[QAF fanfiction]The Abernathy Trilogy by Kristen, Queer As Folk Fanfiction
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The Abernathy Trilogy
Abernathy, Abandon, America
By Kristen
Abernathy
Prologue, Part 1
June, 1770
William
A sea of people parts before our carriage, mindful of being trampled. I admit that I enjoy the annual auction for this
very reason. Every street and square of Hereford is teeming with merchants and their buyers, both local and from
afar, and they all must scurry out of my way. It's a simple pleasure for a man too old for greater excitement.
I drive the carriage resolutely, cutting a swath through the throng that jostles us from every side. Hereford is
transformed by this annual event, from a quiet country hamlet to a bustling, boisterous (and malodorous) mess. It's
simply a sight to behold, and though our official purpose for this visit is merely to purchase grains, one must allow
that this is a veritably exciting event in our sleepy shire! I anticipate it every year. I know that Brian does as well,
though admitting to as much would not suit his mien.
He and Arthur have been relatively quiet in the back, though I imagine it's a struggle for both. The two of them are
so alike in disposition, I once jested that they must share the same mind. Brian merely laughed and replied that such
a claim was surely an insult to Arthur.
Brian
It seems to take all morning for William to find a suitable place to leave the carriage, but when we finally do, Arthur
and I burst forth from it as though the devil were inside. He is as eager as I am to stretch after our three-hour journey
from the farm. And thus, he immediately begins to dart around the horses' legs, nipping at their forelocks and
infuriating them to no end. I suppose that his past vocation in shepherding made for habits hard to forget. Soon after,
he takes off after a pair of hens, who had the ill luck to stroll too near. As the sound of his barking recedes into the
distance, William and I set forth into the crowd to see what awaits us.
The market is teeming: a shouting, swirling, sweating mass of vendors and their prey. Here, the "best apples to be
found in all of Herefordshire;" there, a string of rabbits "so newly killed, the fur is still warm!" Or so swear the
merchants, preachers to a dubious crowd.
We make our way past poulterers and silversmiths, butchers and fish-mongers, casually perusing, though I have no
intention to buy anything but oats this day. The weather is pleasant, and I am feeling strangely cheerful. Before long,
we are passing the livestock pens, of such shoddy construct that hen and duck escapees are mingling with the crowd.
A child chases after a wayward piglet and several onlookers erupt in laughter, cheering on the swine in his flight for
freedom.
The mood is light and clear, yet amidst all this banality, I feel a peculiar charge in the atmosphere. It crackles around
my senses like the air before a lightning storm, as though something momentous is about to occur.
William
"Sir," I shout above the din. "Have we not already passed the miller's stand?"
"We'll circle back afterwards" Brian returns. "I'd like to look around a bit more."
He continues forward, and I follow, aware that we are heading into the area where the human slaves are traded and
sold. Brian has never once mentioned an interest in slaves, nor is it economical for a small landowner such as he to
have one. Yet every year, he looks at them, and I fear the reason why.
I know what he sees in them--the potential of a very strong worker, one that could do twice the work of an aging
servant such as myself. I know that Brian would never let me go, though I assume that it is more out of respect for
his father than out of any real usefulness on my part. His father, the late Mr. Kinney, was a close friend to me, and as
good an employer as ever existed on this earth. I've lived with the Kinneys since Brian was born, and have come to
know them as my own family. After Mr. Kinney's death, I believe Brian never even considered replacing me, nor
Josephine, our housekeeper. Still, every brawny, youthful farmhand I encounter makes me ever more aware of my
age and inadequacy.
Brian
We come upon the slave enclosures and, like every year previous, I feign disinterest in front of William. Had he any
inkling of the real reason I came to this part of the fair...! I shudder at the thought of being found out, even as I,
myself, cannot admit my own reasons. How can I explain the thrill I get when I see the great Africans, giants among
men, proud and noble, even as prisoners? They stand bare-armed and bare-chested, beautiful dark skin glistening in
the sun, and I am awed.
But there is more than admiration or mere curiosity in me. There is something I cannot explain or comprehend. A
physical excitement in the very center of me; a tingling at the sight of these beautiful men. Though I cannot even
understand this feeling, I somehow know that it can never be spoken aloud.
By fortune, as a boy, I once discovered that I was not alone in this persuasion. My parents had sent me to London to
be educated, and there I met another boy with whom I became instant friends. We spent all of our free time together,
and the first night that he kissed me, I welcomed the experience. In the months that followed, we explored each
other as archaeologists would a beckoning new landscape. I learned the many ways that a man could make pleasure
with another man, and felt neither sinful nor ashamed while doing it. Yet, we maintained an unspoken understanding
that these twilight meetings were to be a secret between us.
