by L-J Baker
“Do you have any particular grounds for believing that you would be refused residence or refugee status?” Mr. Summerbank said.
“Um.” Rye bit her lip. Yes, there was a very good reason, but even now she couldn’t admit it. “I’m… I’m just a labourer. I never had any education when I grew up. I’m not the sort of person any country would want.”
Mr. Summerbank picked a page from his pile and slid it across the table to her. “This is a copy of a statement from a Mr. Reed Bulrush, the head teacher in the economics department of the Hollowberry Municipal School. He has endorsed your aptitude and diligence in attending night classes over several years. Which also demonstrates a commendable and desirable drive for self-improvement and acquirement of skills useful to the broader community. And I have an affidavit here sworn by a Mr. Radish Nuttal to the effect that you are a conscientious, honest, and diligent worker.”
Rye frowned at him.
“We took these as background evidence to use in support of Holly’s application,” Mr. Summerbank said. “We can use both, of course, in your own case. And if there are others likely to furnish you with character references, that would help. Ms. Withe has offered herself.”
On prompting, Rye suggested the owner of Pansy’s Fried Sandwiches, but flatly refused to let the lawyers approach anyone from the construction company. Working alongside the likes of Knot Knapweed, with his connections to Lichen Street, would not be to her advantage.
Under questioning, Rye conceded that she had never had a bank account, credit card, or paid income tax. On the other hand, she had never once had recourse to a single piece of welfare aid from any government agency.
“Let’s move on to the second point in the repatriation request,” Mr. Summerbank said. “That you kidnapped your sister, whom they name as Holy Word.”
“I did. I didn’t give her a choice.”
Rye explained how she had run away from the temple and gone back to the commune farm specifically to take Holly with her. She omitted all reference to her mother. Both lawyers asked her questions about the escape and what had led to it. Rye could not tell them about Chastity or her punishments. Instead, she mentioned the unpleasant living conditions at the temple and how becoming a bond servant had meant she’d lost the right to own anything. In answer to their questions, she admitted the humiliating truth that she had legally become a non-person, and as such she would not have been allowed to apply to leave the temple, let alone the country.
“In effect, then,” Mr. Summerbank said, “what you are describing is a form of slavery. Well, Ms. Woods, this is an important factor. Every civilised country regards this practice with abhorrence. If we can establish that an extradition would return you to slavery, this will be a potent argument in our favour.”
“Um. Right.”
“Now, the third and final point is that you have been convicted of the murder of your mother,” Mr. Summerbank said. “And you are wanted back to serve your sentence.”
Rye’s gaze snapped up to him. She went cold.
“The trial appears to have been held in your absence,” Mr. Summerbank said. “Which is not a legitimate procedure in this country, though it is within fairy law. You were found guilty.”
Rye couldn’t breathe. Her good hand clenched into a tight fist.
“Ms. Woods, do you understand?”
“Um.” Rye swallowed with difficulty. She could see her mother dead in the mud. “Um. Yeah. I… I did it.”
The lawyers started asking her questions. Rye rose and walked away. She stood close to the wall with her back to them. Her chest tightened and her heart raced with the first stages of the onset of her panicked flight reaction. Rye pressed a hand against the wall. She tried to dig her fingers into the grey paint as she struggled to keep herself under control. Murder. Yes, she must have done it. Right in front of Holly.
She had run back to the women’s compound to get Holly. Her mother had seen her. Penance’s face twisted with fear and hatred and she snatched up a heavy stick and lashed out. She shrieked and shouted at Rye. Calling her evil and wishing she had never been born. Saying how she wished Rye had died rather than bring shame on them all. How she regretted that she hadn’t known what she had given birth to because she would have left Rye out for the cold and animals to take like they did the deformed babies. Her neck had been corded and her words so wild that she sprayed them out with spittle. She hit Rye hard and fast about the head and arms. Beating out years of disgust and self-loathing. Wanting to hurt, bruise, and break. Holly had started crying behind their mother, reacting to her frenzy.
Then Penance lay dead with cold mud oozing around her. A silent, slow trickle of blood crept from the corner of her mouth. So very red. The stick dropped from Rye’s hands. Holly’s wails were joined by women’s shouts and cries. Rye picked Holly up and ran. Ran because her life depended on it.
“Ms. Woods?” Mr. Summerbank said.
“I did it. I killed her.”
When Rye returned to the seat, Vervain produced a paper cup of water for her. Her hands trembled as she took a sip. “They’re… they’re going to get me back for this, aren’t they?”
