Sword and Sorcery of Avondale

by Kai Kazi

  She didn’t know what he would do, but she knew it was bad.

  “You have done well here, miss.” The headmaster said. She kept her eyes firmly squared at his chest, unable to look up – she didn’t want to provoke him, even for a second.

  Silence stretched out as if he was waiting for something, and then his thick hand reached out, taking her chin between his thumb and middle finger, tipping it up. The heat and pressure of his skin on her face made a cold chill run down her spine, her dark eyes meeting his light ones – what had she done? She waited for a slap, for a scolding to accompany the hold, but his face was instead soft, not angry. Confusion she couldn’t reason and fear she couldn’t place washed through her, but his hold made it impossible to look away.

  He shook his head lightly, “Don’t be afraid that I have asked you here because you’ve broken our rules.”

  Alba knew better than to ask questions, than to press her luck at this school, but when he kept looking at her with those eyes she couldn’t understand – as if he was happier than anything to see her, yet still seeing right through her – she couldn’t help it. “Then why am I here?” Her words came out strained, his fingers constricting her mouth.

  The corner of his mouth turned up and he tipped his head in sync, as if the question was a joke to him. The fingers on her jawline pressed in tighter, and she felt wrath coming like a roll of thunder – she’d asked a question, he’d be angry. She wondered, not for the first time in this school, if that was the way all English men made their women behave.

  “I want to get to know you better,” the headmaster said. For reasons she couldn’t explain, the tension in her chest only intensified. Her heart was thrumming in her ears. She wanted to run. “I want to know all of my students.”

  Certain that the man could hear the pounding of her heart, Alba tried to stand. The hold on her jaw pushed her down, making her neck and body conform just in time for his other hand to dart out, taking hold of her arm. His silence hung over her like a storm threatening to send out a bolt of lightning, throwing her to the ground in a blaze of pain and death; she waited for the fizzle and the flash, but it held her in torturous suspense. His smile only widened, as if to make up for the pain burning in her arm where his hold bruised her skin.

  Tears prickled at her eyes, but her lips were a firm, trembling line.

  “You don’t need to be scared, miss,” Headmaster Morris said, wrapping his finger around a strand of her hair, “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  She wanted to believe him.

  Nita

  “Pamuy, are you alright?” Nita asked as his roommate wandered back into the room; it had been hours.

  There was a look in his eyes – the same one he wore when he’d first entered that room, all those weeks ago, and sat on his bed. It was a blank look, like nothing dwelled within. Just like then, he didn’t speak a word, but moved past Nita’s cot and crawled into his own, turning his face to the wall.

  Nita looked after him, silently, and watched as his shoulders began to shake. Soft whimpers drifted into the quiet room, growing into sobs that were muffled against his pillow. Pamuy curled into himself, drawing his knees up to his chest, and the back of his shirt lifted to reveal the lighter skin of his back. It was marred with streaks of blue and black, angry red marks splashed on the dark canvas.

  “Pamuy?” Nita tried, his voice tentative, though he didn’t want an answer.

  “They hurt me,” his roommate whispered so quietly Nita almost didn’t hear it; like it was a statement into the void, something needed to be spoken. They had their game, where they pretended none of this was real, but for the first time in a long time, Pamuy couldn’t play.

  It was as though being a native boy was something to be ashamed of, something to have beat out of you. Nita’s ears strained to hear any footsteps in the hall; any sign of life. When none came, he stood from his bed, wandering aimlessly to the edge of his roommate’s cot. His hands were limp at his side as he looked down on his only friend.

  “Nobody should ever hurt you,” Nita whispered, in his own language, for the first time in months. He didn’t touch the shirt concealing the beatings, but he gazed at the injury peeking up at him, not hidden enough. His own back ached with sympathy, and he wanted his father there so badly – to beat these men the way Pamuy was beaten, to scream and curse at them like they cursed at him. Nita wished he could go outside, out into the wilderness and find the plants and the fruits of nature, bringing them back to his roommate like he had done for his mother, smoothing them on his wounds to sap out the pain.