At the end of the term, we parted ways, and swore to write to each other. We managed to do so for a while (of
course, making no mention of the trysts we'd shared). After a time our communication dropped off, and the next I
heard from him was several years later, via his wedding announcement. I attended the ceremony, wished him
happiness, and he shook my hand as any old acquaintance might. That was the last I saw of him.
At the time, I had assumed that he and I were the same. That our secret encounters had been only the meaningless
acts of mischievous boys, and that I, too, would someday discover a beautiful woman, fall in love, and get married.
Yet, some ten years later, this fate has not befallen me, and I must admit that the idea of marriage has not become
any more welcome to me. Despite the protestations of my friends (and dear old William), I feel certain I will spend
my remaining days alone.
A loud commotion jars me from my thoughts. From the agitation of the crowd, I estimate that a fight is ensuing.
Naturally, the throng pushes in upon itself, everyone shuffling to see what has happened. I hear laughter suddenly
from several in the crowd, and my curiosity overtakes me.
I press on into the crowd in the direction of the row, vaguely aware that I have long since lost William. Ever closer, I
begin to distinguish some of the commentary from the front:
"A bull-dog, that one!"
"Have you ever seen a lamb with such teeth?"
"And such a wicked tongue; I dare say you've been put out, George!"
I come close enough to the scene to see, over the tops of a few heads, a large and very surly man (George, I would
assume), huffing and puffing in an outrage, his face as red as a beet. Behind him is another, thinner man, begging
George's forgiveness.
"What has transpired?" I ask of the boy in front of me.
"One of Nicholson's slaves has insulted George Parry!" he answers gleefully. "The slave is good as dead now--
there's no way that Lord Parry would tolerate such an abuse without retribution! I suspect we'll see that chap hung
before noontide!"
A few shoulders part ways, and I am able to fully witness the characters in question. One of Nicholson's henchmen
reaches down to grab a figure off of the ground, and I am shocked to see him come up, not with an African slave,
but a light-skinned, tow-headed youth. The huge iron collar around his neck leaves no question, however, as to his
status. His face is entirely covered in blood, matted thick with gravel from where he was no doubt knocked to the
ground. His eyes are clenched tightly to halt the blood from running into them. The guard holds him up by a fist
clamped in his reddened and sticky hair.
Nicholson and Parry are negotiating amongst themselves, and a cruel smile developing on the latter's face seems to
indicate that he is satisfied with their arrangement. Moments later, a crate is brought forth, and the slave is forced to
his knees, his back to the cheering crowd. He is bent double over the crate, and tied down.
Seemingly out of nowhere, Nicholson produces a whip, which he passes to the gloating and boorish George Parry.
My heart drops in my chest, and suddenly the air seems too dense to breathe. I feel a voice clamoring in my head,
'Stop! Stop this!' yet my tongue is paralyzed. Parry proceeds to tear the shirt off of the slave, and the shocked crowd
gasps in unison. The boy's back is an intricate web of wounds and whipmarks--new and old--so many, I dare say,
that there is not a finger's length of unscarred flesh to be found on him. Parry flounders,
visibly disappointed that he will not be able to leave his own significant brand for all the humiliation he has suffered
toda y.
Fortunately, the delay has broken my paralysis, and I shout "Stop!" just as Nicholson pulls down the slave's
breeches, no doubt to find for Parry some untouched patch of flesh to disfigure. Having commanded their attention, I
reach into my pockets for my coin purse.
I address the weasel Nicholson first. "How much can I offer you for this slave?"
Nicholson regards me incredulously. My face must convey my earnestness, however, since he quickly becomes
eager to have the troublesome boy off of his hands. "Ten pounds if you'll take him today," he says hastily. But Parry
will have none of it.
"Kind sir," he condescends, "It is of no interest to me what transactions you enact after I am done here. But the fact
remains that this slave has disrespected me in the grossest manner, and I will not rest until he has paid dearly for his
transgression."
"How much, then, to cool your temper?" I ask, turning over more coins in my hand. "Twelve shillings to forget what
has happened here? Fifteen?"
"Sir, you are mad," Parry retorts. "If you imagine that..."
"A full sovereign, then, and you can walk away a richer man." I produce the coin, mindful to have it catch the
sunlight and glisten appealingly in Parry's face. I can almost see him licking his lips with delight.
Prologue, Part 2
William
I'd all but given up hope of finding Brian again, when I catch sight of his auburn hair over the top of the crowd. I am
once again grateful for his exceptional height.
"Sir! Brian!" I shout, feeling every bit a helpless child. He notices me and, waving me to follow him, continues back
in the direction of the carriage.
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