A short while later, Yim encountered a stream that crossed the road. Water had eroded the pavement, depositing it along a rock-strewn course that ran down the hillside. Yim saw that by stepping from rock to rock she could exit the road without leaving any footprints. She decided to take that route and began to carefully pick her way. With painstaking effort, she made her way down the hill. When the road was no longer visible, she relaxed and traveled along the stream bank.
Yim kept walking and the way grew less steep. By noon, she was traveling in a valley, and the stream flowed broader and more sluggishly. Thick bushes crowded its sides and they were often thorny, forcing her to wade in the water to avoid them. Thus Yim was relieved when she encountered a pathway that crossed the stream. It was only a dirt track, but it was used enough to be weed-free.
Yim looked up and down the path. Assuming that it would lead to people, she wondered if she should follow it. As she weighed the option, she regretted her hasty departure. I should have stolen the grain, the pot, and the flint and iron. The Wise Woman had taught her how to recognize edible wild plants, but Yim didn’t relish the thought of eating them raw. Moreover, she had yet to see anything edible. Her growing hunger argued for seeking hospitality. Yim thought there should be folk who would welcome another pair of hands to share the work. I could approach them carefully and size them up before I reveal myself. Yim decided that if she used caution, the risk would be reasonable.
Listening for the slightest sounds and glancing all around her, Yim made her way along the path. For a long while, she saw only woodland and deserted ruins. She was passing another empty-looking building, a roofless hulk that clawed the sky with broken fingers, when she noted a plot of overturned earth. It lay just beyond a crude opening in the ruin’s base. Assuming the tilled ground was a sign of habitation, Yim crept through tangled weeds for a closer look.
Except for the beginnings of a garden, the building looked deserted. Yim watched it awhile, and when she saw no sign of life, she moved closer. Upon reaching the edge of the plot, she heard the soft sound of a stick tapping against stone. Next she heard a woman’s voice. “Fossa? Fossa? Be it ya?”
Yim froze, prepared to run at any instant. The tapping grew louder, and then a form became visible inside the dark opening. Yim could make out a ragged woman using a cane to find her way. When the woman reached the sunlight, Yim saw that she had a worn face, graying hair, and eyes the color of bluish milk. The woman halted and moved her head about as the blind do, not to look around but to listen. “Fossa?” The woman began to swing her cane in an agitated manner. “Someone be thar. Ah heared ya in the weeds.”
“It’s only me, Mother. A lone traveler. I mean no harm.”
“Ya be a girl!” said the woman, clearly surprised. “It be na safe ta go ’bout ’lone.”
“I have no choice.”
“Come here, dear. Ah ken na see ya. Let me touch yar face.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Yim advanced to the woman, who held out her hand. Yim gently guided it to her face. The woman’s fingers glided over Yim’s features. “Ya be young.” Then the woman brushed her hand down Yim’s arm, pausing to squeeze it. The woman smiled. “Yar na starvin’.”
“No.”
“But ya be hungry an’ tired, Ah suppose,” said the woman. “Come inside.”
Yim eyed the building’s dark interior warily. “Do you live alone?”
“Nay, dear. Ah have a daughter. Fossa. She be out gatherin’ herbs. Ah thought ya be her.”
Like Honus, Yim could discern much about people by gazing into their eyes. However, the woman’s milky orbs were curtained windows. They were set in a deeply lined and dirty face. Though the woman looked old, Yim guessed she was not, for she moved with no sign of frailty and her intact teeth looked strong. After a moment’s indecision, Yim accepted the woman’s offer. “Thank you, Mother. I’m indeed tired and hungry.”
The woman smiled. “Call me Auntie, dear. Auntie Flora. Come.”
Auntie Flora turned and entered the opening that served as a doorway. Like Gan and his mother’s home, her abode was in a former basement. The chambers in this one had ceilings of vaulted stone that were intact except where an occasional block had been removed to admit daylight. These openings provided the only illumination, and it was dim. Yim could see little until her eyes adjusted. She followed Auntie Flora, for whom the lack of light presented no problem, through a series of small, empty rooms. At last they reached a sparsely furnished chamber. “Ya ken rest here,” said Yim’s host.
