My champion circled me slowly, one thumb rubbing his full, pink lips in thought. Curly, dark brown hair was cut in unfashionably short curls on top of his head, shining in the sunlight. His skin was pale, his cheeks rosy in contrast to the rugged line of his jaw. His brown breeches were tight enough on his hips and thighs to make me blush, and tucked into high black boots that clicked on the stones. I couldn’t help but notice the glistening sweat that flecked his smooth chest behind the open collar of his creamy shirt.
He gave a few nods, one hand cupping his chin and the other crossed over his torso. When he caught my gaze, I started. His eyes were as unnaturally blue as the ocean behind him. He was beautiful, eyes set deep and slightly almond in shape, framed by long, black lashes that blinked stark against his fair skin. His face could have been sculpted of marble by the best of artists, and for the first time in my fifty years, my heart beat a little faster in wonder. A voice on my right barely cut through my stupor, and I felt hands lift my arms, bending my joints; something about me being healthy squeezed through my overloaded mind.
“I’m not a bloody mule,” I spat at the guard who held my arm above my head. He gave me a sharp look, but let go. My buyer smiled at the comment. At his amusement, I stood straight and proud, feeding on the sun as it soaked through my bare shoulders. A wind blew around me; the earth feeling my pride. If I wasn’t careful, I’d have the weather changing. The guards were testing my patience and my temper, and I was going to blow my carefully constructed disguise if I didn’t calm down.
“Get those shackles off her,” my buyer barked, gesturing to my ankles and wrists.
I had a very human moment as I realized with faintly crushing embarrassment how I must have looked to the man who paid money for me. On a better day, my hair would brush my lower back in wavy lines of honey blonde, and my skin was smooth and deeply tanned by the Mediterranean sun—when glamoured. I was aware of every tangle in my hair and every piece of dirt on my body. I couldn’t even remember my last bath. The two guards fumbled like small children to unlatch me from my chains.
I took a calming breath and fought for control, gingerly rubbing my sore wrists.
“I like her,” he spoke at last. His voice was musical and unwavering British. I yearned for my homeland. His eyes twinkled as he stepped closer. “She is…quite fiery.” Two fingers touched my chin, turning my face left, then right. Biting his lower lip, he looked to the guard on my left, his smile dropping but his fingers not. “What is her background?”
He studied me as one of the guards answered. “The daughter of a farmer, sir,” one of my oafs grunted. “Well-taught in keeping land and harvesting, but as much a lady as the best.”
My new master’s fingers fell away, leaving a trace of warmth in their place. “Do you think then, good sir, that this is the way a lady should be kept?” he inquired, voice dangerously soft. His smile to me was tentative and for me alone, and for a split second I felt the hope of which Matilda so often spoke.
Whether he took me home with him or not, this man, I knew, would haunt my dreams forever.
“She is healthy, sir,” the other guard said, proving he was nicer than the first. “Her father fell into a spot of bad luck. The mother died a little over six months ago and the crops have all wilted in drought since.” Their sympathy disgusted me almost as much as my private life being spilled in the dirt, naked and trembling. “In order to keep and care for his son, his only heir, mind you, he is…” I looked up as he trailed off and I watched my buyer’s hand come to my shoulder in slow motion. His skin on mine sent a shock through me, and I jumped in surprise.
“She will have a home with my family,” he told the guard without taking his gaze from mine. I saw friendship in his eyes. “What is your name, love?”
“Abigail,” I told him, hiding the wobbly knees well.
“Abigail,” he murmured as if testing my name. “Do you have a surname, Abigail?”
The question stung a lot more than I expected. Tears sprang unbidden. I wanted no part of my father’s name. “Not anymore.”
He grinned at me boyishly, a dazzling and contagious display. “William McAllister, but please, call me Will. If you are ready, our boat is waiting.” His hand fell away from my shoulder as he turned to sign the papers one of the auctioneer’s men held behind him.
I skipped to his side quickly, reaching for his arm but stopping myself before I touched him. “Excuse me, a boat? Where are we going?” Every part of me screamed for him to say Britain.
