The Pearl Savage

by Tamara Rose Blodgett

  “Glass, Princess, we use it always. It is what the Guardian’s instructed for uniformity,” Sydney said.

  It was confounding, Clara couldn’t explain the color.

  “It is not overly pink,” Sydney said.

  “Just a sheen, is all,” Russel said.

  “She will not like it,” Clara said, stomach becoming tight thinking about the Queen’s displeasure.

  No one asked who She was.

  The remainder of the day was spent thus. Each field which yielded different size and colored pearls was checked, all but the pink were in order. Each field represented different colors at different levels of maturation, only the first field had a mysterious color result.

  Drat.

  After lunch, which was quite late, Clara used the fresh water bucket (that had been in a dim corner of the pungy) to rinse her hands of the sticky citrus of the tangerine. Russel not bothering a bit, but indelicately sucking it right off his fingers.

  Clara laughed, “You enjoy the tangerines more than I!”

  “Aye, ‘tis true, Princess.” Sydney chuckled at the two of them with their tangerines, he not a bit fond of them.

  The contents of their lunch put away, Clara said, “It is time to get back,” seeing how the sun had lost its highest arc, through the thick air of the sphere.

  Clara looked at her time piece about her neck…half past four o’clock. Ada would most definitely be about and demanding an audience with her. Wishing to know how the fields faired, or rather, what they yielded.

  Sydney, who read her well said, “Let us return to the pier.”

  Clara nodded, wishing very much that she had the forethought to fetch a flat stool upon which to sit. Her legs were tired from standing the entire day. Tomorrow, she would need not be in the fields. Instead, she would attend Trading Day and see what wares the Royal Manse may need. That brought her round to thinking of Charles. Where must he be? She wondered if he had become busy in the other fields. Just as she thought it, there he was, skippering his own pungy.

  “Hail Princess!” Charles called with a shout and a wave. His breeches tucked into supple leather boots of the deepest chocolate, tied in the front with laces which wound like Xs up the front. His shirt billowed behind him and his forearms bulged as he manned the pole. His younger brother, Alexander, “Alex” worked the stern as he worked the bow, only ten and two years and already a deck hand.

  She raised a hand in greeting and called back, “Greetings, Charles and Alex!” She was quite happy to see Charles, a glad tiding to see him. His good will for her plain on every angle of his face, Alex a smiling mirror behind him.

  Charles and Alex pulled beside the starboard side of her pungy, the brothers fixing large hands against the boats to keep them from hammering the sides together, Alex steadied the stern to anchor it.

  “Are you heading back to pier?”

  She nodded, “I am.”

  “Excellent, I will accompany you.”

  Sydney gave a glower, failing to hide his displeasure at Charles’ interruption.

  Clara sometimes thought her life was unduly complicated.

  They moved alongside one another, Charles at their stern with Alex still aft, “What say you, Princess? What of your yield this day?”

  Alex was a dear, “Yield is as expected, however…”

  Charles glanced her way then back ahead of him, keeping the boats separated as the pier came into view, “What is it?” he asked without looking at her.

  “A cream field that has a pink wash.”

  Charles made a disgusted noise, “That will not be good.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  The brothers kept their own council, not willing to add to her anxiety. Charles didn’t bother, he knew the Queen would discuss the color. She would have to place blame somewhere convenient. No matter, Clara would deal with the consequence.

  Clara stood straighter, squaring her shoulders, “In all truth, I cannot control the oysters. It is inexplicable why there be a color wash,” she said and shrugged. There was no more she could do.

  They pulled up on opposite sides of the pier where the Pier Keepers took their lines, tethering them to the brass cleats on the deck, worn smooth from a million tethers, like golden cream laid solid.

  Otis, a lean specimen of a man who was lead Pier Keeper, helped Clara out of the pungy and she turned, waiting for a brother to hand off her lunch pail. Russel did with a wink and a grin, “I do adore tangerines, Princess.”

  Clara smiled, turning back to Charles, already on deck, “Let us walk together.” She gave a small wave to Sydney, who looked forlorn at her departure with Charles.

  He turned to Alex, “You have the pungy and,” Charles dug around in the pocket of his breeches, finding his time piece on its copper chain, “one hour until supper, do not be late, or mother will have your hide!”

  Alex ducked his head and Clara realized that the admonition must be warranted.

  Charles confirmed this, whispering, “He does tend to dawdle about.”

  She understood completely as she could be a champion dawdler when so disposed.

  He, of course, knew that about her and gave a look between she and Alex, which caused a bubble of laughter to escape.

  Charles frowned, “Dear Clara, do not encourage him.”

  “Yes, I mustn’t encourage his dawdling.”

  Alex giggled behind them as Charles swept her down the pier and away from the bad example she was apparently setting. The evening was shaping up nicely. Sarah would come calling at seven or so this evening and she had managed to put a peeve upon Charles, marvelous.

  They walked quietly together for a time, looking at the houses, some with candles lighting as the supper hour drew closer.

  “She will be angry, our Queen,” Charles said.

  “I know. That, I cannot help, as well you know.”

  “Let me accompany you as you explain the yield, the pink pearls.”

