I have written a fantasy adventure story.
The
Tale of the Unravelling Certainties of Arianne Damaska, is a fantasy adventure set in a timeless Mediterranean Ilyria.
I was fed up with the
usual cardboard characters in fantasy fiction – teenage boy fights evil
baddie. So I created The
Tale of the Unravelling Certainties of Arianne Damaska, a fantasy adventure with strong leading
women. The book has a contemporary feel, threading issues of
displaced people and family responsibilities into a story of magic and
intrigue.
Arianne Damaska, an artist living in the busy
port town of Vasnar, finds her comfortable family routine shattered by a
stranger’s determination to force himself menacingly into their lives.
Sarcon de Medeiros, a Mariel Thread Adept and the charismatic leader of a
rebel group from the island of Kytos, has returned from years of
banishment in the Aridian desert, seeking revenge on those whom he
believes betrayed him. Arianne is compelled to embrace her latent
powers to resist the growing danger.
Here is the prologue and the first two chapters, (please excuse any typos.) If you would like to read more please e-mail me and I will send you the rest. (I have a device version if you would prefer that.)
The
Tale of the Unravelling Certainties of Arianne Damaska
By Annabel Mednick
© Annabel Mednick June 2015
Aridia
A hot parched land of endless
sands and towering dunes that shift with the night winds
The stranger stood inert. His youth, his
shaved scalp and chin, and his strong body were at odds with his drooping jaw
and the incomprehension in his eyes. Inside he was burning with anger as hot as
the desert sand under his feet.
Some of the nomadic tribe gathered
around him, intrigued. Some kept themselves apart, primed, wary and defensive,
watching him; the unknown young man from far across the sea, who they had
agreed to keep, in fulfilment of the ancient contract.
An older woman approached him. She
spoke to him in a language full of clicks and long vowels; it could have been
the cicadas talking, for all he understood. He passively allowed her to take
his arm and begin to rub a lotion onto his exposed, blistering skin. His thin,
torn clothing was little protection from the scorching sun.
An elder of the tribe followed her
and roughly pulled her away. They shouted and gesticulated; she pointed at the
stranger, at the sun. The elder conceded and walked away with a shrug of his
shoulders.
Again the woman approached the
stranger. She spoke to him once more but to him, the words were still as
perplexing. She smiled and gave him a leaf containing the lotion. He took it
and stared at it uncomprehendingly. Rub it on your arms, she mimed. She rubbed
some on her own arms, took his other hand and gently placed it in the lotion.
The stranger looked at her, at the stuff in the leaf in his hand, and he felt a
rage, such a fury. He threw the leaf to the ground and snarled under his breath
as he turned away.
It was dark now and the stranger
sat alone, away from the group. He remembered nothing of his past. There was
emptiness; a gaping void and a dull pain where memory should have been.
He dozed for a while and dreamt.
He dreamt he was deep in the
darkness and infinity of space. He was comfortable here, in this dream place.
In his dream he turned slowly. Up, down, near, far; all was the same. There was
no sound; all was calm. Far away energy crackled. He instantly knew what to do.
At the speed of light he crossed a vast distance. His interest was piqued.
Below him an intersecting ball of myriad strands spun; every strand a living
thing. One reached out, further than the rest. Easily, skilfully and with no
effort, he caught it in his consciousness. They intertwined; he slid downwards,
spiralling, absorbing, being absorbed. He was sucked in.
Suddenly the stranger awoke,
alert. A young man and woman had moved away from the group sleeping by the fire
and stopped near him.
He was invisible in the dark. No
moon shone that night, just a thousand stars piercing a sky as black as ink.
He sat there listening to their
fumbles. They began to kiss. The stranger thought about moving away, but that
could have alarmed the couple, so he just sat there, trapped by the night, an
unwilling and unseen eavesdropper on an intimate exchange.
The man said something, low and
guttural. The woman protested and the stranger understood; no in any language
is no. The young man became more forceful and the woman pushed him away. The
clear night emphasised the sounds of their wordless fight. The man held her
down; his lust the most important thing to him now. She cried out but the sound
was instantly muffled by his hand over her mouth. They struggled. The ravager
was thrusting hard as the woman whimpered.
The stranger listened to their
struggle and felt a fury rise up in him until he could take no more.
