by Kaplan, EM
She would never wish them undone. They were sweet and healthy boys, who thankfully got their looks from her family, each one of them. She would not have to watch them grow up to be copies of her terrible husband. At least they didn’t look like him. But, she sighed and allowed herself a good two minutes of wallowing in self-pity, if she were herself again from a few years earlier, before any of it was promised or conceived, she would have no qualms about throwing herself at Rob, and forcefully. She didn’t care that he lived in the great house across the field, while she lived in an ancient, patched-up shack that passed for a cabin. Because she wanted him, loved him—so much that she didn't want to think about him—and that was the truth. But rivers ran their same paths as soon as the ice melted.
She understood why her brother admired him, why they were close friends, and if she were a male, she would have had the good fortune of going with them often when they hunted. Rob was so silent, so attentive to her—a respectful, distant awareness in honor of the friendship he felt for her brother. But that was all, she was certain. She was the idiot who allowed herself to crave a man she could never have. If only she had known herself better before she went to her husband, the cruel man who used her badly and deserted her for another woman. If only she had known herself better while her husband was still around to feel the effects of her skills with a paring knife. She huffed at herself, bringing another rug outside on the porch to beat it to death. The floors would never get clean if the rugs held onto their dirt.
With each swing of the bat, she enumerated her faults as Rob would see them. Mother to another man's children. Not able to bear any others for a better man. No money. House falling down around her ears. No family lineage or wealth to speak of. No fine manners. And not even the good grace to give up. One more harsh winter and she'd lose whatever feminine features she had left. She would be nothing but ropey muscle and bones, truly a glorious vision. Her washed-out dresses were already hanging off her shoulders. Her winter-dried skin, once as soft as buttermilk, cracked during the worst times of the year. Even her hair was a frizzy, brittle mess. And add to that, now a split knuckle.
She pulled off her mitten despite the cold and sucked her knuckle between her lips. Worst thing to do for it, she knew, but it felt good for now. No tears. She never allowed herself to cry. Two minutes of self-pity was a healthy serving, but it was never good to overindulge. She pushed her hair back under her knit cap and took a deep breath, starting to slam back into place the walls of self-control. And the upside was, now she had clean rugs.
Why hadn't Rob come?—to look in on Ott, she quickly added. Her brother was clearly not well. He had that hollow look around his face that had nothing to do with food. Maybe Rob knew why. Obviously, something had happened to her brother out there. Her mind spun from thought to thought, like the swirling dust motes she had beaten from the rug. Rob was occupied, she knew. Hundreds of people camped outside the wall looking for shelter, food, and protection from the underground animals. Trogs, people were calling the creatures. Or trolls, though that was ridiculous. Trolls were the monsters of old tales. They didn't exist in real life except to scare her children into staying in their beds at night.
Rob had more than his share of people to look after, and the crazy old bastard who called himself Rob's father wasn't going to do it. He'd more than likely set dogs on his own people. On Rob himself, that was for sure. She got steamed just thinking about the old man. Maybe there was someone who could watch her kids while she crept up there and wrung the old man's neck. Blasted him back under the rock from which he had crawled. She snorted because that was hardly a new thought.
Someone cleared his throat behind her.
She didn't bother turning around. Embarrassed, yes, but her brother knew her well enough. "Yes, I know. Say whatever you want. I'm reduced to talking to myself and laughing at my own riddles. I make good company for myself. It's a long winter."
He didn't respond, and an odd prickly feeling ran up the back of her neck. She felt as if she'd been touched. Stroked by a feather of warmth. Something blooming out of season. She whipped around.
"Hello, Jenny," Rob said, standing on the porch steps. His deep voice sent a tingle of heat down her spine all the way down to the backs of her knees.