  Clara thought about this. She mustn’t give him opportunity to avenge her in a fit of emotion. No, she would hope something else would assist her this evening.

  “I think… she may be deep in her cup. As will be the case each day that King Otto and Prince Frederic dawdle here.”

  A huge grin broke free across Charles’ face, “Yes, they may dawdle about but I do not care for their dawdling half so much as yours and my dear brother.”

  Clara had made a joke at the neighboring monarchs’ expense and it was a small blight erased from her worry. She had only her mother’s love of grapes made wine to possibly give her grace. With Frederic here, she was not sure how things would come to pass.

  They had passed Sarah’s school and this was the fork where Charles must split from her to venture to his own dwelling, “I do not require safeguarding this night, Charles.”

  They stood underneath the street lamp which came on as dusk approached, its soft hissing giving away its operation.

  Charles reached out a hand and pressed his palm to her face, the warm, dry hand that had helped shape games when they were young, guidance as they grew older, and tenderness when there was no one else, “You seek to protect me from myself, Your Highness.”

  Clara lowered her eyes. Was she as transparent as all that? Could she not contain her expression better?

  “Do not self-recriminate, Clara. It is who you are to think of others first. But think on this; what friend would I be to you if I allowed you to go to the Royal Manse unescorted, to face certain persecution for things that are not of your making?”

  Clara did not have a fair rebuttal. She knew if their positions were reversed she would not leave his side.

  “Alright, you may come with me. But, I implore you, say nothing. Do nothing. Promise me.” Her aqua eyes focused on his dark ones, hooded by the approaching twilight and he nodded, once.

  He had meant it when he agreed. Some promises a person could not keep, even if their lives depended on it. That is what Charles would soon find out.

  CHAPTE
R 10

  Bracus, Matthew and Stephen slowed as they broke into the clearing, the clan fire burning brightly, a beacon of welcome after their long journey.

  Members of the clan were gathered at the fire but it was the Band whose eyes Bracus sought. There they were, their height and throat slits an obvious marker of their status within the clan, noticeable even in the dim light. Bracus thought of how much the clan would benefit from additional Band members. But a strange twist of genetics made the choice for them. With just eight members, they protected the clan. Other, neighboring clans had near the same number…which led Bracus to think that it was greater than sheer coincidence. His thoughts traveled to the Evil Ones. They were somehow mixed about in these processes. As there was no record of this manifestation of physical differences before the Days of Ash.

  Philip was even taller than Bracus and had a way of standing that flagged him to Bracus. Philip turned and gave a salute. Bracus nodded in return, then realized he may not be seen in the dim light and gave a short wave back. Philip strode to Bracus, clapping him on the shoulders as he stopped in front of him, “How goes your scouting?”

  “Very well,” Bracus said, grinning. This was his childhood playmate, the one Bracus spent much time beating on and winning and losing battles with; practice for real war. Philip’s hands fell away, the callouses of his dominant hand scraping slightly against the bare skin of Bracus’ shoulder. Years of archery had beaten their forward hands into submission.

  Matthew and Stephen walked toward the fire, shifting their weapons in preparation for disarming for the day.

  Philip’s broad shoulders blocked the light of the fire as he walked in front of Bracus, barring his words and expression from onlookers, “What of the female?”

  “Can you not wait, brother?”

  Philip grinned, “I cannot. I must know… what does she look like? Different from our females?” he asked, his head tilting to include the few that drew warmth from the fire.

  “Much.”

  That caused both men to turn and look at the lone pair of females near the huge community fire, its crackling presence flickering on the faces of all who were close. Bracus appraised them, John, “Jack” Blythe’s mate was one who leaned in against Jack, the newest member of the Band, his forearm wrapped protectively around her collarbone, he standing behind her with his chin touching the top of her head. His eyes met Bracus and he nodded, watching Philip and Bracus closely; the Band was protective of their mates. But only one of them was mated at present. Lillian stood in Jack’s embrace, relaxed in the knowledge that her mate was a superior fighter, she had a protector of skill; a good thing for a woman of the clans.

  The other female stood apart from all, Anna. Having escaped a clan she would not name, where a male had tried to force her attention, an abomination. Anna glanced warily at the two Band members, acting as if she might flee if they moved in the wrong direction.

  Months she had lived here with his clan, and still she did not trust.

  Philip sighed, sensing his brother’s thoughts. “She wants no one. But there are ones who would want her if she was so inclined.”

  “She is not yet ready.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Her fear is a terrible thing to see.”

  Philip looked at him. “Yes, it is. But there are some males…” he let his voice trail off. Bracus was well aware that some clans were not run as uniformly as theirs. President Bowen wished to gather the clans together and institute a Police of sorts. Making the Bands of all the clans a universal protector.

  Much to consider. It was a matter of priorities, the current one being the clan’s sustainability; it was threatened by the dwindling numbers of females.

  Philip and Bracus walked to the fire side-by-side, Bracus reluctant to disarm. He wished to take a bath in his dwelling. He would lay his weapons down in his own dwelling. Matthew and Stephen’s quiver and bow lay at their feet as they used a log pulled close to sit upon.

