Maiocxx

Educating Quinn

Book II

Continuation of Istari's Educating Quinn

Prolog

The story thus far:

From the time he had been a toddler, Quinn van Doorn had been a complete disappointment to his father, Greg. The quiet, gentle boy… so much like his late mother… did not possess any of the strength and purpose necessary to manage the vast Van Doorn plantation… at least that was his father's opinion. As he became older, Quinn, realizing this, searched futilely for some way he might prove himself and win his father's love and respect.

Quinn's intense, studious nature… his desire to learn and understand… set him on a course which would shortly change his life in ways he could not have imagined. A foolish venture trying to experience and understand the kind of punishment his friend Brandon… one of their family slaves… had undergone resulted in placing all his father's vast holdings at risk.

Driven by panic and unwise counsel, the elder Van Doorn concocted an elaborate scheme that would save his empire and his young slave Brandon, but would forever estrange himself from this troublesome child. Quinn must confess to serious breaches of the law and agree to become a penal slave.

Not fully understanding all that situation entailed and determined to at last prove himself, Quinn agreed and suddenly found himself living… no existing… in a world that exacts a ceaseless toll of pain and humiliation. Abandoned, humiliated and abused by his former friends, his body modified to conform to the fiendish restraints he now wears, Quinn's days are filled with ceaseless labor beyond exhaustion and his nights with still more pain and humiliation.

Permanently gagged and hooded except when his labors required his sight, he lives in a world of darkness and silence. The only thing he feels is the sting of his overseer's whip during his labors, the pain of his almost nightly raping and the crushing weight of the iron fetters he wears.

Ignored by his father and vilified by the other slaves on the plantation who are terrified by his sudden and complete transformation, he lives in a world apart. The only person to show him the slightest bit of kindness is his friend Brandon and even he is frightened by Quinn's situation and afraid his own place in the Van Doorn household might suffer if he were discovered.

And, ever hovering in the background is the evil and amoral James Milstead and his oafish son, Nate, both determined to exact their cruel revenge upon Penal Slave #47… as Quinn is now known… for what the elder Milstead believes is a lifetime of mistreatment and degradation by the Van Doorns.

PAIN!

TERROR!

DARKNESS!

EXHAUSTION!

STARVATION!

These were the boundaries of Penal Slave 47's life at the tender mercies of James Milstead. The corrupt and venal overseer reveled in the belief that his ultimate goal… possessing the Van Doorn Vineyards and its riches… was one step closer with the removal of Greg's effete son from the equation. After years of being sneered at by the lad, he was in a position to make what little was left of the boy's life a living hell. And he was doing very well at it.

By the end of the first month of his slavery, Penal Slave 47 could not have told you that his former name was Quinn. That his former father was Greg van Doorn. That the person who was now his master was his former friend, Brandon.

For his part, Brandon disciplined his former friend as Milstead directed, whipping him viciously, driving to exhaustion and degrading him. No, he was still his friend… or he tried to be… but he, himself, was but a slave and subject to Milstead and his son and he must be very careful lest he lose the favored position he had with Greg. After all, in two years Greg had promised to free him.

Whenever they were alone on the job, Brandon tried to care for the worst of 47's injuries, tried to provide him a bit of food, tried to show that he cared about him. In particular, he tried to dress the deep gouges the 'stinger' inflicted on 47's inner thighs, some of which were infected. But it was a battle he was losing.

Forced to participate in the nightly raping of the boy by James Milstead, Nate and his friends and certain of the other field hands, he could only try to repair the damage to his anus before fleeing to his room… Quinn's former room… and sobbing bitterly. Greg even raped him one time and spent the next two days locked in his room in severe incrimination.

Brandon watched his friend gradually sink into severe depression as the impossible assignments that Milstead devised for him and the complete exhaustion resulting and the near starvation diet took their toll. Finally, no longer able to contain himself, he went to his Master.

Greg was startled one evening to find his slave outside his bedroom door, kneeling with his forehead touching the carpet and crying and shaking hysterically… he thought, at first Brandon might be having some sort of seizure.

Gathering the boy into his arms, Greg carried him into his room and sat on his bed. He held the boy close to him and tried to sooth his terrors with limited success. "Master! They're killing him!" Brandon sobbed.

"Brandon, Brandon," Greg tried to console him. "He's just a slave now. He's being punished. You have got to stop thinking of him as a friend."

"NO!" screamed the boy, forcing himself out of Greg's arms. "I don't care! He's my friend and I just can't abandon him. He's your son, no matter what the law says. Don't you care for him at all? Aren't you responsible for the mess he's in?" He realized he had gone much further than a slave should have and he steeled himself for the blow he was sure was coming.

Greg recoiled in shock from Brandon's words and was about to strike him when a wave of sorrow overtook him. He had tried to hold it in check ever since Quinn was enslaved, but Brandon's accusation, was the tipping point. He broke down completely and cried, much to Brandon's astonishment.

"Then you do care for him? You do believe he's still you son? I know I've been impudent and disrespectful and you should whip me hard, but I just can't stand by and see him murdered."

"Please, Brandon. I don't want to go there. But I will never punish you for speaking the truth. Just keep on trying to take care of him as his master. I will think about what you have said, that's all I can promise you. Now please leave me."

Brandon withdrew to his… well it will always be his friend's… room, but he slept fitfully.

There was no indication of any change in Milstead's and his bullying son's treatment of either Brandon or 47 and Brandon began to lose all hope.

But one afternoon Brandon was instructed to put 47 back in his stall and go at once to Greg's office. As protocol demanded, he knocked on the door, entered and immediately went to his position.

Greg released him and motioned for him to join him on the settee at the side of the room. Putting his arm around the surprised boy's bare shoulder, he drew him close and told him, "Brandon, I have been to the court today and advanced your manumission two years. Tomorrow we will both go to the court and the judge will make it official. By this time tomorrow you will be a free boy."

Brandon could hardly believe what he was hearing. "But Master, why? I have failed in my duties as 47's master. Why are you doing this now?"

"You have not failed, Brandon. You have done as well as anyone could possibly have done. You will be free to choose to remain here on the plantation and continue as 47's master or you may seek your future elsewhere."

"Master, never! I will never leave your side. I want to be with you always!"

"Enough to be my son?"

Brandon gasped, but then said, "You already have a son."

"No Brandon, I do not. Quinn is lost to me forever. Please don't make me go there. I shall burn in hell for what I did to him. Please help me at least to preserve his life and memory."

"I would do anything, Master, to help you, because I know that you love me and because he is my friend."

"I knew you would, Brandon. But in all fairness, I had to ask you. It had to be your free choice. Now that you have made that choice, I will transfer ownership of 47 to you and you will have complete control of him. He must still serve his sentence and you cannot remove any of the symbols that he wears. But, at least you will be able to keep him alive and help him to accept his fate. You will still have to take work assignments from James Milstead and me, but you will have the final say whether they are reasonable. 47 must continue to labor hard as his sentence demands, but not so that he is worked to death."

Brandon's head was in a whirl.

"I know this is a lot for you to grasp," Greg concluded. "But I trust you, Brandon, and I know you will do well."

The next morning Greg sent word to a puzzled James Milstead that 47 was to remain in his stall and that he was taking Brandon on an errand in the city.

They arrived at the magistrate's office just as he was opening for the day. "Good morning to you. Mr. Van Doorn."

"Good morning to you, justice," Greg replied. "Concerning the matter we discussed yesterday, I would like to proceed."

"Oh, very well. Please come into my chambers." Brandon, as was proper for all slaves, was naked save for a small covering over his boy-parts and was very uncomfortable in the magistrate's chambers. Both Greg and the magistrate could not help but to drink in the beauty of the lad.

"You and I," said the magistrate, "went over matters yesterday and your papers are all in order. You must understand that, once taken, this action cannot be undone." Greg nodded.

"But, I am curious as to why you wish to proceed with such haste. Surely it would be most proper to delay until the original date, two years from now.

"Certain matters have made it important that we proceed at once. Young Brandon has labored faithfully for me and the plantation ever since he was a small boy. But he cannot fulfill a very important task in his current state as a bonded slave. He has chosen to continue to serve me as a free person and I trust him fully."

"Very well, Mr. Van Doorn. I have here your petition to dissolve the bonds of slavery between yourself and one Brandon Michael Trent, a duly registered bonded slave of your household. Everything being in order, I will approve your petition. Brandon Michael Trent, you are now a free person in the realm of the Provence of California. I wish you well, young man, in your new life."

