by Katie Macey
Hunched and shawled, the old woman rose from a three-legged stool. Without speaking she poked at the pot over the singular coal before finally answering, "Wash up and I'll set you a bowl."
Veayre used an old bent spoon like it was polished silver, and Niamh stared. Veayre's usual attire had been replaced with a brown quilt wrapped around her.
"Through there," said Veayre, nodding towards a doorway Niamh hadn't noticed.
"Wash. Eat. Answers later," the old woman crooned. Comforted by the thought of being cared for by someone like her own Aunty, Niamh didn’t ask any more questions. She was reluctant to part with her clothes, but the room contained a large tub, filled with sudsy water. Dipping one hand in, Niamh tested its temperature. Her hand registered the water as tepid, but it would do. She didn't need a looking-glass to tell her how badly she needed to wash.
Niamh wriggled out of her salt-crusted, sandy clothing, and carefully lowered herself into the tub. In minutes she was smooth and free of the gritty sand. When she returned to the dining table, wrapped in a similar quilt, to start on her stew, it warmed her from the inside out. Her hair hung wet on her bare shoulders. With one hand holding the quilt securely, she twisted to take a closer look at her shoulder. It was badly bruised. But the skin hadn't broken. Niamh exhaled and her shoulders lowered slightly. No risk of infection then.
Veayre stacked her and Niamh's bowls and carried them to the bench where the old woman stood.
With rest and food taken care of, a rush of questions filled Niamh's mind: where were they, what had happened, could they send a message to the academy, would anyone be worried about them yet, did she still have enough time? But the sudden warmth fatigued her, and she didn't have the strength to voice any of them. Veayre looked ready to fall asleep right here at the table too.
Without turning, the old woman said, "Go."
They didn't need to be told twice.
Staggering back into the simple room, it now seemed like a luxurious palace. The bed felt so soft, the blankets so warm. Niamh sank into its stuffed mattress and fell into a dreamless sleep.
✽✽✽
The next morning, Niamh couldn’t find Veayre inside. Dressed in her own clothes again, freshly washed and dried, she quickly scoped the entire building. It was as small, dark and pokey as she remembered, but she shuddered at the mould clinging to the walls in the wash-room. The old woman sat on an uneven stool, by the front door. Niamh noticed she mended a worn apron in the same way Aunty had taught her. But the woman didn’t look up. And when Niamh moved closer, something about her face told Niamh not to interrupt her with questions.
“I guess I’ll check outside?” said Niamh, pretending not to notice how the woman didn’t acknowledge her words.
The yard was dusty, with thin grass shooting out in streaking strings across the white sand. Like a small box, it was lined with rickety wooden fencing that reached knee height. Veayre stood by its low gate, facing out to the street. Her arms were crossed. Their overnight refuge sat on the outskirts of a dirty village, on a cobbled road that led away from the cove. Niamh wanted to ask what this place was called, and how far they had strayed from their path. Her cloak hung stiffly from its dip in the salty sea, off her shoulders, but it did stop the cold wind from chilling her bones.
The door slammed shut behind her.
“Surely not,” said Niamh, jolted from her thoughts. She yanked at its handle. “It’s locked!”
“Of course it is, Niamh. She got what she wanted.”
“What if we hadn’t gotten our dresses and cloaks back?” said Niamh, knowing full well that didn’t matter. They had their clothes, even her lost boot had been returned.
“Well, we have our clothes, so don’t worry about it,” said Veayre. Her voice sounded as calm as it had on the morning they set sail.
“Don’t worry about it? But that,” Niamh couldn’t bring herself to say the word. Weapon. Blade. Dagger. “That abomination is gone, stolen!” said Niamh. “I don’t understand why she should even want it.” Her hand recoiled at the memory of having to touch the blade.
“You can say it, Niamh. Knife,” said Veayre.
Niamh pursed her lips, thinking of some way she could make the old woman open her door. But she was only fifteen, and she didn’t even know where they were? What did she think – that she could break down the door? But then she noticed a strange emptiness on her wrist.
“No!”