Instinctively he focused his mind and tried to draw on his energy. Nothing
happened. He was not sure what should happen, what he expected to happen. Again
he tried to push out with his will; a blank, a wall.
The stranger rose up, he roared,
he raged, as he pulled the man away. He punched the man again and again. He
remembered feelings; feeling desperate, feeling anger, urgency, guilt. He
remembered feelings ... but not his name.
Kiron Barreto’s cottage
At the hamlet of Karevo, amid the green hills of Northern Illyria,
Kiron Barreto was pottering about in his vegetable garden. He felt the
soil; it was bone dry. That summer had been even hotter than usual and he was
looking forward to resting in the shade of his old olive trees. An old straw
hat was thrust on his head, over his thatch of thick, greying hair. He dusted
his hands on his already filthy leather jerkin and peered over his glasses, as
he carefully filled a tin can with water from a barrel. He had been away for
weeks and his plants had suffered. Kiron Barreto watered his neglected tomatoes
and roses, hardly concentrating on the job in hand as he recalled the details
of the last few weeks.
The Union of Councils for the Mariel Thread had convened on the
beautiful, lush island of Kytos, for a crisis; the trial of a renegade Mariel
Thread Adept. Kiron Barreto had long been one of the members of the Inner
Council for the Republic of Illyria. He had been chosen to represent his
country and make the long voyage across the ocean to the island. He was fluent
in the languages that they spoke on the free islands of the Geanian Sea.
The Mariel Thread Centre on the island was in a secluded valley. The
accommodation was comfortable, lavish even. The centre itself was spacious,
with large, airy communal spaces, quiet cloisters and serene rooms for
meditation and practise. If the reason for being there hadn’t been so serious
it would have been very pleasant to wander through the olive groves and
vineyards that surrounded the compound.
There were twelve countries represented. Lots had been drawn and he had
found himself to be one of three council members charged with sitting in
judgement. For a week he had donned the long, vermilion robes and tall red hat
of office; stifling in the heat of the Kytos summer. He had filed into the
large council chamber with the others. In unison, the red robed judges had sat,
removed their hats and placed them to one side in front of them. They had
lowered their heads, and with hands clasped and eyes shut, intoned the four
laws:
·
Treat
all things on earth as equal.
·
Each
creature behaves according to its nature.
·
The
Thread is to be used only with benign intent.
·
If used
to destroy there will be consequences.
They were no longer themselves, no longer individuals with emotions and
prejudices, but were all now representatives of the Mariel Thread statute.
For a week Kiron Barreto sat behind the long table placed at one end of
the hall, had looked out at the tiered seating opposite him, filled with angry
people; at the seating to one side where the other nine Mariel Thread Adepts
sat, calm and impartial ready to lend their strength giving Thread to the five
should the need arise, at the raised dais where the stern and arrogant General
Nestor had strutted as he made his charge,
“This gangster has broken one of the basic laws; it’s up to you to bloody
do something about it.”
Where the frightened witnesses for the prosecution had cowered to whisper
their statements, where the accused had stood, proud, silent.
Day after day they had heard the evidence and then talked, deep into the
night. It had been a long week. The issues were complex, the charges serious.
What had been the intent, of the malpractice of the Thread, by an Adept turned criminal,
that had resulted in the deaths of at least twenty people?
“If used to destroy there will be consequences…The rules of the council.”
General Nestor insisted, “An example has to be made.”
On the last day they had, once
again, slowly filed in; three red-robed judges. The hall was hushed. In unison
the judgement was proclaimed: guilty.
The jubilant citizens of Kytos, even the smug General were escorted out.
Only Mariel Thread Adepts were to be present, to witness and deliver the
punishment, and the accused was brought in once more.
Kiron Barreto was jolted back to the present moment by a sharp pain. He
had nicked his thumb on a thorn. He sucked at the blood and tied a bit of rag
he found in his pocket, around the wound. He slowly retrieved some canes from
his shed, thrust them deep into the earth and began to tie the wilting cucumber
and melons to them.
He could still see that fiery young man with a shaven head - so vital, so
passionate, so resolute - standing defiantly in the centre of the chamber,
waiting for the twelve Mariel Thread Adepts to totally decimate him; to strip
him of his memories, his power and his mind. Kiron Barreto could still see the
crumpled, dribbling creature they’d reduced the young man to. Kiron Barreto had
felt the incredible potential, the charisma of the man; a man who people could
follow, love, die for.
