by Dana Marton
I wanted to tell them I was a fake, that I was sorry my father had taken their payment. But none of them talked, so I too remained silent. I did not want to make them angry, these people who stole others’ lives to sell.
My heart beat a hurried rhythm at the unfamiliarity of the boat ride. I squeezed my eyes shut against the fury of the sea. My mother had always forbidden me from taking to the water, a habit I had kept even after her death. The boat tossed, and I grabbed its side, trying to pretend I stood atop a numaba tree, the branches swaying under me in the wind.
A welcome calm spread through my limbs, until the waves sprayed water in my face. I told myself I stood atop the numaba tree, and the rain began to fall. But my mind no longer believed the tale.
After an endless time, the traders shouted, and I opened my eyes. We had reached the dark vessel, the side covered with scars, the wood smelling moldy and sad. Maybe the sadness of the slaves had poured out into the ship. I looked at the traders and wondered if anyone sailing on such a ship could ever be anything but unhappy, but their faces were closed and hard as a naga shell, so I could not tell which way they felt.
I climbed the rope ladder second after the leader, the rest coming up behind me. I did not mind the short climb, the ship not nearly as tall as the trees on our hillside. But I did mind when the wind snatched my veil. The length of fabric, like a dead bird falling from the sky, tossed on the waves but for a moment before it disappeared under the churning water.
The man behind me did not give me time to worry about the loss, he growled at me to hurry.
The deck stood deserted, the boards weather-beaten, the black sails frayed. Worn ropes tied down a tall pile of firewood to my left, two wooden buckets secured to the pile with twine. A handful of barrels lay tied to the ship’s railing on my other side.
The men shoved me down into the belly of the ship that swallowed me like a large fish that had not eaten for many days. I shivered even as my forehead beaded with sweat from the hot, stale air. I opened my mouth to ask how many were sick, but a rough hand in the middle of my back shoved me forward into a dark cabin. The door closed with a loud thud behind me.
“I will need a lamp,” I called through the door. “Or a torch.”
Nobody answered.
I turned back to the darkness and lowered my voice. “Is anyone here? Anyone sick?”
I moved forward until I bumped into the wall, then laid my hands on a roughly hewn wood plank and followed it. When I reached the door, I pushed against it to no avail. I felt around for some furniture but found none. I was in an empty cabin somewhere in the middle of the ship. With nothing else to do, I sat down and waited for them to bring my patient to me.
My heart shuddered when I heard the scrape of the anchor being pulled up. Voices rang out on deck. Sails snapped somewhere above me. And I finally realized there would be no sick coming.
I, Tera, daughter of Chalee, Tika Shahala, had been sold by my own father to be a slave.
~~~***~~~
CHAPTER TWO
(Onra)
I spent eight, maybe nine, days on the ship. I tried to keep track of time by my meals of overcooked fish, but they did not feed me every day, so I could not be certain.
We caught the edge of a hardstorm, and the ship lurched and rolled without stop, battered by waves. Thunder clapped all around as the wind tossed us carelessly. I could think of little else but the bad spirits of the Kadar under the water, trying to pull us down into the deep.
I hated the dark, moldy room, the stale water I found to drink, the bucket in the corner and its stench. I hated being alone the most. I started to think maybe a giant fish had swallowed me, maybe I would never again see the sky, the twin moons, or the numaba trees on our hillside. I had thought maybe—despite my mother’s reassurances—the spirits had not forgiven my family for my great-grandmother’s sin—whose name was not to be spoken—and were now punishing me for her terrible deeds.
Then as suddenly as they had thrust me into my prison, the traders grabbed me from it again, dragged me roughly into the light. I squinted hard as I stumbled forward.
A merciless wind whipped the strange harbor we had reached, cutting through my threadbare clothes to my trembling skin, its icy fingers reaching for my heart. Even with the sun high in the sky, I shivered and wrapped my arms around me.
Nearly a hundred starved-looking men and women huddled on the dock, chained together in heavy iron, some holding listless children in their arms. They avoided looking at each other, as if ashamed of having given up hope.
I did not belong among them. I wanted to insist that someone had made a mistake, that I had only come to the ship to heal the sick. I looked up at the man who dragged me—the lead trader. I opened my mouth, but no words came.
A tall stone wall blocked the view of the city. Kaharta Reh, I heard the traders say. Poles as thick as my waist made up the gate, held together by massive strips of metal. The gate stood as tall as our ship’s mast and wide enough to let four ox carts in side by side.
We waded into the port crowd. Merchants offered their wares, mothers shouted at their children to keep up, people argued over deals. The people were loud beyond bearing, offensively so, the city the least welcoming place I could imagine. Sheharree, our Shahala port, had neither walls nor gate; indeed, such things would have been considered highly rude and inhospitable by my people.
As we passed into Kaharta Reh, once again I had the ominous feeling of being swallowed. I could too easily see the monstrous gates swing close and trap me forever.
We went to the auction house first, where the men led the other slaves into a holding pen. The leader still had my arm in his grip, and he looked at me for the first time. I trembled, thinking he would now chain me to the rest.
