by R. J. Lucas
“Every female of Eden has the option to become a servant of Solomon. Someone with a face like yours could have been a Royal Flower…well, at least before you lost your legs.”
“Like I said, the only choice for me was to remain a Pleb. I would never serve Solomon.”
“We do what we must,” he says with agitation in his voice.
“We do what we choose.” I stare hard at him when I say it.
Braam huffs and restrains a grin. He starts to say something back to me, but decides against it, leaning his head against the stone wall and closing his eyes.
“Sorry about the old man,” he says. “Seems like he meant something to you.”
I can’t tell if he actually means it, or if he is trying to insult me, but I don’t have the energy to figure it out. I miss Ambrose and realize I am unintentionally searching the cell for his face, like he might be here.
He was so kind and sweet. Perhaps too kind and sweet for a world such as this. He would have told me not to focus on my anger. He would have told me to get past it, think positively and try to build something rather than destroy. But he is not here to appeal to my better nature and convince me to be forgiving of those who caused his death. He is not here to talk me out of providing them with a slow and excruciating death. He can’t advocate for mercy when all I have left is a thirst for vengeance.
The sound of approaching footsteps draws my eyes toward the cell door and what I can see of the passageway. I notice Braam has opened his eyes as well. The guards have returned with only one of the three prisoners. They open the cell door and I realize one guard is supporting the prisoner’s weight. His collar is removed, and they leave him to sag to the floor right where he stands. Fellow prisoners rush to him and drag him by his shoulders to a nearby wall. They do their best to make him more comfortable, as if they actually care.
He has a large gash across his forearm and the right side of his face is red and swollen. He’s dirty, covered in what must be blood spatter and perspiration. The prisoners surrounding him are talking in jumbled sentences that I can’t make out, but I do realize he is informing them the other two are dead. His hollow yet terror-filled eyes, accompanied with the slow shake of his head, conveys that loud and clear.
Another set of approaching footsteps pull our eyes back to the door. Seconds later, a young girl walks through the barred opening. I blink to clear my vision, as she is the last thing I expect to see. She walks with a youthful energy that is light and graceful, unlike most people around here. She appears to be about my age but the half-mask that hides the left side of her face leaves me guessing. I find myself quickly memorizing the details of the exposed portion of her face to piece together what is hidden away.
The mask outlines the curve of her nose perfectly and rises to cover her eye, eyebrow, and a portion of her forehead, as if it is molded to her face. It also curves down to the slight hollow of her cheek where it rounds out and ends. It gives her face the appearance of being a sculpted piece of art. Every detail, such as the indention of her eye, the rise of her eyebrow and her predominately high cheekbone, is perfectly incased in the smooth white finish of the mask.
Her lips stand out in contrast to the mask. They are plump and pink and are settled into what appears to be a natural smile. Her white hair looks clean and silky and her creamy, fair skin makes me wonder how she isn’t sunburned or marked with scars like the rest of us. I feel she can’t possibly be merely a survivor. She looks healthy, with tight, yet soft curves.
A loud yell nearby causes me to jump, but I do not break my watchfulness of her. The noise didn’t even cause her to flinch. I’m not sure what she would be doing in a prison cell. I’m also not sure if she is real. I think she may be some sort of vision or hallucination. But as I watch I realize she is a healer and is here to mend the wounds of the prisoner.
I watch as her lips move when speaking to him. Her voice is too quiet for me to hear, but I find myself straining with concentration just to hear a whisper of what her voice may sound like. I feel it must be soft, like a soothing melody caught on the wind.
After only a couple of moments, a guard opens the door with an ear-splitting screech of rusted metal and barks an order her way. “Okay. That’s enough. Time for you to go.”
She looks into the prisoner’s eyes and gently rubs his upper arm before she stands to walk away. I desperately want to see her face one last time as I feel I will never see her again. She is unlike anyone I have ever seen, and I do not want the image of her to ever leave my mind. I watch her saunter through the prison door, down the hall and out of sight.
She is gone just as quickly as she seemed to appear, and I am left with a whirlwind of thoughts slamming around in my head. I curl up near the bench where Papa sleeps and try to get some rest. I will need my energy, but sleep evades me. I should be thinking of ways to get extra food; of which guard I might bribe to help us escape from here; about which of the other prisoners are the most dangerous and which ones we could use for our benefit. But I can’t stop thinking about the young healer.
The way she moved and the way she leaned her head forward when she spoke to the injured man, the way her fingers moved as she worked and the way she stole a glance in my direction. I can’t get any of it off my mind.
What is her name? Why does she wear a mask?
I fall asleep thinking of all the things I would like to know about her.
11 - Endless Wait
I wake early with a stiff neck and aching shoulder. With all the snoring, farting, and other noises, I’m surprised I rested at all. Seeing the droopiness beneath Papa’s eyes, I don’t think he got much sleep either. He sits on the bench where he slept, looking exhausted.
I smile at him and he smiles back. His face brightens for a moment, long enough for me to remember the old him…the Papa who was full of energy and curiosity, always solving a new problem, always looking for a new way to help someone out. The last couple of days have taken a lot out of him. I long for a day when he can be himself again. When things can go back to the way they were.