  Instead, he stood there, useless. “Once we get back home, we won’t have to worry about this anymore.” Nita whispered, his own language feeling stifled in his mouth. “We’ll get back there somehow.”

  “I hope you’re right,” Pamuy whispered in English – not daring anything else – and awkwardly rolled onto his stomach, pain flashing across his face with the movement. “I miss my family. I don’t want to be like these people. I don’t care what they think of us.”

  Nita glanced to the door, ensuring his ears were not failing him, and found it empty. He flitted his eyes back to listen to Pamuy, but the motion was not lost, and his roommate had fear in his eyes. When no one came, Pamuy rested his face on the pillow, voice gone from him.

  Nita continued where he would not. “If they hate us so much, they should stop trying to make us be just like them.” The hatred in his voice was stronger, purer in his own tongue. Homesickness washed over him at its sound, and he bit the insides of his cheeks to keep the tears from coming.

  They were quiet for a long while, emotions churning in the air where words would not. “We have to go to their church now,” Nita said, eyes glancing up to stare blankly at the clock on the wall.

  Almost as much as he hated school, he hated church. It made him long for what he truly believed, for the things that his father had told him at home -- so long ago. Now, he had to put on special clothing and pray to a god he never knew. He had to listen to them talk about the love of this god – about the love of this Jesus who accepted people as they were, loved them despite their sins or their hedonistic lives. Yet these people didn’t; they wouldn’t. They told Nita of their love for this god, of this god’s love for him, but they never showed any love towards him or his people.

  Nita didn’t understand everything about their faith, but he could understand what a liar was. He had to pray to the god that these white-faced administrators said had told them to found this school – told them to take him away from his home. Maybe God had convinced them, or maybe He hadn’t -- it didn’t matter. Nita couldn’t bring himself to love them or their god.

  “I just hope these people never make us forget who we used to be,” Pamuy mumbled against his pillow. “I spend an hour every night trying to remember exactly what my village looked like.” He said like it was a distant dream; perhaps that’s how he could play the game so well. He never thought he was losing. “Sometimes I’m afraid I’ll forget it. I’m afraid, Nita.”

  Alba

  “Please don’t touch me,” The words were just a breath from a sob, sounding weak to Alba’s ears. She tried to pull her face back, out of his grip, but he tightened his hold painfully, so she couldn’t budge.

  “I think you’re a beautiful girl,” He said in a warm, even tone; it made her hands shaken even harder. He tugged her face closer to his. “Even if you are a heathen.”

  Then, like a thunderbolt flashing in the sky, even before the thundering could warn her, he moved forward, hands releasing her face only to press against the front of her dress. His invasive fingers were at her buttons, pulling up her skirt, tugging at the fabric at her shoulders in a frenzy that caught her breath in her throat and held it prisoner. She felt a choking mix of a scream and a cry working up her throat, but she couldn’t find the air – and she knew, painfully, finally, that it wouldn’t matter. He was the headmaster; who would she call out to?

  Her hands, shaking and uncoordin
ated, batted at him, shoving at him without force or reason because none could be summoned, but it had no effect anyways. His thick hands pinned her by her arm, his size shadowing her as he leaned forward; hands everywhere at once.

  The tear of fabric met her ears just a second before his hold on her arm heaved her up from the chair, wheeling her around and pushing her onto the desk. A hand clamped over her mouth, suffocating her as she felt her thick skirts gathered up, shoved onto her back. He ripped through her clothing like nothing, and fear that blinded her flowed liberally through her veins.

  A flash of white like lightning blinded her as his crushing form slammed up against her, and only hot pain -- making blackness dance at the edges of her vision -- could be felt. Everything else melted at the edges and twisted into something that made her ill; she wanted her mother, she wanted someone to scream out to, to reach out for. She could hear herself crying, somehow dragging in breath through his hot, thick hands against her mouth.

