She looked at Clara, “Please, let me help you get settled. You need new clothing, rest and perhaps a hot bath at the springs?”
Jack looked at her, narrowing his eyes. “It is not safe, Lillian.”
“I can have Stephen or Matthew accompany us,” she said coyly, stroking his arm. His anger melted like candle wax at her feet.
He touched a strand of her hair. “Mayhap, but it makes my guts twine to think of harm befalling you.”
“You must go with us to find Evelyn. Joseph, Stephen and Matthew must remain to guard the clan,” Philip said to Jack, but his eyes were trained on Clara and she lowered hers. She still felt like she had done something wrong and could not shake the guilt of her presence. Had she not been here, the girl would still be here with her clan.
She could not wonder overlong as Lillian looped her arm through Clara’s hauling her inside the cottage, telling Jack to take his leave with Philip, “I am quite sure that the Band has much discussion and planning. And the Princess needs food and rest.”
“President Bowen must meet with her,” Philip said.
Her eyebrow swept up. “When?”
Jack looked at the sun’s position, “One hour more…”
He looked at Philip, who nodded in agreement.
Lillian sighed, “Be off then…” she smiled to soften her remark and the men laughed, Jack swooping down to land a soft kiss upon her lips and Lillian pressed her body against his, mingling perfectly for the stolen moment. Clara looked away, embarrassed. It was very different Outside. She thought she might like it. They had an openness of expression that was sorely lacking in her sphere.
Jack left her, looking back one last time, as did Philip at Clara. She looked nervously away, not knowing what to think of it all.
“Come, Princess,” Lillian said.
Clara found her voice, “Please, call me Clara. That is what my friends call me.” When the Queen is not in attendance, she added silently.
“Alright Clara,” Lillian said, walking away with the expectation that Clara would follow her and she did.
They wound their way through the small cottage, which at its back held a small kitchen overlooking a ravine. Clara listened and thought she heard running water.
“What is that sound?” she asked presently.
Lilian raised her eyebrows and stood still listening. She smiled. “It is a wee creek.” She turned and stood before an odd-looking sink with a spigot from which water flowed. Clara looked on in fascination. All the plumbing of the sphere clanked and hissed with the steam-driven machinery, but Lilian turned a strange handle shaped like a “T” and out sprung a rush of water, frosting the spigot simultaneously.
“How curious,” Clara said, reaching a hand to touch the stream of water. Thirst immediately boiled to the surface, her throat parched.
Lillian smiled, fetching a glass off a low hung shelf made of roughened wood, the glass’ misshapen thickness sparkling from the dim light that permeated the windowpane.
She gulped the water greedily and looked about her, taking in the small house then she spied a looking glass and slowly approached.
Clara immediately regretted it; she looked atrocious. Her dress, once a beautiful turquoise, was a sodden and dirty green color and her hair lay unbound and filthy. She looked away, a high flush coloring her cheeks. She noticed with some relief that her face did not look as terrible as one day past. That was something at least.
Lillian saw Clara’s discomfort and put on a kettle to heat some water. When it became hot enough, she would stop up the sink and use soap to get the worst of the travel grime cleaned off. Tonight, they would travel to the hot springs and Clara could soak for an hour and finally tell all that she knew to Lillian. Although, Lillian had the feeling that Clara was not a woman to divulge things readily.
“How many years are you?” Lillian asked.
“I just celebrated my Day of Birth, ten and seven years.”
Seventeen years! Good Lord, she was young. Lillian wondered why her eyes held such age?
She set the kettle upon the stove top, the fire low in the summer. It might take some time and the President would arrive shortly. It would have to be a tepid cleaning.
She turned. “Let us go to my chamber and I will fetch you something else to wear.” Clara nodded, weariness dragging at her marrow. She was so tired her eyes burned but she must stay awake long enough to clean herself.
She followed Lillian into her bedchamber and thought it lovely. Low ceilings hugged the room, plaster a muted cream color with heavy, deep mahogany timbers bisecting it. A lone window stood at its center, dim light softly illuminating a four-poster bed that lay shrouded in a canopy of gauzy ivory material.
Lillian brought out several long skirts and blouses which billowed in soft colors.
“You are a tiny thing,” she said, studiously holding up several different garments, finally saying, “This should fit you, it fit me when I was ten and three years!” she said with a laugh.
Clara asked tentatively, thinking of Olive, “Would you assist me in the removal of my…” and she pointed to her back.
“Certainly,” Lillian said.
She unhooked twenty hooks when she asked, “What is this strange garment you wear under your dress?”
Clara turned, her face in profile, seeing Lillian out of the corner of her eye. “My undergarment… with the stays?”
Lillian nodded in wonderment at the uncomfortable looking garment, grateful she had never had to wear such.
“It is my corset,” Clara said, one shoulder lifting then falling. “We all wear similar.”
Lillian did not comment further but removed the stays until Clara could slip out of the offending thing.
Clara covered her breasts, feeling exposed even in front of a woman.
