by Coral Walker
The heavy jug wobbled as the woman’s hands shook a little. Water lapped against the jug, and a few drops escaped and splashed onto Jack’s cheeks and chin.
As the cold water touched his skin, Jack shivered and gazed up. His eyes met hers, small, wide-set, pale orange, and as clear as the water.
Encouraged, Jack wrenched the jug from her hands and swilled it down in a few gulps.
The woman giggled, “No need to rush. See how you’ve drenched yourself.”
She took the empty jug and handed him a bowl of warm soup. “Take this. Steady your hands.”
Jack rushed the bowl to his lips and took a large mouthful. It had a strong, piquant smell, but once inside the mouth, it was surprisingly tasteless. The thick, viscid soup rolled down his throat and unexpectedly choked him, bringing on a spasm of coughing.
“Slow down. You’re spilling the soup all over your clothes!” the woman cried, half giggling. “Or do I have to lock you up and feed you myself? Lady Cici won’t be pleased to see her slave as messy as a child.”
Jack shot her a quick glance. She looked amused and friendly enough.
If only he could talk and ask her to pass a message to Dad.
He felt a slight tingling at the tip of his tongue, perhaps from the cold and then warm sensations of the water and soup. This gave him a spark of hope. He waited impatiently for the coughs to subside and at once struggled to speak. No sound came out. Frustrated, he tried harder and got his lips and cheeks all twisted. A few weird, blurred sounds escaped, and the coughing was triggered again, but his tongue was as dead as ever.
The woman looked at him curiously.
“I should go and fetch some more water,” she decided and took the jug. “By the way, I am Dilea, Lady Cici’s maid.” After saying this, she disappeared behind the half-closed door.
“Dilea,” murmuring the name in his head, he slurped down another glob of the tasteless soup.
A short while later, the door was flung open with a loud creak, and a deformed figure was wheeled in, followed by two plume-hatted guards.
Jack took a hard swallow and straightened his back. While bound high up on the rails he had seen him, apparently a prominent guest, sitting next to Lady Cici and chatting with her. But something about him was disturbing, and he didn’t quite know what. Perhaps it was the fact that, with his deformed body covered under a rich, ostentatious gown, and with half his face slanted upwards, he looked so much like a queer-looking turtle with a large, blue head.
But it was not as simple as that. There was a moment when Jack’s aimless glance met his. He turned away abruptly as if the glare of this man could kill.
Why had he come here?
Steering to the left, he headed towards Jack. A couple of yards away, he stopped dead and let out a loud screech. The screech was echoed by the two plume-hatted bodyguards and then passed swiftly to the green keepers that patrolled outside. With scurrying footsteps, the two keepers appeared.
“Prince Mapolos is here. How dare you leave his hands free!” shouted one of the plume-hatted men, pointing to Jack with a gold-capped baton.
Prince Mapolos? A prince? A prince? The voice was thundering in his head. He could be Dad’s brother!
Jack couldn’t help stealing another glance at the misshapen man.
His hopeful glance was met by the prince’s fiery one. Right away Jack knew what it was in his eyes that had been disturbing him. They were the eyes of a ferocious beast, full of power and senseless anger.
His long, brawny upper limbs suddenly moved. With staggering agility, he wrenched the baton from the guard’s hand and struck Jack with two vicious blows on his shoulder.
“That’s for the bokwa you killed,” the Prince screeched.
Jack saw the blows coming and took them without dodging. The bowl slipped from his grip as he was hit. A keeper sprang forward and caught it just in time. He seemed to be pleased with himself and gave a titter. The tittering was short-lived as a poker-faced guard kicked him in the thigh and told him to get out.
Jack groaned quietly, clamping his teeth together. Two bloody streaks appeared on the shoulder of his tunic. A pair of rough hands grasped hold of his shoulders and another pair wrenched his arms behind the chair to be secured. The handling was ruthless and harsh, and the sharp edges of the chair cut into his arms.
