Chapter 5: https://steemit.com/horror/@horrorguyian/birthright-chapter-5
1864 - The Manor
"Wake up, Joshua."
The dim light from the candle my Father held gleamed off of his glass eye, a token from an unfortunate incident that involved breaking a stallion. I rubbed away the dreariness of sleep that threatened to convince me the moment was naught but a dream.
"Surely, it can't be time to tend the livestock yet?"
"Nay, son, you won't be joining us in labor today. But there is a task needs to be attended to for now. Then you can have the day to yourself."
Olivia stirred beside me. "Is everything alright, Papa Cartwright?"
"Yes dear," he replied, "Peter has come down ill. He'll be fine in a couple days, but we must make preparations. You stay here with the babes." He lay reverent hands on Luther and his new brother, Avery.
I kissed Olivia and put on my work clothes. It didn't occur to me until we stepped out of the cottage that Father was dressed in a hooded robe, crafted of simple gunnysack cloth. The garment of one in mourning. In accordance, his face was smeared with ash, giving him a ghastly appearance at this witching hour. Torches burned in the paths along the fields, each carried by another hooded figure.
"What is this, Father?"
"Just follow," he ordained.
We strode alongside the gathering men, many of whom I strained to recognize as neighbors and farmhands under the burlap hoods and masks of cinder. The solemn march ended at the old manor, windows still boarded, but dual manse doors ajar. The inside was aglow from an assortment of lit candelabras. In the center of the foyer was a sturdy maple dinner table, four sections long. Peter, still in his nightclothes, stood in front of it, an equal mixture of fear and curiosity on his visage.
When the last of us had gathered inside the manor, I heard the loud clap of the heavy oak doors closing behind me. Father guided me to the front of the crowd, which had gathered in a circle, and I locked eyes with Peter. One of the robed men paced around him. Then with one hand placed on the boy's shoulder, the other drew back its hood, revealing Uncle Garrett. His face too, was sullied with burnt coal.
Garrett's voice boomed within the unused room. "It is our family's birthright," he paused, "that the first-born man shall inherit the field, and all of the hardships that accompany it. But he will also earn the fruit of generations from his toils. His family will never want, but the man himself will never prosper. The second-born man shall inherit the Cartwright wealth. He will never know physical labor or lean times. And when his time has come to pass down the business to the next generation, he will be free to spend it on leisure or travel as he wills.
"But this does not mean the rich man will never feel pain. This is the great trade of the birthright. He will leave behind a lifetime of ache for a moment of agony. And will exchange the hope of offspring for silver coin. Thus we ensure that familial insurrection will never rise again. Joshua, the Lord has seen fit to provide you two sons. And so it shall be, that the birthright be passed down.
"For we all must make sacrifices. We all must suffer, so we do not take for granted that with which we have been blessed. Forever and ever. Amen."
The shrouded men answered, "Amen."
With that, four men set upon Peter, lifting him up and laying him on the table. I screamed his name and struggled against my Father's steady grasp, but he bore me to his chest with arms made of iron. Peter also wrestled with his captors, his seventeen years of cultured living no match for men wrought from the crucible of hard labor. They held him down, one at each limb, with Garrett and Grandpa Clive's old friend Red Beauchamp at his head. I couldn't make out who restrained his legs.
Doc Pallin stepped from the circle, a surgical scalpel burnished to a glint in his possession. Peter cried out at the sight of the sharp instrument, and Beauchamp took the opportunity to insert a strap of leather into my brother's mouth.
"Bite down on dis 'ere, awlright? Keep ya from chewin' yuh tongue off," Red instructed.
The two men at Peter's legs raised his bedclothes up, exposing his fear-shrunken manhood to the Doc's cold steel. I tried to look away as the scalpel made an incision up the length of the scrotum, but my Father turned my head back to the grim scene. Peter's shrieks were barely muffled by the bit, and his eyes rolled wildly in their sockets. One-by-one, the testicles emerge from the gash as swollen, bloody sacs. Doc's trained hand cut away layers of greasy tissue, then severed the orbs from the thick, purple umbilicus retaining them to the body.
Several times, Peter's consciousness wavered. But Beauchamp was there to lightly smack his face, bringing him back to the horrid reality. This part of the birthright was to be endured. There was no escaping it.
Sick rose in my throat where my Father held me still. He must have felt it as well, for he whispered in my ear, "You have ta see this, boy. Witness his sacrifice, so you never resent or question your position."
Vessels were tied off and after a miserable eternity, Peter was sewn back up. He looked distant, transfixed by the pain in
the corner of his mind, as the hooded men raised the boy bathed in flop sweat, and carried him back toward the farmhouse. Away from that damned ramshackle manor.
Father was rolling a cigarette on the porch when I approached him. I had emptied the contents of my stomach at the side of the farmhouse as the incident seared its way into my memory. He lit up, and the scent of tobacco filled the night when I spoke.
"I hate you, y'know. Uncle Garrett too. I'll never forget what'chyu all done to Peter back there. Doc. And Boo-shemp. You can all rot in hell."
"Watch your fuckin' mouth, boy." I stood in shock. I had never heard Father use that kind of language, being a God-fearing man and all. "You don't have to like me. Or even agree with me. But you will respect me."
He reached a worn finger into his eye and removed the glass bauble, turning to face me so I could observe the pink, empty socket. It shone slick as he drew on the cigarette, exhaled smoke onto the blind replacement, then cleaned it against his shirt. Father's motions were deliberate and drawn out, assuring I took in the entirety of the situation. To ponder its meaning.
"You think this is hard on you? That's my son in there. He's a part of you and me both. This will be his only indignation, the only time I'll have to grieve him. I pray the good Lord takes me before I have to grieve for you."
Father inserted the eyeball back in place. I remained silent.
He continued, "Since your Grandpappy Clive's day, no Cartwright has been held higher than the other. It's impossible to have conflict, when there's nothin' to fight over. There's different kinds of rewards in life, and when you cain't attain the goods of your neighbors, you lose the ability to covet. Then, you'll appreciate what's in front of you."
Another long drag on the cigarette flared against his face, and I could see the turmoil on his wrinkles and cracks.
"Get back to bed," he ordered. I obeyed.
Father did get his wish. He died three years later of the consumption, at the age of thirty-nine. He never had to see me suffer anything other than a long day's work. Mother moved into the farmhouse with Peter. My brother and I never talked about the night in the manor. For years, I could see hatred in his stare whenever we casually bumped into one of the men who attended. But seeing my bruises and blisters as time moved on softened him into a begrudging acceptance, then understanding.
I, on the other hand, was wrong. I did forgive my Father. I forgave them all.
Chapter 7: