North & South

by K T Munson

  “Is that all my lovely virgin is worth?” Vovo asked making sure he had rung every penny out of them.

  She began to sing, it was the only thing she could think of. It was a song of her people, calling the lightening bugs to come and the night. It didn’t really have any words, just her voice as an instrument calling to them. The fat man stopped eating and dropped the food. The one of the woman’s eyebrows raised in surprise.

  When she was done she added, “A song to bring me luck. I would be happy to sing for one of you.”

  There was a stunned pause, she had a beautiful voice; her community had always thought so. Although she was only pretty, her voice made her more valuable, or so she hoped. She glanced at the distinguished man before staring down at her feet. Then there came a clap and another, they were all clapping for her.

  “I will pay five thousand gold pieces for her,” the fat man said, clearly intrigued.

  The distinguished man stood and pulled Vovo aside. She watched them as they whispered and so did the rest of the room. The woman smiled at her and nodded her head, in approval or acknowledgement she could not say. Yet from the stunned expressions on everyone’s face he did not bid often.

  “The auction is over.” Vovo said with a twisted smile of triumph.

  “Come child,” the gentleman said, and she put her hand in the crook of his elbow and led her away.

  Instead of going back through the main room they went out the back door and towards the private rooms. Celia was still afraid but she dare not try and run or fight. She had gotten what she wanted; she only hoped she had made the right decision. He led her into one of the finest rooms; the decor was set in a sea green. Her red and white attire contrasted starkly against it.

  He turned the lantern up in the room and walked over to inspect her. “Let me see your face.”

  She raised her head and looked at him still careful to keep herself concealed behind a mask of bashfulness. In a short time, she had learned that the tranquil expressions she had mastered as part of her faith would aid her here. She tipped her chin up and held the lantern close as he inspected her. He tipped her head to the right before taking the veil from her head.

  “It has been a long time since I have heard a voice like that,” he said and pressed his lips to hers.

  It was a soft kiss, hardly a whisper of lips and she was so unprepared for it that she almost didn’t close her eyes before it was over. She could taste the fine wine on his lips when she licked her own. He smiled at her and turned back to the bed.

  “Come here,” he said and sat down on a chair.

  She hesitated only a moment before her toe reminded her. She walked over to stand in front of him. He sat back in the chair and slipped his shoes off. He watched her and she waited patiently, although she was nervous.

  “Undress,” he said and she immediately felt herself stiffen.

  “I cannot,” she said uncomfortably, “I cannot undo the buttons at the back to release the dress.”

  “Let down your hair.” He retorted as though she had not spoken.

  She reached up and let down her hair, one pin at a time. The last she pulled was the comb and she stepped forward only to set in on the table next to him. She shook her head when the last was out and let her hair settle around. When she looked at him, he was leaning his face on his hand as though deep in thought. She moved her hair around as she reached up to try and unfasten the buttons, but after three she could no longer reach.

  “I will need your help,” she said turning around to show him the buttons.

  “Sing for me,” he said and she glanced back at him in surprise.

  She licked her lips and started to sing. When she did he stood and she stopped but he shook his head so she started again. She sang the same song because he had not asked for a different one. He lifted the edge of her dress and she was careful not to let her voice hitch in surprise. He stared at her straight in her eyes as she sang.

  He pushed his fingers past the thin silk garments she wore as the only defense between her womanhood and his fingers. Her voice did hitch then but he said, “Keep singing until I tell you to stop.”

  She swallowed but she started again just as he asked and felt as his fingers pushed down her silk undergarments before rubbing against her. At first she was uncomfortable but shortly she felt her body respond. Still she sang, her voice would catch in surprise at times but his gaze never wavered and her voice never faltered for long.

  To her own surprise she was finding the experience almost pleasant in comparison to what could have happened. All the girls had told them of their first men when coming to the Satin Pillow. A few had had pleasant experiences and Celia was starting to believe that it was possible. He paused and dropped her dress but she kept going.

  “You can stop now,” he said and she did as he said.

  He sat down on the long bench and for the first time she noticed the swelling of his pants. She stepped forward so he could reach under her dress and pull the thin silk barrier of protection off, acutely aware of his hand, as he did so. He then exposed himself, the long shaft of his member sprung free. She felt her mouth drop open in surprise; she had never seen something so large.

  “I don’t know if…” she started to say and then remembered what she was.

  “Another song,” he said and she switched to one about how dark is only the absence of light, trying to give herself comfort.

  He tugged her forward and although her legs were stiff she let herself be led forward until he leaned back and she set her knees on either side of him. She could feel the heat pulsating from him as she sang. He closed his eyes as he adjusted her hips into place. She swallowed, she knew it was going to hurt and her fear melded with her song.

  She gasped and her song failed; it was like sitting on a broomstick. It was a really huge, unyielding broomstick. She cleared her throat, the pain was sharp. She started to sing again but it came in fits and starts as his hands gripped her hips and forced her further down. Her fingers dug into his shoulder and she was having a hard time remembering the words to her song.

