The Chief calmed down after that, but I was still wary, even after returning to the house. And then, of course, I'd be forced to attend the market stalls and pub all over again, next week. I dreaded every single minute of it. Almost every single man at that place was an insect at mind and a bear at brawls. I found myself in a corner, sipping water to ensure my faculties would remain. None of them were let too close before I'd shift seats, afraid to let anyone strike up a conversation – for I'd already heard theirs quite loud, and didn't want to be a part of them. The problem with psychotic ones is this: they get off on doing what they know can hurt, and call it "breaking you in". There is a fun way to break someone in, and it's not committing a beating or a rape. You're supposed to knock shoulders and slap backs, but these were the sort of depreft blokes who thought first of bashing your head in, with a stone. That was, to them, a good form of fun before taking your pants off... and not to soak up blood, and save your wounds. If he'd been even a little closer to the men he drank and joked with, I might not have been so lucky... to escape with my honor intact. They, beastly and proud of their gristle, bragged frequently about defiling virgins; and I got the feeling only some of them were making things up. Far from chivalrous, The Chief and his friends were truly nothing but a pack of fat, filthy vagrants soaked in oil, sweat, and gold. I was called "moody" and "lonesome" for my distance, but I cherished it all the same.

Even at the house, he treated me the way a thumbjohn treats a whore he hasn't paid yet: like a transaction waiting to happen. His madness made him see 'signs of reciprocity' that were never there at all – it became like corralling a mentally handicapped giant just to ward him off. I began to understand why he'd lost all his spare funds, not just to sweets and fried snacks, but to brothels as well. It was obvious that him and his black-gold brethren were commonly used to treating themselves... to lap dances and favors, from women and men; as well as, most probably, boys and girls whose parents had abandoned them. Or simply lost sight at the wrong moment. That was exactly what he seemed to think I was, for living in what he always shouted was 'his house'. When he didn't get what he wanted, he tried what worked on the dog – abrupt whistles, snapping, and imperative commands. It made one's hair stand up on their neck, afraid to let him bark another word unanswered. He treated me much like an animal, and for that, the dog and I were quite close – if not for them forcing me to house the big fluffy lug in my bed every night. Between hair in my sheets and terrible breath, I'd every reason instead to make a new bed for him out in the halls – which, in the middle of the night, he'd shat on. He was getting old, and I was thankful he'd done it where I didn't have to sleep at night. But I did have to clean it up, at least four times.
As for the lovely couple, it was quickly apparent (from all the bloodcurdling screams, cut-throat arguments, infidelity, and moral façade) that I'd caught them right at the end of their towering marriage, as it started to collapse in rocky chunks onto everyone and everything below. In fact, on my very first day present, I'd attempted to make idle chat while grabbing tea, and was told the lack of abject fear in my voice made me 'disrespectful'. The Chief stomped towards me, and said he would have to 'throw my ass out on the lawn' if I kept up – and this was back when I still trusted him. By now, I saw in him nothing but an accursed, infected tyrant.
All The Rationeer said was, "You're hurting my heart."
No one seemed to care how mine felt – not as I stood there confused, being yelled at in my bedroom of one sleeping bag and a desk. To them, 'respect' apparently meant 'unconditional social obedience' and 'forced eye-contact', like two predators checking one another for signs of betrayal. I bowed my head in the hall and made excuses not to see them at all, ducking as silently as I could through the grand cabin. I'd been taught by my grandfather that it was a lack of disruption, of noise and clatter, as well as a smile and a handshake that commanded true respect. Consideration for one another's self-worth and the work they did, commemorated in pats on the back. I received no such cordiality at any point during my stay with the Beckenovs. Regardless, I decided that in return for their kindness in housing me, I'd obey their orders to the degree that they never encroached my personal safety, nor my freedoms as a human being. And to be fair, it never came to that... but it got very, very close. Still, I needed to survive, and get back home.
So one day, I shocked them by kneeling in pledge, waiting for them to finish arguing over how to deal with firewood – attentive, ready for the next command. The looks on their faces were utterly priceless – it was like a shining griffin had flown down before them bearing a sword, backed by sunlight and the smiling beard of Zeus himself. And then they immediately went back to insulting me, and calling me stupid.

It wasn't all bad, though. Sure, The Rationeer was blind to her husband's faults except when they concerned herself. The Chief was a mess too disgusting to describe in a single sentence, like a mythical problem whom The Gods Themselves would have banished to the worst ends of the Earth they could find. Even Hercules would have had his hands full.
But there was also the dog, Thunder, whom I adored and spent as much time as possible with. Which was annoying to the old mutt, because he preferred to be left alone unless he was being petted or given steak. Once or twice, I gave him milk from the neighbors' cows, which he seemed to love. He wasn't much for playing fetch, because he was busy prowling the acres for signs of trouble. When nobody else was home, we'd hang out on the deck and sleep. I was, of course, supposed to be working, but I learned fast that if I did so when The Rationeer wasn't around, she assumed nothing had been done. Much like a child, her idea of work ethic was a game of peekaboo. Too much progress without her supervision came as a threat. And anyway, it was a waste of a chance to rest, which I'd never get so long as she was present. Actually, The Chief barely cared what I did, so long as I was outside. But that was only at home. On his latest shore-leave from Arabia, he decided I was to assist him in building a small crop-farm for one of his friends. So he commanded me into the carriage again, and I rolled my eyes, not knowing it was about to be a whole day's worth of travelling. At the very least, he'd stacked too many things into the cart, which allowed me to claim I was 'making room' by hanging out in the back with our belongings. We didn't get there till it was dark. In the morning, he left me in the middle of a field to farm carrots. Then I chopped weeds, cut grass, tilled rows, and so on. I was stranded there, in unfamiliar land, for two weeks – and in the cabin he 'generously' shared with me, he'd belch and fart till the whole place reeked like a corpse. One night, the ground and walls began to shake, and I was disgusted to figure out he was... shall we say, 'handling himself' to get to sleep. There was only a thin wall between us, and the doorway had no door. I cringed, and covered my ears. I wanted to go home, and I was trapped in the middle of nowhere with who, at the time, I would describe as "my worst nightmare". I suspected the only reason I was safe was because, the next night, he stayed inside his friends' house, instead. And boy, was that man walking strangely for the whole rest of the week. I had the cabin to myself until we left, and I dared not allow so much as a stray pube fall out of my pants, drawstrings tied tight to my waist. I slept with one eye open.

