and crystal blue eyes.

“Let me go,” said Patrick, kicking his leg, but the man’s grip only tightened.

“Nah, you’re a-comin’ with me,” he rolled his “r” and spoke with the accent of the pagan men from across the sea.

“I’ll be no use to you,” said Patrick. He knew this man meant to make him a slave. Their kind often raided his homeland for men who could work. But he was only a boy with no muscles.

“We’ll find something fer you to do,” said the burly fellow who dragged the thin pale Patrick to the horses.

Patrick didn’t think much during the long road to the docks. All he could do was worry about his mother and wish he were home. The boat made him seasick. Locked in its hold he couldn’t see the Emerald Island the boat was approaching. When the ship docked in Eire, he was put into a pen among other slaves. Shoppers passed by, one by one, to look him over. They shook their heads “no.” At the end of the long terrifying day, Patrick stood alone. He let out a sigh of relief that the other slaves had been sold, not him.

The red-bearded fellow who had taken him from his home came into the pen. “You’re  a-comin’ with me,” the man said, his voice tired and angry, because he hadn’t made a sale.  

Patrick shivered as the man led him off. His name was Jarlath. At least that’s what the other raiders had called him. He seemed to be his enemy. After all, he’d robbed Patrick of his home and country. But after a few hour’s time, the boy saw that the burly fellow had a kind heart. It gave him hope that he might one day find a way home.

“What’s this you’ve brought me,” asked Jarlath’s wife Meg when they reached her white washed hut. It was clean and warm, like his mother’s, thought Patrick.

“A boy to work our fields,” said Jarlath trying to make good on his failure to sell.

“Why this strapping youth wouldn’t even be able to push a plow,” Meg answered.

“You can keep him as a kitchen boy, then,” said Jarlath.

“Oh no, you don’t,” said his wife. “You’ll take him out to tend the sheep first thing in the morning.” She took Patrick by the hand, led him to the wooden table and had him sit down. “You’ll be needin’ some muscle afore Jarlath can use you,” she said. She shoved a bowl of mutton stew in front of him.

           Patrick nodded a hungry thank you and filled his mouth with the warm meat. Jarlath and his wife bedded him down on the straw in the sheep’s stall next to house. He was too tired to try to escape. He was too tired to think about what the future would bring. He was too tired even to say his night prayer. He just fell soundly asleep, grateful that Jarlath and Meg were good people, and that someday, if he escaped, he would come back to bring them his Christian faith.