It took a few seconds for the lad to understand what had taken place. Greg had just made him a free person. He was no longer a slave. "Thank you, your honor!" he managed to gasp."

"I have here," Greg continued, "another petition to be considered this morning." Removing an official paper from his jacket pocket, he handed it to the magistrate and waited for him to read it.

After a few moments, the magistrate chuckled and said, "Why am I not surprised?"

Brandon stood with his mouth open in shock. Was Greg really going to…? Was he to be his son? He had a moment of hesitation… his friend was Greg's rightful son even if the law now said he wasn't. Could he live knowing he had usurped his position? But what Greg was about to offer him was beyond his wildest fantasies!

"This petition," announced the magistrate to the other officials present, "prays that Gregory Martijn van Doorn be permitted to adopt Brandon Michael Trent, a free person, the natural son of Robert and Olivia Trent, now deceased, and make him his son and legal heir. Are there any who wish to lodge objections?"

"Hearing none, I shall ask the adoptee who is of the age of reason, 'Do you agree to your adoption by Gregory van Doorn and will you submit to his discipline and honor him as your father?'"

It was all Brandon could do to hold back his tears as he answered, "Yes, with all my heart."

"Then I shall approve the petition," continued the magistrate. "You are now the legal son and heir of Gregory Martijn van Doorn and will be henceforth know to all as Brandon Trent van Doorn."

Brandon turned to Greg and buried his face, sobbing, in Greg's jacket. "There is one other matter," his father announced. "The simple transfer of ownership of Penal Slave 47 to my new son."

The magistrate nodded his approval and it was done.

The ride back to the plantation was a very emotional one for both parties. Brandon wept on Greg's shoulder most of the way. "Let it all out, son," Greg told him as the tears rolled down his cheeks too. Not only had he been freed and adopted, Brandon realized… despite what the tortured law said… he now had a brother whose very life he held in his hands.

***

The following morning, Greg summoned both James and Nate Milstead to his office. What the plantation overseer found out there astonished and angered him.

"Yesterday," Greg told him, "I freed Brandon and adopted him as my son." Once more, Milstead could see the prize beginning to slip through his fingers.

"Moreover," Greg continued, "I have transferred ownership of Penal Slave 47 to Brandon. He will still labor as required by his sentence, but Brandon is to have complete charge of him and may determine the suitability of his assignments." Although outraged at this abridgment of his powers, Milstead held his tongue with difficulty.

"No one, slave or free, is to have any physical contact with 47 without my or Brandon's express permission," Greg concluded.

Nate looked like he was about to cry… he couldn't bully Brandon into submission any longer. He could no longer use 47 as his personal whore. Or use him to entertain his guests. The drugs his father had forced upon the unwilling fourteen-year-old may have kept his boy-parts from growing, but Brandon was a full head taller and 40 pounds heavier than Nate and could easily beat the shit out of him.

It was a day of fundamental change at the Van Doorn Vineyards. But life would go on.

With Brandon now in charge of 47, he was at least getting adequate amounts of food… even if it was slave gruel… and he began to recover somewhat physically from the killing regime that the Milsteads had forced upon him. He still didn't remember his name… or that of his benefactor… just that life had become a bit less painful and less frightening. At least his anal cavity was healing slowly now that the nightly degradation had ceased.

Brandon made sure they worked alone at jobs… even difficult and exhausting ones… and tried to make his former friend believe he had not been abandoned. At this, he had marginal success. But 47 seemed to try to please his new master and even began to take some pride in his work. But the hated hood with its gag had to stay in place, so he had virtually no way to express this to Brandon.

Brandon's new responsibilities for 47 meant that he had to assure his slave was fed and watered adequately and scrubbed down and secured in his stall each night. He wanted desperately to express his love physically but that was impossible given the metal that encased and compressed 47's parts. He had to be content, instead… well, more than content… with the love his new father showed him.

One night, he had just finished with his chores and was on his way to the main house, when he caught a glimpse of movement in the shrubbery around the slave barn. Wise enough to investigate further, he continued on his way, but then doubled back.

Sure enough, hidden by the other stalls, he saw Nate and Joey Ridgeway enter 47's stall and force the slave into their preferred position.

"You sure we're not gonna get caught?" asked Joey.

"Nah! Shit-face Brandon is busy being fucked by his new father. They do it every night, so we're safe. With that tiny cock of his," giggled Nate, "he couldn't fuck a chicken, but I bet his hole gets reamed out every night by Greg."

Tempted to strike out against them personally, Brandon had the good sense to slip back out of the barn and go for his father.

The two of them entered the barn stealthily and waited for the intruders to act. They didn't have to wait long. Greg pinioned the astonished boy with the beam of his flashlight just as Joey thrust his prick into 47's ass.

In what seemed like seconds, two frightened boys were shackled and gagged and dragged from the barn. Pausing only long enough to return Nate to his angry father, Greg and Brandon both delivered Joey back to his incensed father extracting the pledge from Ridgeway that his son would be disciplined appropriately.

While Joey could not have been charged with trespassing… Nate had invited him… he could have been made to answer for unlawful use of a slave without permission from its owner. While the whole incident did nothing to improve relations between Greg and the ever-suspicious Joseph Ridgeway, Joey was publicly flogged by his father.

Nate's punishment, however, would be Greg's and James Milstead's responsibility.

The next afternoon, all the plantation hands… slave and free… were gathered to witness it. Nate was stripped and fastened to an X-cross, leaving his entire backside from ankles to shoulders exposed. Although angry that his son had allowed Joey to entrap him, James was humiliated when Greg directed him to give his son fifty strokes with a cattle whip.

It was clear from the start he tried to pull his strokes, so after about ten ineffectual ones, Greg waved him away and handed the whip to Brandon.

Immobilized by the shock, Brandon could only stand there frozen.

"It's your slave he violated," Greg reminded him. "Show your courage, Brandon. Punish him so he will not soon forget it."

Brandon started to swing and soon his anger took command. By the time the fifty strokes were finished, Nate's ass and upper thighs were a mass of bleeding cuts and his cries had been reduced to whimpers.

Greg directed two of the free hands to remove the sobbing boy from the cross and plunge him into a tank of brine. Once again Nate's screams rent the stillness, but the brine would cauterize the wounds and stop the bleeding.

"Well done, Brandon," Greg told his 'son'. "That will teach him a lesson he will not soon forget."

As he stood there watching the bawling boy, crying piteously into his hands, Brandon suddenly felt ashamed. Yes, Nate had disobeyed and should have been punished… but not like that. He was just a kid… yeah he was a bully who had often tormented Brandon when he was a slave. And his whole backside was now a mass of weeping cuts that must have hurt hideously. For the first time in his young life, Brandon harbored some doubts about his 'father'. Was Greg the wise hero he had always believed? Look at what he had allowed his real son to do to save the Van Doorn Vineyard and fortune!

James Milstead had made no effort to comfort his son, but had stared implacably at Brandon and Greg. And Brandon saw, for the first time, that he had made lifetime enemies of two people… one adult and a small boy even younger than himself.

Milstead had reacted with mounting anger during his son's torment. Nate's pain was of little consequence to him, but the insult to him was just one more step in the long history of what he considered unfair and unworthy treatment at the hands of Greg van Doorn.

Well, he would have his revenge!

— New Char: Geronimo, Chief of the Apache Nation —

It was several mornings after Nate's flogging until James Milstead was able to leave the vineyard surreptitiously and go into town. He went, at once, to Joseph Ridgeway, who, by virtue of his legal credentials, had recently been appointed Crown Prosecutor.

The tale that Milstead laid out for him was simply too extravagant to be believed. "My son, Joey, can cook up a better lie than that," he told the astounded man and had him thrown into jail.

But, sensing there might be something to it after all, Ridgeway launched a thorough investigation and found, to his astonishment, that all of what Milstead had told him was actually true. Reluctant to move against one of the outstanding citizens of the area, he delayed going to the Judge for several days.

Greg had no idea where Milstead had disappeared to and was forced to take over day-to-day management of the vineyard. He would soon discover Milstead's betrayal as, inexorably, warrants were issued for Greg and Brandon both and served the next day.

Thrown into jail, along with 47, they soon found themselves trapped.

