Flux

sluiced the filth from his body and, because the enclosure was slightly sloped, it also washed away the stinking effluvia that they had all been forced to sit and lie in. So yes, he was muddy, but it was a clean mud and it felt good. It soothed his skin, which had burnt and even blistered from constant exposure to the sun. It was soft against his aching bones. It made everything blur—the miserable lines of the other captives’ bodies, the guards’ disdainful faces, the bars of the fence and the dreary buildings nearby. It discouraged passersby from stopping alongside the fence and gawking and laughing.
    Perhaps Miner was going insane as well, because it almost seemed to him that if he strained very hard, he could hear a voice among the raindrops. A whisper. “Miner,” it murmured. “Mine, Mine, Mine.”
    Miner actually slept well that afternoon, sitting up with his back propped against the fence, with water running down his hair and catching in his new-grown beard. When he woke up he couldn’t remember the details, but he knew he dreamt of warmth and comfort.
    The next day was as sunny as ever, perhaps even more so, as if the rain had scrubbed the sky clean. The mud on the ground dried and caked and the mud on his body flaked off in bits and chunks. His scalp itched.
    The man in charge returned mid-morning, again accompanied by two guards. As before, the guards chose slaves one by one to parade in front of their boss for inspection; some were led away and some were rejected. All of the slaves were men, Miner noticed, and the ones led away were the biggest and strongest of the sorry lot. He wasn’t especially surprised when the guards came for him.
    As before he was made to stand and turn and walk and open his mouth, but this time the well-dressed man didn’t bother to try and speak to him, and this time the man nodded instead of shaking his head. The guards grabbed Miner’s shoulders and propelled him through the opening in the gate, and then through the outer gate as well. For a brief moment, he considered running. But he was weak from lack of food, and even if he managed to break away briefly, he wouldn’t get very far. Besides, where would he go?
    He hunched his shoulders wearily and walked to the low building.
    The inside of the building wasn’t nice. One corner had a few desks and tables, and two men and a woman were gathered there, poring over a stack of papers. They didn’t even look up as Miner entered. The rest of the building had tiny individual cells, most of them empty but two of them occupied by crouched slaves, and a larger space in which a variety of chains and manacles were attached to the walls and posts. Miner was taken to the large part of the room and the guards bound him quickly and efficiently, his wrists raised above his head and locked into cuffs that were suspended there, his feet kicked apart and his ankles affixed to the floor. The wrist that had been broken ached slightly at the pressure his body and the chains put upon it.
    The guards left, no doubt to help select more men, but two slaves came over right away with a bucket in each hand. Miner recognized them: the man with the old burns and the woman with the limp. They were among the crew that brought food and water into the enclosure and took away the waste pails. Now they dumped the contents of the buckets on him and he gasped. It was water—cold, salty water, no doubt just dipped out of the harbor. It stung the innumerable tiny cuts and scrapes he’d accumulated here and some dripped into his eyes where he couldn’t even wipe it away. The slaves didn’t care, though, they simply went back for more water. When he was thoroughly wet they used rough, bristly brushes to scrub his skin. That hurt as well, but even worse was when his more intimate parts were subjected to this treatment. He was surprised to find himself still capable of blushing with shame.
    When he was more or less clean, the burned man took a razor and carefully scraped Miner’s face clean. “Please,” Miner said, speaking for the first time in what felt like years. His voice was very hoarse. “Just cut my throat.”
    Of course the man didn’t understand him. But instead of replying, the man opened his mouth. Miner couldn’t help but cry out at what he saw there: the tongue was gone, nothing left of it but a tiny, useless stub. The man made a choking sound that was probably the only noise he could make and continued shaving Miner.
    As Miner was still