He was one step down, but still a good half-foot taller than her, all bundled up in furlined leathers, pants brushed to the knees in snow dust. He stood still, broad across the shoulders, and solid. Not imaginary. He was standing here, real and true. She didn't stop to look at his face. Threads of regret and fantasy still clung to her, swirling around her mind, eddies of desire and memories of long, dark nights alone. And fear, too, hearing noises outside the house in the dead of night. And again with her brain addled with terror—not for herself but for her three sleeping boys—when she opened the front door to confront whatever creature might be outside savaging their goats or stealing their pathetic stash of winter food.
And panic, too, when she thought she might not have enough to make it through winter when it finally, inevitably arrived, thinning her boys' faces and dulling their eyes. Please, she prayed fervently at night to her one lady god while alone in her bed, please don't let them starve or freeze or be the spoils of others. Now, when she saw Rob standing on her step, she didn't stop herself, but flung her arms around his neck, still clutching one mitten in her hand, the other hand bleeding. He was here and safe. She pressed her face into the shoulder of his cold coat. He froze, and then slowly put his heavy arms around her.
"I should leave often," he said finally. She felt a tentative pat on her back as his hand gently came down, and he embraced her.
She laughed, truly embarrassed, "Please don't." Then she pulled her face away to look at his. Yes, thinner, but not as bad as her brother. Cheeks flushed from the walk over. Dark eyes almost unreadable. He looked unsure, though his hands were still around her waist.
He was hesitant, but she was not. She leaned closer, closing her eyes, and kissed him firmly on the mouth, then softening and lingering as a flush crept over her body despite the cold. She was in his embrace, lips pressed against his at last, just as she'd imagined it again and again, countless times since . . . before her children, before her husband, as far back as she could remember him. Except her eyes flashed open, her uncertainty reared up, ugly and nauseating, when he failed to respond.
She froze, horrified, waiting for anything that might save her from absolute mortification, a laugh, a chuckle, a brotherly squeeze, which she would gladly accept though she could still taste him on her lips. She would take anything to relieve the crushing mortification. She stepped back and knew she was flushed to the ears, probably red and splotchy under her ridiculous snow hat, made from scraps of yarn salvaged from old sweaters. Stupid, stupid. She gestured toward the door, not able to meet his eyes, to face whatever shock or pity might be in them. "Come inside. My brother is awake." Then she retreated in haste, tripping at the threshold she'd been passing over without trouble her entire life, leaving him to follow her or not.
Chapter 23
Mel stood on the deck of the great wooden riverboat that chugged up the Uptdon River, staring at the choppy water from behind her Mask. Every other tributary river she knew of flowed south and emptied into the gaping maw of the Great Sea. Every river except the Uptdon mixed its waters with the ocean. The water that Mel's boat churned through took an obstinate path northward, where it eventually froze in the harsh, frigid mountains, and where, if legend were true, a great white beast sat at the top of the river chewing chunks of frozen water with enormous glass teeth. The beast would crush the river into icy shards, swallow them so they passed from its stomach back through its underground bowels into the rivers that flowed south. A lifecycle explained through local lore.
Mel felt as if she were traveling to the end of the world. She stood in her cloak and Mask on the wind-whipped deck and watched the choppy whitecaps. She diverted her energy toward quelling motion sickness and warming her skin. For the sake of propr
iety, she could not enjoy the heaviness of a warmer coat or wraps. All she was permitted to wear were her regular daily garments—loose pants tied at the waist, tunic shirt with straps over her shoulders—and Mask cloak, veil, and medallion. The garments of her uniform would identify and protect her. The boat's passengers and crew certainly walked wide circles around them. They knew the Masks, knew what they were, and gave them wide berth. The few on the outside deck peered at her from behind furlined hoods, what skin they showed chapped red from the unrelenting wind. Her inability to get a chill bothered them more than her facelessness. If she had any courage, she would dress as one of them and walk among the passengers and crew anonymously, so she could be at ease.
It will get easier. She tried to use the thought as a balm.
