Ysys went in, closed the door, removed her night dress and slipped into the filmy dress.After she fluffed her hair over her shoulders the way Long Swan said Herewardi women do, she opened the door for presentation.
Ynys was the first to react, “Ooh! It’s beautiful. When I get married I want one just like it, Ysys.”
“Then I shall have to make it a point to get you one on your wedding day. Though I suspect that will be many many years from now.”
“Well, I’m going to marry a Herewardi man just like you. Wyth and I were talking about how handsome and strong the Herewardi men are compared to our men.”
“I was not!” Wyth said. “And even if I did, I told you to keep that a secret.”
Ynys grinned. “I forgot. But who could forget how handsome Ilkchild is.”
“Alright girls,” Daphne said, “we’ve seen the beautiful dress. Now let’s get back home before mother finds out we were here, and Ynys you better not breathe a word of this to Grandma Ruis. Ya hear?”
“Yeah! I hear alright.”
As the younger girls scooted for home, Daphne confided “I am so happy for you Ysys. Did I tell you Yorel is going to ask my father for my hand tomorrow and Siwel is going to ask for Cymbe’s hand.”
“Tis the season of love,” Ysys smiled.
“I thought no one could suit my fancy,” Cymbe declared, “but I must admit, Siwel makes me happy.”
After Daphne left Ysys returned to her lodge, Ysys smiled as she thought on Ynys’ childlike joy over viewing her wedding dress. She folded the dress up and put it above her bed on a viminal shelf, then blew out her candle, slid into bed, and pulled the cotton felt blanket over her.
After lying awake well into the first sleep with plans of what she would be doing with Long Swan on their joining night, she was startled by a slithering sound in the leaves outside her hut, followed by the distinct sound of heavy feet. Thinking it was her father, come to see if she was alright, she quickly blew out her bedside candle. She loved her father dearly, but her emotions over Ashim were too raw to talk about them and she was sure that was why he would come so late.
She closed her eyes, only to hear another muffled sound. She sat up quickly and opened her mouth to scream when she felt her arms seized by strong brutal hands that stuffed a scarf in her mouth, choking her with the gag and his brutal grip on her jaws.
She kicked off the covers and struggled to free herself, only to be overpowered by more hands and a swift binding of her wrists and feet. In the darkness her assailants were simply silhouettes. One of the assailants lifted her over his shoulder and lugged her outside.
Her captor wound his way through the sleeping village as though he was familiar with the strange twists and turns of her village. As he adjusted her weight, she smelled the odor of forbidden smoke on his skin, the hashish, and knew it must be Ashim or certainly someone of his coven.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, her captor passed her to another, who hoisted her to his shoulder and carried her down the trail through the reeds by the Planck Marshes where the Aber Gael flowed into the sea. This time she had no doubt. This one was Ashim. His clothing had the distinct odor of mentholatum plant with its strong menthol and camphor scent. Ashim wore it as a habit so that the sages in the Chartreusean villages could not detect the odor of hashish on him. For hashish was made from the intense concentration of the forbidden smoke’s plant spirits and it was known to make some insane, some elated, and many indolent and slothful, and for children beneath puberty it had proven deadly. Therefore was it eschewed by all the plant masters.
After what seemed like hours weaving this way and that, they entered an encampment of huts fashioned out of marsh reeds. There in the campfire light she saw that her captors were indeed Ashim and his gang of simonist renegades.
Ashim was greeted by his father, Ychstein, who not only lodged no objection at his son’s dastardly deed, but went so far as to praise him for it. Ysys recognized it was the secret haunt of Ashim’s coven she used to visit, a veritable snake pit which he had always called Planck. He used to bring her there to avoid being detected by her parents. She had forgotten how much she hated it.
Ashim laid her down next to one of the campfires like he would toss off a fleece. Then looking down at her, he grinned down at her. Ychstein came to stand next to his son.
“Any problems,” he asked.
Ashim’s grin widened. “I captured her like an owl catches a dove.” Making swooping motions with his arms outstretched.
