herself
for the smell of pitch and the scrape of bark and was in no way surprised or
shocked.
Further,
she knew that Jack Spade would feel badly about tearing her dress and baring
her back, and she comforted him with a whispered, "It's all right. Do it
quickly, a clean tear that can be mended." He obliged, as she knew he
would, cursing beneath his breath, sniffing as though he were suffering a cold.
Thus
too she had prepared herself for the coolness of air rushing over her flesh,
the torn dress split to her waist and pushed backward by rough trembling hands.
What she then said was merely the shortest way to a quick dismissal. "I
forgive you. Jack." The big man groaned as though he were the one tied to
the oak, and within the instant she heard him step back, heard the whip whistle
upward into the air.
Then,
number one. The leather struck her back and took her breath away, a sharp snap
which left a burning sensation and drove her forward against the oak. Her eyes
watered.
While she was still
recovering from the first, the second came. The fingers of her bound hands
clawed at the air. Reflexively her head turned into the oak, scraping her
forehead. She was still in the process of catching her breath when the third
came, bringing a new wave of pain. She cried out and pressed closer to the oak
as if brought to movement by the blows themselves, her knees buckling, but her body
still held rigid by her bondage.
She
was unprepared for number four. Her breasts, caught in the press of her own
body, felt raw. What was that sound? The whip lifting again? But she wasn't
ready yet. Out of the comer of her watering eyes she saw Jack Spade angling his
body into the descent, a whir, a snap, then—
Again
she was driven forward, as though the whip were insisting she become a part of
the oak. Her back burned as though someone were holding a torch to it. Again
the breath caught in her throat and she gagged on her own saliva, her helpless
hands clutching at nothing, looking back at the faces staring at her, looking
safely, for all were a blur.
Only
five? Dear God, help, not five more. She could not endure it. As she was
contemplating her ability to endure, she suffered number six. Her head shot
forward in a grinding collision with the oak. Her legs gave away. Her whole
body shook. As from a great distance she heard a woman scream,
"Enough!"
Then
came seven, cruelly, for instead of pushing her over the edge into blessed
unconsciousness, it seemed to revive her. She caught a shallow breath in her lungs
and found the strength to stand on her feet, thus relieving the pressure on her
arms. Her eyes cleared. She saw Jenny Toppinger collapsed in the arms of
several women. The sight of the familiar face only added to the pain. She
closed her eyes while her arms tried to move upward in a gesture of defense.
But she could not alter in any way her vulnerability to the whip, which was lifting
again, slicing downward through the air. Under its impact she jerked upward,
her head fell backward, the small determined chin scraping bark, something cool
and liquid running down her back.
Surely
it was over. Why so vast a distance between seven and eight, a worldspan of
time, of waiting, seeing, focusing on her left on a small boy grinning at her?
On
the count of eight the whip caught in her long trailing hair and jerked her
head further backward, and for a moment she was forced to stare straight upward
into heaven. Her lips moved wordlessly as she struggled to digest the pain, the
sensation of the skin being torn from her back. Her hands were numb, still
grasping at air, her tongue slipping backward into her throat, threatening
suffocation. She was in her extremity now, dangling there, counting the ages
between seconds, hearing women crying all about her.
Someone
was whispering in her ear, pushing her head gently forward. Her tongue rolled
helplessly about her mouth. A man's gruff experienced voice suggested that
for the smell of pitch and the scrape of bark and was in no way surprised or
shocked.
Further,
she knew that Jack Spade would feel badly about tearing her dress and baring
her back, and she comforted him with a whispered, "It's all right. Do it
quickly, a clean tear that can be mended." He obliged, as she knew he
would, cursing beneath his breath, sniffing as though he were suffering a cold.
Thus
too she had prepared herself for the coolness of air rushing over her flesh,
the torn dress split to her waist and pushed backward by rough trembling hands.
What she then said was merely the shortest way to a quick dismissal. "I
forgive you. Jack." The big man groaned as though he were the one tied to
the oak, and within the instant she heard him step back, heard the whip whistle
upward into the air.
Then,
number one. The leather struck her back and took her breath away, a sharp snap
which left a burning sensation and drove her forward against the oak. Her eyes
watered.
While she was still
recovering from the first, the second came. The fingers of her bound hands
clawed at the air. Reflexively her head turned into the oak, scraping her
forehead. She was still in the process of catching her breath when the third
came, bringing a new wave of pain. She cried out and pressed closer to the oak
as if brought to movement by the blows themselves, her knees buckling, but her body
still held rigid by her bondage.
She
was unprepared for number four. Her breasts, caught in the press of her own
body, felt raw. What was that sound? The whip lifting again? But she wasn't
ready yet. Out of the comer of her watering eyes she saw Jack Spade angling his
body into the descent, a whir, a snap, then—
Again
she was driven forward, as though the whip were insisting she become a part of
the oak. Her back burned as though someone were holding a torch to it. Again
the breath caught in her throat and she gagged on her own saliva, her helpless
hands clutching at nothing, looking back at the faces staring at her, looking
safely, for all were a blur.
Only
five? Dear God, help, not five more. She could not endure it. As she was
contemplating her ability to endure, she suffered number six. Her head shot
forward in a grinding collision with the oak. Her legs gave away. Her whole
body shook. As from a great distance she heard a woman scream,
"Enough!"
Then
came seven, cruelly, for instead of pushing her over the edge into blessed
unconsciousness, it seemed to revive her. She caught a shallow breath in her lungs
and found the strength to stand on her feet, thus relieving the pressure on her
arms. Her eyes cleared. She saw Jenny Toppinger collapsed in the arms of
several women. The sight of the familiar face only added to the pain. She
closed her eyes while her arms tried to move upward in a gesture of defense.
But she could not alter in any way her vulnerability to the whip, which was lifting
again, slicing downward through the air. Under its impact she jerked upward,
her head fell backward, the small determined chin scraping bark, something cool
and liquid running down her back.
Surely
it was over. Why so vast a distance between seven and eight, a worldspan of
time, of waiting, seeing, focusing on her left on a small boy grinning at her?
On
the count of eight the whip caught in her long trailing hair and jerked her
head further backward, and for a moment she was forced to stare straight upward
into heaven. Her lips moved wordlessly as she struggled to digest the pain, the
sensation of the skin being torn from her back. Her hands were numb, still
grasping at air, her tongue slipping backward into her throat, threatening
suffocation. She was in her extremity now, dangling there, counting the ages
between seconds, hearing women crying all about her.
Someone
was whispering in her ear, pushing her head gently forward. Her tongue rolled
helplessly about her mouth. A man's gruff experienced voice suggested that
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