  Matthew watched their approach, his backside tight against the ground and his feet crossed at the ankle, arms resting on the log. “Tell us. Our weapons finished… our day spent.”

  Stephen gave a sour look, obviously tired of being left out of the immediacy of the president’s inner circle.

  Anna watched the group of huge men come together near the fire, the Band. She scooted back a few steps, giving up the warmth of the fire for the feeling of security the distance gave her. The captain, Bracus Goodman, was the only one she might trust at this time… might, and one other, her mind whispered. He was their leader and garnered respect through his treatment of others. He even took time with the children, a true and decent thing. Memories of her clan hovered near her, threatening to suffocate with the sheer terror they provided. She had prevailed, narrowly escaping. Anna forcibly relaxed her shoulders. Near a half year she had been here. She would not be able to keep her clan of origin secret forever. Possibly, the one who had abused her would find her and kill her.

  He had told her so. She shivered, remembering.

  *

  Anna could feel his body pressing into hers, filthy hands groping about her clothing while one hand covered her mouth to quiet her. She remembered the trees that night as she lay upon her back, their swaying a black outline against the moonlight which spilled about her, the forest her witness. She kicked with all her might, bucking and fighting, his hand left her mouth and backhanded her across her face, she saw stars, stunned, she lay still and he continued his onslaught. He was a member of her clan’s Band; one sworn to protect the clan, protect the females… yet he did not.

  She felt her mind leave her body, this could not be happening to her. Just as he would have his way with her, a figure loomed above them, an older female, small boulder raised above her head. Anna’s eyes bulged, the male seeing her reaction a moment too late before the rock fell on his head, and he slumped over, off Anna’s body. She sat up with a hiccuping sob. Relief washed over her in a sickening adrenaline surge, overwhelming her limbs, numbing them. She opened her mouth to say something and it was Della, who put a finger to her lips to silence her.

  The two women turned to look at the male, Anna’s attacker. “Go now, far away. Before he awakens.”

  “But what of you? He will hurt you,” Anna said, her body quaking.

  She smiled grimly. “No, he will be occupied with explaining himself. However, this one is of a mind to not be remorseful. He will try again. You must go.” Della’s stout body and dour face was set in purposeful lines. She held out a pack, with odd straps that wound around ones arms.

  “This has what you need for a journey of this length.”

  Anna peered inside… jerky, dried fruit and nuts. More food than she would need. She gave a confused look at Della. “You need what is here and more… than I can give you. Follow the cobbled road until it ends. Head west.” Della rifled through the folds of her skirt, producing a rough map. “There are rumors that the mid-western clans are governed more fairly.” Della gave a significant look at Anna. The translation was: the males were true, without criminal transgression.

  That was how the Clan of Ohio had found Anna; dirty, delirious, and half-starved. Her fear not as awesome as her desperation.

  Anna started when a male spoke to her, “Anna?”

  She instinctively backed away, then stopped, steeling herself. She must be brave. Not all males were as the one she had escaped from. Joseph stood looking at her, eyebrows raised, waiting for a response. She usually just nodded in return. But this night, still in the grip of her memories, out of the warm shelter of the fire, she wished to have some human contact, even if male… especially male. She purposely stepped closer, regaining the steps she had given up. She needed to start to believe.

  To trust.

  Joseph regarded Anna in surprise. She did not run off as she usually did. He watched as resolve formed in her eyes and he fought not to show his shock. He had been greeting her from the very first. When she came to them a starved, filthy thing,
delirious from dehydration, asking over and over, “…is this the midwestern clan?”

  He had watched these months as her shyness was for males, but females, she trusted. That had given the Band pause. They considered her to have been a victim of some kind. But when questioned she just shook her head. Even Bracus, who had found her and established some trust, could not extract the reason for her state upon arriving. What clan did she hail from? A mystery.

  One Joseph wished to solve.

  “Yes, Joseph,” she croaked out, her voice unaccustomed to being used.

  The remaining Band around the fire looked up sharply upon hearing Anna’s voice, a rare sound.

  She immediately noticed their attention and faltered, but Joseph said, “Please…tell me what you think upon.”

  Anna stood stupidly before him, all thoughts gone, save one. “I am cold.” However insignificant the statement, it was what she could say.

  Joseph smiled, that he could manage. He extended his hand, sweeping it toward the fire. “Join me by the heat then, Anna.”

  She gave the barest of smiles and Joseph’s heart soared; to see this quaking female regain a semblance of who she was, giving him the slimmest regard.

  They walked toward the fire together, a man of the Band and a female hanging on to a grain of hope, fiercely.

  CHAPTER 11

  Charles and Clara climbed the steps leading to the Royal Manse, Clara with trepidation, Charles sure-footed as ever. He looked at her rumpled work skirt and blouse, tired from the day in the fields, her rosy cheeks giving testimony to the outdoor work. The sphere felt cloying with the moisture this day. Charles realized the time was coming for the cleanse of the sphere. When that time was near, the moisture level became unbearable.

  “The cleansing is near,” Charles remarked, wiping his brow with his once-white handkerchief.

  “Yes,” Clara said, smiling. She was nearly immune to the humidity of the sphere.