Realizing what could be at stake… the ownership of the vineyard… but not wishing to set a precedent, Ridgeway did not petition the court to deny them bail, but did successfully freeze all Greg's assets, leaving him unable to raise a bond. They would have to remain incarcerated until Greg could be brought to trial on charges of conspiracy, fraud and perjury.

With both Greg and James Milstead gone from the vineyard, the slaves staged a revolt. They utterly destroyed the vines… and with them, this year's crop… and torched most of the buildings including the priceless winery. Unable to quell the rising disturbance, the free workman, a few of the slaves and Nate Milstead barricaded themselves in the stone main house and held off the rioting hoards with a few shotguns.

The Governor, having gotten wind of the insurrection, and at Joseph Ridgeway's insistence, dispatched the militia to put down the rebellion 'by any and all means available'. Ridgeway, of course, expected to soon control all the Van Doorn holdings and saw his prize rapidly turning to rubble.

Despite the fact that there had been no violence by the slaves directed toward either the free workmen or other slaves, the militia interpreted the Governor's instructions in the worst possible way. And the entire plantation became a killing field. Within the matter of an hour of the troops' arrival, most of the young slaves were either dead or so badly injured they had to be put down.

A number of those holed-up in the house, swore they saw some of the undisciplined 'soldiers' rape young slaves in broad daylight before bayoneting or shooting them. There would be no inquest into these charges… the perpetrators and witnesses of them were bribed or threatened into silence.

With the revolt over, first priority was given to attempting to salvage what could be had from the ruined building and equipment. James Milstead was released from prison on parole and told to take charge once more. But when Nate told him what the militia had wrought, even he was appalled. In an act of actual decency, a shaken Nate later confessed what he had seen to Brandon.

After numerous procedural delays, Greg and Brandon were finally brought to trial. No one even thought to question the legality of Joseph Ridgeway as Crown Prosecutor since he would be the principal beneficiary, should Greg be found guilty… an almost certain probability.

Brandon was exonerated as he had still been a slave when the scheme was hatched, but Greg stood trial for perjury, fraud, conspiracy and violation of the slave acts. The issue was never in doubt and members of the jury… always eager to poke a stick at the local gentry… found him guilty on all counts. Greg's solicitor, moreover, was disbarred and swiftly fled the scene for Australia.

Greg was to forfeit all his holdings to the state and must leave California within 30 days, never to return. Brandon was given the choice of accompanying him and Penal Slave #47 was to continue his sentence without modification and remain Greg's sole property. Greg would be permitted to take with him a reasonable amount of personal property… that which would fit in a small hand-cart which his slave would pull. If he ever returned to California, both he and Brandon would be enslaved for life.

Brandon's choice was a foregone conclusion. What future would he… a former slave… have if he remained behind. He knew he would never leave 47. Somehow he understood he must make a new life for his father and his friend… even if he was a penal slave.

Charges against Milstead were dismissed and he was directed to manage the estate… or what was left or it… until the state found a buyer and the new owner appointed a new manager. Once again, he saw his long sought-after prize slip from his grasp, and would have made life intolerable for Greg and Brandon if he had not been strictly enjoined from any interference with the former owner's departure. It took several beatings at his father's hand before Nate understood what that meant and what would happen if they both failed to abide by the court's order.

The main house had been spared the destruction of the rest of the estate and it was there that a defeated and dispirited Greg returned, horrified at the destruction around him. Indeed, if it had not been that he felt he must go on for Brandon's sake, he might have taken his life.

There was sufficient food in the house… and some small amount of slave ration on the property… so he and Brandon could concentrate on preparations for leaving. Since the slave quarters had been razed in the uprising, 47 spent the entire time chained to the wall in the sub-basement of the house.

Unknown to either 47 or Brandon… and hidden from the watchful eyes of Milstead… Greg carefully packaged quantities of vine cuttings and seedlings, hiding them in the false bottom of the cart. What remained, he destroyed.

On the night before their departure a violent storm lashed the property with wind, rain and hail, doing further damage to already virtually worthless vineyard. Was this an omen?

The next morning, the three exiles set out on the muddy track which led eastward, knowing full-well they would have to cross Apache land before they could reach their ultimate goal, The Territory of Colorado. Encumbered by the weight of his chains and every step a torture because of the 'stinger' between his legs, 47 stumbled blindly along with them… guided by Brandon… pulling the heavily laden cart.

Having appointed himself their 'guide' Nate followed them on horseback, unleashing a steady stream of invective. Brandon clenched his fists, but Greg counseled, "Do not react, Brandon. Steel yourself; we will soon be free forever from his and his father's evil. Perhaps his horse will stumble and throw him, and the coyotes will get him before he can crawl to safety."

With 47's slow pace, they made it only halfway thru the estate property and the second day found them near, but not quite over the border. Risking that they were likely free from California surveillance, Brandon took a rock and pounded the chain holding the 'stinger' until he succeeded in removing it from between the slave's legs. Greg was not pleased with that but his son told him, "At this rate, we will all die long before we reach Colorado."

The third night they were well into Apache territory and camped on a small rise just off the trail.

Having exhausted most of the food that had been able to secret on the cart, Greg took their hidden rifle and managed to shoot a ptarmigan. He had just returned to their campsite with it when he suddenly pitched forward with a grunt, sprawling face-down with an arrow in his back.

"Father!" screamed Brandon as he quickly went to the fallen man. Another arrow thudding into the cart body forced him to flatten beside Greg. "Why?" he asked. "We've done no harm!" He glanced over to where 47 had fallen as soon as they had stopped for the night and was mostly sure he was still unharmed.

"The… Apache… are not kind to strangers," gasped Greg. "I-I-I-I'm afraid I will never see Colorado after all."

"What do you mean?" wailed Brandon.

"Brandon, I'm… not… going… to… make…it"

"NO! You can't die!"

"You… must… go… on… without… me. You… must… make… a… new… life… for… you… and… Quinn." It was the first time since his enslavement that Greg had called him that. "Promise… me… you… will."

"But, Father……"

"Promise… me! Seedlings… in bottom… of cart. Y-y-y-you… plant… new… vineyard!"

Realizing that Greg was near death, Brandon nodded, tears running down his cheeks.

"Please… tell… Quinn… how… very, very sorry… I am… Please… tell… him… I… still… love… him… and… he is… still… my… son." With that, Greg coughed several times and then was still.

"No! This can't be happening," sobbed the boy as he lay with his head on his father's chest and cried. Frightened and momentarily expecting an arrow out of the dark, he lay there until sleep finally overcame him.

When he awoke, he was suddenly aware of several men… Apache braves… looking down at him from their mounts. Scrambling quickly to his feet, he was determined to face them.

There were three mounted warriors in the party, trailed by two adolescent boys. The leader turned to them and, sighing, said, "Foolish, foolish boys! See what you have done? They are only travelers and the one is a slave. You were to watch the trail. You have dishonored us and are good for only women's work. Find some rocks and dig so that this man may be sent to the spirits in the way the whites are accustomed."

The two boys were clearly terrified and they soon had a burial place dug.

Brandon had them help him place Greg's body and then assisted the boys to cover him up. He made a cairn of small stones to mark the grave.

"You must come with us," the leader told Brandon, "before you continue your journey across our lands. These foolish children have stolen a life from you and you must take something from them in return. I see that your slave has difficulty walking, so he is to be placed in your cart and it will be taken to our village with you."

The two boys were forced to pull the cart until they arrived at the village, where the entire populace turned out to see what had happened. One of the women wailed when she saw the two boys… it turned out they were brothers… because she knew the utter disgrace they had visited upon themselves. Once back at the village, the two miscreants were staked out over ant-hills to await their fate.

One of the women came to Brandon with a bowl or some kind of stew… he wisely did not inquire what it was made of… and he even managed to get a bit of the broth into 47 using his feeding tube.

His slave knew that something terrible had happened to them… Brandon's tears told him that… but he had no way to ask what had gone wrong. Blinded by his hood, he simply had to trust his master to lead him wherever was best… 'best' being a relative term. All he knew was that they were no longer at the vineyard and had traveled many days.

When night had fallen, the Chief… who was called Geronimo by the white men… came to Brandon. "You must now take your revenge upon the two who caused your father's death."

"But sir," pleaded Brandon, "it was a mistake."

"They did not do as I commanded," he replied. "So they must now feel your punishment."