  Tears could not be exhausted, and she cried out in muffled sobs into his hand, begging him to stop. Begging him to tell her what she had done; what sin had she committed, what rule could she have possibly broken to warrant this? Her nails dug into the desk, trying to claw through it until it would buckle under her and she could run, but she was trapped against it. Had her kind really been so bad to deserve this?

  When she thought sickness might rise up her throat and choke her against his hand, he finally lifted his weight off of her. Tentatively, eyes down, tears streaming down her face, she stood up, brushing her skirt back down over her legs.

  The headmaster rounded the desk and took his place in his stately chair. Alba felt pain everywhere; she wished she could shrink back into the furniture and be gone. All he did was point toward the door, sending her away like a dog at his command, and she obeyed. It was all she could do not to run toward the door.

  She staggered down the hall to her classroom, wiping the tears from her face with her sleeve, and wondering how she could survive another minute in the school. Her teacher read all of the letters that left her hand for home; there was no way that she could tell her mother that she needed to be saved. There was no way her mother would ever see any letters at all.

  All she wanted was for her father to hold her close and tell her that everything was going to be okay. She wanted him to wrap his hands around the headmaster’s throat, strangling the life from him; she wanted to feel the protection, the warmth only her parents would bring. If they ever knew, ever even guessed what had happened to her in that office, they would kill Headmaster Morris.

  Each window to each classroom was filled with students learning about how to be just like these monstrous people. As each step brought her closer to her classroom, head down, eyes hollow, tears barely contained, she realized something – she looked like the other girls who had been sent to that office. She wore the uniform now; dull eyes, pale face, a limp in her walk. No one home had ever known this uniform.

  She felt the threat of his presence hovering over her like a cruel spirit that haunted her steps. She felt a pang in her chest as she rounded a corner, stepped into the classroom and took her place wordlessly, thinking she’d find him standing there.

  Alba’s skin felt tainted, like she had stood still while a dust storm encapsulated her, coating her with a layer of filth that couldn’t be seen, but was suffocating. She felt the same seclusion, the same sensation of being voiceless as when she first arrived at the school. When English was a concept incapable of being grasped; when she had so much to say but no words to bring it forth.

  The day passed in a blur; standing, sitting, praying, trying to eat, walking, writing, until the sun was nearly gone from the sky. Alba found herself on her bed, her legs curled up tightly against herself with her dress bunched under her legs, as if it would protect her. Korra wandered into the room and when she met her roommate’s eyes, the gaze was returned with a knowing look.

  All at once, Alba realized Korra knew exactly how she was feeling.

  “Does this feeling ever get any better?” Alba whispered, regretting the words as soon as they came from her mouth; speaking somehow made it real; made the shame vibrant; made the guilt vivid. Alba settled her eyes squarely on the grey, cement walls in front of her.

  “You’ll have to let me know,” Korra replied, taking her own spot on her cot.

  Chapter Seven

  Nita

  “Today, students, you are to choose your Christian names,” Ms. Wright said, her delicate hand waving at the white-lettered list sketched out on the chalkboard. “These are the choices you have. After today, you will no longer be allowed to speak the uncivilized names that you came here with.”

  The words hit Nita like a splash of cold water, dowsing him; bring him up stunned and angry and aware. With wide, wild eyes, he stared forward at the front of the classroom, at the cursive letters of names he didn’t know the meanings of. He didn’t even know how to say them; how could they expect him to take these names?

  The incredulous feeling swelled in his lungs until he wanted to scream; he wanted to lash out, tossing his notebook at Ms. Wright and demanding to know how she could ask this of him. They could take away his hair, his clothes, his language, his beliefs, his home, his family – everything that made him who he was. But could they take away his name too? It was too much a part of him; tearing it from him would be like tearing away his skin, digging out his bones.