“You cannot put the horrible thing back on,” Lillian insisted, eying Clara critically. “Here,” she rummaged in a simple looking dresser, the handles shone softly in the glow from the window, the brass like worn butter, “use this.” She held up a chemise which had built-in bosom cups. It seemed to Clara very much like the corset but without the stays. Lillian laced it up and Clara’s breasts spilled out the top in a most revealing way.
“Nothing we can do about your figure, you are built like a wasp.”
“The creatures which sting?” Clara asked.
Lillian nodded, taking her two index fingers and drawing an imaginary hourglass in the air. Clara nodded.
“You did not need this contraption,” she said, picking it up disdainfully with her fingertips barely touching it. “We will burn it later.”
“Burn it?” Clara said then surprised herself by laughing.
Lillian grinned back. “Yes, I think that would be a good end for it, do you not?”
Clara did and nodded. It felt wonderfully free to be without it. Yes, the new garment still bound her but not uncomfortably so.
Clara put on a brown skirt made of silk and cotton in a soft but crude weave, the waist was too large. Lillian approached and found an interior tie and cinched it. Better.
She stood back, sorting through the clothing she handed a pale, teal-colored blouse to Clara. It fit perfectly.
“Evelyn’s,” she answered Clara’s unspoken question.
Lillian’s eyes lowered, then met Clara’s in a steady way. Clara liked this new acquaintance very much.
“She came by our home one day past to help me with something and she spilled some juice on it. I had to clean it right away and,” Lillian’s lip trembled and Clara saw her use her teeth to steady it, biting slightly, “I washed the stain out and….”
Lillian turned her back to Clara, facing the window.
Clara’s heart went out to Lillian, she approached her from behind. “They seem very capable… your Band. I am confident they will return with Evelyn,” Clara said before placing her hand on the other woman’s shoulder.
“It is true, they are. But it is you, Clara, that is the important one. You are our hope
… our only hope.”
The kettle shrilled its whistle and with a last lingering look Lillian walked away from Clara.
Clara said nothing but wished desperately to know why she had been taken… why was she so important? Other questions pressed as well: why were there so few females? What was the fragment that would take a young girl and had half their protectors racing to reacquire her? She would find out.
Lillian poured the warm water into a large pottery bowl and noticed it was lukewarm when she began to wipe the grime off Clara’s face, carefully avoiding the worst of her injuries. Her hair, which had been carefully bound up had not suffered as much but a few small twigs were removed and a thorough brushing helped immeasurably. Clara felt almost human when they were finished and a soft rap at the door led them both to answer it.
An older gentlemen (who had more clothes on, Clara noticed with some relief) stood flanked by two of the Band. Bracus and the guard that made her uncomfortable. She kept her focus on the man she was sure was their President.
The guard remained outside. Bracus and the President entered as Lillian busied herself in the kitchen.
Bracus looked down at Clara and noticed she wore clothing that was different and looked like she had rested. His heart sped at the sight of her and he noticed her face was beginning to heal, her eye almost completely open.
“Greetings, Princess,” President Bowen said inclining his head.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance,” Clara responded automatically.
The President turned to Bracus. “You did not overstate her condition.”
Clara felt uncomfortable heat rise to the surface of her skin as they referenced her beating.
President Bowen noticed her discomfiture and said, “We made a decision to acquire you sooner, Princess… as Bracus determined your life may be in imminent danger if you remained in the sphere.”
She looked at Bracus and he looked back for a moment then away. Curious. He must have been on some scouting mission, seen her after what the Prince had done and hastened this kidnapping of her.
She put her attention back on the president. “My foremost question is this: why have I been taken?”
She held up her hand before he could answer and said, “I must state my thanks as it appears I was rescued from a fate far worse than this one.”
She waited for the president to continue but instead he turned to Bracus who expounded. “We came upon the sphere and the Princess, Clara,” he corrected at her slight frown, “was being attacked, her companion could not aid her as he was restrained.” He looked at her for confirmation and she nodded. It was fairly accurate as retelling went.
Bracus turned suddenly, giving his attention to her. “Is he the one?” he asked, gesturing to her face.
Her flush returned, her face felt on fire. “He is.”
She watched the strange reaction take over Bracus, his fists clenching and opening, a vein standing out on his forehead. “We should have ended him back in the sphere then for what he did to you before,” and he swallowed, Clara hearing the dry click, “and for what he was attempting to do.”
The president turned his penetrating gaze on Bracus and a look passed between them she could not decipher.
“Let us sit.” Bowen indicated the adjoining parlor with a few simple pieces of furniture. Clara sat in the smallest settee and Bracus in the largest, his huge frame engulfing it, long legs flung out before him.
“Princess,” President Bowen began.
“Clara,” she corrected quietly.
“You must call me Arthur then.”
She nodded.
“Forgive my bluntness, but in light of the circumstances of Evelyn’s kidnapping and the death of her father, I feel frankness is the best course.”
Clara waited.