He led Brandon to a small clearing outside the village where the two boys arms and legs were tied to poles leaving their naked bodies open and vulnerable. Handing Brandon a whip, he told him, "You must beat both of them until they beg for mercy like a woman."

"Please, sir…"

"I took you to be a youth of courage. Was I wrong?"

Brandon gritted his teeth, hefted the whip and walked toward his victims. Before starting to flog them, he walked around until they faced him. "You have disobeyed your Chief and killed my father. I will punish you as I have been told."

"But I will not hate you. I forgive you."

And, walking to their rear, he began to methodically beat them, alternating boys. Their bodies already bore numerous marks where the enrage ants had sought to drive them away and their legs and backs soon were covered with bleeding welts.

At first, they offered not sound as the whip cracked against their naked flesh. But eventually, they began to scream and Brandon handed the whip back to the Chief.

He nodded, "You have done well. Let it be known the Apache will not injure those who pass through our lands in peace."

The next morning, they were returned to the trail and sent along their way with supplies of food and water, 47 again pulling the cart. They still had most of a week of travel to reach the Colorado Territory.

Mid-morning the next day, they were confronted by a party of young 'bucks' who were obviously looking for trouble. Their leader… an older youth… accosted Brandon. "So here is the one who has caused the disgrace of my younger brothers and the sorrow of their mother."

"Joro," one of the other bucks called to him, "you know that your father has granted them safe passage. We are not to bother them in any way."

"I will not bother them, just make their journey a bit more exciting." And he reached into the cart and snatched away the food and water that had been provided. "White boy, the coyotes and wolves will feast upon your carcasses long before you leave our lands."

Turning back to his companions, he declared, "My father is a weak old woman! When I rule this tribe, no white-man will dare to cross our sacred lands."

"And the soldier-coats will come and kill us all," remonstrated his companion, "and the Apache will be no more."

Joro spat at Brandon's feet. Then he spurred his horse and they all melted into the brush once more.

With now no food and little water, they pushed on. With still almost four days at least of travel before they reached Colorado, Brandon began to have frightening doubts whether they would make it. But, he was not about to give up. 47 simply plodded along, blind and stumbling… wherever his master pulled him.

By the morning of the fourth day, lack of food and limited water had begun to take its toll. By this time, both of them were struggling to pull the cart. Mid-morning his heavy chains claimed the last of 47's energy and he fell and could not get up. Brandon managed to lift him into the cart before he staggered on.

Late in the afternoon, he struggled up a small rise and there before him was the border marker. But his strength was gone and he fell. "No," he told himself, "I must get up! I must go on or we both will die."

Struggling to his feet once more, Brandon fell again after a few steps. Half-crawling, he crossed the border, but he was at strength's end. The cart rolled down the small incline and into the brush bordering the trail. "Quinn!" he wailed. "I've failed you! We will die here before anyone comes to our aid."

And, with that, he pitched over and lay in the dust as the darkness of death began to claim him.

New Char: Don Alvarado de Huerfano and his daughter Maria; Sammy (Squirrel) (11yo); Father James and the Brothers of the Abbey of the Holy Cross

Brandon narrates

All I can remember about our arrival in Colorado, is a great darkness. At one point it seemed like someone had lifted me, and moved me, but I could not be sure. But, after what seemed like a long time, the darkness started to lift, or at least change to black spots. And finally, they went away and I was looking at something white… a ceiling.

I found myself lying in a bed! I tried to sit up, but black spots began to descend again and I lay back.

"No, don't try to sit up," a melodious voice instructed me, as the face of a young girl… about my age, I thought… hovered over me. "At last you have come back from the dead," she continued. "Be careful not to dislodge the needle in your arm. You and your slave were so dehydrated and starved, El Doctor said it was the only way to get some fluid and nourishment into you."

My mind cleared after a few minutes and I looked up at her charming face and asked, "W-w-where am I? How did I get here? Who are you? And-and-and where is my slave?"

"Lie quietly and I will tell you," she promised. "You are at the hacienda of Don Alvarado de Huerfano in the Territory of Colorado. I am Marie, his daughter. One of our vaqueros found you and your companion lying along the trail which crosses the Apache lands. We have cleaned you up a bit and you are to rest. Your slave is being cared for in another part of the hacienda."

"When you have rested and are stronger, my father wishes to speak with you."

I lay back again and slept. It was dark when I awakened.

***

Don Alvarado greeted me warmly and seemed very interested in us, so I decided to trust him. Telling him our story from the very beginning was hard and I confess I had to stop several times when sorrow overtook me. In each case, he was kind and patient, "Take your time, young man. We are not in a hurry." By the time I finished I could see the obvious distress on his face.

Someone had brought 47 in and deposited him at my side. Throughout my tale, he knelt beside me in his chains and hood; I hoped he could understand what I was saying.

"What has gotten into those idiots in California?" our host asked rhetorically. "Have they lost their minds completely? We all know they are a bit strange, but this…"

"But no matter. You are here. And my vaquero jefe says that you bring with you the secret of the Van Doorn vintages?"

"Yes, Master."

"No, no! You may call me 'Patrón' but never 'master'."

I bowed my head in shame. "Yes, Patrón. The Van Doorn vineyards have been destroyed. We have cuttings and seedlings from the estate which rightly belong to my slave. They are his inheritance, for his birth father was Greg van Doorn who is now dead. Since the old vineyard is in ruins, we wish to plant a new one."

"You are very ambitious for one so young," he told me.

He thought for a while and then said, "Very well, you shall have your wish. But first, you must both rest and regain your health and we must rid your slave of the sadistic abuses they have made to his body. He will have to serve his term in our Territory, but here we do not torture and abuse young slaves, no matter what their crime. And, in this circumstance… based upon what you have told me… there seems to be scant evidence of any crime whatsoever. What is his name?"

"Penal Slave 47," I answered.

"Surely he was not born with that name," Don Alvarado corrected me.

"I'm sorry, Patrón. It's just that I have grown so accustomed… His name is Quinn."

"Then he shall be Quinn, here." declared Don Alvarado. Turning to one of the servants he commanded, "Take the young slave to El Doctor. I want all the trash removed from his body and any injuries treated. If he is to serve his young master and assist him with the task his master has chosen, he must be made well again. You may relate his story to El Doctor so he may know better how to proceed."

"Si, Patrón! It shall be done as you wish."

I told 47… no Quinn… to rise and go with the servant. But I felt a distinct chill as the servant helped him to his feet and led him away. The last time that had happened the result had been utter disaster for both of us. But, Don Alvarado seemed genuinely interested in our well-being, so perhaps I was being a bit paranoid.

My host then instructed another young servant to take me to a room in the hacienda where I could bathe and rest. The servant… just a young boy dressed in shorts and a tunic… looked familiar but I was too tired to even think about that. In the room I found a comfortable bed, a pallet for my slave and, off to one side, a place for bathing. The water was warm and inviting and I lost no time stripping off my filthy clothes and surrendering to it. I knew it would be a while before the doctor would be done with my slave, so I dried myself but remained undressed and crawled onto the bed.

It must have been the next morning before I awoke to the knock of the same servant who had shown me to the room. He entered, carrying a pile of clean clothes and stood waiting for me to get up.

I looked at the boy carefully… there was something about him. And he clearly had some trouble walking and… And then it hit me! "Squirrel?" I asked.

"Then you do recognize me," he sneered. "Not that you ever cared. I was just a slave. You were not interested in any of us."

"Well, I was a slave too, you know." I answered him, defensively.

"Yeah! You were the master's favorite and his son's fuck-toy. Everyone knew that."

I decided not to rise to his bait. "Squirrel…"

"They call me by my right name here, Sammy," he interrupted me.

I decided to try again. "Sammy, how did you get here?" I asked trying to sound interested.

"Well, after you fuckers abandoned us…"

"Hold it!" I said beginning to get a bit angry at his arrogance, "we had no choice. They hauled all of us off to jail."

He looked surprised, "I didn't know that."

He paused for a moment and then continued less angrily, "When the fuckin' militia came after us, one big mother-fuckin' dude caught me and raped me. Then he shot me, only his aim wasn't too good. He only ruined my leg. I played dead until they left and Master James sort of patched me up and sold me to some asshole slave dealer who brought me the whole way here so he could sell me. Don Alvarado got a cheap slave, since the asshole was glad to get rid of me… I wasn't exactly first-class goods, 'count of my leg."