The Prince moved closer, eyes scanning him like a spider scrutinising its defenceless captive.
Jack looked away. But the tip of the baton was pressing against his jaw, manoeuvring his head back.
Holding the baton in his hand, the Prince was smirking triumphantly. In a trice, the smile turned into a menacing grin, and his hand thrust forward, pushing Jack’s head with a force so violent that the back of his head bashed onto the metal frame of the chair.
“Put this on him,” said the Prince.
A keeper hastened to remove the old band around Jack’s neck so the new one could be put on. It was a band of considerable weight. As the guard’s hands released it, it bore down on his shoulders.
“We’ll see how you jump with that on,” the Prince chuckled, brandishing a golden wristband.
+++
Cici loitered in the blue reception hall a little longer. Men came forward to compliment her on her wise investment.
“The white slave,” ventured a blue-bearded man, most likely one of her father’s subordinate officers, “was superb. How he jumped and killed the giant bokwa!”
In the background, with gasps and shrills, a couple of female relatives started replaying how they reacted when the sensational high leap had taken place. Wearing a convincing smile was wearisome for Cici as they all swarmed around her and told her tales of how they had changed their mind and decided to bet on her asset.
HER ASSET! The white-skinned lad!
With half her mind, Cici calculated the amount she had made from Jack’s performance. The full-bodied wine she had been drinking made her face flush and her head dizzy, so she lost track of the exact figure, although she thought she knew the rough amount. It was just a matter of how much, she concluded, that she could gain, as long as the white-skinned lad carried on winning. With that thought, she suppressed a chuckle and took another sip of the wine, savouring its sweet tanginess.
But how ironic! The white-skinned lad must lose and must die!
A large hand alighted on her shoulder. Annoyed, she swiped it off. But the same hand returned and caught her gently, and in the next instant she was lifted up and held in the arms of an enormous man.
“Per … ma … ma … Trea,” the giant squawked.
Putu could only squawk, and the sound was mostly unintelligible. But Cici knew exactly what he meant: Prince Mapolos’ treatment was overdue.
Growing up in Putu’s giant arms, she understood every sound he uttered and every gesture he made. There were moments when Cici knew Putu, as tame as any pet, was hers in full. But then at other moments, her father’s image was almost palpable in the big man’s rugged face and masculine grip.
The treatment must take place! We must keep Prince Mapolos well!
There was a time, long ago now, when Cici was just old enough to start thinking hard about how uncanny it was that Prince Mapolos’ precarious health depended on her, since he would die if she didn’t give him the treatment. She had run away once when she was just six years old and hidden in the remote house of Geana, her nursemaid. She was found after five days, taken back and bound to a great bed with the prince lying next to her, sweating heavily and shivering uncontrollably. Right off his heavy body piled on top of her like a beast that had smelled its prey. He had helped himself to a large portion of the treatment.
The treatment was her blood.
She had almost died from losing so much blood all at once and was confined to the same bed for the next twelve days.
Her father had come, bleary-eyed. He kissed her forehead and cried a little like any father would do, and told her how sorry he was.
“It’s unavoidable. The Prince w
as born with a disorder.” He sounded detached as he explained the treatment. “His body constantly produces harmful substances. If these accumulate to a certain level, they can kill him. However, we found that your blood contains some rare elements that can neutralise these harmful substances. It’s such a cruelty of nature, both so fortunate and unfortunate, because only you have the unique blood he needs.”
How could he be so sure that she was the only one? The change in his voice, which softened when the Prince was mentioned, perplexed her as much as it frightened her. Shouldn’t a daughter be loved by her father above everything else? But the Prince, the crippled Prince, stood between them.
Geana had died in a house fire a few days later, along with her three children, who had all been breastfed by the same woman as Cici. According to a witness, the fire had been caused by the playful mischief of the youngest child. It was just one of those tragedies that happened from time to time.
There seemed to be no chance of escape, and she had to accept her fate, just as she accepted her mother’s death.