There were two sleeping sacks close to the ashes of a fire, a rude wooden table with a pair of equally rude benches, and a surprisingly large pile of clothing in a corner. Yim felt it would be rude to lie down, so she sat on one of the benches. Her host took the other one. “So dear, wha’ be yar name?”
“Yim, Auntie Flora.”
“An’ wha’ be ya runnin’ from? A cruel husband or mayhap a da who beat ya overmuch?”
“I’ve escaped my master,” replied Yim. “I was a slave.”
Distraction was the cause for Yim’s unguarded reply, for her attention was on the adjoining room. It appeared to be a kitchen. From her vantage point, Yim could see a large iron kettle set in an enormous fireplace. From that room came tantalizing smells that made Yim’s mouth water and her stomach rumble. She inhaled deeply and took in the rich aromas of spice and smoked meat. Yim heard Auntie Flora ask a question, but it didn’t register until it was repeated. “Have ya been runnin’ long?”
“Just this morning. What’s that delicious smell?”
Auntie Flora smiled. “Sausages. Fossa an’ Ah make them fer folk. They bring us pigs, an’ we turn them inta sausage. We keep some links as pay.”
“You must be very skilled.” Then Yim added shamelessly, “The smell’s making me hungry.”
“Aye, Ah be skilled,” replied Auntie Flora, ignoring Yim’s hint. “Ya do na need eyes to make good sausage, jus’ a keen nose an’ a clever tongue. An’ good meat, o’ course. It be hard work though. Mayhap ya’ll stay an’ help Fossa an’ me.”
Yim was glad for the offer. “I’d be happy to help.”
Auntie Flora grinned. “Good! Good! It’ll be pleasin’ ta have a young one ’bout.”
Yim still hoped that her host would offer her a taste, but Auntie Flora disappointed her. Instead, she began a rambling discourse on her craft. She was claiming that she wasted nothing “’cept the oink” when she suddenly stopped talking. “Ah hear somethin’!”
Yim strained her ears, but heard nothing. “What?”
“Footsteps. Someone’s comin’. Na Fossa. A man.”
Yim immediately thought of Honus. She whispered, “It could be my master!”
TWELVE
AUNTIE FLORA rose immediately. “Quick. Ah’ll hide ya.” Using her cane like a groping appendage, she led Yim into the adjoining room. It was filled with the implements of her trade. In addition to the kettle, there were several wooden tables. One was long and particularly massive. Its bloodstained surface was thoroughly hacked and scored by the knives and cleavers that lay about. A heavy chain with a massive hook at its end dangled from a pulley set in the stone ceiling. Beneath it was a large crockery pot, its inside darkened by dried blood. A wide assortment of herbs hung on pegs set in the walls. Several ropes were strung across the dimly lit room, and the sausages that had so tantalized Yim hung from them. The links had a variety of shapes and shades. Close up, their aroma was even more intense and inviting. Beneath the strings of sausages, a chest sat against the wall. Auntie Flora went over to it and opened its lid. The chest was empty. “Quick! Hide inside.”
Yim stepped into the open chest and folded her body so it fit into the space. Then Auntie Flora shut the lid. Immediately afterward, Yim was disconcerted to hear the metallic sound of a latch being closed. Though wedged into the close space, she was able to maneuver her hand upward to press against the lid. It wouldn’t budge. The panic she felt about Honus catching her was replaced by th
e more primal one of being trapped in a dark, cramped place.
Stay calm, Yim thought. I’ll be here just awhile. Yet even that prospect was unpleasant. Not only was the chest cramped, its wooden floor was damp and smelled of urine. Yim couldn’t imagine why. At least the chest’s interior wasn’t entirely dark; there was a hole the size of a walnut in its side. The opening admitted some light and was close to Yim’s eye. When she examined the hole, she discovered that it had been gouged out from the inside of the chest. Something was embedded in the wood about its edge. Yim pulled it out and discovered it was a torn fingernail. Then she noticed that the hole’s edges were bloodstained, and she imagined it had been clawed in desperation.
