A River of Orange

by Roberta C. M. DeCaprio

  Zailia opened the bath chamber door, and stood obediently beside the huge tub, the scent of jasmine oil filling her senses. Slightly, she bowed her head. “At your service, Your Majesty."

  Devora held up her hand. “The tips of my fingers are shriveled like prunes and the bath water has grown tepid.” Slowly Devora stood, proudly displaying her naked form before the maid. “You pathetic creature,” she snapped. “You are a disgrace to my eyes ... your hair tied back in that ratty bun, and your complexion looks gray."

  Zailia held back the words she would have loved to rain down on the selfish, arrogant woman. How was she to take a moment for herself, when Zailia was at Devora's beck and call, even at the wee hours of the night? “I am sorry, Your Majesty. I will try to present myself better."

  "See to it you do,” Devora spat.

  Zailia draped a plush towel over the queen's shoulders and reached for the scented oil. For the next hour Zailia would be expected to pamper every nerve and muscle of Devora's female form. Zailia silently cringed at the task at hand. Serving the witch was bad enough, but to have to touch her naked body brought her disgust.

  Devora walked over to the full-length mirror, and stood before it. Removing the towel, she took a few moments to admire her naked reflection. She loved the sight of herself, the way her hair hung shiny and black to her well-rounded hips; the deep violet of her eyes. People said she had an exotic look, a timeless beauty.

  Devora turned sideways and ran her hand over her full, rounded breasts, tweaking the nipples. “I am quite a woman, do you not agree, Zailia?"

  Zailia bowed her head in submission. “Aye, my queen; that you are.” If Devora knew the real context in which those words were meant, Zailia would be whipped.

  Devora reached for the strand of carnelian and turquoise beads hanging on the mirror's hook and slipped them over her head. “Aye, quite a woman,” she marveled again, stroking the smooth gems that lay between her cleavage.

  Zailia watched Devora make her way to the bed. The queen's slow, sleek strides announced the confidence and obsession she had with herself. The woman was anything but modest, parading around the castle's upper chambers stark naked. And Devora cared not who walked in on the premises at the time. She took satisfaction in exhibiting her endowment.

  Devora lay face up upon the satin sheets, spun from the silk brought to the island by ocean traders, and fingered the beads around her neck. She fully enjoyed using Zailia to appease her desires. “I want you to massage my flesh till it glows."

  An unwelcome blush crept into Zailia's cheeks. “Aye, Your Majesty."

  Devora looked deep into the young woman's large, brown eyes. “I want my nipples to look inviting beneath my white, sheer robe."

  Zailia grew increasingly uneasy under the queen's scrutiny. Awkwardly she cleared her throat. “Aye, Your Majesty."

  Devora laughed wickedly. “I must look positively delicious.” She rested her head back against a satin pillow. “I am entertaining Shell tonight, and I want his mouth to water for my charms.” Zailia would prepare Devora for the handsome sentry that later would pay a visit to the queen's bedchamber. “Though I can have my pick of any of the men that guard this castle,” she boasted, “I favor Shell; he's a burly lad, hung amply between his thighs.” Devora smiled iniquitously. “And he has no problem bestowing his services ... over and over again."

  Zailia's embarrassment quickly turned to annoyance ... in her self mostly, for accepting and allowing another's disrespect.

  "He becomes so hard ... so hot ... he knows just what to touch, and just what to rub, at just the right time,” Devora elaborated intentionally, knowing Zailia's discomfort at such bold words. She continued. “He loves my mouth upon him, moans with pleasure when I draw him to the back of my throat.” Devora sighed. “I almost have trouble consuming his entirety."

  Zailia could not imagine why, the woman's mouth was certainly big enough.

  Devora studied Zailia's face. “Why, Zailia, am I embarrassing you? Or could it be you had Shell in mind for yourself?"

  "Nay, Your Majesty,” Zailia quickly corrected.

  "Not that any man would look at the likes of you,” Devora added.

  Zailia almost dropped the bottle of oil she held.

  Devora sat up and with one swipe of her well-manicured hand, slapped Zailia hard across the face. “You little twit,” she shouted. “You could have spilt oil all over the bed.” She grabbed the edge of the cover sheet. “Oil can stain satin permanently."