“The crime was terrible, yes, but was it deliberate? Could it have been
an appalling coincidence? Were we justified?” It had bothered him since he
returned to Illyria. He couldn’t help but feel he had been somehow manipulated.
Something else was going on below the surface. What if they were wrong?
Part One
Chapter One
After
the midwinter Dark Tide meal at Figgia, a small fishing village
on the west coast of Illyria
“Oh Kurat!” Arianne Damaska cursed as she spilt gravy down the front of
her favourite dress. She had found the fabric; soft linen in a deep shade of
russet, in a bazaar back in Vasnar, where she lived. It looked good with her
short, bright, hennaed hair.
“I’ve ruined another one.’’ She
had been pleased with the dress too. It had taken her hours to make, she’d only
had to unpick the seams a couple of times; sewing wasn’t her forte.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!”
She rubbed at the spill, which only made it worse.
It was midwinter’s eve. Arianne
Damaska, the ‘sensible wife' of Theo Damaska and mother of two; previously
known as Arianne Valenta, an ‘exciting artist’ with potential… was finally
alone in her sister-in-law’s kitchen about to wash up after the Dark Tide
festival meal.
She could hear the children
thudding across the floor in the room above as they were put to bed. She and
Theo were to sleep downstairs on a bedroll in front of the fire.
‘If they don’t shut up soon I
shall explode! I’ll never get used to these family get-togethers, and to think
I used to yearn for brothers and sisters to play with. Well, at least it wasn’t
the whole clan this year, that’s something to be thankful for!’ Her husband
Theo had two brothers as well as a sister, and with their wives and children
festival gatherings were a noisy affair.
Arianne Damaska was thirty-three;
she had clear, light eyes and a face that showed every emotion. She thought she
looked boring and so kept her hair cropped and tinted red, a tenuous link with
her old self. Although it wasn’t as if that old self had been particularly
wild… Arianne would have loved to have experimented with drink, drugs and all
the other stuff artists are supposed to explore. But too much wine made her
sick and her eagle-eyed mother would have known instantly if she’d taken any kariya leaf.
Arianne hated washing up, but at
this moment it was exactly what was needed. She always became prickly if
surrounded by people for too long. As an only child she was used to solitude.
She would shut herself in her room, away from the activity and noise in the
street below.
‘Come out Arianne, you’ve been up
there for hours!’ her mother would plead. It fell on deaf ears; she needed
quiet and calm to paint.
Arianne plunged the dishes into
the warm water.
“Ahhh!” She sighed loudly with the
release of pent up tension and looked at the night sky through the window. A pale
yellow moon weakly gleamed through grey speeding clouds that swept across a
deep, deep, ultramarine; it would make a good painting. She hadn’t made any new
work since Natalia had been born fourteen months ago. She felt she had turned
into a child-centred, food-smeared, podgy Mama.
‘Maybe I’ll never pick up a
paintbrush again?’ she felt a panic rising, ‘I need to be by myself for more
than five minutes if I’m going to paint… I’d love to live here, in a lonely
cottage on the top of a cliff, lucky, lucky Flora.’
Arianne looked around the kitchen.
It reflected her sister-in-law’s personality perfectly. Flora’s friendly
exterior disguising a will of iron, was echoed by the whitewashed plaster
hiding the hunks of stone with which the cottage was built.
She gave her temples a rub; it had
been a long day.
Arianne had awoken very early that
morning. She, her husband Theo and their two small children had taken the night
train for their journey to Figgia; a
small fishing village on the west coast of Illyria, to visit
Theo’s sister Flora and her family for this year’s Dark Tide celebrations.
Arianne had stared out at the dawn
mist as the landscape unravelled. The bare trees, stark against the winter
fields had a raw quality she longed to capture, but her unused sketch book was
stuffed somewhere at the bottom of their luggage. She was relieved they didn’t
have to make the trip too often from their home in the port town of Vasnar. The
steam train rumbled along. Arianne shivered and wrapped her shawl closer, careful
not to disturb her baby daughter sleeping on her lap. Theo was dead to the world; his head resting
on his carefully folded new jacket, their three year old son Alexander curled
up beside him, warm under a woollen coat. Theo was in his early thirties. His
dark clothes and closely cropped black hair belied a sense of humour and a
smile that lit up his bony face. As soon
as they had settled down in the carriage, he had kept his family amused with
funny comments and imitations of all the characters they’d encountered.