A short distance ahead of her, one of Prince Mapolos’ bodyguards, judging by his plumed hat, poked his head out of a door. Seeing their approach, he quickly pulled it back but soon reappeared with his fellow bodyguard. Both scurried out of the room, bowing deeply as they passed her.
Outside of the door, Putu put her gently down and bent his head. He stood like a mountain, with his shoulders sloped and his face grave. Cici grinned. It was only a routine.
+++
Instantly Cici noticed that apart from her and the Prince, there was another person in the room — the white-skinned lad, Jack. He was sitting woefully on the chair in the corner, looking ridiculous with an over-sized band around his neck.
“Why is he here?” she asked dryly, throwing a sharp glance at the lame figure.
“You don’t know?” The Prince guffawed. “I reckon your maid deserves a good smack for daring to make decisions for her mistress.”
Cici frowned but said nothing. She had asked Dilea to get Jack fed without specifying where, and it was not uncommon to have your own asset fed in the guest room to give the supporters confidence. But she hadn’t been thinking of the treatment at the time, and Dilea, of course, knew nothing of it.
“But he has to be removed. He cannot possibly watch the treatment.”
Mapolos was flourishing a wristband on his right arm.
Her eyes fell on the large shining neckband.
“You’ve put a weight band on my slave!” she cried, realising now what the over-sized band around Jack’s neck was. A weight band was regarded as a fitting punishment for culprits of small misdeeds such as stealing and mocking officers. Once the weight was in place, there was no question of running. The wearer couldn’t even walk properly, wobbling and stumbling like a duck. How children and adults alike mocked and teased them as they passed the town market in their twice-daily parades.
“It’s a gift,” he yawned, “otherwise, it won’t be fair, would it? Him, jumping …” He panted all of a sudden, gathering air.
“Lie down, I need it. Right now!” he bellowed and wobbled to his feet.
“No, not with him here. He has to be removed. Or I refuse …” Cici protested, took a step back and was about to turn —
A sharp wind swept past as he pounced upon her, pushing her to the floor in an instant. She writhed underneath his large body, punching and kicking, but the arms were forceful and unyielding, clasping around her chest and squeezing the air out of her. She felt his head sinking towards her neck, his rough stubbled face rubbing her skin, and the distinct stinging feeling on her neck. A sensation of lightness followed.
She gasped. As her heart grew tight, her arms and legs softened.
He pounced again, forced her towards a low bed against the wall and dumped her onto it. His face was so close that she saw the hair in his nostrils swaying as he puffed heavily.
“Don’t worry about him. He won’t live to see tomorrow,” he whispered into her ear. “Plus,” he waved the shining wristband before her eyes, showing a red sliding button, “it isn’t just an ordinary weight band, my dear Cici. I said it was a gift, and a gift has to be special.”
He turned her face towards the trapped boy and slid a button on the wristband.
The boy’s body twitched, and his face puffed up before turning a purplish colour.
“This will keep him busy.”
The neckband, the white-skinned lad, Prince Mapolos, blood … things were floating like clouds. How senseless ...
Her skin was pierced again. As his fangs sank deeper into her neck, there was the slurping sound, as loud as a waterfall. She felt like a lone boat drifting towards the edge of the waterfall.
She was about to fall.
Her meandering eyes met his. His face was twisted strangely because of the large band, but his blue eyes, firm and stubborn, were fixed on hers. There was an odd sensation of relief.
She was not falling alone.
16
Fight
The audience cheered as he was lifted again into mid-air. Jack shivered.
Beyond the boundary of the complex, he could see a narrow street stretching as far as a large, shady tree, where it converged with others. If he hadn’t been trapped like an animal waiting to be slaughtered, he would perhaps have enjoyed the view.
Around the tree, a small market was gathered with scores of people milling about and carts dragged by donkey-like beasts. Some of the carts were laden with long boxes that had a curious resemblance to coffins. In the centre of the market, some red-faced children were chained and displayed on a bulky frame on top of a platform. By the side of the platform stood stacks of the same long boxes. One of them was lying open on the ground. Two labouring men were placing a sturdy red-skinned boy into it.