Ychstein laughed, “Those fools thought they could take from you what was yours under Leaf Law. They now know better.” He laughed a gurgling sound. “Best of all, the blame will fall on the Syr Folk. Old man Eyf will forever believe they are the ones who stole his daughter.”
“Now she will be mine. Do you hear me Ysys? You’re mine. Mine alone! My love for you far exceeds that outlander’s. You just need to remember it. You let that evil queen bewitch your heart. By custom and by law I shall take you and make you mine tonight and no one shall come to deliver you. And do you know why?” He leaned down to look directly in her eyes. “I’m undiscoverable.” The stench of skunky hemp breath overwhelmed her.” You of all people should know, no one knows where this camp is. I would think you can probably recount our thousands of trysts here long ago. It’ll be just like old times. You know it’s the last place anyone would ever think to search. We are well hidden and I alone reign here as the Sorcerer.”
Ysys struggled with her bindings and tried to free her mouth of the scarf, but all she could manage was to whimper and wiggle.
Ashim pulled the scarf from her mouth. Leaned and whispered, “Tonight I’m going to renew the bonding of our bodies tighter than woodbine. Now isn’t that good news? But first my friends and I are going to celebrate our victory.” He forced a kiss on her lips before she could turn away.
“Don’t do this Ashim, you don’t know what this will do to the Chartreuseans. Long Swan is not one of us. He has told me how warlike his people can be. They kill those that do them wrong. I have seen the outlander’s weapons and they are most fearsome to look upon. When he finds you it will not go well with you. Though he appears mild and gentle, I have seen him fight with their young bloods. Not even your biggest man, Mil, would stand a chance against him.”
“When he finds me? Are you out of your pretty little head? No one finds me here, though many have searched. It’s impossible. Besides, your father will just think that the strangers have abducted you. Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“My father will know who did this. He is not the fool you mistake him for.”
It was like talking to a rock.
“I don’t care. I have my prize. If I can’t have you by your will, then I’ll just take you by my will.”
* * *
El Capitan Juan Carlos de Sajones stood at the port bow of his flagship, the Jaguar, at Rosarita. Sanangrar’s men drove the ten female captives up the gangplank one-by-one. One of the last was a particularly attractive young female around eighteen winters with hair darker than a grackle’s wing and the fiercest copper eyes he had ever seen. She moved with such dignity, as if she was the refined lady of a don or perhaps even a queen. When the last of the captives were aboard, a gang of motley red ruffians, whom he presumed was Standing Bull and his hooligans, followed them off the gangplank onto the deck. He instantly regretted having agreed to train the likes of these louts in seamanship.
Juahilote counted them as they boarded so he’d know how much food he needed to put on the table.
“El Capitan,” he exclaimed with a surprised look, “these are women.”
Juan grinned, “Well, it makes me a little more comfortable with ju, Juahilote, that ju should notice they are women. I was starting to worry about ju.” The sailors nearby laughed.
Juahilote said, “But ju did not tell us they were women.”
Juan lifted his eyebrows and said, “Because I did not know they were going to be women.”
“That
’s going to cause havoc with thee men they’re berthing with.”
Juan signaled for Jose and Juahilote to come nearer, “Tell the men they shall have to sleep on deck in this fair weather.”
The Pitter guards stood over the women who were huddled near the wheelhouse. They awaited formal acknowledgement that they were no longer responsible for the prisoners. Juan caught the eye of one of them and jerked his head toward shore. Immediately they turned and made for the gangplank.
“Juahilote, make accommodations for the women. Since we have not yet made to sea the bedding is still fresh.” After the cook left, Juan turned to Jose. “Now that everyone is aboard, as soon as the last of the Pitter scum have left, pull the plank and make ready for sea.”
Jose hurried over to the men gathered at the head of the heavy gangplank ready to pull it onto the ship.