  When she was completely around him and her entire body stretched to allow him entry he stopped and just held her there. She started to sing again as she tried to stop the tears. She may not be a virgin but her body thought otherwise.

  “That is enough,” he finally said and she instantly stopped.

  Suddenly she was terrified, had she displeased him? Although she was unhappy about her situation, she knew perfectly well that it could get worse. Celia looked down at him as her heart clenched in fear of what she would find. She expected anger instead he smiled at her. His hair was dark and there were patches of white at his temples but he still had a handsome face.

  “Do not worry, I have bought you,” he said framing her face with his hands, “And I will work with you until you are able to sing without stopping and take me without pain. I have been searching for you for a very long time.”

  Carefully he helped her off of him in such a way that she could not help but gasp. When she was free her entire insides screamed with pain. She slumped onto the bench and gathered her legs up. The dress covered her and she pulled her knees to her chest. He stood, covered himself, and put his shoes back on before turning back to her.

  He bent and kissed the top of her head before he said, “Until tomorrow.”

  Then he left, leaving her dazed and aching. Celia nearly cried from joy; she had a patron and no other man would be allowed to touch her. She laughed instead of crying; she had lost the ability to cry tears born of an emotional state. She no longer had the luxury. She wobbled to her feet and wandered to the door, straightening her dress as she went. Next time she would have to learn his name.

  Opening the door she nearly screamed when Rauf appeared in front of her. She gasped and put a surprised hand to her chest. She had not expected anyone to be there, but she guessed Vovo had sent him.

  “Tell Vovo everything is well,” Celia said with a smile as she closed th
e door behind her and started to walk towards her room.

  “You were crying?” He asked and that gave her pause.

  “The pain,” Celia answered pointedly and then she asked, “Did Vovo send you?”

  He paused. “No.”

  Celia smiled and reached out to touch his arm only to stop herself, “Puppies, puppies, puppies.”

  His eyebrows shot up and he said, “I am in control.”

  “Yes,” she said and felt her heart jump, “but I am not. Why are you here?”

  His jaw tightened but he answered, “I heard you were sold to Maxril Pradis. He had never bought anyone before. I did not know what he had planned.”

  “You were here in case he hurt me,” Celia said as realization overcame her. “Thank you.”

  “It is my duty,” he said, but she knew he did not have to stay.

  She took a step close and whispered, “One day I will be free from here and I will take you with me.”

  “You will forget me,” he countered but she saw the glimmer of hope.

  “You are the only one who has shown me kindness,” Celia whispered as she looked up at him, finding him more handsome then her initial assessment. “I will never forget you.”

  Chapter 17

  Otto Deckard

  Birds had become his new pastime. He would sit and watch them in the courtyard of his home in the early hours or even wander out into Tiam as he had done on this morning. He would observe the first of the early birds awoke and rushed to get the bugs. Bees and flies hovered around the trees. Flies were searching among the last of the ruined oranges while the bees danced around the persimmon trees. He could hear the bees so early in the morning as the world came alive. The persimmons would start to bear fruit and unlike the oranges, their fruit would be coveted. Everyone knows the second blood orange growing is twice as sweet. Persimmons by comparison only came once a year and for such a short time before their season passed.

  The birds would stay though, season after season. Some would even make nests in nearby trees and their little ones would join the frenzy. Deckard would bear witness to them year after year, just as he had done in the past. The world would change around him, but this was a constant.

  His daughter would marry one day and he would see her and her children grow. Change was inevitable but it was the constants that gave comfort. One day his bad heart would fail him and his memory would fade with time. That is how the world worked, and he was at peace with the idea. Even if his invention failed, and the birds were the only ones fortunate enough to fly, he would still be content with the knowledge that he had tried to revolutionize the world.

  Deckard only hoped if he failed, that another would find his work fascinating and he would inspire them. He had been motivated by an old scroll that had been the beginning drawings of a flying machine. The man had died from a broken neck when his machine failed and he fell to his death. His wife had finished the entry in a very sharp hand and tone. The humor was not lost on him, nor did it deter him.

  As people awoke and households sprung to life, he watched the birds dance in the ever-growing light. By the full heat of the day they would retreat to their circular nests, but until then they were a ballet of hunger. Of the birds, his favorite was the little green birds. Their wings flapped so quickly that they almost seemed to hum with energy. That is where they got their names, these Hummingbirds, and they made him envision a future when his flying machine hummed over the sands.

  When the tree was fully illuminated he stood and turned towards his home, past the Silent Sisters, as they swept the dust from their gated chapel. He gave them pause because they moved like a flowing river; graceful and sure. He continued on until he came to a sleeping orange cat sleeping. It was strung out on a grate just high enough that his fur was warmed by the sunlight.

  Deckard paused and reached up to run his fingers along the inside of the feline’s stomach. This was a young cat, for most cats over the age of two were shaped like persimmons. The brush of his fingers caused the cat to purr and a paw fell through the grate but he did not wake up. Deckard smiled and continued on until he came to his home, with the elephant knocker. The dew clung to the trees in his home, the high walls and surrounding buildings provided some shade into the middle of the morning.