“Now, for one last one before bed…
our noble ticket inspector!”
“Stop it, the man might come in
and see,” Arianne said, as Theo pulled his famous sea monster look; neck
tendons flayed, lips pulled back. “The wind will change and you’ll be left with
the head of an eel, and you’ll have to sleep on the sofa for the rest of your
life.” Theo Damaska just grinned.
They had arrived at the hilltop
cottage soon after ten that morning. Nicander and Flora Trevino opened the door
and their three young daughters flew out to greet the guests.
In no time they were trooping
along the cliff path, to get to the festival down in the village. The morning
breeze had a nip to it but it was not too cold yet. Nicander Trevino led the
way, striding on long legs, his youngest daughter riding high on his shoulders.
Theo, with Natalia wrapped against his back, walked with him.
Arianne and Flora brought up the
rear. Flora’s eldest daughter dashed through the low shrubby bushes to stand on
the edge of the overhang and look down at the crashing waves beneath. Her
middle girl marched along beside them on sturdy legs. Alexander was with them
too, checking every interesting stone that drew his attention.
Arianne was comfortable with her
fiery sister sister-in- law. As always, Flora’s dark hair was escaping from a
hair clasp, one hand pushing it out of her eyes as she exuberantly gesticulated
with the other. She was a short woman, bossy and demanding, - but somehow she
got away with it.
When the women had first met years
ago now, they’d clicked instantly. They hadn’t stopped talking all morning,
their voices; the accompaniment to the gestural ballet their hands performed,
grew louder and louder as they caught up on the news.
“Tell me about Rhea?” Flora said. “Has she
found another choir yet?”
“Finally, and they’re not too bad,
if you like that kind of thing,” Arianne said. “We heard them sing last month.”
Arianne had known Rhea d’Silva; a good friend of her parents, all her life. It
was through Rhea that she and Theo had met five years before, at an opening of
an art exhibition. Rhea had invited Flora and Flora had dragged Theo along as
well.
Rhea was a Mariel Thread Adept,
and had been Flora’s teacher when she was training to use her skills. Arianne
was sceptical about the Mariel Thread; she thought it superstitious, mystical
nonsense, but if they all wanted to believe in it, that was fine by her. She
and the rest of the world got on perfectly well without it.
“Perhaps we can catch one of
Rhea’s concerts next time we come to Vasnar,” Flora said. “We want to come for
the spring equinox, though that’s when she’ll be taking her novices to the
Retreat for their initiation tests.”
“Huh! They’re a bloody dopey lot.
They’ve no chance.” Arianne replied. “Rhea roped me in to giving them a drawing
class. They may be strong in their sixth sense, but they haven’t an ounce of
common sense between them. It’s going to be an uphill struggle teaching them, I
can tell you.”
“Poor Rhea,” Flora laughed, “She
must be glad they’ve all gone home for the midwinter break. I’m sure she’ll
knock them into shape in time.”
“I expect she has a few magic
tricks up her sleeve... Oh no, what’s Alexi’s found this time!”
Alexander had suddenly halted in
the middle of the path to examine another stick. Arianne, yet again, had to try
to cajole him to walk on. Actually, she wanted to pinch him, but it was an
impulse she suppressed.
Arriving
at the edge of the village, they went past the scrubby olive groves, down
through the steep, cobbled streets, past the tightly packed, white houses, to
the central Plaza near the quay. It was buzzing with activity. The staging for
the theatrical show that evening was already erected; it was to be a
traditional piece about the midwinter darkness. The mummers were putting the
finishing touches to their costumes and masks.
At one side of the square, food was being prepared, braziers glowed red
and barrows decked with greenery were piled high with fresh fish and spicy
sausages. Small booths and tables lined the other two edges; tawdry junk
glittered in the winter sunlight.
The Plaza filled quickly and there
was a festive air. Hawkers passed with trays around their necks, loudly calling
out their wares, ‘Amulets and love potions,’ ‘Sweet cakes and sticky dates!’
The older children were given coins and they dashed off to spend them.
“Come on Arianne, let’s go and
visit the fortune teller.” Flora said. She began to drag her towards a tiny
tent, the scent of incense wafting out. ‘Madam Metis the Mariel Mystic’ was
painted in purple curling script over the entrance.