At any rate, it was much better up on deck than in their stuffy, cramped cabin. She felt stifled by the proximity of her parents and Guyse, the guard who accompanied them. In their windowless cabin, two sets of bunk beds lined the walls. They also had two small desks provided upon their request and a small washroom. She had the top of one bunk, her mother had the other. Her father and Guyse slept below them. While her parents spent their time resting or reading, Mel was restless and knew her unease bothered the others. The small cabin amplified her nervous energy, so she took herself to the deck as often as she could. It was the only place she could breathe.
The river was broad, a mile across at its widest. They had traveled for days upon days. The sandy banks had turned to craggy, forbidding cliffs, and now, in the distance, she could finally see the shore again as they approached the northernmost port. After nearly two weeks on the water, only a few hours separated them from land. She wanted to lean toward it, to balance on her toes to see it more clearly. She couldn’t wait to feel the ground under her feet once again. She wanted to run. After they arrived at the port, they would journey on by sled. Mel scanned the horizon, giving reign to her anxiety, a final full burst before she would have to take the wooden steps below deck to inform her parents and Guyse of their imminent arrival.
She didn't know Guyse well at all—she had seen him maybe a few times a year in the settlement, but never spoken to him. He was big and imposing, a scowling man who didn't wear the Mask. He often accompanied other Masks on their journeys—part guard, part servant. Her parents addressed him as an equal though he never seemed to acknowledge it. He brought them their food in the cabin, ran errands for them, and carried their belongings—not that they needed physical help, but arriving any place with an established hierarchy helped in travel. Often, people preferred to deal with a servant rather than directly approach a Mask, though Guyse was imposing in his own right. He stood a full head taller than her father, with dark weathered skin and thick brows on a protruding forehead that hid intelligent eyes. He radiated menace barely in check, and Mel had to make herself relax at night when she knew he was sleeping only feet away in the bunk under hers. After meals, she had to force herself not to vacate their cabin immediately. It sometimes felt as if the other three people in it seemed to use more than their share, filling it, spilling over into each other's space. It was a little like a coffin housing four scentless bodies, but not for much longer. They were nearly there.
Still lingering on deck, Mel stepped closer to the rail and focused her eyes for far, far distant sight as the northernmost port city came into view. Squat, dark buildings. A gray seawall. The dismal, windy day evidently did not deter the port traffic, either in the water or on foot. Wooden boats, all smaller than their vessel, bobbed at their moors. Metal bells rang out. Sea birds screamed overhead. She gathered her cloak and went below for the last time.
When, at last, they disembarked, Mel followed her parents down the narrow, planked ramp that led from boat to solid shore. Guyse came behind them supervising the unloading of their trunks. Mel kept her head steady and forward-gazing, but behind her Mask, her eyes flew from left to right. From the water, she hadn't seen the magnificent carved statues of the gods. Six of them stood in a phalanx—bear, otter, snake, falcon, fish, and insect—fifteen feet each of pure, glorious green agamite, a show of wealth and dominance to all visitors who came ashore. Here was where civilization ended. North of here, they would meet ice and the end of the world. Though Mel stared, the townspeople and travelers milling around the statues hardly seemed to notice them.
The port's activity belied the frigid air temperature. The passengers disembarking from their wooden riverboat gasped collectively when the first gust of frosty air raced up the ramp to their legs and passed through their clothing as if they wore nothing. Mel forced the blood within her legs to circulate somewhat quicker. The port was busier than Navio, if that were even possible, yet there were no outdoor merchants here. No musicians panhandled. Pickpockets still did a decent business, she noticed, seeing the bare hand of one slip from a furred muff into an unsuspecting man’s bag.