The boy, feet and hands bound, wriggled as he was put in. A lid was put on, and the box was then lifted onto a low stack with others.
Each of the boxes held a living person. Jack was astonished. It must be a slave market, where slaves who had been sold were placed in boxes waiting to be delivered. Just like books or games you order online, they came in boxes.
He laughed as he saw the funny side of it but felt downhearted soon afterwards. The strain on his arms was becoming unbearable, like it was going to rip them apart. A surge of desperation came over him.
He was nothing more than one of those slaves that were shackled and carried around in boxes. They would put him in one of them if he ever got out of this place. Only a few days ago he had been an ordinary sixteen-year-old living with his family, worrying about nothing more serious than which pair of pants to wear. How had events unfolded so rapidly from bad to worse? The unforeseen disappearance of their parents still made his head reel, and then Bo had been taken and they had chased headlong after him, heedless of the Professor’s warning — Taron is a dangerous place.
How right he was! Would Brianna still have made her hot-headed plunge into the wormhole if she had known what a savage place awaited her?
The pillar was still spinning with Brianna on top, doing her swaying dance. Jack lingered, hoping to catch a glimpse of acknowledgement in her eyes. But she looked stubbornly elsewhere, refusing even a glance.
She must know I’m here! Jack uttered with a soundless cry. This could be my last chance.
This could be his last chance?
The thought stuck him so suddenly that it overcame him. Something brimmed in his eyes and blurred his vision. Damn it, was he crying? He lifted his head high to let the tears trickle down.
Again his eyes meandered, this time to the platform reserved for the prominent guests. Cici’s seat was empty. There were applause and cheers, and the well-dressed were on their feet to welcome the arrival of Prince Mapolos, who chose to sit at the centre of the platform this time, surrounding himself with pretty, ecstatic women.
The Prince looked radiant, and it had to be the result of the strange treatment, the blood sucking. How pale and shaken Cici ha
d been afterwards.
Her empty seat stood out so strikingly as the guests all sat down. She must still be ill from the treatment. Dilea, the plump, round-faced maid, must be looking after her.
If it hadn’t been for Dilea, who had rushed in to loosen the grip of the neckband, he could well be dead by now.
Dead?
The word echoed coldly and was immediately trapped in his head. He pondered the possibility. He would be slaughtered down there in front of thousands of blue-faced people, unless he killed his opponents!
The arena below, looking bare and bright, dizzied him and made him queasy.
Two youths were hustled into the arena and shackled to the rails. Now they were sliding up.
AM I GOING TO KILL THEM?
Disturbed by the thought he looked away, focusing on the distant tree. How he wished, he could hide deep within that tree, curled up like a baby in the embrace of its thick, leafy branches, and sleep. The thought of being dead was no longer gloomy and unnerving but was almost like thinking of a friend.
There was a dim, jagged line at the edge of his vision, suggesting an imposing shape. A palace? His mind hinted faintly, but his heart pounced upon it.
If it’s the palace, Dad could be there!
It saddened him and shattered all the peace he had gathered from thinking of the tree. That’s it. Dad, this could be farewell.
They were putting Teilo up on the pair of rails opposite him. The audience roared cheerfully and chanted monotonously, “Teilo, Teilo, Teilo!”
He shut his eyes. If only he could cover his ears and close his mind as well. The chanting was maddening him. How silly and absurd, and it went on and on.
There were the clicks. He was sliding down.
What next? It was stupid to ask, but the question was droning like a fly trapped in a glass box, bouncing from pane to pane.
He wanted to smash it dead.
The shackles unlocked. Instinctively he grasped a clamp and hung on to it. Underneath, there were no bokwas to dodge, but a shining knife lay two yards away.
Jump down and grab it! If he struck early, there was a good chance that he could kill someone who was still confused and frightened.
