As he sat, caged and shackled, feeling like less of a human being than he ever had before, Akan had plenty of time to reflect on all the mistakes of his life. He was accustomed to being a sort of outcast, of course, having been born a free man within the walls of York, to rather well-to-do parents, and grown inches taller every year, so that by the time children his own age had learned to distinguish themselves from the common element of the street and developed an elitist separation between him and themselves, he was already towering above them by half a meter. By all means, he had become used to the staring and whispering that accompanied him as he walked about the banks of the Ouse in Fishergate. Everyday he made the same journey, never straying from the same route, from his boyhood home, to the Blue Bridge over the Foss, from which he dropped pocketfuls of pebbles into the water below, enjoying each and every splash no matter how minor and insignificant it seemed.
He was still very much a well-mannered young man, even if he felt constantly ostracized from the city surrounding him, and he was somehow able to retain the innocence that was oft lost or corrupted from his youthful contemporaries by the pleasures afforded by the city. Until, at least, he was approached by a band of street urchins that would have put Fagin's troupe to shame. Though at first his friendship seemed advantageous to their own urban ventures, namely as a looming intimidation figure, there grew a certain bond between Akan and the rest of these boys. He cared little about their pick-pocketing and snatching schemes and the rigged wagers they offered to passers-by in the streets, yet they offered him a place to belong, a place where his immense size was not seen as a freakish handicap, but as a simple draw of the cards. Slowly, Akan began to realize that life was little more than a game of chance, and it was at that exact point that what remained of his innocence crumbled to dust, ignored and soon forgotten.
Thus it was that his parents' attempts to persuade him into the good, honest life of one of York's finer missionary societies fell upon deaf ears, and he chose, instead, to travel with his friends to London, with its promise of more targets to dupe and more money to be made. One by one, however, his friends were seduced by traveling recruiters, intent on hiring more and more young scoundrels to sail the sea in a burgeoning, though technically illegal, slave industry. Once again, Akan found himself alone, and it was at this moment that he met young Thomas Huxley, also living his life as a street hustler, though with a stronger moral backbone than his former friends possessed. At that time, Huxley espoused a philosophy that roughly equated Thomas Tusser's infamous adage: a fool and his money are soon parted, and young masters Huxley and Akan found that their personal style suited one another in such a way that a partnership could be formed between them. Even now, as Akan thought back on that day and recalled the thick aroma of Turkish coffee in the air, he realized that this was perhaps the single worst idea he'd ever had in his entire life.
Though they enjoyed moderate success early on in their partnership, the two of them pulling schemes that were told years after in pubs and taverns as if part of some ancient mythology--the incident at Reading came immediately to mind, in which Huxley convinced a group of a dozen young drunken men that their destiny laid with the British Navy, relieved them of all their drinking money, and set them adrift on the River Thames in a rented boat with the implanted notion that they were the preliminary force in a large-scale invasion of France--Huxley was becoming increasingly difficult to work with as his plans became more and more grandiose. This led, of course, to his idea of stealing a rough map traced by Dr. Livingstone, who had become loosened by a constant stream of celebratory beverages purchased by none other than Huxley himself, a plan ultimately leading to Akan's current incarceration and impending sale. He had done his best to stay strong in the preceding days, to never speak a word, though he gave encouraging looks and glances at the captive villagers around him, and through him, they became just as strong--with the will and determination of two men.
Now, as he listened to the approaching footsteps outside his cell, he resolved to keep calm, to not look his captor in the eyes or even acknowledge his existence, much less his own subordinated status. He would give his so-called master no pleasure, only the cold stare of carved onyx.
The door creaked open, and voices carried from beyond the door, including one that seemed some how familiar. It was then that his hardened resolve was broken by sudden hope, and he turned just in time to see none other than Terrance Westmoreland--or at least a man who resembled Terrance Westmoreland, though with none of the quirks he had come to know--step into the cage, followed by Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia Pear, whose welfare he'd known nothing about since being taken captive.
"So what do you think?" asked Whelp.
Westmoreland pretended to look Akan up and down contemplatively, stroking his chin for added dramatic effect.
"I thought he'd be taller, to be honest," said Westmoreland, disappointment coating his words.
"Stand up," Whelp ordered, and Akan, feigning reluctance, obliged.
"Very good. I believe my employers will be very happy with this one. I should like to examine his muscles, though. Unshackle him."
"Pardon?" Whelp asked in disbelief.
"You say he has the strength of two men, and I'd like to be certain he's physically sound. Certainly there's no harm in this, is there? Is he well fed? Have his muscles atrophied? These are questions I must ask before any deal is be made, or else my employers will be extremely displeased," said Westmoreland, matter-of-factly. "You aren't trying to pull a scheme here, are you, Mr. Whelp?"
"No, no, of course not," said Whelp with a false grin, turning then to Higgins. "You heard the man, unshackle him."
"Yes, sir," said Higgins, his voice shaking. As large a man as he was, Akan still stood a few inches higher, and the very idea of an angry giant in an enclosed area sent a shiver down his spine. Nevertheless, he moved hesitantly closer toward Akan's bound wrists.
"Not to worry," Westmoreland said cheerily. "You're both armed, I take it?"
"Yes, of course," said Whelp before he and Higgins immediately drew their forgotten revolvers.
"As am I, just in case." At that, Westmoreland drew the long knife at his belt.
Higgins opened the locks on the giant's shackles, his own hands quivering the entire time, and then stepped quickly back, his gun at the ready.
"All right then, Mr. Akan, please extend your arm forward, and let's have a look at how strong you really are," said Westmoreland.