Without looking up from his paperwork, one lock of curly hair in his eyes, he answered, “Greece.”
Greece. The world fell away and all I could see or hear was that word. The country of my mother’s birth. She had spoken of Greece in rare moments, but for the most part, her past had been a bit of a mystery. It seemed only fitting that her death would send me there. I was never a believer in coincidences.
I turned my back on my new owner in search of my father, looking in vain for what seemed an eternity. I looked for the man who had spun me in circles as a small child; the man who had crafted wildflower wreaths for my hair and took me fishing at our lake. That man was surely still inside my father, if only I could find him.
“He’s already gone, Abby.” I spun around to dark brown eyes, the color and shape of my own. My younger brother, Alexander. His thick, dark blonde hair was escaping from its ponytail, framing his handsome face. Unlike me, my brother’s looks were his own, not magickal cosmetics; he looks like our father, Mum used to say. There were tears in his eyes, and I leaned to kiss them away. “He wasn’t feeling well. I came to tell you good bye.”
His love touched me. I squeezed him tightly, fighting my own hot tears. “I will see you again one day,” I told him, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “We have all of forever to find one another.” He laughed between his sniffles, and I grabbed his shoulders. “Don’t forget me?”
“Never.”
I glanced around quickly. No one was paying any attention to our exchange. Alexander’s eyes were wary as he murmured, “Your eyes, Abigail…” I grimaced and fought my glamour for what felt like the eighth time that day. All the nerves and tension were wearing on my abilities. After a moment, he nodded. “They’re brown. What did you see?”
“Father will die this evening.”
Unsurprised, he answered, “I’ve been expecting it. Since Mama’s death, it’s almost like he’s no longer in there.”
“I feel the same myself,” I murmured, touching my heart with one hand. He didn’t respond; he understood. “Look, you’re twenty-five now. Sell the farm, Alex. Move to the city, move home, do something besides follow the path he has laid.”
His grin was crooked and cocky. “I’ve got an eternity to figure my life out, Sis.”
I shushed him and pushed him a little further from the guards, my hands on his shoulders. “Be careful. If Mom could die, so can we, and we don’t know what killed her. I want to find you alive and well and possibly settled down one day. Don’t do anything stupid. For goddess’ sake, give me some nieces!”
We embraced once more before. I wrapped my arms around my baby brother and whispered, “I love you.”
He answered me with a kiss to the forehead and faded into the crowd.
“We must make haste,” William said from behind me. When I turned, his hand fluttered towards my face, but stopped, hovering in the air between us. He cleared his throat—dear goddess, had he meant to wipe away my tears?—and took my arm as we began to walk. I succumbed to the loss of my freedom and let myself be taken.
I returned the smile William shot me with an awkward one of my own, allowing myself a little of that fleeting, momentous feeling—hope.
Chapter 3
The sheer size of the Superior was enough to shock if the ornate beauty of the ship could not. William pointed her out with a proud smile that only grew larger at my sharp intake of air. I had seen extravagant ships before, but she held a primal, earthy beauty that did not extend to th
e merchant ships surrounding her. I thought back to stories my father’s father had told Alexander and I as children, of pirates. Billowing white sails, damsels in distress, romance and intrigue on the high sea…she was a magnificent floating wonder that was the epitome of all the stories I remembered.
Far from being covered in vast arrays of jewels, the Superior was simple. The bow played host to a mermaid, where beams of light danced upon the water from the two bright rubies in her breasts. Her long hair flowed down each side of her, reaching into the depths of the water below. Tiny, carved fish and sea creatures played among the strands. Her fin was curled in a kneeling position and her hands were clasped in her lap like a little girl. Her head tilted toward me as if in welcome. It was obvious the Superior had been lovingly carved, and I would bet my immortality it was with magick. It felt like magick.