  When he started up the stairs on the right, Marisol appeared in the kitchen door opposite him. “Evanora already ate. You should come now before your breakfast becomes as cold as the far north.”

  Without waiting for him, she disappeared back into her kitchen. Marisol had come to them by chance; she was a midwife who had seen to Evanora after his mother had passed on. She was supposed to stay for a year and just never left. Evanora called it luck, but Deckard felt it was Evanora that had convinced her to stay.

  She was a motherless child to a cold calculating man who was always wrapped up in his books and his theories. When she was a baby Deckard had been away often, leaving her first in the care of his mother and then he’d hired Marisol. He had little interest in Evanora as a baby because she reminded him of what he had lost. When she was two she learned how to get out of her crib and she wandered into Deckard’s shop. He had found her the next morning sleeping among the discarded papers of his failed inventions.

  At first he had been furious, he could still recall his anger towards Marisol. Yet when he had lifted the child to march her back to Marisol, she had woken up thrown her arms around him and called him “Fatter.” She had meant father, as Marisol has been referring to him as whenever she spoke to little Evanora. She had a problem with the ‘th’ in words for a while but that had been the moment. He had still passed her off and avoided her company, but the ice he imagined around his heart had developed a crack. It was the beginning of the end for him, before Evanora became his world.

  Even before he reached the kitchen, he smelled the fresh bread. He felt that Marisol and her bread was a blessing and his growling stomach agreed. Deckard noticed the older he got the less sleep he needed, but he needed to eat throughout the day like a bird; the irony did not escape him.

  He settled down and watched as the bread steamed into the air. It was warm in the kitchen and he sat in silence listening only to the shuffle of Marisol’s feet e moving around the room. He stared out the opening that acted like a window, to the far side. The tops of the trees in his courtyard were where he could just make out the subtle flow of water.

  He was nearly done when Evanora trotted in, looking lovely in her fine clothes. She slung an arm around his neck and kissed his cheek. “Good morning, father.”

  “Good morning daughter,” Deckard said with a coy smile as she clung to him, “excited for classes?”

  “I am doing very well in my languages class. My other teachers are thinking of having me focus on those more,” Evanora said with a smile. “What do you think?”

  “I think your mother had a gift for it, as well,” Deckard said and then realized what he had said.

  He never mentioned Evanora’s mother. She had asked a lot when she was a child and Deckard had given her the only picture he had of her. After age ten she had stopped asking and Deckard had been relieved. Lately his thoughts had turned to Edna, and Evanora growing older had reminded him further. He glanced up to see two shocked faces.

  “She did?” Evanora whispered as though she was breathless from the knowledge.

  “Yes,” Deckard said suddenly, uncomfortable before adding, “Do not forget to hurry home after you are done with your lessons or I will start without you.”

  “Yes father,” Evanora said kissing his cheek once more before bouncing off towards the academy.

  Silence followed her departure until Marisol finally said, “You need to tell her about her mother.”

  “She is my daughter,” Deckard immediately responded. “I will decide when it is time.”

  “You should understand her wish to know her parents,” Marisol said staring at him hard. “Both of them.”

  He frowned openly and muttered, “Not yet.”


  He stood up before she could turn it into an argument; the woman was like a dog with a bone, on this issue. She called after him and he grunted but mostly ignored her. The problem wasn’t that she kept harping on the issue, it was that she was right. Yet he could not look at his daughter and imagine her face when she told her the truth. Even worse was what truth should he tell her?

  That her mother was raped, that her father could be anyone and was likely a terrible person. That her mother had tried to murder her in the womb many times over and that in the end she had taken her own life within days of Evanora’s birth; that Deckard had failed her mother, and he was no more her father than anyone else. Deckard always tried to remember Edna as she had been, not what she became after. Never what she became.

  The thought made him solemn as he prepared for his classes. He taught classes later in the day, so he spent most of the morning brooding. His entire first class was attended with the enthusiasm of a dying man, forced to work his last days. Afterwards he wandered to the center of the academy and sat observing the fountain.

  Evanora sat down next to him and surprised him, waking him from his state. She studied his face, because he could see her from the corner of his eye. He worried his mood would affect his words so he stayed silence. He did not wish to speak harshly to his daughter.

  “I love to watch the birds,” Evanora finally said. “When I miss you, I look to the sky and watch the birds. How their wings shift to allow them to fly, left and right. It reminds me of your wish to fly. I love the Dragonbirds most of all, with their double wings that remind me of the large insects.”

  Deckard straightened as he saw a bird spiral down and land on the edge of the fountain. He flicked his eyes towards another and saw the way their wings flipped and turned. The Dragonbirds were called so for their ability to move two sets of wings in a very predatory fashion. They were similar to the Eagles, with their double sets of wings that looked like fish scales. They were attached like appendages, each acting of their own accord, in order to propel themselves. Sometimes they were used in battle but it was difficult to train them because they were too skittish; almost more so than horses. That and they were tough to breed, so the idea quickly faded.