In the morning, I tried to write a letter in the villa, to The Rationeer to come retrieve me. But he'd followed me to the post office, ripped up my envelope, and burned my letter in front of me. He claimed I was "disloyal", and that if I was worth my salt, I'd work till I dropped. My only comfort was feeding leftover grass and hay to the cows, who appreciated my contribution and allowed me to pet their sides. They'd moo, and I'd be off again. I only had to milk them once, and it wasn't my kind of chore – the cousin scolded me for my lack of skill and did it himself, instead. Wouldn't explain what I'd done wrong, just frowned.
Over those two weeks, he set me to regimen lifting stones at the crack of dawn, as if he was training me for the war. Instead of being allowed to recover and rest, I was immediately put back to the fields so he could brag with his friend about his work ethic, while sipping mead. I, of course, was chopping turf not a stone's throw away, doing all the actual work as far as I was concerned. I'll admit, he spent hours working a pulley so the other man could align them to build himself a rock-shack for his dog. Then, he built a fence for the cows. But I was the one stuck pulling ferns out of the chicken coop fence, I was the one sickling the damn lawn on my hands and knees, and I was the one who was forced to do it all again the next day while he slept off his hangover. My injuries were sore, and my legs were on fire. I was so angry, I took a compass from my bag, and threw it against a rock – which was stupid, because I'd need it to get home, if I wanted to run. Now I couldn't. The cows had seen me do it, and so had his friend.
He berated me for that, and smacked me upside the head.
Finger at my chest in j'accusé, he bellowed, "I can't AFFORD to REPLACE that, YOU STUPID FOOL!! Why don't you THINK?! FOR ONCE?!" It was oddly salient advice, coming from someone who barely thought themselves.
I decided that for once, he was right. I'd let my temper get the best of me, and that was a mistake I couldn't afford to make. Not here.

The next day, he decided I was to accompany him in a burnt-down house that his friends' cousin had once owned. We were to dig through the wet, moldy ashes, and unbury anything worth salvaging. It was a three-story fort, made mostly of wood, with some stone foundation that kept it from absolutely piling. My balance while walking was often terrible, because of my feet, but I found myself enjoying the challenge of walking across boards, high above the ground I'd meet if it snapped. My balance surprised even him, but it seemed my gait was too feminine for his liking; he preferred men, and preferred that I acted like one, for his own distant gratification. But the balance didn't come from that place, for me, I found. It was hard to explain. So I enjoyed his distaste, knowing that the lighter and fancier I was, the less he could stand to look at me. Then, in the basement, the cousin had kicked up a cloud of dust and soot so thick, it smoked up the room. I caught a mouthful of it, and my head spun. I began to feel lev-headed, and I crawled my way out of the place with blood pounding in my ears while he yelled for me, angry at my departure. I was found outside by a strange gaggle of elders, a band of Muslim women in black shoals which covered their wrinkled faces. Together, they helped me into their carriage, and took me to the local clinic. They gnattered and argued the whole way, and I found them much like old crows, fighting over an invisible scrap of carrion. When we arrived, I fell unconscious in the waiting room, and woke up in a bed. The doctor had been steaming my lungs for the last hour or so, and told me if I wanted to live, I'd remain. It took two days for The Chief to find me, and he was so angry, he looked as if he was going to wring my throat.
Instead, he just sighed: "You only did this to get out of work. I don't want any more of your excuses for the rest of this trip, you hear me? On my wife's honor, I'll see you on that field tomorrow morning... or you're going home in a casket."
The doctor heard that, and took pity on me. It took three guards to keep him out of the building, after that. I stayed for another two days, until my lungs could finally meet my ribs again.
When all was said and done, he collected the coin from his friend in a big, cloth bag. His friend had tried to pass me some coin as well, but The Chief shot him a look. So he took some coin from my bag, and put it in the other one. And with that, we were off.
Then he passed me a couple of coppers and said, "You earned it."
I almost laughed. He'd engineered himself a situation in which he could appear charitable, by being the greediest fucker alive. Then he demanded those coppers back, to pay for 'room and board'. But as I recall, I'd been cooking every meal myself – dreading him to appear behind me as I slid onions around in a cast-iron. The entire way home, I ate nothing but raw carrots which I myself had farmed. He stuffed his face with rolled oats, stuck together with honey. When we finally returned, I was to unload the carriage of all its contents, and clean the passenger seat. He'd filled it, somehow, with refuse and litter, so tall it piled up to the board itself. It was disgusting, and even The Rationeer seemed put off by it. When I was done, I found my bag of coins had been moved, and was just a little bit lighter than it'd been last I left it.
The Rationeer came out to see us, gave her husband a kiss, and then found me for greeting. She asked me, with a hug, "Are you okay?"
But he was standing right behind me. So of course, all I could say was, "Yeah, I'm fine."