  Zailia held her emotions in check. “I am sorry, Your Majesty."

  Devora slowly rested back against the pillows, again fingering the beads around her neck. “Why I must put up with such incompetence is beyond me,” she complained.

  "I will do better, my queen,” Zailia whispered.

  "See to it that you do,” Devora spat.

  Zailia swallowed the tears that stung her throat.

  Devora drew satisfaction from Zailia's crushed expression. “Seda ... get to work, girl,” she demanded, stretching her naked form. “Pour the oil onto your fingers this time and massage them over each and every inch of my glorious body."

  * * * *

  Rule watched the peacock strut past him; its plumage rendered in stunning detail, the delicate pattern an array of color. “'Tis a good thing for you, my rainbowed fellow, that I am not in the mood for foul this evening,” Rule teased.

  "Are you in the mood to meet Wysteria's guest?” a jolly voice said from behind.

  Rule turned to find his good friend Ibrehem leaning against the trunk of a tree. His face brightened. "Vedela."

  "Greetings to you as well,” Ibrehem responded cheerfully.

  "The lass is awake, then?"

  Ibrehem nodded slowly. “And Wysteria told me to tell you she has washed the putrid smell from her body.” He raised a brow. “That was what you had ordered her to do, was it not?"

  Rule's face reddened. “Aye, ‘twas."

  Ibrehem frowned. “As brash as that, my lord?"

  Rule arched a brow. “Afraid so, my friend."

  Ibrehem chuckled lightly. “Then I see nothing has changed with you, much wind still pours from your mouth."

  There was a faint glint of humor in Rule's eyes. “And you can go kiss an orkly."

  Ibrehem threw his head back and laughed heartedly. He had kissed many arses in his time, some for self gain; some for sheer pleasure.

  "Did you talk to the lass?” Rule probed.

  "Nay, she was not with Wysteria when I came upon her on the path to your dwelling."

  Rule appreciated Ibrehem referring to the cave as a dwelling; somehow it sounded less demeaning. He went to his friend and embraced him. “Neva sa lume ... it has been too long."

  "Aye,” Ibrehem quickly agreed, returning his friend's welcome. “Way too long."

  Rule pulled back and looked Ibrehem over, head to toe. “You are well, then?"

  "Aye, as well as can be,” Ibrehem said.

  "And the battle at Jabari Valley ... did you free the Humblers?"

  "Aye, but at a great cost. We lost four men.” Ibrehem clenched his jaw muscles. “'Twas not easy to come home without so many comrades. I grieve their loss and feel guilty for walking and talking while they are rotting in their graves."

  Rule's heart suddenly burned with anger. “I should have been with you, led the charge, ‘tis my place, not yours."

  Ibrehem's expression was tight with strain. “Your men understand ‘twould mean your death if you left the jungle. And not one among them thinks ill of you, only—"

  "Only pity for my plight,” Rule interjected harshly.

  "Nay, my lord, never would any of them pity you,” Ibrehem quickly corrected.

  "Then sute, Ibrehem ... how do the men feel?” Rule demanded.

  Ibrehem drew a deep breath. “They are at a loss, my lord."

  Rule frowned. “I do not understand ... you are the most feared army in the isles, what are you all at a loss for?” The original band of soldiers was eig
hty men strong, trained by Tobiah, the late king's best warrior.

  Ibrehem faltered in the long silence that engulfed them.

  "I demand an answer, my friend,” Rule snapped.

  "We are at a loss to help you,” Ibrehem finally blurted out. “We can conquer lands, win battles, and yet we are no match for Devora's magic, cannot release our king from ... the curse that..."

  Rule put up a hand. “Enough!"

  Ibrehem bowed his head in silence.

  Rule turned away, walked to the edge of the river and watched the sun set. He inhaled the aroma of magnolias in the air, the heady scent bringing him back to the days when he was a lad. His thoughts were suddenly filled with the times he sat on the river's edge with his mother, watching the shadows across the rocks, and marveling over the remarkable hues of rose in the sky.