“You must be crazy!” Arianne said,
“I’m not wasting an obol on that rubbish.” She peered round the curtain as they
passed. A scrawny woman was sitting in a shabby chair, napping. She lifted her
head when she heard Arianne, opened one eye and beckoned her closer.
“Read your future with my painted
pack of cards my darling?” Eager for another gullible customer, her wrinkled
neck stretched forward.
“Sorry, you got the wrong one
here,” Arianne said.
The two women stopped to watch a
conjurer produce a flock of silver sparrows from a tiny box on the table in
front of him. Bird after bird flew into the air with a chorus of song.
“He is amazing!” Arianne
exclaimed. “How does he do it?”
“Hmmm, if you listen you can hear
him murmuring… he is using the Thread.” Flora said.
“Oh it’s a trick Flora. It’s all
sleight of hand and mirrors.”
“If you say so… “
The man clapped his hands and the
birds disappeared.
“Well… where did they go to then?” Flora demanded with a
twinkle in her eye.
“I don’t know the trick but I’m sure there is one.” The
cynical Arianne replied.
Flora and Theo’s parents and their
sprightly grandmother had also come to Figgia to celebrate the Dark Tide
festival. They were staying at an Inn, just off the central plaza.
“Ah, there you are, we’ve been
waiting a while, your grandmother can’t stand up all day you know.” Cornelia
Damaska’s voice called out.
“We’re not late yet Ma.” Flora
said.
Flora’s mother was fifty-four,
with a gritty way about her. She bit back the words of rebuke. She was a town
governor, a position she had held for years and had no intention of
relinquishing in the near future; but she knew when to hold her tongue. Her
daughter Flora was the most difficult of her four offspring, impetuous and
hot-headed. Galen Damaska rolled his eyes heavenwards. A calm and tranquil Dark
Tide was all that he desired. If his wife and daughter could grant him that he
would be a happy man.
The children were soon squashed
tight in Grandma Valeria’s scented bosom. Lunch was eaten at crowded trestle
tables. Flora and Nicander were well liked in the town and Arianne knew she
would never remember all the names of the people they were introduced to. The
children’s cheeks were red from all the kissing and pinching.
Finally,
the time for the show was upon them. The crowd was friendly and there
was a murmur of anticipation in the gathering dusk. Arianne Damaska felt rather
excited; she liked mummer’s shows and they had found a good spot near the front.
Old
Man Winter, clothed in washed-out rags, entered the stage. His mask a
map of wrinkles; his grey hair stuck out like a faded crown. He clowned about,
lurching towards the audience. Alexander hid behind Arianne, squealing with
pleasure.
Of course there was the usual
jeering from the drunken louts at back of the crowd.
Suddenly, almost invisible in his
dark clothing, Mischief appeared. He darted in and out the audience, clonking
the drunks with his phallus baton as he passed them, he jumped up onto the
platform to tease Old Man Winter. Mischief was a magician; long ribbons
appeared as if from nowhere, which twisted and spun around Winter’s ancient
body and head until he was tightly bound.
The mood changed. Exhausted and
blind, Old Man Winter crumpled into a heap on the floor. Mischief became
menacing, raising a large ceremonial knife he pulled back Winter’s head, and
slashed his throat, sacrificing him to the Dark Tide God; the blood spilling,
stark and red.
The crowd gasped and Alexander
started to cry. Arianne bent down to comfort him.
“How horrible, that is taking
things too far.” Cornelia said.
The dusk turned to night. The
glass balls of Carnon, suspended about the stage, cast an eerie glow. Mischief
ran off with a scream. There was a hush.
Now a light wove through the audience. The
last performer, Glorious Moon, tall and dignified in her long silver gown,
headed towards the collapsed and bleeding figure on the stage. Mischief
solemnly following behind her, handing out lit paper lanterns.
Alexander took one and smiled, the
panic of the moment before, forgotten.
Glorious Moon reached the dying,
fading body and circled about him. She began to hum, a low, cadenced tune as she
cut the ribbons binding Old Man Winter, setting him free.
The crowd, knowing what came next,
chanted a surging, rhythmic sound.
Winter parted his bloody costume,
revealing a shimmering pale green shift. He stood up, vigorous, emerging as the
New Spring. Glorious Moon grabbed the ribbons the New Spring held aloft, and she
wound them round them both until they were very close. The couple danced
together, slow, sensual, his hips gyrating, thrusting. Her humming became
stronger, a vibrating, energizing throb.