The thought chilled Yim. Others have been trapped in here before! The dangling sausages took on sinister implications. Frantic, Yim pushed against the chest’s lid. Her cramped position afforded little leverage. She began pounding on the chest’s side, but it was stoutly made. Soon she heard a muffled voice. Yim placed her ear against the hole and heard Auntie. She was shouting. “Stop yar racket! Stop yar racket! Thar be na one ta hear it ’cept me. Ya wanted ta help make sausage an’ help ya will. Meat be needed, an’ ya’ll provide it.”
Yim thought it would be best to keep pounding and give the impression that she hadn’t heard. She continued awhile before tapering off. Then she placed her ear against the hole and listened. Yim could hear Auntie Flora moving about the room. Yim peered out the hole and occasionally glimpsed Flora’s skirt as she brought items to the table. It seemed to Yim that her captor was preparing to go to work.
She’s probably waiting for her daughter to come back, thought Yim. She knew nothing about making sausages, but she had seen sheep and goats slaughtered. The usual method was to stun them with a blow to the head, quickly hoist them up by the hind legs, and cut their throats. That way the blood would drain quickly, helped by a still beating heart. Most like, they’ll do the same to me. Yim assumed Auntie Flora needed her sighted daughter to deliver the blow.
Yim envisioned her final moments. Flora would quickly open the lid. Fossa would be standing beside her with a cudgel. Yim would be exposed in a bent-over position, her head an easy target. Before she could stand or even raise her arms, the blow would fall. With luck, she’d be unconscious when her throat was slit.
Yim tried to imagine how she could avoid that blow. The cramped chest would hamper her movements, and Fossa was surely practiced. Yim’s chin touched her knees, a position that would preclude springing up quickly. She could cover her head with her hands, but fingers made a poor shield against a heavy cudgel. Then Yim had another chilling thought. Perhaps she’ll use a cleaver, not a cudgel! Yim wondered if she could land a punch before she died, but even that seemed unlikely. She’ll be expecting it.
Then Yim thought of something her attacker wouldn’t expect. A kick! Though the chest was cramped, Yim thought she might be able to roll over on her back. Then her head wouldn’t be exposed and her legs would be positioned to deliver a powerful kick, albeit only in one direction. Her ploy would require more than a little luck to succeed, but Yim could think of no other.
Turning over inside the chest proved difficult, but after a struggle, Yim managed. She lay on her back, her legs folded above her. Then all she could do was wait and listen. Flora continued puttering about the kitchen before eventually leaving. For a long while, Yim heard nothing. Then at last, she heard the tapping of Flora’s cane accompanied by two voices. At first, Yim couldn’t make them out, but they gradually grew louder.
“…mahself,” said Flora’s voice. “Na sharin’ with nabody.”
“All fer us. How sweet,” said another woman’s voice. Yim assumed it was Fossa’s. “Be she good stock?”
“Aye, choice. Young, firm, an’ meaty. Ah squeezed her mahself.”
“Good. Good. Then let’s do it.”
Yim tensed as she heard approaching footsteps, then the sound of the latch being unfastened. The lid opened quickly, and Yim saw two forms. One was Flora, who grasped the lid. She stood to one side. A younger woman leaned over the chest. She gripped a stout club. Yim’s heels pointed straight at her. Yim thrust her legs with all her force and caught the woman in the stomach. Fossa flew backward, doubled over.
Yim tried to climb out of the chest, but her position impeded her. She was on her back with her legs dangling out. She grabbed the edge of the chest to pull herself up. Meanwhile, Flora was aware something had gone wrong. “Fossa, wha’ be happenin’?”
For a moment, Fossa could only gasp for breath. “Cl…Cl…Close it!”
By then, Yim was partway out, so when Flora slammed down the lid, it struck Yim’s legs and shoulder. Flora instinctively groped for the obstruction. When she did, Yim seized her wrist. Flora pulled away and Yim used that momentum to raise herself enough to cause the chest to tip on its side. Then she rolled free from it just as Fossa, her breath recovered, charged with her club raised. Yim kicked again, but this time her assailant wasn’t caught surprised. She swung at Yim’s shin and struck a glancing blow.
The pain in Yim’s leg was so intense that she momentarily thought her bone had been broken. But terror gripped and energized her. Despite her pain, she rolled and sprang to her feet beside the dangling chain. She grabbed it and pulled it loose, then spun so the heavy hook swung in her attacker’s direction. The chain struck Fossa’s neck and the momentum of the massive hook caused the links to wrap around her throat. Yim yanked hard. Fossa fell sprawling on the floor and lay still. When her assailant didn’t rise, Yim half ran and half limped from the room. Behind her, Flora began to wail.