The President shifted in his chair. “We are losing people Clara, females in particular.”
Clara’s mind turned quickly. The crowd as they had come upon it had seemed odd to Clara but with all the chaos of the last day she had not struck upon what was odd. Now she realized.
The lack of women.
He saw the look of comprehension come over her face and continued his unflinching commentary.
What could they want with her? Then she thought of it. Standing so suddenly she tipped the chair she had been sitting upon, racing to the door which led to the hall, Bracus caught her easily.
“Clara! We mean you no harm. Please, let the president finish!”
Clara’s heart beat like butterfly wings trapped in her throat. What was she to them, a woman to steal. To impregnate? She shuddered thinking about the last day in an entirely new fashion. They were going to use her as some… some kind of elaborate breeder. Clara suddenly felt doomed. She had escaped the sphere only to have this as the alternative?
She would formulate a plan but she must, at least on the surface, pretend to give them her ear. Then Clara would escape this place, reunite with Charles. Despair welled inside her, filling her with stagnation.
What if there was no more Charles?
She shoved that thought out of her mind and concentrated on the present.
Forcing herself to still in the strong arms of Bracus, who had held her gently while they rode upon his horse, and now imprisoned her with his embrace, she said, “I will listen.”
Bracus set her down, warily watching for another escape, with Clara thinking all the while that the guard lay in wait outside, she would not test any boundary with him. She needed to tell Bracus and Bowen that he had visited the sphere before. She felt strongly that they were unaware of his dalliance. She had sensed much from him, all of it unknown.
She righted the chair as she sat upon it, folding her arms beneath her breasts.
Bracus noticed her posture and was not fooled. Her eyes flashed fire while she stared at them like enemies.
She would try to escape again.
Unfortunately, she was not understanding their true intent. If only she would listen. Bracus was beginning to see that beneath all the fragility, lay a woman of fortitude.
President Bowen began again, “It is not as it seems. For many decades our clan,” he stretched his hand to include the immediate area, “and many of our sister clans did not have females enough to grow in number. For every fifteen males born, only one female comes,” he said in a helpless voice.
“We think that the Evil Ones, may have made our ancestral pool too limited. And now, as our grandfather’s grandfathers lay in this earth, we are in a desperate state to mingle with different peoples.”
Clara thought about it. She was not sure they were even the same species. When she looked at the Band, they were clearly other.
She mentioned that. And what of the Evil Ones? Who were they to these people?
Bracus answered, “The Evil Ones created us, the Band.” He gestured to his throat slits and his extreme size.
“You are genetically engineered?” Clara guessed.
The president raised an eyebrow in surprise and she nodded. “We have a Healer in the sphere that knows a great deal of Science and she has developed many speculations…” she trailed off.
“It is our supposition that the Evil Ones postulated about our life and what the challenges would be and gave us a select few,” he gestured to Bracus, “for each clan that could be protectors of a sort. But as you can see with the female population dwindling there may be, in less than a generation little to protect.”
“That is what happens when you play God.”
Clara looked at Bracus. “I will ask again: who are the Evil Ones?”
Bracus’ eyes widened in surprise. “They are responsible for everything here.” he gestured vaguely around himself. “Even insomuch as before the days when the Earth was Covered by Ash.”
Clara’s breath stopped in her throat. “Do you mean, the Guardians?”
They stared blankly at her and she continued quickly in their silence. “They are who saved us. They and only they are solely responsible for our
spheres.”
She looked from one to the other, the uncomprehending expressions on their faces told all.
They did not know what the history was.
She thought suddenly of the book that had been carefully maintained for over a hundred years that told of the inception of the spheres. And more importantly, why.
“My grandfather’s grand-sire devised a book, a history if you will, that tells of what our people were before. That there was a time when we all were one people across this great land, in huge cities. Then,” she paused for a moment, “the rocks fell from the sky and damaged our planet. But the Guardians were able to save us in nineteen different spheres. And there we have lived since that time, one hundred and forty years past,” she finished, folding her hands in her lap.
President Bowen’s shock was evident. “They are your saviors,” he said slowly, “but they are our nemesis.” He stroked the stubble which rode at the bottom of his chin.
“I have questions of a technological nature as well.”
Clara nodded for him to continue, let them ask, she thought. “We think that somehow you use steam in the sphere to manufacture and live day by day?”
“Everything is powered by steam. Our lights, time pieces, cooking apparatus, everything,” she answered.
“What of the climate?” Bracus asked, thinking of a home without the sun on one’s back and no rain for the streams.
Clara shook her head. “I am not privy to all details but when it rains on the Outside, our sphere allows a fine mist to permeate its surface and plants and other organic,” she hesitated, “matter is fed such. Also, the suns rays do gather and permeate, but not powerfully enough to darken the skin.”
She held out her slender arm, the color of polished ivory and Bracus’ heavy gaze lingered upon it as she let it drop back on her lap.
“What of insurgence and weapons,” Bracus asked and President Bowen nodded.
The Pearl Savage Page 16