“I am a healer, daughter of Tika Shahala. I came on board to heal the sick. Someone must have forgotten,” I said, although even I no longer believed it.
“I paid fifteen blue crystals for you.” The words slithered out of his mouth with only the slightest movement of his lips.
Twelve crystals, I wanted to tell him. “I can earn more and pay you back,” I said instead. I would have said anything to escape, too young to know that my fate had been decided beyond bargaining.
He dragged me on without a word, and I stumbled after him down narrow streets, passing people who hurried by on their daily business, paying little mind to us. In the biting cold, I looked at their strange clothes with envy.
The men wore tight leather leggings with bulky fur tunics on top, the women the kind of one-piece robe the Shahala men wore over their thudrag. A thudrag was very much like a woman’s thudi, but not tied at the ankle. I saw neither thudrag nor thudi peeking from the women’s heavy wool robes. Under all that billowing material, they walked around naked!
An evil land of backward people, I thought, where men wore women’s clothes and women wore men’s, where the sun shone without warmth, where a person could be bought and sold like a basket in the market.
My teeth chattered by the time we stopped in front of a hammered iron door, bolted into the stone wall of an enormous building. The trader shouted for entry. We waited until a bent old man opened the door, holding it with gnarled fingers that were blackened at the tips. No eyelashes shaded his small eyes, his gaze sharp like the knar eagle’s, his mouth thin as a blade.
My heart banged against my ribs, wanting to run away in panic and leave the rest of my doomed body behind.
The man shuffled back and closed the door in our faces. He did not want me. I nearly sank to the ground with relief.
But the light feeling of having escaped a fate too horrible to contemplate did not last long, for I realized what would happen next. I would be taken back to the market to be sold on the block with the others. Panic plowed into me, and I sank to the cold stones of the street.
Then the door reopened, and the most beautiful woman appeared, in a sky-colored gown, tight on top but widening below the waist like the graceful bell of t
he lulsa flower. Rich embroidery decorated the cloth so thickly that I could hardly make out the underlying material. A golden veil streamed from two brooches of precious gems on the sides of her head.
She stood as delicate as the reeds of the bay, with large ebony eyes and skin of flower petals. A slender chain of gold encircled her slim waist, and from that hung a multitude of tiny figurines, chiming in magical harmony as she moved, small replicas of flowers, forest animals and birds.
“She is the healer?”
The slave trader nodded with a sly, self-satisfied look.
She inspected me briefly, then held out a bag of crystals without asking for a price. This time, the man did not bargain.
I moved forward, my eyes misty with gratitude that she bought me. Her delicate, serene features reminded me of my mother. Once I told her of the misunderstanding, I knew she would return me to my people. I bent to kiss the hem of her gown, but before I could reach it, she kicked me.
Blinding pain seared through my head; then I heard the crack of my own skull as I bounced against the doorframe. I saw nothing but darkness, hearing her screech from far away as she called for her servants. Rough hands closed around my ankles. My mind floated as if in a dream. They dragged me over the cold stone floor for hours, it seemed… Then blessed darkness and peace.
I awoke on a pallet in a cavernous room, and for a moment felt as if the room was spinning around me. Moonlight peeked in through rows of small holes high up on one wall near the ceiling—nine rows, hundreds of fist-sized holes in each, most covered in glass. Braziers stood against the wall here and there, coal glowing in them, pushing off heat. But still, goose bumps covered my skin.
Silence filled the room, barely ruffled by the delicate sounds of shallow breathing. Dozens of girls slept on the other pallets on the floor around mine—all younger than I.
Pain throbbed through my body, my forehead aching the most, worse than when I had fallen from a numaba tree on my first climb. I lifted my fingers to my temple, and they came away sticky with blood.
I could not see any water jars in the room, so I grabbed the hem of my tunic and used my own spit to clean the wound, then dabbed a few drops of moonflower tears into the gash.
My legs folded as I pushed to stand, so I stayed on my hands and knees. My whole body shook, but I crawled among the sleeping girls, toward the giant door that stood an eternity away.
When I reached the door at last, I pushed against it gently, then a little harder, then with all my strength. The wooden panel refused me freedom with no more apology than a soft creak.
I sank against it and thought for a long time about my mother and our hillside and the numaba trees. Then I crawled back to my bed of rags and cried myself to sleep.
* * *
Morning came too fast for night to have sufficiently eased the pain. The little windows showed only a dim light outside when a smaller door on the other end of the room, one I had not seen in the dark before, flew open and banged against the wall.
The woman who had bought me walked in, dressed in an embroidered red silk gown, followed by two servant women with torches. She did not look at any of the girls in particular who stood in neat rows with their heads bowed by the time she reached the middle of the room.
I rose to my knees but could not push all the way to standing. My body swayed from the effort; the light in the room seemed to dim. A small hand clamped on my arm and tugged me up, and even as I struggled to stand, the rows of girls before me parted like saplings bowing to the wind. Then that beautifully embroidered gown came into view, the color of fresh-spilled blood.
I lifted my gaze, finding neither recognition nor emotion in the woman’s eyes, not even when my knees buckled and I fell at her feet.
“You may take this morning to heal yourself.” Her voice was cold and clipped. She turned to the girl who had tried to help me up. “You stay with her and prepare yourself for tonight.”