Juan’s clipper ship was like a woman to him. He loved her and kept her well attended. The teak deck was scrubbed clean and shone in the sunlight. The brass rails gleamed like gold. The white sails were in good repair waiting to be hoisted. Above the center mast flapped the flag displaying a torreador. He had chosen his men as carefully as he chose his breeding stock in horses, bulls, and fighting cocks. Men, who would be loyal, quick to respond to danger, and swift in battle. Men, who valued home and family and respected the ship and the captain that had brought them riches.
As he scanned the deck, the Sharaka traitors seemed like a blemish. The leader of those Pendajos, Standing Bull broke away and walked toward him. As was Juan’s habit when meeting a stranger, he sized him up with the same critical eye of a Matador. The first thing he had learned as a novio was that you could look into a bull’s eyes and see its heart. It was evident from this bull’s body language that he was self-involved and shifty, and definitely not to be trusted. He was the type of bull that would make a big show of kicking up dust and then run off to the fence of the arena when challenged. All puff and no fight.
As soon as the gangplank had been safely stowed aboard, Juan cupped his hands and shouted. “We launch now.”
“Si, El Capitan,” Jose directed a crewman to flag the other vessels to launch.
When Standing Bull reached Juan, he declared in an arrogant growl. “I am Standing Bull, someday to be chief of the high desert.”
“And I am Juan, El Matador de Rosarita. I am the captain of these three vessels.”
“Matador? Does that mean a commander in your tongue?”
“No, it means a bullfighter. Ju walk into a big rink with people all around cheering you on. Ju are given a cape and a sword only. Ju wave the cape and the bull charges. We fight until one of us dies.”
Standing Bull’s expression bordered on disbelief. “Why would you do that? Only a fool would challenge a bull.”
Juan smiled slowly. Above his head the rising sails caught the wind. Beneath his feet the ship started to move. “Ju can defeat any opponent, no matter his size, or strength by anticipating his moves before he even knows he’s going to make them.”
“And what magic do you use to know these things?”
“I use my eyes and my mind.”
Standing Bull looked intrigued. “Can you teach me how to do that?”
“Somehow I don’t think you would understand.” Juan turned aft to watch the other ships fall into line before turning back to confront the renegade leader. The redman was taller and had a heavy chest. “Sanangrar said you are working with him. I do not think I have ever before met a redman that was not an enemy of the Pitters. Of course, it seems you have much to gain from this alliance.”
Something dark glittered in Standing Bull’s eyes, “Just as you have.”
“I sell them my services in so far as they serve me. My soul is my own. On this voyage, I have contracted to teach ju and jour men how to operate a sailing vessel and to inform ju when we come close to land of anything that may be of interest to you. That I shall do. But I do not need nor seek jour companionship nor will I brook any complaints, disputes, and murmuring. Do not think that simply because you are with Sanangrar that ju have the right to give me orders.” He paused staring directly into Standing Bull’s shocked eyes waiting for that to sink in before adding forcefully. “If you do not agree with those terms I can nullify your part in the contract right now.”
Standing Bull’s eyes fell away. “You misunderstand me Captain. I wish to learn from you so I can improve the life of my people who have suffered for so long under the Herewardi spell casters and swan lords.”
“Oh, ju mean like selling jour sisters here into a life of slavery and whoredoms for gold monies.”
“It’s better than my being a slave to the Herewardi.” Bull shot back angrily.
“The last I checked the Herewardi had no practice of slavery among them and over the years I’ve been to hundreds of their settlements, even had a Herewardi skald for a teacher when I lived among the Citriodorans.”
Standing Bull shot him a murderous glance before wiping his face clean of all expression. A look Juan had seen in many card player’s faces when they were losing.
Juan turned to Jose standing a few feet away. From his sardonic expression, he saw that the lieutenant also considered the renegade as a weakling and nothing more than a mere pawn of the Pitters. “This is my second in command, Lieutenant Jose de Aragon. Jose, after you collect Chief Standing Bull’s weapons--”
Standing Bull, stiffening, angrily interrupted. “What do you mean? No, no, no! No one, takes our weapons!”