  "'Tis here, on the banks of this river my mother, Queen Oneida would tell me stories about the knights in shining armor, gallant men in their garb fighting for victory and freedom. And ‘twas then that I knew what I wanted to do as a man. My goal was to lead an army, bring freedom to those oppressed,” Rule said. “But, my friend, all those ambitions were not to be.” A cruel joke was to be played on him instead. Just twenty-one, and at the height of his military career, his dream had been ripped from him by his step-mother. “Devora robbed me of not only my life's goal, but dignity as well. Now when I hunger I am forced to eat like an animal. My legacy and the hope as the next to sit on the throne have all been taken from me. I am a king only in my imagination."

  Ibrehem stayed silent.

  Hiding his emotions, Rule straightened his shoulders, captured his pride and turned around to face Ibrehem. “Are you still with me, my friend?"

  Ibrehem smiled. “Aye, my lord ... forever and always."

  Rule forced a smile. “Then let us be off to Wysteria's cottage, before it grows too late."

  Ibrehem nodded in agreement. “The old crone never did like us to keep her waiting.” He walked in step beside Rule up the path to Wysteria's home. “Does she still have the switch she threatened to use on our backsides?"

  Rule chuckled lightly. “Aye, that she does ... and at times she still believes she can use it."

  * * * *

  Zailia ran through the forest to the tiny cottage she once called home. She had an evening's reprieve from Devora's ringing bell. As long as the queen had Shell between her thighs, she would not need Zailia's services ... not until the noon hour on the morrow, when Devora would wake, demanding to be bathed and pampered once again.

  Zailia pushed open the wooden door to the quaint cottage, forcing a calm she did not feel. Never would she want her father to know what she endured by the queen's evil nature.

  "Is that you, Zailia?” Tobiah called from his bed.

  "Aye, Papa,” Zailia responded, trying to make her voice light and cheery. Her father had gone through enough in the last ten years; losing an arm and a son in battle, then a wife to consumption. He was frail and hanging on to his own life by a thread. Zailia would not add to his pain and suffering.

  Zailia faked a smile as she walked through the bedroom door. Quickly she glanced over at the bedside table. “You have not touched a morsel of the bread and cheese I left for you to eat."

  Tobiah studied his daughter's delicate face. “Ah, my daughter ... those deep, brown eyes look tired; your coloring, pale.” He sighed. “You must take care of yourself and stop worrying about me. I am fine, and know how to tend to my own needs."

  Zailia sat down on the edge of the bed and took her father's hand in hers. “If that were true you would have eaten the food."

  Tobiah pushed a tendril of hair from her forehead. “You look as though you are ready to collapse where you stand."

  Zailia wished she could tell her father how exhausted she was, how much she hated working in the castle at Devora's beck and call. Instead, she stifled the agony that welled up to choke her, desperately trying to forget the jobs she performed and the verbal abuse that demeaned her very existence. She was at the mercy of one who knew no mercy, all so she could maintain caring for her father.

  "I am fine,” Zailia lied.

  "I hate you being in the service of that witch,” Tobiah said, lovingly kissing his daughter's hand.

  "For now ‘tis how it has to be, Papa. My position at the castle is needed to pay the steep tax of our land."

  "King Stefan would turn over in his grave if he ever knew what that woman has done to his son, to the kingdom,” Tobiah hissed.

  "Hush, Papa, before you begin to lose your breath again,” Zailia warned.

  Tobiah laid his head back on the pillow and inhaled sharply. “I am good for nothing, daughter."

  "'Tisn't so, Papa,” Zailia said. She gently released her hand from her father's grip and caressed his bearded face. “Rest while I fix you dinner."

  Tobiah again reached for Zailia's hand. “I pray our Divine Maker has not forsaken the people of Keronia. We need help, Zailia, and we need it soon ... very, very soon."

  * * * *

  Wysteria's tiny cottage smelled of her cooking; mouthwatering meals that kept Rule hungering for the food she once prepared for him. Now days he could only take his nourishment in the form of an animal, his feast consisting of whatever he could ferociously hunt down and rip apart. While he was in the altered state he would dine on the raw flesh of boar, dragging the bloody carcass to his cave to eat in the shadows. When he had his fill, Rule would then lay down to sleep, only to wake in his man's skin, naked and covered with his meal's blood; the aftertaste of raw animal flesh still in his mouth. How he disgusted himself. It was then he would run to the waterfall and wash until his flesh burned. To have any trace left of what he had become, turned his own stomach to such a degree that the thought of his next meal drove his sanity nearly to the breaking point.