"Funny thing," remarked Whelp, "how on Earth did you know his name?"
In one swift motion, Westmoreland reached out to Akan's outstretched hand and planted the knife in his massive grip before wheeling himself about and drawing a revolver of his own.
"All right then," said the former porter, "let's be on our way."
Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia all paused, dumbfounded.
He was still very much a well-mannered young man, even if he felt constantly ostracized from the city surrounding him, and he was somehow able to retain the innocence that was oft lost or corrupted from his youthful contemporaries by the pleasures afforded by the city. Until, at least, he was approached by a band of street urchins that would have put Fagin's troupe to shame. Though at first his friendship seemed advantageous to their own urban ventures, namely as a looming intimidation figure, there grew a certain bond between Akan and the rest of these boys. He cared little about their pick-pocketing and snatching schemes and the rigged wagers they offered to passers-by in the streets, yet they offered him a place to belong, a place where his immense size was not seen as a freakish handicap, but as a simple draw of the cards. Slowly, Akan began to realize that life was little more than a game of chance, and it was at that exact point that what remained of his innocence crumbled to dust, ignored and soon forgotten.
Thus it was that his parents' attempts to persuade him into the good, honest life of one of York's finer missionary societies fell upon deaf ears, and he chose, instead, to travel with his friends to London, with its promise of more targets to dupe and more money to be made. One by one, however, his friends were seduced by traveling recruiters, intent on hiring more and more young scoundrels to sail the sea in a burgeoning, though technically illegal, slave industry. Once again, Akan found himself alone, and it was at this moment that he met young Thomas Huxley, also living his life as a street hustler, though with a stronger moral backbone than his former friends possessed. At that time, Huxley espoused a philosophy that roughly equated Thomas Tusser's infamous adage: a fool and his money are soon parted, and young masters Huxley and Akan found that their personal style suited one another in such a way that a partnership could be formed between them. Even now, as Akan thought back on that day and recalled the thick aroma of Turkish coffee in the air, he realized that this was perhaps the single worst idea he'd ever had in his entire life.
Though they enjoyed moderate success early on in their partnership, the two of them pulling schemes that were told years after in pubs and taverns as if part of some ancient mythology--the incident at Reading came immediately to mind, in which Huxley convinced a group of a dozen young drunken men that their destiny laid with the British Navy, relieved them of all their drinking money, and set them adrift on the River Thames in a rented boat with the implanted notion that they were the preliminary force in a large-scale invasion of France--Huxley was becoming increasingly difficult to work with as his plans became more and more grandiose. This led, of course, to his idea of stealing a rough map traced by Dr. Livingstone, who had become loosened by a constant stream of celebratory beverages purchased by none other than Huxley himself, a plan ultimately leading to Akan's current incarceration and impending sale. He had done his best to stay strong in the preceding days, to never speak a word, though he gave encouraging looks and glances at the captive villagers around him, and through him, they became just as strong--with the will and determination of two men.
Now, as he listened to the approaching footsteps outside his cell, he resolved to keep calm, to not look his captor in the eyes or even acknowledge his existence, much less his own subordinated status. He would give his so-called master no pleasure, only the cold stare of carved onyx.
The door creaked open, and voices carried from beyond the door, including one that seemed some how familiar. It was then that his hardened resolve was broken by sudden hope, and he turned just in time to see none other than Terrance Westmoreland--or at least a man who resembled Terrance Westmoreland, though with none of the quirks he had come to know--step into the cage, followed by Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia Pear, whose welfare he'd known nothing about since being taken captive.
"So what do you think?" asked Whelp.
Westmoreland pretended to look Akan up and down contemplatively, stroking his chin for added dramatic effect.
"I thought he'd be taller, to be honest," said Westmoreland, disappointment coating his words.
"Stand up," Whelp ordered, and Akan, feigning reluctance, obliged.
"Very good. I believe my employers will be very happy with this one. I should like to examine his muscles, though. Unshackle him."
"Pardon?" Whelp asked in disbelief.
"You say he has the strength of two men, and I'd like to be certain he's physically sound. Certainly there's no harm in this, is there? Is he well fed? Have his muscles atrophied? These are questions I must ask before any deal is be made, or else my employers will be extremely displeased," said Westmoreland, matter-of-factly. "You aren't trying to pull a scheme here, are you, Mr. Whelp?"
"No, no, of course not," said Whelp with a false grin, turning then to Higgins. "You heard the man, unshackle him."
"Yes, sir," said Higgins, his voice shaking. As large a man as he was, Akan still stood a few inches higher, and the very idea of an angry giant in an enclosed area sent a shiver down his spine. Nevertheless, he moved hesitantly closer toward Akan's bound wrists.
"Not to worry," Westmoreland said cheerily. "You're both armed, I take it?"
"Yes, of course," said Whelp before he and Higgins immediately drew their forgotten revolvers.
"As am I, just in case." At that, Westmoreland drew the long knife at his belt.
Higgins opened the locks on the giant's shackles, his own hands quivering the entire time, and then stepped quickly back, his gun at the ready.
"All right then, Mr. Akan, please extend your arm forward, and let's have a look at how strong you really are," said Westmoreland.
"Funny thing," remarked Whelp, "how on Earth did you know his name?"
In one swift motion, Westmoreland reached out to Akan's outstretched hand and planted the knife in his massive grip before wheeling himself about and drawing a revolver of his own.
"All right then," said the former porter, "let's be on our way."
Whelp, Higgins, and Virginia all paused, dumbfounded.
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