Rising

by C B Samet

  Spit, spot, I waited for him to say. Then, a pang of sadness struck me. Was Leonard even still alive? What about Marcy, Penelope, and the other servants? We had left everyone behind. Had we left them behind to die?

  We were each given a box of perishable goods to carry on the train and proceeded to load more of them from the caboose, an area I hoped our pursuers would be unlikely to check.

  “I have no inkling on how to serve,” the Queen whispered in my ear. Her tone suggested that the idea of her in servitude was preposterous, but her words were also laced with genuine concern.

  “Just, um, treat them as you would have them treat you,’” I replied, which conjured a ghastly image of her bowing before some slimy businessman her age who would proceed to look down her dress. “What I mean is, just provide food and drinks people ask for and keep them content.”

  As the train departed the station, the scar on my chest was no longer tingling, and I hoped it meant we were out of danger. I began the mindless job of serving drinks and snacks to maintain our disguise.

  I thought back to how I had gotten that scar.

  Karnelik was a cold and unforgiving land but rich in ore. I had traveled there to study smelting under the Ballik, a people known for their metal forging. I stayed with a family of four for the month, but I discovered that tagging along with their eldest son, Vallik, was more exciting than standing in the frigid air watching the making of an axe. Lean and sinewy, Vallik had playful eyes and shaggy black hair. Traveling higher and higher into the mountains with him every day, I learned how to survive in subzero temperatures.

  Unbeknownst to his family, Vallik had secretly become a member of the Dubik gypsies, an elusive group of pacifists that lived in the high altitudes of the mountain peaks. They searched tirelessly for Chevorik Ambria, the mythical, magical stones said to give their possessor powers of healing, protection, and foresight. Called Che stones by the gypsies, they were pretty enough rocks, but I’d have been more impressed if they could start a fire. As excited as the gypsies were to compare their stone collections around the campfire every night, I never saw them do anything more remarkable than shine.

  On the third week of my Karnelik excursion, I awoke one night to bloodcurdling screams and terrifying chaos. Tents around the Dubik gypsy camp were on fire and large, shaggy beasts were attacking un- armed gypsies. They walked on two legs and thrust swords into their victims. Throwing on my snow leopard coat and ice boots, I dashed out of my tent and followed the fleeing crowd. The noxious smell of burning animal furs—the tents—filled the air.

  “Vallik!” I shouted. I couldn’t see him through the dim firelight.

  I soon discovered that my footing was not near as sure as the gypsies’. Stumbling on jagged rocks and slick patches of ice, I was soon separated from the group. I slipped and found myself looming on the edge of a cliff, unable to see the bottom below through the dark night. I struggled on my tiptoes to keep from falling off the edge. Staring at the black, bottomless pit, I felt a wave of fear and nausea crash over me.

  I turned around to see an enormous figure encroaching, wielding a Ballik blade. He was a monster, man-like but taller and wider with a disproportionately small head. He wore a shaggy goat coat. His mammoth silhouette blocked the night sky, and my legs went watery.

  Facing my attacker, I teetered on the edge of the icy cliff. Death awaited me in both directions—by sword or by fall. His dark eyes were squinted and his face snarled into an expression of disgust and anger. It was both terrifying and baffling.

  Who did he think I was that he was so angry with me?

  I tried to catch my breath, to think of something to say, but there would be no reckoning with a face like that. I looked fearfully at the dizzying darkness behind me. Trying to hold my ground, I thought if he wanted me dead he was going to have to do it himself. I wasn’t going to plummet to my death for his convenience. He would have to look in the eye of his unarmed victim.

  I soon realized that this did not pose a moral dilemma for him as there was no hesitation when he plunged his sword into my chest. The pain was both bitingly sharp and burning, as though the fire the blade was forged in still burned within it. I screamed in pain and fell back into the enveloping blackness.

  Then all was dark, silent and cold.

  When I awoke, I was back in a gypsy tent, warmth from a fire spreading around me. Pain shot through my chest and down my arm causing me to gasp. Vallik and several Dubik gypsies stood above, as though confirming with satisfaction that I was alive. Vallik knelt down and put a restrictive hand on my uninjured shoulder to keep me from moving.

