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Home Forlorn He had sad eyes, turned down at the outside corners. He seemed to be about to cry-until he smiled; then his face was transformed, radiating happiness. But, he never smiled-had no reason to smile. He'd lost everything: his mother and father; his home; all his relatives and friends. He'd been sold-not sold actually, but taken from his parents. They had been given money for him, but, as much as they had needed it, had left it laying in the dirt, where it had been thrown. His new master was rich and had armed bodyguards. Money was power. Without it, his parents had none. No one had come to their aid, when their son had been taken. Their neighbors had shut their doors-had shut their ears to his parent's pleas. Mustafed had seen the boy playing with friends as he and his retinue had been passing though the boy's village. The boy, laughing with his friends, had paused to watch as he had passed. Perhaps, if the boy hadn't been smiling, he wouldn't have noticed him, but his radiant smile had attracted his attention. When smiling, the boy was beautiful. Mustafed had wanted him, and what Mustafed wanted, he either bought or took. His servant, sent to the boy, had asked to speak to his father. The boy, innocent to the ways of the world outside his small village, had taken the servant to his father. "My master wishes to purchase this boy," the servant had said. The father loved his son. He and his wife were old. The boy was their only child. He was their life; they lived for him. Certainly they were poor-all in the village were poor-but, what was money to them, if they hadn't their son? At first, he hadn't been able to comprehend the offer; then, when he had, he had answered, "The boy is not for sale." The servant had pulled out a coin-a gold coin-such as no one in the village had ever seen. The father had looked in wonder at the coin, but had shook his head, "The boy is not for sale-not at any price." A signal from the servant had brought two armed guards to his side. They had placed their hands on the hilts of their swords. "Take the coin," the servant had said. "My master wants your son." When the servant had grabbed the boy by the arm, the father had started forward, but, a guard, placing a hand on his chest, had shoved him backward. He had fallen onto the road. "No," cried the father, "he's not for sale. You can't have him. You can't have my son." That's when the servant had thrown the coin into the dirt beside the father, who, when he had tried to rise, had been pushed back. The boy, frightened then, had begun crying. Upon looking at his face, even the hardened servant had been moved. The boy's face-radiant when he smiled-was heart rending when he cried. The servant, though, had his instructions. As the guards had held the father at bay, he had taken the boy to the caravan, where, after tying his hands, he had leashed him to a camel. Upon hearing his father's cries, the boy's mother had come onto the street, where she had augmented his cries with hers-to no avail. The guards had held them at bay, as the caravan had made it's way to the outskirts of the village. The gold coin lay in the dirt. Neither the mother or father had moved to retrieve it, but had followed the caravan until they no longer had strength-until the father had collapsed onto the road. His wife had stopped beside him. They had watched as the caravan-with their son-had dwindled into the distance. They never saw him again. Some neighbor picked up the coin from the dirt. Heartbroken, both the mother and father died soon afterward. Neither had reason to live. Although the caravan moved at a walk, the boy was young-no older than ten. He kept stumbling-to be dragged by the camel until he was able to regain his feet. Taking pity on him, one of the other servants lifted him onto the camel's back, where he rode until they stopped for the night. When taken before the master that night, he was still crying. Even Mustafed was affected by the boy's woeful expression. For a moment, he wondered what he had seen in the boy-but, he remembered the boy he had seen in the village. Perhaps, when he stopped crying? Eventually they arrived at Mustafed's home. The boy was readied for Mustafed's bed-had his small cock and balls cut away, leaving his crotch smooth and hairless. He would never be a man-but, he would never grace Mustfed's bed either. Without his smile, no man could look for long upon his face-and he never smiled again. |