His smile fades and my awareness comes slamming back to the present. The large but cramped cell is filled with men milling about aimlessly. A few of them are singing to themselves softly while others are curled up in a ball trying to sleep, the easiest way of ignoring our current reality. One man is crying in the corner and several others are stretching and trying to loosen up. A couple of them sit quietly with their eyes closed and backs against the wall, I assume to get their mind focused for what is to come.
This goes on for hours. The worst part is the waiting and the sheer boredom of being stuck in this cell with nothing to do. Papa and I don’t know what to say to one another and I am not yet ready to have a conversation with men who could be sent to their deaths at any moment. I’m not sure what is worse, the thoughts of what is to come, or my sanity being slowly stripped away in this cell.
I wouldn’t say this to Papa, but I’m kind of looking forward to the battle. At least, I’ll be free to run and feel the wind in my hair. That is, unless they plan to chain us to a pole in the middle of the arena for wild animals to tear us apart. I’ve heard they do that out here. That would be too boring for the crowd though, I think. They probably want to be entertained which means we will at least be able to fight back.
Fight what though?
Breakfast comes and it is meat sliced from the teyrelsk breast along with bread, water, and some kind of rendered fat. The food is plain, but filling. At least they feed us well. I guess they want us to have energy for the fight.
Around mid-evening, many of the other prisoners seem to get restless. I assume this means it’s getting closer to fight time.
Some of the wimpier ones have recoiled to the corners of the cell. The strong ones are moving around and exercising, getting themselves wired for battle. Braam sits against one of the walls. He likes to keep to himself. He doesn’t seem to have any apprehension. Of course, at his size and fighting skill, you wouldn’t expect him too.
<
br /> My attention turns toward the corridor when I see four guards approaching. I know someone’s time has come.
“How do you know who fights today?” I say as a complaint, to no one in particular.
“You don’t,” says one of the prisoners. I look to him, annoyed at his honesty. It is the man who’d fought last night and survived.
The healer girl that helped him…my mind veers toward thoughts of her. Her skin, the way she moves, her hair… they are a respite from the steel and stone of the cell and the heat and death just beyond it. But thoughts of her will make me weak and I need to be strong today. I need not think of tender touches and sweet caresses, but rather swift death and ferocity.
I manage to put her out of my head just in time for the cell door to open. The guards walk in and tell everyone to stand up and spread out. The main guard points to two scraggly men and says “You and you. Step forward.” Collars are placed around their necks. He also points to Papa and says, “You too.” Papa steps forward and they place a collar around his neck as well. The men turn to walk out, and I panic, running over to the guard and grabbing onto his arm.
“What about me?” I say. “Don’t you want to take me as well?”
“Are you so eager to die?” says the head guard. He belts out a mean and cynical laugh. I look at him and see a worn-out man, past his prime and thick from years of overeating and too much cheap krum.
“Neeka,” scolds Papa. “No!”
“I’m coming,” I say, looking into the guard’s face as if I’m here just to inform him of this.
“You’re a stupid little girl, aren’t you?” he says. “Can’t you see what this is? This is the warmup for the crowd. None of these men are coming back.”
“Please don’t take my Papa,” I say with all authority spilling from my voice. Begging is my only recourse.
“Neeka,” says Papa. I can tell he is terrified they will shoot me dead just to keep me from complaining. “Quiet!”
“Don’t worry,” one of the guards sneers. “Your time will come soon enough.”
“Wait, you said it yourself.” I take a different tact. “I’m just a little girl. What harm can I do?”
“We only have three collars.”
“I’ll take this man’s place,” I say of a dark-skinned man with bad teeth. “Just put me in his collar and you can save him until tomorrow.”
“You really want to die today?”
“No, but I don’t want my Papa to die alone. Please let me go with him. I don’t even need a collar. I’ll do as you say without trouble. Why send three to the slaughter when you can send four?” I notice the dark-skinned man’s face go somber. I think he liked the idea of me taking his place better.
“Stupid girl,” I hear Braam mumble to himself in the background.
“Fine. Just keep your mouth shut,” says the head guard.
I keep my arm wrapped around Papa’s as the guards lead us out of the cell. We walk down a short, dark corridor and stop in front of two large doors. I know death is on the other side. They keep us there for several minutes, staring at these big, wooden doors, supported by enormous, steel hinges that span the entire width of each.
As we wait, we can hear the shouts and chants from the crowd. They are restless and unruly as they wait for their entertainment. I grab Papa’s hand and squeeze it. I’m not sure if I am trying to reassure him, or if I am trying to get him to reassure me.
12 - Half-Eaten Prickly Pear
When the doors open, the light from outside envelopes us, piercing my eyes. I keep my right hand gripped around Papa and I raise my left up in front of my face. The collars of the three men are removed and all four of us are pushed through the doors, into the open-air arena. The doors slam shut behind us with finality, an allegorical precursor to our impending doom.