  He explained that I had slipped off the cliff edge at the same instant that I was stabbed so the sword did not make it beyond penetrating skin and fracturing a rib. I had landed in a soft pile of fresh snow, and the stab wound was my only injury. The barbarian attackers were the Muglik, a degenerate warrior clan under treaty with the Ballik but unencumbered to embark on sporting raids against the gypsies. They suffered attacks every few months but persevered despite their pacifist beliefs.

  I was lucky to be alive, grateful to be alive, but that didn’t stop the miserable pain in my chest. My wound healed slowly and left a purplish, discolored scar. Ballik folklore claimed that once one survived an assault with a Ballik blade, one could not be subsequently harmed by the ore. I had no intention of testing that legend.

  I was able to spend my last few days roaming the mountains with Vallik again. He discreetly gave me a small black Che stone with a white stripe. I was not sure what it was supposedly capable of doing, but I kept it in my pocket for the rest of my time at Karnelik and imagined that I felt warmer with it close. However, that could have been adoration for Vallik that I was feeling.

  I never told Paul about my attack for fear he would ban me from any more academic excursions. Much to my chagrin, Joshua noticed my scar one day. I had been coerced by friends to attend one of the Oxville University’s Shullby matches several months after my time with the gypsies. Joshua, and a horde of other ogres, pounded one another on the field over a small silk sac. At half-break the sky opened and everyone was instantly drenched. Joshua had thought to carry an umbrella and offered to walk me back to my dormitory.

  I initially declined. “You’re Paul’s sister. What do you think he’d say to me if he knew I let you walk back in the rain, and you get sick?”

  “Fine,” I pouted, cold and wet. “Such a silly game.”

  Joshua smiled. “That’s because you don’t understand it.”

  I took a deep breath. “There are six men per team on a square field with a central goal. Three teams play against each other. First, the frontrunners have to collect three flags; then they make their way to the shull.” The shull, or shullby ball, was a coconut-sized ball made from a twine of leather wrapped in thin cloth. An actual coconut or other similar-sized fruit was often used during pick- up games. “The ball is passed from player to player—preferably to players on your own team—as it makes its way to the goal. He who jumps through the goal with the shull scores a point. Ten points wins the game.”

  “Huh,” Joshua replied. “You do understand the game.”

  “And since you are fast, you seem to always be a frontrunner,” I added. “And since you are larger than most, you seem to get through the goal more often.”

  He smiled again, turning to take a long look at me.

  I frowned, as it seemed I had inadvertently given him a compliment.

  I wrapped my arms around my waist from a chill. My thin white shirt, not designed for torrential rain, stuck to my skin.

  “What’s that?” Joshua had asked, looking at my chest.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” He raised an eyebrow. He stopped to look closer at my chest, and I was forced to halt in order to stay under the umbrella. “That’s a stab wound,” he said, a tone of surprise in his voice.

  Scowling, I explained the Muglik attack on the rest of the walk back.

  “So you could h
ave bailed off that cliff and been just fine all along?” he mused, stopping again to look at the scar.

  Standing outside my dormitory room, I glared at him. “It was black and bottomless from what I could tell,” I snarled.

  He lightly ran a calloused finger over my shirt across the scar. It was uncharacteristically delicate compared to his rugged brute force on the shullby field. I shuddered slightly and assured myself that it was just from the cold rain. I wrapped my arms around myself and squeezed.

  “What did Paul say?” “Paul doesn’t know, and he can’t ever know,” I demanded, turning away from him.

  Joshua protested, “Abbey, he’s your brother. You have to tell him.”

  I opened my door and stepped out of the rain. “No!” I snapped.

  He followed me inside and closed the umbrella. He continued to argue with me, growing ever more quietly and pleasantly disagreeable while I grew louder and louder, until I was practically screaming at him that I didn’t want Paul to know because he would not let me travel anymore. Joshua sat relaxed on my couch as I paced the floor, a towel around my wet clothed body. Burning with frustration, I forgot about being cold.