We boarded by way of a large, makeshift ramp after it was dropped not-quite-so gracefully from an opening on the deck. The weathered boards were hot against the soles of my feet and the dried wood threatened to splinter. As inconspicuously as possible, I sent a silent incantation down through my body and into my feet to smooth the wood. I smiled in delight as it worked, glancing guiltily at the men around me. Oh, to use my powers again!
We were flanked on both sides by two men who made my previous guards seem dwarves. William referred to them as our “personal caretakers.” I wondered at the strange, beautiful man who was whisking me away; it’s not everyone who travels with bodyguards.
Once on deck, I didn’t even have a chance to enjoy the view from the first ship I had set foot upon in years. I was led away by one of the bearded muscle men, his gait fast beneath his belted tunic. Stumbling while trying to keep up with him, I tugged my arm roughly from his.
“Is this a race?” I asked him sarcastically. He just grunted in annoyance and latched on to me once more. I looked back before we disappeared down the darkened staircase, trying to catch a glimpse of William, but he was lost among the crew.
I was taken only a level below and dumped quite literally at a double doorway. The guard gave me a curt nod and was off before I could open my mouth. I stared after his retreating form, a little irked. “Do you live at that pace?” I called after him. The only answer I received was the sound of his footsteps fading up the stairs.
Silence fell and I felt the toll of the past few days. I leaned against the doorjamb, pressing a hand to my perspiring forehead. My glamour was fading, my power to hold it dwindling with my energy. I had never felt so worn.
Taking a couple of deep, centering breaths, I turned to the doors and grasped one warm bronze knob in my hand. I grimaced at the dirt under my short fingernails and in the creases of my knuckles. I looked like a streetwalker.
I started to turn the handle when it rotated in my hand and the door flung open. My hand still suspended in the air, I looked in shock upon a graying lady almost a foot shorter than I. She was dark skinned, with strands of black in her severe, gray bun. I opened my mouth, willing myself to greet her, and watched as her face broke into a smile. “Well, don’t just stand there, come in!” The lilting notes of a Grecian accent met my ears.
She reached for me, her hands fumbling for my arm. Her dark eyes were unfocused, trained over my shoulder. It took me a moment to realize she was blind.
“I heard you outside the door and thought maybe you were a little unsure of what to do,” she told me as I put my arm in her hand. “Those boys just don’t know what to do with strangers. No social skills I tell you!” She gently pulled me into the room and closed the door behind me. I was reminded of a little bird, her voice light and chirpy. “The magick crawls across your skin,” she told me, releasing my arm with a squeeze.
I was thrown. “Pardon me?”
The old lady chuckled, a bright smile on her weathered face. The creases at her eyes and mouth were canyons in her dark skin. She was very small and thin, wearing a plain blue cotton dress and apron, and delightfully, her feet were as bare as mine. “Dear heart, your power is like a second skin. Does it always sit so obvious?”
“No, not always,” I murmured, running my hands up my arms experimentally. I couldn’t feel it. “I guess you could say I have a different look. I must glamour myself so as to not…scare others.”
“Hmm.” She left it at that and regarded me in her strange, blind way.
“It’s lovely in here,” I breathed, taking a few more steps into the room and finally processing my surroundings.
Across the large space, two glass doors opened to the sea, white curtains on either side blowing in the salty breeze. The smell of the ocean filled the cabin and life-giving sunlight touched every corner of the room. The wooden walls were carved oak, if I wasn’t mistaken. Faeries pranced about the flowers, nymphs bathed naked in roiling waters, dryads poked their heads from trees…satyrs, unicorns, and centaurs stared at me with eyes that felt real. I reached out and touched the face of a small faery, wings in mid-flight.
How ironic that it was to be my room.
The bed was the biggest I had ever seen. Silvery canopies draped from each corner post, the shimmering fabric brushing the floor. A wardrobe leaned against one wall, a chest of drawers and trunk sat at another, and a vanity was situated next to a closed door.
I rushed to the vanity, staring for several minutes at the fine combs and perfume. I had wished for five weeks to look upon myself in a mirror, but finally doing it was like a splash of cold water to my psyche. I looked like I’d been run over by a carriage or three. Lines of perspiration had dried in dark rivulets down my dirty face and my golden hair looked more like a dull brown.