“But you have never had an opportunity to defend the charge, have you? In person or by proxy?”
“No, sir.”
“We will stress that a conviction in absentia is not a recognised practice in this country,” Mr. Summerbank said.
“But me being a murderer will mess up any refugee application, won’t it?” Rye said. “Immigration won’t want me, will they?”
“As I said, we’ll stress the irregularity of the procedure,” Mr. Summerbank said.
Rye heard in his evasions the truth she feared. A life for a life. That’s the way it was going to work. Her mother was going to get her wish in the end.
“One important facet in asking the court to refuse the repatriation application is to establish that you would suffer harm were you to be returned.” Mr. Summerbank squared the slender pile of papers on the table in front of him. “The slavery issue is very much in our favour. We can also make a strong case, I believe, out of the international reputation that Fairyland has for their treatment of certain minorities. This has been documented by internationally recognised humanitarian agencies. Did you personally suffer in any way because you are a homosexual, Ms. Woods?”
Rye glared at him. Her wings and chest muscles snapped taut.
“If we could present definite details about any harm you believe you would suffer on your return,” Mr. Summerbank said. “And any occasions where you have suffered because of your sexual –”
“No,” Rye said.
Both men frowned at her.
“Ms. Woods, if –”
“No!” Rye slammed the paper cup down so hard that it crumpled and sprayed water over the table. “I don’t want you to say anything about that. I won’t admit it. Not in front of them.”
“Ms. Woods, this is obviously an uncomfortable matter for you,” Mr. Summerbank said. “But the reason you’re reluctant to broach this in the presence of representatives of the Fairyland government is precisely –”
“No,” Rye said. “Not that. You don’t understand.”
“Perhaps if you –”
“No.”
The lawyers exchanged a look. Vervain began gathering the papers.
“We have quite a lot to work with for now,” Mr. Summerbank said. “Perhaps you’d like to think if there’s anything else that might assist us, Ms. Woods. We’ll return tomorrow.”
Rye awkwardly shook hands with them both with her left hand.
“Do you have any messages you’d like conveyed to your sister or Ms. Withe?” Mr. Summerbank said.
“Um. Yeah. Please. Could you tell Holly that –” Rye frowned. What could she say? Sorry that I failed you? I’m glad you’ve got someone else to take care of you? “Can you tell Holly that she’s not to worry. About me or anything.”
“I certainly shall,” Mr. Summerbank said.
“
Um. Can you tell Flora… Can you tell her thanks? Thanks for everything.”
Rye lay on her cot. The lights shone with unwavering brightness, though she felt like her life had burned so low that it was flickering on the point of extinction. There was very little of Rye Woods left to snuff. The murder conviction was going to be her undoing. Another blank period. Another self-inflicted disaster.
If, as looked likely, the fairies were going to get her back, she would rather have a clean death by the noose for her mother’s murder than have the priestesses scourge her in their attempt to “cure” her and “save” her from the “evil” inside. Quicker and far, far less painful.
Mr. Summerbank didn’t understand what she was facing. They would kill her in the end, so the method was the only thing left to decide. She knew what the whip felt like. And the clubs. As far as the priestesses knew, Rye had last indulged in the perversion of sex with another woman over a dozen years ago. They might think she’d been saved, that the evil had been successfully scourged from her the last time they’d done it to her before she escaped. Rye would not let them know that she was still a vessel containing evil. She didn’t think she could bear the pain of another cure again, and especially not one that had to drive out twelve years worth of evil. They’d kill her far too slowly that way. She had to keep quiet about her sex life. Admit nothing.
The guards came for her the next afternoon. Mr. Summerbank and Mr. Vervain waited in the interview room.
After greetings, Mr. Summerbank slid an envelope across the table. It was simply addressed to “Rye” in Flora’s handwriting. Rye opened out the single sheet.
Rye – You are constantly in my thoughts. And those of Holly. She’s with me. Safe, but missing you. We both are. I will continue to do everything I possibly can to ensure that Holly remains in this country. I know this is what you want. Much as I like Holly, I am acting for you, Rye. There is nothing I will not do to help you. If you’ll let me. I have only ever wanted to help you and make you happy. I had hoped that we would have a lifetime together to get to know each other and learn how best to please and enjoy each other. I realise that I made mistakes. I have given them a great deal of thought. I hope I’ve learned. I would give anything for another chance.