Niamh’s hair hung loose in pink waves that swung across her face as she dropped her head to search the dusty ground. Her throat tightened.
“It’s not lost, Niamh,” said Veayre softly.
“But, my bracelet…” said Niamh. Facing the door, she knocked her knuckles on it hard. If only that woman would open the door!
Veayre stood with her shoulders back and took an audible breath. Niamh relinquished the door from her knocking and turned away. She wondered how Veayre had gotten her hair to braid so smooth. And why she was so composed now. They’d been robbed!
Veayre took another breath and spoke to Niamh in a tone that irked her, like Niamh was a tiny child, and Veayre the responsible adult.
“Look at this place, Niamh. People here are different.”
Veayre led them away from the old woman’s house and along the cobbled road.
Niamh rubbed her wrist and looked back at the house that had sheltered them overnight. But Veayre insisted they didn’t go back. Looking forward, Niamh noticed that everything did appear strange to her here. And it wasn’t just because she had been schooled at home.
“Different how?” Niamh asked.
They entered a market, with stalls jammed into every spare inch down a winding road. Its stalls stocked various grains, fish, and fabrics. Veayre nodded towards one stall in particular. It only sold marked fruits and tarnished metal bowls.
“Desperate,” said Veayre.
Niamh believed her. Every single building was derelict and worn.
“What happened here?” said Niamh, trying to keep her voice down. But Veayre heard her. So did a man selling bruised pears.
“Sometimes people fall on hard times,” said Veayre.
“And how do you know about that?” said Niamh. “No offense. Look, these buildings bear the mark of a master-tradesman.”
Veayre paused. Niamh continued,
“You’re right, their clothes are in tatters, and their faces…” but Niamh realised her mistake too late. She’d voiced her thoughts where she could be overheard.
The pear-seller frowned.
“Hush,” said Veayre, lifting a finger to her lips as she glanced at the faces around them. Niamh’s hand flew to her mouth. They moved through the market, hurrying now, but Niamh couldn’t stop noticing the worn shoes and the noses red from the cold. Of course the old woman would have stolen her bracelet and the blade. Niamh hadn’t even known how lucky she was, to not be as desperate as these. A bath, a bed, and a meal were an easy exchange for something as valuable as those trinkets.
But the bracelet was hers. And she hadn’t even known she should hide it. It was so unfair. Tears pricked at her eyes…
“Don’t,” Veayre whispered, keeping her eyes ahead. Niamh’s bottom lip trembled. Faded sails converted into stall canopies flapped in the wind, and buyers and sellers raised the volume of their bartering.
“I don’t even know where I am.”
Niamh hated how pathetic she sounded. She’d never felt so far from home. There, Aunty had accompanied her to the markets every time. Here Niamh’s cheeks burned and tears threatened to spill over.
“Take a breath,” said Veayre. “I’ll meet you back here.”
“What?” said Niamh, rooted to the spot, but Veayre melted into the crowd and out of sight.
Suddenly aware, and hating, the scrutiny of the busy market Niamh darted into a nearby alley. It was shaded and blissfully blocked from view. A wooden ladder leaned against one wall. Its wood looked no stronger than the fences and market poles, but the wall it leaned on looked
well-built.
Peeking around to check if anyone had spotted her, Niamh climbed the rickety old thing. On the top rungs, she let her face relax. Invisible to the street below, she let out a little sob, then calmed herself. Climbing off the ladder and onto the roof felt risky, but Veayre was right. She needed a moment to pull herself together.
Perched high on the roof, Niamh had a bird’s eye view of the winding market road. She was higher up than she expected. Dark hair wound with coloured ribbons gave Veayre away easily. She weaved her way through the crowds below. Her destination became obvious to Niamh. Veayre hoped to find the port, where another ship could carry them onward.
Niamh rubbed at her wrist. To think it had been taken from her own arm while she slept! That woman had taken them in, fed them, bathed them and now she knew why. It wasn’t generosity. It was a fair trade.