  They couldn’t do it. Panicked tears were about to come to his eyes – they couldn’t.

  Ms. Wright, shooting him a smile that was frozen like glass on her face, pointed to child after child and asked them to choose from the board. He watched with unseeing eyes as a child who couldn’t read well enough pointed blindly, and suddenly his identity was changed. They were trying to wipe away the parts of Nita that made him human, and turn him into a clone of them. He wanted to rush forward, desperately grabbing Ms. Wright’s hand, and beg her not to make him choose.

  He was nearly a man back home, and his father had told him about the importance of names. Your name was more than just something to be called; it determined who you grew up to be, what you would accomplish. It showed your strengths. His father had sat him down, making him listen carefully as he explained the meaning of Nita; he told him it was valuable -- “Cherish it.” Nita felt the weight of the honor, and he was proud for this identity given to him, like so many of his ancestors had been given.

  Nita wanted to scream. He wanted to swear that his name was too important to him.

  He stared up at the board and saw elegantly written names like “Michael” and “David.” Nita felt desperation settling over him like the layer after layer of clothing they placed on him; holding him in, making him powerless. The frustration turned to fear, and fear finally to something heavy and crushing that smashed him – broke him down until he was quiet.

  “Why do our names have to be different?” One boy asked timidly, eyeing the list before him.

  “If you want to succeed, you need to pick a real name,” Ms. Wright explained, as if it were a fact. “You can’t use the coarse names of your youth.”

  Nita shifted in his desk, frustration all but making him cry out – screaming at the names staring down at him expectantly and the boots around his feet that refused any mercy. They were torture around his feet, rubbing blisters into his skin. He wanted moccasins, and when they first arrived, he asked if he could simply wear the shoes of his tribe instead. He learned not to suggest such things after that; learned to not speak up.

  Nita wanted to scream now, but he didn’t, as he always didn’t.

  Nita knew how his name was spelled in English; he knew the characters required to ink it out on paper. His eyes scanned over the board until he found one with the letter “N,” and an “I” to follow; it was the only one that sounded a little like his own.

  “Nicholas.” Nita muttered to himself. He tasted like betrayal as he uttered it, pushing his tribe and his ancestors back into the shadows
like this school was trying hard to do. “Nicholas,” he whispered again to see how it felt; such a hollow sound. It held none of the history or the meaning Nita was enveloped in.

  He didn’t know how he was going to endure it. Hearing this strange assortment of sounds call out and have it be him; to have Pamuy say “Nicholas” when he wanted Nita’s attention, and have that somehow be normal. The school took everything else; why did they want this?

  “Nita, what is your Christian name going to be? Choose carefully; this is the name that will follow you for the rest of the life,” Ms. Wright said, looking at him softly but with severity in her eyes. Perhaps she meant well; perhaps she did care about him. But he hated her for this – whether it was her fault or not, he hated her.

  “I will be Nicholas,” Nita answered her, and his voice was a hollow echo to his ears. He saw Ms. Wright’s face brighten, and she looked like she was about to speak – to compliment him on his choice – but he dropped his eyes to the ground, careless of what she would say. How could she possibly understand; she thought the school was right. How could she understand the cold feeling spreading throughout his limbs?

  How would his father ever understand? How could he see that Nita had to turn his back on everything they’d loved? He had to choose. He didn’t want to, but he had to.

  Other voices and other names echoed around him, but they were dull – deaf to his ears as he looked at his hands. They were soft, losing their color because the concrete walls granted no sunlight; not like the rays he soaked in as he ran through the forests, the valleys, up hills, across streams. “Michael”s and “David”s sounded out, but he didn’t try to hear them or remember them; Nita didn’t know how he was ever going to remember the names that the other children had chosen.

  Perhaps the school had thought of the same thing, because before they could leave the class, they were called up to the front. Small tags with their new names finely written across them were pinned to their shirts, and just as their language was banished, so were the names of the past. It had been months, and their tribe was in the past.