"Have they done anything about it… your leg?" I asked genuinely concerned.

"Yeah, El Doctor fixed it as best he could, but I can't run… hell, I can't even walk right."

"I'm sorry about your leg."

"Well you should be," he replied on the verge of tears. "We all suffered a lot… well, the ones of us who weren't already dead or put down. They treat me pretty good here, but it took a long time to get here and travellin' with that asshole was hard. My ass got reamed every night and all day on Sundays. You guys got off easy, just bein' throwed out. 'Specially that bastard, Quinn."

"And you don't think Quinn hasn't suffered?" Did you see what he looked like when we got here yesterday?"

"That was him?" squeaked Sammy. "Holy shit! I never knew he was… I didn't recognize him."

"He didn't have to become a penal slave, you know. He did it to save me… to save me from being hanged and to save his father's vineyards."

"He did that? He paid that price just to save you and the vineyard?"

"Yeah, he paid a lot for his father's greed. Greg is dead, now… killed by the Apaches. And I'm just trying to keep him alive."

I sighed, "Yeah, he could have been more kind to you, but he didn't know any better. That's how Greg raised him and it's taken me a long time to realize how poor his upbringing was. But one thing I know for sure; I love him and I would give my life for him if it came to that. He's already given a lot of his life for me and I'm sure he would do the same for you if you were his friend."

I paused; I hadn't realized how much I was gasping in the thinner Colorado air.

Sammy looked crestfallen. "I'm sorry that all came out that way," he confessed. "I guess I've been storing it up for a long time. Maybe I can feel better now."

"I hope you can, too. I 'preciate your telling me about it and I hope we can be friends. I don't know what's going to happen to us, but I think Don Alvarado might allow us to plant a new vineyard somewhere in Colorado. And if he does, we could sure use some skilled help."

"You'd really want me? After what I just said about … Quinn?"

"Why would you ever think we didn't? We can't change the past and Quinn will still be a penal slave, but we might just make it. Wouldn't you want to be part of that?"

"I'll think about it," he replied softly, his anger seemed to have drained away. "Here. You need to put these on… I think yours went to the incinerator. I'm 'sposed to see that you get something to eat and then take you to El Doctor."

Throwing on the clothes that he had brought for me… since mine had disappeared… I went with him. After insisting I eat something first, we went in search of El Doctor. We found him outside a room in the servants' quarters, just washing up, so Sammy excused himself and left me.

"Aha!" he greeted me. "I am Doctor Turner and you must be young Master Van Doorn." I still found it strange to be called that.

"We have finished removing most of the junk on your young slave's body. In fact my helpers spent most of the night literally sawing it off him without further injuring him. The permanent gag and his cock-cage were really hard, but I think we got everything."

"I left the rings in his nipples… thought you might want to retain them. But I'll take them off if you wish. The rings on his tongue have left it quite sore, so that and the damage done to his throat by that penis gag, will make it quite uncomfortable for him to talk for a while."

"I wasn't completely sure what to do about the weights on his testicles, so I removed them. They were badly distended… that is stretched… so I…"

Suddenly seeing the look of horror on my face, he quickly responded, "No! No! I did not geld him. The vas deferens… that's the tube which carries the sperm to the penis… seemed to be intact, but I tucked up the skin on his testicles and sutured it so they won't be in his way so much when he walks. There did not appear to be any long term damage to his penis, but whether he could ever sire a child?"

I understood enough to know what the doctor was telling me… Quinn was mostly OK down there.

"He's terribly thin," Doctor Turner continued, "and he would not have lasted more than a few days had they not found you. But given an adequate diet, he should recover physically and be able to serve you for many years. Emotionally? Who can tell. He's had a rather rough go of it according to what you told Don Alvarado. And Marie… Don Alvarado's daughter… wishes to nurse him and help care for him. She's not really a nurse, yet, but she has had good instruction and will care for him well."

"Thank you, doctor," I answered. "Thank you for all you have done for him."

The doctor studied my face for a moment. "You're in love with your little slave, aren't you?" I nodded. "That's quite all right… in fact, good… for he will need a lot of love and kindness if he is to fully recover. I simply can't understand how those people in California could do that to a young boy. What were they thinking? I guess they were not! Bastards!"

"Thanks for understanding, doctor. Yes, Quinn and I were bed-mates from the time we were little… when I was his slave. May I go to him?"

"Yes, of course. I gave him a sedative that will probably keep him asleep until tomorrow. But it would be well if someone was with him. Marie will look in on him later, if you wish."

I quietly entered the room and shut the door.

Quinn… God, it was so wonderful to be able to call him that again… was lying on his back, breathing normally, so I knew the doctor had done a good job. The constant hard labor and near starvation had erased all of the boyish curves that I had once found so appealing. With all of his fetters removed his body was a thin, hardened mass of sinew and muscle.

And I wept.

Because I still loved him with all my heart.

Suddenly a scene appeared before my tearing eyes… a vivid scene from a time that seemed so long ago!

I had often served Greg sexually, when he was my master. But, from the time I was ten-years-old, it was Quinn that I really lusted for. Greg regularly fucked me but never allowed me any relief. Never allowed me out of my cock cage. Milked me regularly once I began to make juice. That was how slave-boys were treated, and I was horny all the time, it seemed.

But at least several times a week, Quinn would invite me to share his bed for the night once I had finished serving his father.

He would tease me about how small my cock and balls were… neither of us at that time knew about the drugs Milstead was feeding me, designed to keep me small forever.

We would start out just holding each other and kissing… he had learned that from Joey Ridgeway. The feel of his naked skin against mine took my breath away and my little prick would strain against its confinement. But, after a while he would actually remove my cock-cage we would move on to more exciting things.

He would rub my hard little prick until he drove me to my almost dry orgasm. And then I would slide down between his legs and take his whopper into my mouth. He had also learned about blow-jobs from Joey, and eagerly taught me about them. Soon he would fill my mouth with his boy-juice and I had no choice but to swallow to keep from being choked.

After that, he would give me one more deep kiss and promptly go to sleep. I would lie there listening to the gentle sounds of his breathing and feel such love for him, my whole body ached. We usually slept 'til morning with him in my arms.

As I gazed at his badly wasted body, I could still feel that same love. Yes, there would be scars, physical and otherwise, but I loved him with a passion that sometimes frightened me. Crawling in beside him, I pulled him to me and, once more, we slept as we had so long ago. Marie would just have to wait to continue her ministry.

The next several weeks were busy; I spent a lot of time with Quinn massaging his atrophied limbs and generally helping to get him back in shape. And, getting myself back into some reasonable healthy state.

We… Quinn and I… saw a lot of Marie but Don Alvarado was away on business. She checked up on both Quinn and me to see how we were faring… how we were coming along regaining our health. Was it my imagination, or did she seem to be more than simply interested in my slave's health?

I was directed to eat my meals with the rest of the free staff, but, as a slave, Quinn could not and was not well enough to eat with the rest of the slaves. It was almost always Sammy who delivered his meals and picked up his dishes. I was returning from my lunch one day and I passed him in the hall which led to our quarters and noticed the boy was crying.

"Is something wrong," I asked, stopping him.

He looked at me, his face a portrait of sorrow. Hanging his head, he sniffed, "I've tried to hate him, but I just can't. Yes, he abused me when he was a free boy but…'

"Well, you didn't treat him very well as a penal slave," I reminded him.

"I know," he sighed, "but I just can't hate him any longer."

"Then don't," I advised him.

"But how…?" he started to ask me

"You could try saying that you are sorry. You might be surprised at his reaction."

I took the tray from him and set it on a nearby table. "Come!" And I led him back into our room. Quinn looked up startled from his afternoon exercises that El Doctor insisted he do every day.

"Quinn, Sammy has something he wants to tell you."

Before Sammy could start, Quinn held up his hand. He still had difficulty speaking, but the words that flowed from his mouth were pure gold. "S-s-s-sammy, I … t-t-t-treated you v-v-v-very badly. Th-th-that day … when James M-m-m-milstead had me beat you, I t-t-t-took pleasure f-f-from it. That w-w-w-was … wrong, and, and and I am … ashamed of myself. C-c-c-can y-y-y-you forgive me … for the h-h-h-hurt I … caused you?"

Sammy stood in shock for a moment. And then he ran, as best he could, to Quinn and put his arms around his waist. Looking up at him he said, "Oh, yes! Yes! Yes! If you will forgive how I treated you when you first became a penal slave."