The floor of the arena consists of hard-packed dirt with a patchwork of blood stains from the fallen. In the center stands boulders large enough to live in if they were hollow. Scattered around the arena are scraps and parts from makeshift armor, weapons, and maybe wagons, long past the time when they might have been of service.
The walls are high, but not so high they couldn’t be climbed under the right circumstances. They are solid, made of wood and metal with huge bolts keeping the structure together. Above the walls, the stands must be able to accommodate several hundred people. They must have put a lot of effort into constructing such a place.
The crowd of spectators are screaming, leaning forward toward the edge of the wall. It’s the only thing separating them from us. They want blood, our blood.
“What do we do now Papa?” I whisper to him, as if anyone else could hear us in such a wide, open air space.
“Let’s get to those rocks so we can get a better view of our surroundings. Once we see what we are fighting, we will figure it out.”
We carefully begin to move across the arena and the crowd starts to boo and jeer. A little boy throws his half-eaten prickly pear at us which encourages other spectators to follow suit.
“What a bunch of puny little plugtails!” One spectator yells.
“This is bobblegash,” says another. “We want to see a real fight!”
I see a woman raise her fist in the air. She’s older than Papa and has anger in her eyes. She sums things up nicely when she screams, “Time to die, outcasts!”
The other two prisoners see Papa and I are moving toward the boulders and they follow suit. All four of us make it to the center and climb the rocks just as another door on the far side of the arena opens.
Four thin, wiry men walk through. They are average height and each carry two daggers. These men are not normal. They seem mad…mindless even. They are foaming at the mouth and their eyes are bulging from their sockets.
They spot us on the boulders and dart toward us, but their path is erratic and unfocused. One of them runs in circles with his tongue hanging out, screaming a sickening, yet almost joyful scream. He must be pleased to be out in the air, wild and free…to run, to howl, to kill.
“Neeka, honey,” Papa says, kissing my forehead. “You remember when we were on the ship and I told you to hold back and not let anyone see your abilities?”
I nod.
“Forget all that. These men are mad. You either kill them all or we don’t survive.”
The thoughts of Braam’s philosophy about surviving and self-defense runs through my mind. I know Papa is right, but it still bothers me knowing I don’t have a choice.
Shouldn’t I be afraid? I wonder. But I am not. A feeling of excitement fills me as I watch these four mindless creatures finally get their bearings and run straight toward us. Is something wrong with me for feeling excited over a fight that could possibly end in my death?
I can feel the adrenaline pumping through my veins as I reach down and pull the small knife from my boot.
I’m ready.
I jump from the rock, fly about thirty paces and hit the ground in a full sprint. Just before I reach them, I throw my knife and the first one drops to the ground stone dead, the knife protruding from his forehead.
A second later, I’m upside down in the air above the other three, a well-timed strategic flip. Pulling the death wire from my hair, I wrap it around the last one’s neck and slice it just as my feet hit the ground. He falls with his hands around his neck gasping for air as the blood flows freely.
The remaining two turn around and charge me. I sweep the feet out from under the closest one, follow through with a handstand and kick the second one under the chin. His head snaps back with a crack so loud, I’m sure they heard it in the stands.
The crowd responds with a collective gasp.
The one on the ground gets his footing and lunges at me with his dagger. I dodge left, but his blade manages to slice a layer of skin across the side of my abdomen.
I kick him hard in the chest causing him to fly back several paces. His arms grasp at his chest and his legs flail about for only a few moments before his entire body goes stil
l and blood spills from the corner of his mouth.
The crowd becomes eerily quiet. I walk over and pull my dagger from the forehead of the first man I killed, wipe the blood off and put it back in my boot. I look over at Papa and then up into the stands.
The crowd erupts in cheers.
The doors to the arena open and the head guard, flanked by ten of his men, all with spears and blunderbusses rush out and surround me. Do I fight or not? I look over at Papa and he motions for me to stay calm. The main guard walks up to me and crosses his thick forearms like a disappointed father.
“Ok girl. Hand over the boot knife and whatever that thing is in your hair.”
I hand them over without objection. Truth is, I don’t need them to win a fight. Without checking to see if I have any other hidden weapons, they escort us back to our cell. As the four of us walk back inside, a ripple of unbelief makes its way around the cramped room.
“What happened?” asks one of the prisoners in a higher-than-normal tone. “Did you not fight?”
Papa and I go back to the bench without a word. We lean our backs against the cold stone wall, and I exhale. It feels like the first time I’ve taken a breath for hours.
I overhear the other two survivors as they tell our story to the rest of the men, whispering and mumbling as if it is a secret.
“… and then after she killed the first one with the knife, she pulled a wire from her hair…”
The others listen intently, making unrecognizable comments to one another. It goes on, back and forth between them for a while. I get a lot of stares from everyone, but no one questions me directly.
Braam looks over at me and makes a motion with his arm as if to say, “good job.”
“You did good Neeka,” Papa says, his face solemn and serious.
“Am I a horrible person, Papa?”
“You did what had to be done,” he says. Then he adds, a bit more softly, “We are alive because of you.”
“I understand that, but when I was fighting them, I felt so alive.”