Aggressive, white-winged and heavily-feathered birds swooped overhead, wavering in the strong gusts that chilled their ears and necks. People shuffled and jostled from boat to shore, from carriage house to inn. Not carriages, she corrected herself, sleds. A grimy layer of packed snow covered the streets, even the most heavily traveled ones. Passage on foot was treacherous, yet the people persisted, sometimes slipping against each other, braced upright by the crowd, saved from tumbling by the sheer mass of bodies. Rather than give the impression of crossed threads, crossed paths, the bodies of people seemed to undulate as a population. Gray and brown waves of sturdy leathers were dotted by dyed wool color here and there. Harsh voices called out in the local accent and drew her eyes, but nothing seemed amiss, just travelers greeting familiar faces. She tried to absorb it, the patterns, the stoicism about the climate, the human adjustment for the sake of survival.
A shout brought Mel out of her reverie. The voice, hoarse and angry, cried, “We’re not bargaining with those fecking monsters. We don’t need your kind here.”
Just as Mel stepped off the ramp onto solid ground, the crowd surged toward her. Her eyes wide under her Mask, she felt a wave of anxiety crest off Guyse from where he stood behind her. His hand gripped her shoulder and pulled her against his body as an object flew from the crowd at them. She watched it flying toward her as it spiraled, a stone falling through the gray sky. Guyse's fingers dug into the muscle of her shoulder.
A hoarse voice shouted, "You're not welcome here, Masks."
Then the object, an unrefined hunk of stone mottled with dark green agamite, struck Mel’s forehead above her eye and shattered, dust and green sparkles erupting in a cloud against her skin, and she reeled. Voices in the crowd shouted in dismay. Hands guided her quickly to a sled, where she was placed in the center of the bench, her back to the driver. In minutes, the others were in place with the trunks secured on top. Guyse commanded the driver to speed the horses, and the sled was jerked away, horses' hooves muffled by densely packed snow, skimming away over slippery cobblestones north further from the port city.
“Damnation," Guyse cursed, throwing out string after string of escalating violent curses, drawing the curtains of their covered sled. Such anger from Guyse, Mel mused, muzzy-headed and helpless as she lay back on the leather bench in the sled, gently rocking. She could hear the whisk of the runners on the dense-packed snow. The sled was much warmer than the outside air. It smelled of leather, the breath of past travelers, and her mother's herbal soap. She adjusted her eyes to darkness as hands—her mother's—undid Mel's medallion and gently lifted her cowl.
"It's a deep gash," her mother said calmly from behind her own Mask. "Do you need assistance healing yourself?"
A dribble of blood was flowing into Mel's eye, making her blink repeatedly. She stilled herself and was about to divert her energy to her wound when her father stayed her with a raised hand. He shook his head, his eyes hidden from her.
"Leave it. We will show it as a sign of how we have been greeted."
Guyse grumbled, his voice escalating. "There has been violence all along the coas
t. Yet we were not prepared. You should have heeded my warning. Why did you not take my counsel?" He slammed a meaty fist into the cushion of the bench. His heavy brow creased in further scowl.
Mel's mother froze, but only Mel spoke, arrested by her father's words. "I will show my face?" Even in this short time, she had grown used to hiding behind her Mask. Her father didn't answer, merely leaned against the seat submerged again in his thoughts, no explanation to share. Her mother gathered herself together and, also seemingly lost in thought, blotted at the inside of Mel's Mask where blood darkened it. What kind of show of power required them to arrive with one who was wounded? And unmasked?
Mel frowned and dug a cloth out of her pocket. She flicked her eyes at her father’s Mask. Surely he would allow that she at least could see clearly. She blotted hesitantly at her eye, cleaning away the blood and dust that obscured her vision. Then she pressed the cloth firmly to the gash, where swelling gathered. She wanted to stop the flow of blood and prevent any accompanying dizziness. She hazarded a glance at Guyse, but the man wore his usual scowl, low forehead obscured by heavy brows.
What was her father thinking? She shook her head inwardly. Arrive wounded? Why would it matter in the least? She was a Mask. They should plan to arrive at the house as a trinity of black cloaked and Masked figures. Ominous and inhuman. She knew how it was supposed to appear. She shot a glare at her father. Perhaps he should have been the one to receive the blow to the head.