Still, she watched Veayre continue on her search, but she saw the futility of it. The market road led to no such port. It lead directly into the mountains. That meant no ship waited for them, and they had no easy way to continue on their journey. Niamh hugged her cloak a little tighter. Though it provided protection from the wind, it did nothing to dispel the fear in her heart. She and her little sisters owned so little, so these precious bracelets, their matching set, were so valuable to them. In her mind, Niamh could almost hear Aunty’s persistent voice, persuading her to rush on to Oplijah. But Niamh couldn’t let go of her bracelet so easily…
She hoped Veayre discovered the gravity of their situation soon. They needed to formulate a new plan. Niamh knew she had to continue on - yet she couldn't – not without her bracelet. It was worth so much more than the silver it was forged with. But she still didn't even really know where they had washed up. How far off course had they been blown? Sighing, she rubbed the back of her neck. Her hair hung in gentle waves now, deep pink contrasting dramatically against her grey dress. The cloak's hood hung down her back, but high on a roof like this one, there was a steady ocean breeze. She would be driven back down the ladder by the cold soon enough. Her tummy rumbled. She and Veayre would have to find another meal soon. Hugging her knees to her chest, Niamh hoped Veayre would return quickly.
✽✽✽
Turning her head sharply toward a crash in the alley below, Niamh blinked at the space where the ladder had been. A male voice muttered something foul and angry below. Niamh sat pinned to the roof, unable to get down or climb further away. The ladder slammed back in place, and two hands appeared, then a face. Frozen by surprise and indecision, the only movement Niamh managed was to blink her eyes.
Staring back and mirroring her surprise was a young man, maybe a year or two older than her. He reminded Niamh of Finn, broad shoulders and square-jawed, but he wore his hair with the top half pulled into a bun and the remaining black strands hanging straight down his back. He recovered much faster than Niamh. His hair reached down past his shoulders and he flicked it out of the way as he lifted himself higher, to climb onto the roof. Niamh lurched backward, instantly compelled to increase the distance between herself and whoever this newcomer was. He stopped short as Niamh’s long skirt snagged on a splintered edge.
"Wait!" he snapped, his hand lunging for her.
For a split second, there was only the two of them in the whole of Gutheacia, his expression pinched with urgency, and her shrinking back into herself. Waiting for whatever awful imminent thing he foresaw, Niamh and the unknown boy stayed caught, him grasping her wrist, her looking up at him horrified.
But the moment passed.
Nothing happened.
His mouth tugged down in one corner, as he carefully loosened his grip on her wrist. Niamh yanked it back, hugging it to herself.
"These roof panels aren't sturdy,” said the boy. “One step back…" he continued until he sat beside her with his feet resting on the same straight roof edge. Holding his long robes to one side, he tapped the space between beams, and Niamh suddenly understood what he was talking about. Three out of the four wooden beams were unsupported.
"You would've fallen straight through,” he finished.
Niamh stared at him. He spoke with authority, but he was dressed like a pauper. Her anger evaporated, and she felt all the hot energy of it leave her. Her shoulders drooped.
"I'm Niamh,” she ventured, still unsure. Was she in trouble for being up here? Was this his roof?
"Aarin,” he answered, pressing an open hand across his chest. Niamh noticed the edge of his robes were frayed, and that grey and blue threads dangled in loose ends against the skin just below his collarbone. He ignored her obvious curiosity and asked, "How did you survive the wreck?"
Niamh saw she had to decide now whether to trust him or not. But after what had happened with the old woman, her judgment was clearly flawed. Erring on the side of caution, and unwilling to make another mistake she said,
"I'm not sure. The storm came up so suddenly..."
"It's a bad time of year for storms,” said Aarin, his eyes matching the green of the ocean after a storm.
"It is?"
Niamh's mind raced. If storms were expected, surely someone on her ship would have known? Aarin dragged his long hair forward so it hung over his left shoulder.
"Anyway,” he said, “I heard a rumour: that you and your friend got lied to." He threw a glare towards the old woman’s house. "So I'm here to check if you've got a plan."
"A plan?" Niamh leaned back on her hand, forgetting everything he'd said about the weak beams. It cracked beneath her leaning weight. She instantly yanked it back, but not without snagging a nasty splinter first. Niamh covered her mouth with her other hand, and it smothered any cry of pain. But it stung!