  He looked up at me, eyes sparkling with amusement, then leaned forward and picked up the black Che stone from Vallik that sat on my tea table. He absently rolled it through his fingers. It looked small in his large hands.

  “Put it back,” I growled.

  He looked at me, then the stone, then back at me. “It’s pretty,” he commented. “It’s my Che stone,” I said through gritted teeth. “I don’t have many pretty things,” he replied, still holding the stone.

  “Mount Kapri,” I swore quietly.

  In the end, I bribed him into silence about my stabbing by relinquishing my Che stone. I asked him many months later if he still had it. Making some reference to losing it in a card game, he then chuckled vexingly at my angry tantrum to follow.

  It seemed a silly argument now. Arguing with Joshua about a stone instead of running from monsters would be a welcome change.

  I had difficulty focusing on serving refreshments because I was worried about how the Queen was doing. It was ludicrous that anyone thought putting her in my charge was a good idea. We were trapped, hiding in plain sight, destined to be seized and slaughtered.

  “Cream and sugar, please,” a thin, dainty woman was saying, her large purple hat hiding her small head.

  I nodded and obliged, then moved my cart to the next table.

  As time passed, I realized I hadn’t seen any Swallowers. I found this both relieving and unnerving. The mere sight of their grotesque figures would panic passengers, yet not knowing where they were lurking caused a swell of trepidation within me.

  A bald, shifty man was meticulously checking passenger tickets. My heart raced. I had lost track of the tickets in the haste and shuffle of the Queen through the rain and dressing room. I would be discovered and locked up or maybe just thrown off the train.

  A lump grew in my throat, constricting it. I gripped the cart tightly as he passed, willing myself to be smaller and transparent. The cart! My disguise! I wasn’t a passenger; I was waitstaff. The attendant passed by me without a glance. I let the breath I was holding slowly slip out of me.

  I thought of Joshua’s offer to tag along on our trip. Despite his antagonizing barbarism, I would have welcomed his companionship. I wanted to tell someone about Paul, to cry, and to be held again. But not speaking about him at least allowed me to pretend that maybe he was somehow still alive, although I knew he wasn’t. The Queen had said so.

  Working my way table by table with beverages, I tried to contrive an escape.

  When I finished serving and stowed the refreshment cart, I went in search of the Queen. I motioned for her to follow me, and we walked from boxcar to boxcar and back to the luggage cabin.

  “The next stop is coming soon, mum,” I explained. “We’ve got to get back into plain clothes and get off.”

  I couldn’t stand the feeling that we were riding inside a large coffin.

  She nodded with familiar pursed lips.

  I found a simple flowered dress for her and a large yellow hat to cover her abundant silver hair. For myself, I donned a candy-striped dress and an obnoxious amount of makeup.

  “You look absurd, child,” she remarked with scowling eyes.

  I pulled on a pair of long leather boots and laced and buckled them. I might have an uncomfortable dress, but I would have comfortable and durable shoes.

  “Well, yes, mum. I want to draw attention away from you so you’re not recognized again.” An accusatory tone had unintentionally slipped into my voice.

  She raised a leery eyebrow at me, but did not disagree. Fortunately, the train was slowing, and disembarking was close at hand.

  We had only made it to Comteville and not as far as Meredith, but Meredith no longer seemed far enough away from the Queen’s castle. I needed to think of where we could safely hide. Karnelik first occurred to me, and my chest instantly ached.

  Annoying scar.

  We would be undetectable in the mountains, and the Dubik gypsies would never reveal their location to outsiders. However, the frigid cold and treacherous slopes seemed hazardous for royalty. Furthermore, there were political confounders to consider. Although the Queen’s official stance on the Muglik-Dubik genocide was of condemnation, no measures had ever been implemented to actually stop the violence. Not even as little as an embargo. Considering this, if the gypsies recognized the Queen, they may be reluctant to help. We would not survive the harsh mountains without the help of the Dubik gypsies.