The thrilled crowd urged the
performers on, clapping in time, stamping, calling, “'Hi Hi Hi!'”
The rotating, twirling pair left
the ground. They spun faster, their clothing merging, a blur of silver and
jade. The ribbons streamed out as they flew even higher.
The crowd craned their necks upwards
watching the impossible aerial acrobatics. The audience gasped, they hadn’t
expected anything like this.
The music climaxed and the
spinning couple slowly sank back down to stage where they shivered with bliss.
“What do you say to that,” Flora whispered to
Arianne, “I didn’t see any wires!”
“It’s got me stumped” Arianne
whispered back. “It’s incredible however they achieved it.”
There was loud applause, as the
performers took their bows, mulled wine was passed around and everyone,
slightly drunk, dispersed back to their homes to have the festival meal.
Arianne and her family took the
direct route home. The lanterns they held high to light the stony path, cast
strange and eerie shadows amongst the pine trees that lined the lane. Grandma
Valeria walked slowly, a great-grandchild holding each hand so that she didn’t
miss her footing.
Flora had prepared a feast,
stuffed vine leaves, lamb stew, sticky pastries. They ate with an appetite;
bread mopped the bowls clean and dates packed with sweet cheese filled any
space left. Galen told the story of the beginning of time, as the woven basket,
with a branch of an evergreen for hope, a stone to represent hard times, and
honey to sweeten the future was passed around. Songs were sung, an exchange of
gifts, and then the children went off to play together while the adults
finished off the jug of mead.
“Good show this evening,” Arianne
said. “The acrobatics were astonishing. The dance was a bit near the edge, I
expect it in Vasnar, but out here in the sticks…”
“Oh, I hate the bit when he has his
throat cut,” Cornelia grimaced, “I don’t think it’s necessary to have quite so
much blood.”
“Oh Ma, that’s the point; it has
to be gory or there’s no drama.” Flora said.
“Well I don’t agree. I think it
encourages the young people to behave badly. There used to be a ribbon to
symbolise the blood; we all got the idea.”
“In some places they still have a
real sacrifice.”
“Of course they don’t Flora. That
practice stopped hundreds of years ago.”
“Well, actually Ma, I’ve been
looking into current customs and rituals lately,” she waved at her cluttered
desk, piled high with papers and reference books. “There’s plenty to indicate
it still goes on, and with the priests in the outlying regions able to do
whatever they like, I’m not surprised at anything that happens.”
Her mother raised her eyebrows.
Flora pushed a stray dark lock of
hair from her eyes and breathed deeply. She could feel an argument creeping up
her spine and along the hairs on her neck. She flung a glance at Nicander,
indicating: ‘back me up on this one, please.’
“There’s definitely something going on,”
Nicander said, getting the hint. “Last year four bloodstained altar stones were
found at different places along the coast. They were brought into me at the
museum and the bloodstains on them looked recent.”
“Now that’s appalling! I had no
idea,” Cornelia said. “Do tell me anything more you hear, Nicander, and I can
bring it up at a Senate meeting if it starts to look serious.” As a town
governor Cornelia would meet up regularly with the other governors and members
of the senate.
‘Typical,’ thought Flora, ‘Nicci
mentions something and she’s all ears.’
A loud snore came from Grandma
Valeria in the chair by the fire. Galen yawned and patted Cornelia’s arm. Once
engaged his wife could go on all night. She patted his hand back.
“It’s late now,” she said smiling,
“and enjoyable as this is everyone, our bed beckons.”
Flora laughed, that was the way
with her family, tension one moment, and the next second everything was fine
again.
“Won’t be a mo’,” Nicander jumped
up. “I’ll just get the pony and trap ready.”
“And I’ll go and root out a couple
of blankets for you all,” Flora added kissing her mother’s cheek, “It’ll be
chilly.”
The
meal had broken up after that. It was well past ten. Flora and Theo put
the exhausted children to bed, while Nicander took his in-laws back to the inn.
Arianne had started on the washing
up. She wallowed in her thirty minutes of tranquillity and solitude until there
were only the big pans left to do.
