Cane Warriors

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Alex Wheatle. Cane Warriors

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Dedication

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A shooting pain spread from the top of my left shoulder down to my waist. I spun around and saw Misser Donaldson astride his donkey. I didn’t hear him approach. His hat shadowed his forehead and his right hand twirled his back-ripper. It was whispered that it was part bull’s tail, with hog bone and goat hide. I remembered what it had felt like when I had been “seasoned”—given my first lashes, no more than two moon cycles gone—and I had seen what it had recently done to Keverton as a punishment. It was one of the worse whippings we had seen. His back showed ridges of hard dried blood.

Misser Donaldson’s teeth were as dirty as the manure banking and his ginger beard had specks of gray in it. Hate rippled through me. His red neck was ripe for strangling. My fingers wanted to wreak revenge but I gripped the sides of my coarse pants instead.

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