“What is your name, child?” The woman asked as I straightened and turned to face her. Her hands were clasped in a square at her waistline, a small smile on her face. It flooded me with longing—my mother had often struck the same pose.
“Abigail,” I answered, studying her unseeing eyes.
She came to me, her hands out. I dropped my arms at my sides as she reached towards me, and I looked in interest on the lines of her palms. “May I?” she asked, gesturing to my face.
“Of course,” I told her. Her hands were warm and moist as she traced her fingertips across my face. I watched as her mind pieced together a picture of me by tracing her fingertips along the curve of my jaw, my brow, my nose, even my lips. I almost felt as if I could see with her. If I hadn’t known for sure she would feel me digging into her mind, I would have allowed myself to fall into it. “Have you always been blind?”
She shook her head, smiling. “Oh, no. I had perfect vision until twenty years ago. There was an accident…” Her voice trailed off and she shrugged. “Life goes on. But you, my dear, your skin is feverish. Do you feel well?”
“My body runs at a higher temperature than others,” I said as her hands fell away from my face.
“What are you?” The question wasn’t frightened or demanding, just curious. I found myself relaxing.
“Is it everyday you deal with the unnatural?” I teased her, turning to pick an apple from the basket on the vanity. The first bite was incredible, warm and juicy. I couldn’t remember the last time I had tasted fruit; it was a luxury we hadn’t had on our farm, much less in jail.
The woman’s handsome countenance brightened. “Oh, you aren’t unnatural, my love. Everything about you screams natural. You’re quite the pretty one, I see,” she changed the subject, uncannily aware of my unease. It wouldn’t have surprised me if she was psychic. A wry smile crinkled her eyes. “It is no wonder he chose you.” I was confused for a moment, and opened my mouth to question her, but she went on, “My name is Gaea.”
“The Earth-Mother.” I was amused. More and more, I saw the blueprints being drawn by the deities. They have witty hands and like to meddle; perhaps a bit too much.
“I could tell you were of the old religion the minute I touched you,” she whispered, waving a hand dismissively. “The magic is very thick and unnaturally strong within you, as I said.”
I l
ooked to my feet and focused on controlling my breathing. “My mother had great power.” And I’m not entirely human, but I wasn’t about to tell her. Not yet.
She nodded in agreement. “I imagine you will come to do great things with your own special powers. Do you have siblings?”
I took her hand and searched for her magic with mine. I felt it pulsing inside her, very faint and weak, but a second heart that I clung to even tighter. “Sibling. My brother and I were the only two to live past the age of three. There were two others, taken very early.” I watched her face, the corners of her mouth turned down in distress.
“That must have been difficult for your poor mother. It is sometimes a curse to be so empowered. Important things may be taken in return.”
I looked out the doors behind her, watching white clouds drift lazily on the wind. “She never spoke of them.”
We stood a moment more, hand in hand. As if she was shaking away water, Gaea shook away the saddened air that hung around us, and gave me a devious smile.
“How about you drop that ridiculous glamour, since I won’t be able to see you, and you have a good wash?”
I could have knelt down and kissed her feet.
Chapter 4
I dreamed of my mother.
She was whole and beautiful. Her long, wheat-colored hair cradled her body and her sapphire blue eyes twinkled at me from our boat. The small craft rocked slowly on the gentle waves, an old wooden thing Father had built years ago. Always so thin, Mother looked fragile upon the cracked bench.
It was a nightmare I had often. The image of Mother, smiling in her emerald green dress, would stay with me, but so too did the image that came after.
Storm clouds rolled across the sky, mirrored on the choppy surface of the lake. My mother’s smile faded quickly and terror overcame her. In a split second, she was no longer my mother, but the beaten and bloodied corpse we had found on the side of our beloved lake.
*
I awakened several hours later to a knock on the door.
Indie Chicks: 25 Women 25 Personal Stories Page 5