  Wysteria's door was open, no doubt to cool the dwelling from all the cooking going on within. Rule hesitated, calming the appetite growing in his belly.

  Wysteria looked up from her boiling pot of possum stew and smiled at the two men who stood at her door. “'Tis about time you two lads arrived. Much later and ‘twould have been tomorrow."

  "And am I too late for a bit of what you have cooking in that pot, dear healer?” Ibrehem's mouth salivated.

  She chuckled lightly. “Is the aroma getting to you?"

  Ibrehem placed a large hand over his heart. “Aye, and ever so strongly."

  She chuckled again and filled a bowl with the hot, meaty broth. Placing it upon the table, she motioned Ibrehem to sit. “Dig in, while ‘tis hot."

  Ibrehem hesitated. Quickly he glanced over at Rule. “I am sorry ... I meant not to be rude."

  "Eat your meal,” Rule interrupted gruffly. “'My affliction is my own hell.” He anxiously looked around the cottage. “My purpose here is to speak to the maiden.” Rule frowned. “And where might the lass be?"

  Wysteria motioned to the back door. “Yonder, in the garden."

  Rule arched a brow. “Has she spoken of where she comes?"

  "Aye,” she said, filling a bowl for herself and joining Ibrehem at the table. “She came by ship from Dublin, Ireland."

  Rule's frown deepened. “I do not know of this Dublin, Ireland.” He glanced at Ibrehem spooning the stew into his mouth. For an instant he could almost taste the humble banquet. Rule swallowed hard and cast his gaze out the back window. “What of you, Ibrehem? Does her homeland strike a note to your knowledge?"

  "Nay,” Ibrehem quickly answered; his mouth too full of the stew to say anything more.

  Rule suddenly became agitated. “Nay ... a worldly soldier such as you ... has never heard of Dublin, Ireland?"

  Ibrehem's spoon stopped in midstream to the path it made to his mouth. Looking annoyed he slowly placed the utensil down on the table. “I am a worldly soldier upon land, my lord,” he grounded the words out patiently. “Not a navigator by sea."

  Rule grunted. “Why do you not hurry with that meal?"

  "Why do
you not go out to the garden and speak to the girl?” Wysteria challenged. “'Tis why you are here.” She waved her hand in the air. “Go ... go to her before we all die of old age,” she demanded in a shrill voice.

  Rule sighed in exasperation. “Why, old woman, do you continually nag me?"

  "Someone has to,” she snapped. “You have not a lick of sense on your own."

  Rule's tone was cold and exact. “Who do you think you are talking to?"

  Ibrehem shook his head. “Rule, will you never learn?"

  Wysteria jumped from her seat. In a heartbeat she was beside Rule, looking defiantly up into his eyes. “The disrespect you hold for your elders, lad, is disgraceful. No man can be a leader with an attitude like that. ‘Tis honor that makes a king ... a king.” She shook her finger at him. “You are not too big to take a switch to; remember that."

  Rule's mouth twisted with anger. “Must we again go through this nonsense, crone?"

  Wysteria grabbed hold of the flesh upon his arm and twisted it.

  Rule quickly pulled his arm away. “Keep your bony fingers to yourself, old woman,” he replied sharply. “Or else I will—"

  Wysteria's eyes widened. “You will do nothing!” she interrupted.

  Ibrehem choked on his food while trying to stifle a laugh.

  Rule turned to look at his friend, giving him a hostile glare. “I am glad you find the crone amusing."

  "'Tis you I find amusing,” Ibrehem retorted.

  Rule's lips thinned in anger. “I fail to see the humor in any of this conversation. Or in the way she treats me."

  Ibrehem chuckled lightly. “But humorous it is, my lord. And how Wysteria treats you is a reflection of how you treat her.” He pushed his empty bowl aside and rubbing his full stomach with satisfaction, looked over at the old woman. “Wysteria, love, you are a gem of a cook."

  Wysteria smiled and made her way back to her own meal. “I thank you, lad.” She reached forward and gave Ibrehem's hand a gentle pat. “You are always welcome at my table."

  "You see, I have no problem with the woman,” Ibrehem gloated.