Yim made her way through the outer chambers into the sunlight. Then she sped back down the path as quickly as she could. Terror spurred her more than fear of pursuit; she craved to be far from the horrors in the dark building. When Yim encountered the stream, she followed it toward the road. The brambles that crowded the waterway’s bank scratched her arms and legs, but she was mindless of her hurts. Her only concern was to reach the place Honus had left her before he returned from his hunt. She was approaching the road when she spied him following tracks that she thought she had skillfully hidden. Knowing that she had no other option, Yim stepped into the stream, feeling apprehensive. Then she called out, “Master!”
Honus bounded up to her. The rage tattooed on his face seemed to mirror his true feelings. Yim steeled herself for his blows, but he halted without striking her. “Is this how you rest? By betraying my kindness?”
“Master…”
“Take care how you answer. A lie will serve you ill.”
“I…I ran away, Master.”
“I thought as much.”
“But I was coming back.”
Honus took in the darkening bruise on Yim’s shin, her bloody scratches, and the lingering look of terror in her eyes. “Why? Didn’t you enjoy your freedom?”
“I’ve had a change of heart. I truly have.”
“What inspired this miracle?” asked Honus, giving the impression that he had some idea.
Yim chose an answer that was vague but honest. “I didn’t value your protection until I was without it. Now I know I’m safer with you.”
“And I’ve learned you’re nothing but aggravation.”
It suddenly occurred to Yim that Honus might abandon her. That seemed far worse than any beating, and the prospect panicked her. “But you still need me!”
“Perhaps. Theodus said I should never carry my own burden, so I believed I needed you to bear my pack.”
“Surely that hasn’t changed.”
“Bearers often speak in obscure ways. Perhaps I mistook his meaning.”
Yim felt a chill at the pit of her stomach. “Please don’t leave me here!”
“I’m only a Sarf. It’s not my place to gainsay my Bearer.”
“I’ll be less aggravating, Master. I swear!”
Honus made a show of deliberating before he replied. “See that you are,” he said at last. Then he turned and began striding toward th
e road. “Come and get my pack.”
Relieved, Yim limped behind him as fast as she could.
THIRTEEN
HONUS AND Yim returned to the ruined house. After Yim shouldered the pack, they resumed their journey. Yim was shaken by her experience and in far worse shape than before. Nevertheless, she struggled gamely to keep up. Pleased by her show of effort, Honus slowed his pace until they walked abreast. After a while, he decided to test Yim’s newfound docility. “Tell me,” he said, “what happened between you and Gan’s mother?”
“I merely tried to humor her.”
“I think you did more than that,” said Honus, watching Yim carefully.
“Who can fathom a mind such as hers?” replied Yim. “Perhaps it helped her to think I was her daughter.”
“What really happened that night?”
“I tried to steal some ale. That’s all.”
Honus continued to look Yim in the eye. She met his gaze until he looked away, shaking his head. “I don’t understand you.”
“There’s nothing to understand,” replied Yim. “I’m only a girl who carries your pack.”
Honus grunted.
“You’ve never had a slave before, have you?”
“No. But already I find it tiresome.”
“That’s because it’s unnatural to own someone. You should stop trying.”
“Unnatural or not, I expect you to obey me.”
“I will, Master,” said Yim with meekness Honus didn’t find entirely each other convincing.
“We need endure each other for only a short while,” said Honus, as much for his benefit as Yim’s. “Then our ways will part forever.”
For a while, Honus and Yim passed isolated farms that were usually crude hovels surrounded by stony fields. What folk they spied fled at the sight of Honus. After the road climbed to higher ground, they encountered no one. The sole signs of habitation were ancient ones and long abandoned. Honus left the road well before sunset to camp. Yim gathered wood, built a fire, and cooked porridge. Honus had caught no game, so the boiled grain comprised their dinner. Exhausted, Yim cooked and ate in silence, then fell asleep while it was still light.
[Shadowed Path 01] - A Woman Worth Ten Coppers Page 8