"See, guys. It's not hard at all," I said mostly for Sammy's benefit. I knew they would never be close friends… like Quinn and I were… but the barrier of mistrust and pain had been breached.

It was several weeks later… Don Alvarado had returned from his travels… that Sammy burst into our room late one afternoon. "El Patrón wishes to see you at once… both of you… and you will never guess about the slave he is considering."

The three of us hurried to Don Alvarado's office, bowed our heads in respect and he motioned us to come stand near him. Kneeling on the floor in front of him with his head touching the carpet was a naked boy, his hands shackled behind his back… a familiar figure, if you will.

"Nate?" I asked incredulously. The boy looked up, saw who it was who had called his name and dissolved into a puddle of tears and terror.

"So, you know this young man?" Don Alvarado asked.

"Si, Patrón. His father was the vineyard manager. But how did he become a slave?"

"Sit up, boy. And answer Brandon's question."

With some difficulty and shaking with terror, Nate struggled to sit up. "My father thought he would be the one to own the vineyard, but Joseph Ridgeway became the owner. When he found out, he struck Mr. Ridgeway and was thrown into jail. Since there was no one to take care of me and I was still too young to be alone, they made me a slave… a life slave after I beat up Joey."

"Since he was from your former home," Don Alvarado said, turning to me, "I thought, perhaps, you might use his services in your new venture. But now I am not so sure."

"Please, mi Patrón, this is a stroke of good fortune. His father was teaching him about running the vineyard. He knows more about that than the three of us together. I would be willing to have him as my slave if he would give his pledge to serve me."

"You would have me?" Nate asked, astonished.

"We are going to plant a new vineyard somewhere in Colorado. And your help to make it a success would be invaluable. I will not make you manager… you are a slave, after all… but I would depend upon you for advice. Sammy, here, will be the manager once he completes his term."

"Well, speak up, boy!" Don Alvarado told him.

I could see conflicting emotions on Nate's face, but finally he said, "I will pledge my service to Brandon van Doorn."

"Excellent!" exclaimed the Don. "Sammy, release his shackles, get him cleaned up and fed. And put him to work in the labor gang. We'll see how hard he can labor. If he does well, I may let him have some clothes. Oh, and have El Doctor circumcise him."

Sammy led him away. We… Nate and I… would never be friends I was sure, but I was willing to gamble. "I thank you, mi Patron."

"Well," he answered, "if I am going to invest in a vineyard, I wish to assure that it is successful. And how are you feeling, young Quinn"

"Ready to begin, mi Patrón. Whenever my master is ready."

"Nonsense! You need to grow stronger. Besides, it is still too cold to plant anything in Colorado. You must wait for spring." And he dismissed us with a wave of his hand. But I began to hope perhaps our time was near.

Later that day I pulled Sammy aside and told him, "I want you to see that Nate works very hard. I want to find out if he really meant the pledge he gave me. You may punish him if necessary, but do not injure him."

Sammy looked at me with a hurt expression. "Master Brandon, I'm not a little child any more. Hurting Nate would be what a little child might do. I think I know how important Nate could be to our future."

I wrapped my arms about him and replied, "I'm sorry Sammy. I didn't mean to insult you. I really do believe you will be a fine manager in a few years."

"Thank you for your confidence in me, Master."

"Hey! It's just 'Brandon' from now on." He grinned and went off to work on his assignment.

It was a week or so later when he came back to me. "Brandon, he works very hard and shows no sign of disobeying. But he is frightened to death of me."

"Let me talk to him and then you may give him some clothes. Send him to me."

Sammy left and, a few minutes later, naked Nate appeared and went to his position, shaking and crying.

"Nate, stand up," I commanded. "What are you crying about?"

"I'm frightened, Master! Sammy is going to kill me, I just know it."

"No he won't. He's not a little kid who thinks only of revenge. He's grown up. And you need to grow up too. You have done very well and I accept your pledge of service."

"You can be a valuable member of our team, if you wish. But you will have to learn to work with Sammy and Quinn. We have no need of a frightened child on our team. Now which will it be?"

For the first time, he looked me square in the eye, wiped away his tears and replied, "You are right, Master. I must grow up, too. I owe my life here to you and it is time I begin to show it."

"Good! Go find Sammy. He has some clothes for you."

The locals have a saying about the climate in Colorado, especially in the southwest:

'Autumn follows Summer,
Winter follows Fall.
But this is Colorado!
There ain't no Spring at all.

While we waited for the illusive Colorado 'spring', the Don required all of us to work at our schooling. I was at high-school level… Greg had insisted I be educated, especially after he had freed and adopted me. Nate was at middle-school level. Poor Sammy had never had any schooling and was forced to study hard with the very young children to catch up with the rest of us… which he did in an amazingly short time.

By the time the weather had moderated a bit… no howling blizzards… I had completed my high-school requirements and suddenly found myself with a library of books about agriculture which the Don had bought for me. Particularly books about viticulture. But winter was still king in Colorado Territory.

So I returned to my books. And, once spring was upon us, he sent for us again.

"Well, my young guests, it is time you repaid the faith I have had in you. I am advised the Van Doorn holdings in California have failed to produce a single useable grape and are in the process of being divided into estates. Evidently your father took the secret with him. So it is for you to rekindle the flame."

"Therefore, I am sending the four of you to the Abbey of the Holy Cross near Cañon City. The Benedictine monks there have become very skillful vintners. But they have always had to rely on imported grapes. If you are able to grow the Van Doorn grapes there, together you will perform miracles."

"I have for you, a letter of introduction to Father James. He and I have corresponded about your coming and he is very receptive. You will find him to be very strict, but fair in his dealings with you. He knows that it will be some years before your new vineyard can be productive, but he is a patient man. In the meantime, you will plant and graft and study."

"You will travel by horse-back while your three slaves will walk. My vaquero, Jose, will be your guide and also lead the horse which will pull your precious cart and its valuable cargo. You will leave in three days and take all your belongings with you, for you will find your new home there."

"Mil gracias, Patron," I bowed my head. "We will not fail you."

"Vaya con Dios, mi amigo," he replied.

I should point out that we had had modern motor vehicles and railroads in California and most areas of Colorado had much the same. But in the sparsely settled southwest part of the territory, and especially in the hacienda and lands of Don Alvarado de Huerfano, such things were still largely unknown. Although a brilliant and successful man, he clung to the 'old ways'. Who could argue with his success?

***

We set out at dawn… with my three slaves trudging resolutely along.

Even though the laws requiring slaves to be naked were still on the books in all the North American territories, in Colorado they were almost universally ignored. While naked slaves had been the norm in the Van Doorn Vineyards of California's Napa River Valley, the much harsher climate of Colorado's San Luis Valley and Arkansas River Valley made such laws completely unworkable. So all three of my companions were properly clothed in shorts and shirts and sturdy boots.

But we had scarcely left the hacienda proper before I could see that Sammy was having a hard time keeping up with the rest of us. His boots notwithstanding, each step was a painful reminder of his near death and serious injury at the hands of the militiaman.

"Jose!" I called to our leader.

"Yes, Master Brandon. I know what you wish to ask," he chuckled.

"Well, the journey will be days shorter if we…"

"Young slaves, up into the cart," he ordered them.

"Wait!" I said. "I will take Quinn here in front of me on the saddle. We don't want to overload the cart and strain the horse."

He looked at me and could not help but laugh. "Whatever you wish, my young friend. It is a long way to Cañon City."

I pulled Quinn up onto my saddle and held him in my embrace. It felt so good having his body… still thin and wiry… next to mine that I just kissed the back of his neck many times as we rode along.

That night we camped on the open ground beside the trail and ate our frijoles and empanadas before taking to our separate bedrolls. But I had just settled into mine, when Quinn approached me. "Master, I…"

"Quinn!" I cut him off. "It's me, Brandon. Aren't we more than master and slave?"

"I'm sorry, Brandon. It is just so hard to accept the good fortune that you have made come my way."

"You have earned every second of it, mi amigo. Would you like to sleep with me?" I asked him gently.

"Oh yes!" he began to sob. "If you will have me?"

We lay together that night. No sex, just holding each other and crying until sleep took us. It was our first since that time that seemed so unreal and so long ago. His tears were of sorrow as he mourned his father and all those lost years they had been estranged. Mine were of joy and hope for our future.