Across country to the east, at
the Villa of Mistwold on the edge of
a thick forest near Elgar, the capital
city of Illyria
That same night, in a cold, dark
room in the crumbling Villa of Mistwold, an adolescent girl was forlornly
waiting. Her thin, dirty frock fell loosely over her skinny body and her arms
were hanging at her side. Her head was turned to the window and she looked out
over the trees, towards an invisible point. She shuddered and scraped back a
curtain of lank hair from her face, trying to salvage what was left of her
will. But she was too weak, too tired.
The room was finely furnished,
sumptuous even, with an ebony bed, a silk rug and a large, ornately carved
chest. When they had first taken her there, days ago now, she had been so
excited; she had never seen such grandeur in her life. The girl had bounced on
the bed and felt like a queen, but when she looked around she had noticed there
was a thick layer of dust over everything and a faint smell of mould. The slop
bucket in the corner stank, and when she lifted the lid of the chest it was
full of rotting old gowns. She had tried to open the door to leave but it was
locked. Although tired, she was too scared to sleep in the bed and had curled
up on the floor and lay there shivering, eyes open staring into the dark,
listening to the engulfing silence.
The door opened; the candlelight
from the landing outside spilled in. A thickset man in his mid thirties
entered.
“Where are you?” he said; although
still a relatively young man, his mouth was already a grim line in the
pockmarked surface of his face.
Spying the girl he grabbed her arm
roughly.
“Trying to hide, eh? Can’t get
away from the mistress that way, you bit of skin and bone. Even the dogs
wouldn’t want you. Come on.” He pushed the exhausted girl before him, out onto
the landing and down the narrow stairs. She stumbled, the cold stone floor
numbing her bare feet even further, and fell, collapsing into a heap at the
bottom. The man prodded her inert body with his boot and almost tenderly lifted
her up and carried her in his arms.
“Poor little thing,” he mumbled.
“What have they done to you, eh? You can’t be more than thirteen, you poor
little thing.”
Arriving at a large oak door, he
stood her up and gently shook her awake. She started in surprise when she saw him.
Then, remembering where she was, she hung her head in misery. The man crouched
down beside her.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Tamara Delacrúz," she
whispered.
He squeezed her thin hand with his
large rough one.
“Have strength, Tamara Delacrúz.
It is midwinter’s eve; perhaps the goddess is watching you.” Straightening up,
he opened the door and led her in. “The girl, Ma’am” he said.
His mistress was languishing on a
divan in her dark, smoky chamber; stoned out of her mind on kariya leaf. By the light from the fire that was blazing in
the large stone fireplace she looked beautiful, the flickering shadows
disguising her hollow cheeks; too hollow for her thirty years. Her green
velvet embroidered gown that had fitted snugly last year was loose now. Her scrawny,
old lover lay sprawled across his chair, his eyes half closed.
“Very good, you can go, Grauchus,”
Elena Romano’s slurred drawl commanded him.
The stocky man left, and after
closing the door behind him, leant up against it for a moment to control his temper.
“How many more?” he grunted,
through gritted teeth. How many people had he brought to this room since his
mistress had arrived with the first one, a skinny boy of twelve, Timo, the
first ‘helper’, as she called them? “Must be oh, almost twenty…” Grauchus Pérez
had liked the lad; he had grown fond of him. .
“Do they think I have no feelings?
That I am so stupid I can’t see what’s going on?”
He had watched and listened. He knew how his
mistress had persuaded that mystery man she had found to test his Mariel Thread
skills, and use the boy’s vigour to take her flying. Didn’t the kariya leaf take her flying enough? They
used so much of the boy’s energy that he lost his mind; sweet, happy Timo, just
an empty husk. His mistress had instructed him to take Timo away to Elgar, that
large, sprawling, dusty city, and leave him there. He had argued, he had
protested, and then he had done as she had asked, as always.
Over the next year or so, it had
not been hard for her to find more ‘helpers’; usually kariya users or orphans, one or two a month.
“They must have become better at
using the Thread,” Grauchus mused, “’cus now when they’re finished with them
they’re not all totally hopeless”. Some had even stayed on to work. Dromio
Longoria helped in the stables and a couple of women,
Celina Muro and Velia Contreras, were now working in the kitchens.
“They don’t
dislike Mgeni, so whatever he does to them can’t
be that bad. Ha, they’re not too keen on my lovely
mistress
though. Well, good luck Tamara; you’ll need it.” He said. Then, as he
was not a brave man, he quickly walked away.
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