“On the contrary on my ship it is my policy that only my crew carries weapons. Ju may surrender them to Jose or toss them overboard. It makes no difference to me. If ju refuse, ju will be the one going overboard.” After deciding he had sent enough verbal darts at him to anger any bull, he diverted him with a verbal cape. “If you decide to stay aboard, Jose will take you to Diego, who will start training your men in seamanship as Commissar Sanangrar has requested.”
Standing Bull glanced around, as if debating whether or not to defy the order to surrender his weapons.
Juan smiled, “Do not worry, my friends, we will take very good care of jour weapons. We steal only from the dishonorable or super rich which are usually one and the same. Jour weapons will be returned to jour care once ju leave my ship.”
Finally, Standing Bull realized he was not in charge. He reluctantly handed over his tomahawk and spear while signing that his men were to do the same. In his mind, Juan heard the long ago cheers of the spectators shouting, “Ole.” He spun around in the distinctive move he had used so long as a matador and walked to the bow of his ship where he hoped the sea breeze would blow away the bad stench of the renegades.
The idea of placing a large billowing sail attached to the bowsprit on the front of his clipper had come to him one day as he was putting away the cape he used as a matador. Now his crew had taken to calling that sail the matador’s cape, and Juahilote had even sewn a matador deflecting a bull with his cape across its snowy white surface.
As a boy, Juan had gone on vessels with his father, who was a successful Mexus merchant, famous for outrunning the Kalifornia pirates. Under his father’s direction, he had learned every job on ship, good seamanship, and his various strategies for eluding his pursuers. His father had always insisted he get a Herewardi education, and learn the tongue. He paid for the best educator he could find among the Citriodorans, who happened to be a Herewardi skald named Knut the Roper, the smartest man he had ever known. After he had passed the skalds proficiency, his father had gifted him the red sash he wore to this day in remembrance of his padre.
His eyes suddenly stinging, Juan glanced up at the puffy clouds overhead, Padre, I have not forgotten the manner of jour death at Puerto Quetzal when those Pitter demons hung you upside down from the mast and slit jour throat in front of me. Nor my vows to avenge jour blood that ran over my feet, but there is more to do before I am ready to strike the death blow. A few more darts to place. Just a few more passes from the bull. Then the estoque.
It was still night. Ysys was sure no one knew she had gone missing. She struggled with her bindings to no avail. If only I could get one limb loose, but then I must brave the snakes of the marsh in the dark. Some she had seen before, as long as six man lengths. According to Yorel, he saw one eat an entire goat. And that was just the anacondas. There were cobras and other pit vipers that haunted the Planck Marshes.
The sickeningly sweet smell of ignorant weed mixed with sacred sage filled the air. Lying on the mattress inside the tent she heard her own labored breathing and felt her heart pounding. It felt like hours that he had left her there and she knew it was only a matter of time before he would return to defile her.
Fervently, she prayed to the goddess of the Ele-Anoreans, Salixia, for deliverance, that somehow, someway, Long Swan would find her before it was too late. But hope was hard to hold to. Somehow a fragment of the oak-leaf wreath must have fallen from her hair to lie next to her on the mattress. She took it as a confirmation that she had only feelings of utter disgust left for Ashim. What was once love was now reduced to disgusting pity.
For several hours she heard the revelry outside Ashim’s hut. She must have drifted off because she awoke to wetness on the bed where she had drooled. They were still laughing, guffawing, and drinking what she knew would be forbidden intoxicants in any other Chartreusean village. Craning her head toward the sound, she struggled to hear the conversations. After a fews moments of piecing the voices together she was shocked and ashamed to hear Ashim bragging in a loud drunken voice about how he took Ysys for the first time and how easy it had been. He mocked the sounds she had made while his henchmen roared with laughter.
She found herself shaking in rage. Had I married him this would have been my life. To think that she could ever have entertained the old love she felt for him made her sick to her stomach. She overheard one of his henchmen say, “Well, he won’t be hearing her make those sounds tonight. He’s out cold as a damned fish. Looks like the entertainment is over for tonight boys, I say we finish the drink and head for our own huts.”
The Bok of Syr Folk Page 26