***

Three days later we carefully crossed the railroad tracks and the highway that bordered the Abbey. Even though we were all excited about the adventure that lay ahead, I felt a twinge of sadness at leaving our former life on the hacienda and reentering 'civilization'. The huge Gothic structure of the abbey seemed to glow in the afternoon sun as we rode into the courtyard.

Two young boys dressed in simple tunics took charge of the horses and the cart and a brother in a simple brown habit escorted us to Father James.

With my three slaves kneeling beside me, I presented the letter to Father James and waited patiently while he read and digested what Don Alvarado had written. His simple cassock of brown, trimmed in blue, spoke of both his devotion to God and his authority over all who dwelt in the Abbey.

Finally, he smiled and looked down at me. "So you are the young man who will show us how to raise proper grapes? Do you also walk on water?" he asked somewhat sarcastically.

"We shall do our very best, Your Eminence," I replied.

He snorted, "Reverend Father will do quite well. So rise and be welcome to the Abbey of the Holy Cross. Brother Patrick will find suitable quarters for you and also one for your servants. We will not call them slaves since we are all slaves here to the service of the Christ."

"Oh and brother," he told Brother Patrick, "please find some students' tunics for Brandon's … ah, servants … to wear. Can't have them going about naked, no matter the law."

Turning back to me he explained, "We have a school here for boys eleven-to-sixteen who come from a variety of situations. Since it is a boarding school, to forestall any problems with their attire, they all wear tunics like the boys who took care of your mounts when you arrived. They all must labor about the Abbey, too, so your servants will fit right in. I would expect all the boys to aid in you project."

"Thank you, Reverend Father," I replied, "but if it would be proper, I should like to keep my personal servant in my own quarters." And I pointed to Quinn. He nodded. If he understood the reason for my request… and I was sure he did… he made no mention of it.

"You must be tired from your journey, so please rest until it is time for our evening meal. That will be right after Matins… which you are free to attend, if you wish. The entire abbey sups together… brothers, students and free workers. You will be considered free workers for as long as you are among us and your servants, likewise, even though they are legally your slaves."

I thanked him once more for his welcome and then we all followed Brother Patrick to another part of the Abbey where two rooms waited for us. Quinn, of course, was delighted to be with me. Sammy and Nate? Well, if not exactly thrilled to be room-mates, they accepted the arrangement without complaint.

The food at dinner… indeed for all the meals we would share… was plain, but nourishing. And we found the brothers and students friendly and eager to learn about our lives and our great project.

The next morning we went with Brother Anselm to find a place to plant the vineyard. With Nate's help, we chose a plot of ground in the hills immediately to the north of the Abbey. He assured us it had the proper drainage and soil and would be perfect. And the surrounding hills would offer some protection from the less hospitable winter weather.

So, that afternoon… aided by almost everyone… we planted 130 seedlings laid out in nice straight rows.

The weather was kind to us that summer… sufficient moisture and moderate temperatures that allowed the vines to become well established before we had to bury them away from the winter frosts. Both Sammy and Nate knew what was necessary and carefully instructed and oversaw the other workers… including Quinn and me… so that, by the next spring, we had over one-hundred sturdy plants ready to receive their grafts.

Father James could be quite demanding and sometimes rather curt when dealing with other members of the Abbey Community, including me and my team. He had very specific expectations for us all and brooked little interference. But, as the months passed, he seemed to be distracted and grew increasingly unreasonable with some of his demands.

Usually we had no problem but, during our second 'spring', just as we were starting our grafting program, serious scandal engulfed the Abbey… one which would ultimately lead to his 'retirement'.

Among the students was a pair of identical twins, Tim and Tom Bartlet. At twelve-years-old, they were enrolled in the Abbey equivalent of middle-school. Their parents had paid an enormous sum to have them enrolled and cared for until they were eighteen and then simply vanished. That, coupled with the boys' propensity for often cruel mischief and defiance of authority, should have told someone that all was not right in those two little curly heads.

They somehow managed to secure a rather sizable stash of heroin… probably from one of the Abbey vendors… which they shared with two of their friends. One of the friends overdosed and died. They tried to hide, but the other 'friend' lost no time identifying the twins as the source.

Father James flew into a towering rage and immediately had them stripped, caned and confined to two dark cells in the lower lever of the Abbey. There, naked, cold and hungry, they were left to await their fate with only the rats for company.

After spending several days in 'meditation' he finally announced their penalty which he said would teach a strong lesson to all in the community. Forsaking his power and responsibilities as their guardian-ad-litem, he had them summarily convicted of murder and life enslaved. But his wrath did not end there.

They were to be publicly hanged.

Every one of us was sure he would never carry out the hanging and had just announced it to emphasize the seriousness of the crime they had committed. His comment, when pressed, was, "God has ordained their punishment."

But, when the entire community was summoned one morning to a large storage room in the lower level and found there two boxes with nooses above them, presided over by two smirking executioners leased from the Territorial Prison, most of us began to rightly fear for the boys' lives.

Surely, he wouldn't go through with this ghastly action! Would he?

The two young culprits… rigid with terror… were dragged into the room and made to stand on the boxes while they were blindfolded and their hands and legs tightly secured. The nooses were placed around their necks and the rope drawn up so they were forced to stand on their toes.

An eerie silence swept the room… we were all seemingly struck dumb! How far was he prepared to go to make his point? The only sounds were the weeping of the two boys.

At Father James's nod, the boxes were removed leaving them choking and jerking at the ends of their ropes, their feet well above the floor, as their urine and feces ran down their legs and pooled beneath them.

Still, the unearthly silence prevailed… every one of us frozen with shock… unable to move… unable to believe what we were witnessing!

Standing next to me, Nate suddenly found his voice. "NOOOOOOOOOO!" he screamed as he ran toward them. I followed a footstep behind him, Quinn and Sammy a heartbeat later.

Nate leaped into the air and severed the rope with his grafting knife, allowing Tim's still warm, naked body to fall into my arms and I sank to the feces-encrusted floor as I cradled him. In a like manner, Quinn caught Tom's falling body, after Sammy had slashed his rope.

Loosening the noose, Nate began to give him mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. "Keep going!" I gasped, "I feel a heartbeat!" Sammy was similarly busy with the inert body in Quinn's arms.

Our efforts were finally rewarded as two young boys began to breathe again and we could cut the rest of their bonds. But still, no one else moved… held in thrall.

I looked up and saw Father James standing over us and was prepared to throttle him if necessary. But with tears running down his cheeks, he told us, "Peace, my sons! I have been an unwitting tool of Satan, it seems. And God has rescued these two waifs that I almost destroyed. Verily I say unto you, I am no longer fit for this office."

And with that he strode from the room. Released from their shock, the brothers and students crowded around us. Brother Cadfel rushed forward and examined the twins, pronouncing them out of danger. They would each have a very sore open gash around their throats from the noose, but no other physical injuries. Emotionally? Who could tell.

Gathering them up, Quinn and I carried them to our quarters, trailed by Nate and Sammy. Stripping off our stained clothes, we held the boys under the warm spray of the showers until they stopped shaking. Clinging to us piteously, all they could do was sob. Nate had shed his soiled tunic and I gathered him into the shower with us and told him, "You are a hero! You acted when the rest of us were too timid… too shocked. You cannot begin to appreciate the tragedy you averted."

"Oh Master," he wept, "I simply could not let them die like that. I know I have been cruel and heartless in the past, but I just could not…not…not."

"Well, you have more than confirmed my trust in you," I interrupted him. "It was one of those times about which Greg tried to teach me and I have tried to show all of you. 'You must do what your heart tells you is right, even though you may suffer because of your actions'. I do not believe you will suffer, in this case and I pledge to find a way to free you some day, just as I will Quinn."

We both continued to hold the weeping kids until they subsided into terrified sniffles, before surrendering them to their new Dorm Master.

***

Word spread quickly of the atrocity almost committed by our Abbot, and, by the next day, the Father Superior of the order was in residence.

He swiftly persuaded Father James to 'retire' and appointed Brother Patrick to be the new Abbot, before absolving all of us of our complicity in this tragedy. In recognition, of my team's actions, Tim and Tom were offered to me as lifetime slaves. But something nagged at me and I respectfully turned the offer down.