  Aithos seemed a much more appealing option. Far to the south, the weather would be warm, though time was nearing the flood season, when the serene waters turned to raging rapids. The Caballus clans were gentile and ideal hosts, royalty or not. In addition, they were farther removed from the Queen’s castle and perhaps were less likely to recognize her. My heart sank slightly when I thought of the potential danger to which I was exposing the Caballus.

  I looked over at the Queen who flashed me a brief expression of sympathy as though she recognized I was struggling with a difficult decision. But the moment was instantly gone, the familiar pursed lips firmly in place, leaving me to wonder if I had only imagined it.

  “Are we off then?” she inquired, looking down at me with raised eyebrows.

  I nodded solemnly. To Aithos.

  We disembarked the train and headed south. We had almost two hundred kilometers of travel ahead of us. We were going to need a faster form of transportation than that of our own two feet. I scanned the area as we walked.

  Comteville was a pleasant town and was touted as an agricultural trading center. Crates of fresh fruits and vegetables surrounded us, and the smell of baked chicken was in the air. I suddenly realized how hungry I was. Stopping briefly, I bought us each an apple, a roll of dried beef and a flask of milk. We ate and walked and walked and walked.

  Questions swirled in my mind. Who were those creatures? Where did they come from? What did they want? I wanted to ask the Queen, but the questions never solidified into words upon my lips. So we walked in silos of silence.

  The shops and buildings thinned out to vast rolling hills of farm- land as brick roads turned to rugged dirt. By late afternoon, my stomach was empty again, and I was certain my legs would collapse before we found a place to rest. I headed toward a nearby tree where I intended to lie down and rest, unsure if I would ever be able to rise again.

  Before I reached the rest stop, the sound of heavy hooves on the packed dirt road resounded over the hill behind us. I turned to see an enormous white ox pulling a large canvas-covered wagon.

  Determined to get a ride, I hailed the wagon to stop. If nothing else, my dress was likely to make the animal halt. A thin, sinewy man with sprigs of gray hair splaying from under a straw hat brought the ox to a halt.

  “Splendid animal,” I observed, followed by a request to catch a ride to the next town.

  He looked b
ack and forth at the Queen and me. She was standing several paces off the dirt road. There was a hint of intrigue buried within his wrinkled face. He rolled his tongue across a toothless set of gums and sighed audibly.

  “I’m ’umpin’ it a Taxco. Won’t be stoppin’ all night is I gotta be there by morn’.”

  “We’ve the same goals, then,” I said with a chipper I didn’t know was in me.

  He nodded with a crooked smile and snapped his head toward the back of his wagon, indicating that we were allowed to board. I used linked hands as a footstool to help the Queen climb into the back of the wagon. Then, I hoisted myself inside and onto thick blocks of dried barley and rye.

  With a high-pitched Jip! the old man signaled the large bulky white ox to resume his course.

  The wagon rocked forward and then side to side. I looked over at the Queen, who was surprisingly passive about riding for the night on stacks of hay in a stranger’s wagon.

  Settling back on the stiff hay, my body didn’t seem to care about the hard surface beneath, the encroaching cool night air or the coarse rocking of the wagon over the uneven dirt road. I quickly fell asleep.

  I woke with a start when the wagon came to a stop. The morning sun was peeking through some slits in the canvas wagon cover. The Queen seemed to be in the same position as when I had closed my eyes, and I wondered if she had slept at all. She was serene and composed as though finishing a meditation.

  The old man appeared at the back of the wagon. He lifted a latch and lowered the back gate. He began to unload his hay, setting up a stand for sale. I hopped off and helped unload. Stacking the hay at the back of the wagon, I created steps so that the Queen could dismount in a respectable fashion. She nodded and used them to carefully step down. She stood aside ready to resume our journey.

  I turned back to the wagon, intending to repay the farmer for letting us ride his wagon to Taxco. Climbing back into his wagon, I helped him unload his livelihood. For thirty minutes of intense manual labor, I didn’t think about the Queen, the Swallowers, the death of my brother, or the mysterious peril awaiting the entire kingdom. I focused only on moving hay and heaving it out of the wagon. When the work was done, all of these bleak thoughts were waiting for me.