"Here," said Aarin. He held out his hand, his face impassive. Niamh eyed him suspiciously.
"You obviously aren't from anywhere nearby,” said Aarin, then scoffing he added, “Seriously, is everything smooth where you come from?"
She placed her hand in his, palm up. It was smaller than his and he tenderly lifted it to see the splinter more closely. He began carefully nudging it out of the soft flesh of her hand as he continued to speak.
"If I were you I would be seeking shelter, income, safety, food, and the like. So I'm hoping you've got a plan for all that. Because nobody is going to help you here."
Niamh's eyes widened. What kind of place had they entered? Was this a village filled with treachery? She glanced back to the street, hoping Veayre would appear.
"My only plan is to report an item of mine stolen," Niamh said, but she exhaled sharply through her nose, with her teeth clenching as Aarin pulled the splinter free.
"Forget it, okay? No one will help you." He returned her hand and rubbed his own on his robe-covered knees. "In fact, I'm not really helping you either.”
Niamh didn't understand, and she rubbed at the tender spot on her palm. But it didn't matter because he continued, saying, "But you could go and see Herup. Find him before the afternoon or he'll be no use to you. He might have work. He does have lodgings, which he may or may not let you use."
Niamh searched his face for any trace of a manipulative lie, but she couldn't find one. He wasn't being that kind to her anyway, and he had no reason to lie. But she did wonder about his reasoning for the so-called 'help' he was giving her. She noticed that he searched her face in the same way. What possible reason would he have to doubt her?
"How do I find Herup?" she asked. She noticed him smother a shiver, and look back down to the alley.
"At the east end of the market. You should be able to find him easily. You stand out, so just ask someone if you can’t do it on your own. You two have no hope of blending in."
He said the last phrase like an insult, and jumped from the roof into the side alley, ignoring the ladder altogether, landing like an agile cat. Niamh's jaw dropped.
She sat there a while longer, but she knew the stew from the old woman would only keep her going for so long. Carefully checking the ladder, she stepped down the rungs and sought out Veayre. She di
dn't know if she could trust Aarin, but his plan was better than anything she'd thought of yet. She was nowhere near home, and Aunty wasn’t there to guide her. If she was going to get through this, it was up to her and Veayre to figure it out.
✽✽✽
"No, I don't know what that boy was thinking, there's nothing to be done. Nothing!"
Aarin had been right, and he hadn’t lied. Niamh had caught up with Veayre and together they’d found the man Aarin mentioned quickly.
Herup threw his hands in the air, his ruddy cheeks glossing to red, and reached for the rag that dangled from a belt loop in his overly-baggy pants. Veayre barely hid her grimace as she took in his exposed curly-haired chest busting out of the tiny waistcoat. Niamh knew they had to do better than that. They'd been shipwrecked and robbed and now Herup was insisting he had no work for anyone. Niamh watched him pick his way through his work-shed, squeezing his flabby magnitude between messy piles of boxes, papers, and crates. Bare tables added legitimacy to his story. He certainly had nothing laid out to sell. But the place was crammed full with piles and stacks of boxes.
Veayre wanted to go directly to the town leader. But Aunty discouraged Niamh from even talking about Gutheacia’s leaders. And when she let Niamh accompany her further into town, she’d duck out of sight at even a lowly district leader.
So no, Niamh wouldn't ask for assistance if she could help it. Niamh paced behind Veayre, twisting her long magenta tresses into a thick plait. Facing Herup again, she tried to disguise how badly they needed this. If this didn't work, then Veayre would insist they ask the town leader for assistance. Niamh sniffed derisively. Veayre was sweet and could be good company when she wanted to be. But her complete trust in any authority figure was aggravating. As if leaders were intrinsically good. Maybe that had been the case long ago, but not in recent memory, and certainly not now. Niamh knew what Veayre didn't. They would need to get themselves out of this mess.
"That boy just doesn't get it. He should-" Herup groaned loudly as he heaved an empty crate from one bench, “Aarin should just sweep his roads and-" to another, "and be grateful!" he puffed grumpily.