Meeting privately with the Father Superior and Father Patrick, we negotiated a more positive future for Tim and Tom. Their life-sentence was commuted to fifteen years and suspended in favor of strict probation. They were to remain students and, if they completed their education without further offenses, upon graduation, they would be released and the sentence vacated. When they were not busy with schoolwork, they were to labor in the vineyard under Sammy's supervision. The life-changing nature of what had befallen them was immediately evident in their changed and much more constructive attitudes.

Word of our exploit reached Don Alvarado and his praise was simple. "You and your team are what our Hebrew Brethren call 'mensch'." I had to spend some time in research before I understood the meaning of that word… he could not have honored us more.

Marie visited a number of times that year… and succeeding years… to 'enquire as to the health of our project for her father' as she explained it. But it seemed to both Quinn and me that her real attention often lay elsewhere… on the two of us.

While it was true that Sammy and Nate would never be close friends, their animosity had largely subsided as each came to appreciate the others skills and knowledge. So, that gamble had paid off. We had plenty of workers and the two of them became quite proficient in directing their efforts to the best advantage. By the time our fourth season rolled around, Sammy had completed his term as my slave and I appointed him manager. Nate accepted it without complaint.

That season, also, was the first we had a sufficient harvest to make possible our first vintage. So, with the skillful work of the Abbey's master vintners we launched Van Doorn Vineyards Ltd – Reserve, the first ever Van Doorn wines produced outside of California.

They were a smash success. And won several prizes.

Our great experiment had come home, and we celebrated.

I must confess we all consumed a bit too much of our product that night and paid for it. Four more bedraggled specimens of humanity could not have crawled out from under a rock the next morning. It was the first and… I hope… the only time I have been or will be truly drunk.

It was shortly after harvest that year when Marie made one of her frequent visits. And all pretense as to the true purpose of her visits fell away.

Asking both Quinn and me to join her in the chapel one afternoon, she dropped her bombshell.

"I want to carry Quinn's child."

We both stood there with our mouths open.

"Here me out," she continued. "From the very first day you were carried into the hacienda, I have loved you both. If it were possible, I would ask both of you to be my husbands. Even so, I hope we might live together as an extended family in the future. My father has no sons to whom he might leave his empire, so he depends upon me to select a suitable mate."

"You both have demonstrated all the character and skills of a proper heir. Merging the de Huerfano line with the Van Doorn line would be a union blessed in heaven and with all my earthly love."

The true meaning of what she was telling us was just then penetrating our shock and Quinn went to his 'position'… something he hadn't done in years. "Mistress! I, I, I can't. It would not be proper! I'm, I'm a slave. You should marry my master."

"You are not a slave in Brandon's eyes, is he Brandon?"

"Well, no," I managed to croak.

"And you are not a slave in my eyes, either. I love the both of you equally and I will honor that love equally, but I have made a choice."

Turning to me she said with tears glistening in her eyes, "Brandon, I know of your condition." If true, she knew that I could not sire a child. James Milstead's 'medicine' had mostly destroyed my testicles. The little sperm I could produce was sterile.

She reached and gently took my hand, "Brandon, I grieve for your infirmity just as I grieve for the pain and suffering Quinn endured. But you have both grown beyond your suffering and have emerged from it young men of great honor and promise."

Joining Quinn's hand with ours, she said, "I pledge to each of you my undying love and wish to share it just as you have shared with each other. Will you have me?"

Our answer was a hug that went on seemingly forever.

***

With some mixed feelings, of course, Quinn performed. But as it became clear, he was truly bisexual and enjoyed coupling with either Marie or me.

She soon returned to the hacienda of her father and announced what she had decided. The Don was not a happy man at first, but accepted it as a fete-comply. He had learned from long experience not to try to change his daughter's mind. And… having moved permanently to be with Quinn and me… when she presented us with a beautiful, healthy boy, he gave the child his blessing.

We named him Gregory Brandon.

But, of course, there was an impediment in our plans. Marie and Quinn could not be married since he was a slave. And Gregory could not be christened since he was born out of wedlock.

But we lived together in the little house she had bought in town and the vineyard thrived… and the wine flowed. All too quickly our bouncing baby boy passed into toddler-hood… somehow managing to avoid what we had been warned about 'the terrible twos'.

Spoiled? Goodness no! After all he had several score 'uncles' and an entire student body of 'big brothers'. It was a wonder the child even knew who his parents were, except he 'stayed overnight' with the three of us.

He was approaching two-and-a-half when, one day, Quinn and I were both working together high up on the hill. A student from the school came pounding up the trail, completely out of breath by the time he reached us. Hands on knees to catch his breath, he finally gasped, "Reverend Father wants you to come to his office at once. Both of you." I thanked the kid and we both took off down the hill.

We were pleasantly surprised to find Don Alvarado waiting for us.

"I've come to see my grandson," he informed us, "before he has completely grown up."

Just then, Marie entered leading young Gregory.

After greeting her father, she leaned down and told the little boy, "This man is my father and that makes him your grandfather, your grand-papa."

The Don and Gregory stood studying each other for a short time. Then the Don leaned down and held out his hands. After a moment of hesitation, Gregory allowed himself to be picked up.

They stood there… Gregory in his arms… eye-to-eye. Then, suddenly, Gregory threw his arms around his grand-sire's neck, lay his head on the Don's shoulder and crooned, "Granpapa! I wuv ooo!" I never thought I would live to see the day that Don Alvarado de Huerfano wept.

After a bit, he handed Gregory off to his mother, dried his eyes and turned to Quinn and me.

"We have a law here in Colorado," he told us, "that states 'a slave who has performed faithfully for a period of eight or more years may be considered for amnesty.' That is, manumission."

I knew what the word meant and my heart leaped into my throat.

"But, unfortunately," the Don continued, "the concurrence of the court who sentenced the slave is required. I have spent the last six months trying to pound some sense into those block-heads in the Napa Valley. At long last they agreed not to contest my petition."

"When I arrived this morning, I went before the Chancery Court in Cañon City and presented my case." Reaching into his briefcase, he withdrew a packet of papers. "Quinn van Doorn, son of the late Gregory van Doorn and the late Martha Connor van Doorn, by receiving these papers in your hand, your sentence as a penal slave is vacated and you are a free person."

It was all Quinn could do to recover himself and take the papers the Don held out to him. He turned to me and asked, "Brandon, did you know about this?"

"No, but I have prayed earnestly about your freedom, and God has, at last, answered my prayers."

Quinn, Marie with Gregory and I stood in the center of the room in a tight hug as the Don paraphrased a noted preacher, "Free at last! Free at last! Thank God Almighty! He's free at Last!"

"Now," he said, "my daughter can be properly married and my grandson can be properly christened."

***

Preparations for Quinn's and my baptism… Greg had never considered that for either of us… and the wedding of Quinn and Marie and subsequent christening of Gregory required more than three weeks, during which we all lived in a state of bemused chaos.

Quinn and I were baptized one evening at Compline, several days in advance of the wedding, clearing the way for us to be properly be brought under the rule and protection of Mother Church. Father Patrick would preside at the wedding and I would stand with Quinn with Sammy as Groomsman.

The day of the wedding, our little Ring Bearer had some difficulty walking down the aisle. He wanted to stop and greet each of his scores of friends who filled the chapel to overflowing. Finally taking him firmly by the hand, I led him to the chancel where Father Patrick waited for us.

Spotting his friend, he skipped over to the prelate and chirped, "Hi Father Pat! Wassup?" nearly bringing down the house. Unruffled, the good Father leaned down to him and said, "This is a very important day for your mom and dad, so please stand with your uncle and be a good boy."

"OK!"

I don't remember much of the service… I did get Gregory to present the rings at the proper time. And then, suddenly, the Reverend Father was announcing to the congregation, "May I present to you, Mr. and Mrs. Quinn van Doorn!"

Usually, at this point, the bride and groom, trailed by the rest of the wedding party marches down the aisle and out of the chapel. But we had one more task for the day.

Father Patrick held out his arms and Gregory jumped into them. "We gonna have ice-cream?" he asked. I'm afraid Reverend Father 'lost it' for a few moments.

Finally, regaining his composure, the told Gregory, "In a minute, my young friend. But first, I must say a very important prayer for you."

"OK!"

Reaching into the font at the side of the chancel, he placed his hand lightly on Gregory's head and said, "Gregory Brandon van Doorn, child of the covenant, I baptize you in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen."

Looking down at the little boy in his arms, he told him, "Now we can go and have ice-cream!"

The End