All the color washed out of the girl’s face as she bent her head even deeper. Faint whispers rippled through the room. Without another look at me, the woman turned around and gave instructions to the others, designating a myriad of chores with practiced ease.
Once she moved away, I could no longer hear her, her voice drowned by the rushing blood in my ears that sounded like waves crashing against the shore. I closed my eyes to stop the room from spinning. When I opened them, the room stood empty, except for myself and the girl on the next pallet. Her shoulders shook as she cried, but then she caught me watching, and she wiped her eyes.
“I am Onra.” She swallowed the last sob. “Does your wound hurt?”
She had kind, water-colored eyes, reminding me of the sea at the inlet not far from our beach, the place where Jarim had usually gone to fish. Her hair, several shades lighter than mine, fell down her back in a heavy braid.
I reached to my forehead and felt the gap that still seeped. “I am Tera. Could you please tell me where I can find some clean water?”
She pushed to standing and padded to the door. I tried to follow, but she was already returning before my shaky limbs could carry me halfway across the room. I could have wept at the sight of a full bowl of water, more than I had been given on the ship the entire long trip.
“Thank you.” I drank deeply before beginning to wash my wounds.
I went on to wash the ship’s stench off the rest of my body, but Onra stayed my hand and removed the bowl, only to appear with clean water. She brought me yet a third bowl to wash my clothes. Still, it would have taken many more to wash away all the dirt, more than an ocean to make me feel clean again.
I wished I had something to give in return for Onra’s gift. Instead, I had to ask for more help. “I need to go outside to find—” I did not know the word in her language so I said it in mine. “Ninga beetle. Little bug that lives in water.”
She shook her head. “You have to stay here. New slaves get beaten worst. They say a good beating in the beginning saves lots of beatings later. You can find your bugs maybe tomorrow or after.”
I knew enough about wounds to know I should not wait. “Where do you go for water?”
“The clay jars outside the door.”
“How does water come into the jars?”
“The servants bring it from the creek at the end of the fields.”
“I need to go there. I need the beetles for this.” I pointed to the gash in my forehead.
After a moment, she rose to her feet. “I will go.”
“No.” I reached to pull her back. I wanted no harm to befall her because of me.
Her lips tugged into a sad smile. “I will not get beaten today. Kumra would not ruin my skin before tonight.”
She hurried through the door before I could ask her what she meant. She stayed away a long time, until I worried that maybe she had been stopped and beaten despite her reassurances. But then she appeared with a rag bunched in her shaking hands. She set the cloth in front of me and stepped back quickly, grimacing as I began to unfold the small package.
Her expression, a mix of fear and revulsion, betrayed how little she cared for the beetles, so I thanked her even more for the gift.
Three big ningas, flat as if hit by stone, rolled to the floor in front of me. I pressed my lips together. “I need them alive. I should have told you. I am sorry.”
Onra’s eyes widened as she stared at me.
I rose on shaking legs. “I will go.”
She drew a deep breath and pushed me down onto the jumble of rags that covered my pallet, then walked away.
“I need small ones,” I called after her, wincing with embarrassment that I had to issue yet another request.
She gave me a tremulous smile from the doorway.
I sat as close as I could to the nearest brazier that still had some glowing lumps of coal, shivering in my wet clothes. I soaked up the heat for a while, then brought a clean bowl of water from outside the door, careful not to let anyone see me.
Onra stayed away longer this time. B
ut she did return with a few squirming beetles, bundled tight in the rag once again. I lifted the first beetle and, watching my reflection in the mirror of the water, placed its pinchers against the edges of my wound, then squeezed its body.
The beetle sank its black pinchers into my skin, drawing the edges together. With a quick twist, I separated body from head, which would have held the pinchers firmly in place had I not pulled the body away too soon. I could not see enough in the water, my hand obstructing the view. I pulled the half-done pinchers out, wiped the blood, then started over.
Onra, who had been alternating between watching and glancing away in horror, pushed my hand down and picked up the second beetle, only to drop it again when it bit her.
“Like this.” I showed her how to place her fingers farther back on the hard shiny-black wings.
She drew a deep breath, then another, until her hands stopped trembling, then, beetle by beetle, closed my wound.
She had nearly finished by the time a servant woman entered the room with a small bowl. She looked at Onra for a long time with tears in her eyes, then set the bowl down inside the door and left as abruptly as she had appeared.
“Who was that?”
Onra dropped the last headless beetle on the pile, cleaned up the mess we had made, then padded over to bring us the bowl. She set the food, some kind of grain cooked in milk, in front of me.
“My mother,” she said in an emotion-filled whisper.
I thought of my mother, who had died and was buried somewhere in this land. I was closer to her than I had been for a long time.
I looked at the closed door, and envied Onra for she still had her mother. “Can you not go to her?”
“I will, after tonight.” She scooped some grain from the bowl with her fingers and lifted it to her mouth, motioning to me to do the same.
The food tasted better than anything I had had for a long time, although not as good as my mother’s cooking, which was now only a sweet memory. “What will you do tonight?” I asked after I eased the worst of my hunger.