The one constant through all that has happened, and is happening, is my love for you. I cannot pretend to understand all the choices you make, but I do know that you have strong reasons for what you do. I beg that you don’t forget those who love you when you make your decisions.
All my love, Flora.
Rye put her hand over her face to cover her pain. This did not make what must come any easier.
Miserable, Rye listened without much interest as the lawyers explained that the hearing had been scheduled with indecent haste for just a few days time. They’d apply for a postponement to allow them a fair time to prepare her case. Rye numbly agreed with whatever they suggested, except when they broached the matter of her homosexuality.
“Ms. Woods, we have compiled a wealth of evidence about civil rights abuses perpetrated in Fairyland against homosexuals,” Vervain said. “Using your personal experiences –”
“No,” Rye said.
“It would help us establish a strong argument against your return to Fairyland,” Mr. Summerbank said. “In these cases –”
“No,” Rye said. “I don’t want it mentioned. At all.”
“We won’t do anything against your wishes, Ms. Woods, of course,” Mr. Summerbank said, “but I would strongly urge you to reconsider. In my opinion, it would be very much in your best interests.”
Rye glanced at the letter. Had the lawyers discussed this with Flora? Was that what was behind that second paragraph? No. Flora knew Rye’s past experiences in Fairyland complicated her open acceptance of her sexual identity. Rye hoped Flora would understand that her refusal to make a case out of her homosexuality was not a denial of Flora – of them. It was deadly pragmatic, though Flora had no way of appreciating that.
After Vervain packed away his papers into his case, he asked for Flora’s letter. He looked apologetic.
“We’re not allowed to give anything to the inmates.” He offered her a pen. “Would you like to write something in return?”
Rye could not write left-handed. She folded Flora’s letter and handed it to him. If this hearing went as she expected, would they allow her to see Holly and Flora one last time? Awkward and diffident as Rye was at expressing her feelings in person, that had to be easier than writing it down or dictating them.
Chapter Twenty-One
The guards came for Rye some time after breakfast but before the lunch tray. They herded her into a strange room. They locked a chain around her waist with shackles and manacles attached. The guard snapped the shackles around her ankles and one of the manacles around her good wrist. The remaining manacle, which would not fit around her cast, swung against her front when she shuffled out to a waiting transporter carpet. Another yellow-clad, chained prisoner sat in the back. The female half-goblin sneered at Rye, spat on the floor, and nibbled her claws.
When the guards unlocked the rear of the carpet, the carpet was parked in some underground vault. Rye followed the other prisoner through a tunnel. Guards separated her from the other prisoner and led her to a small room where Mr. Summerbank waited. He looked impressive in an official flowing green tunic.
“I’m afraid our application for a postponement was turned down earlier this morning,” he said.
Rye knew she should be more concerned. But she felt numb, as if she accepted the inevitability of the decision to come and the futility of trying to avert it. She tried to concentrate when Mr. Summerbank quickly described the inside of the hearing room and what would happen.
“Do you have any questions?” Mr. Summerbank asked.
Rye shook her head.
Mr. Summerbank nodded and strode to the door. He lifted his hand to tap, but paused. “Ms. Woods, if you change your mind about using your probable treatment in Fairyland as a homosexual, we –”
“No.”
He nodded. “Then we’ll do our best without that.”
The guard let him out.
Rye waited. She frowned down at the chains. Would they put them on her to take her back to Fairyland?
A green-uniformed pixie opened the door. He read from a clipboard. “Rye Woods, also known as Righteous the Fairy?”
Rye followed him out the door and up a short flight of steps. The doorway opened into a large room with highly polished walls. Mr. Summerbank, Vervain, and a pixie woman sat at a desk facing the big, heavily carved desk under a green canopy. A green-clad old limoniad female sat under the canopy. She must be the adjudicator.
A touch on Rye’s elbow urged her forward. She awkwardly climbed up a few shallow steps to a chair surrounded by a waist-high railing on three sides. It looked like they wanted to put her on show and keep her boxed in and isolated.
“Your Sagacity.” The green uniformed man with the clipboard bowed to the adjudicator. “The Scrub Street Detention Centre has delivered to this hearing the person of Rye Woods, also known as Righteous the Fairy. Detainee YD-44689.”
The adjudicator nodded at him and cast a swift glance at Rye. Rye stiffly nodded a bow.
The guard unlocked her manacle and gestured for her to sit.
From her seat, Rye looked across the front of the desk of her lawyers. Barely two paces separated them from the other desk. At that far desk sat the representatives of the Fairyland government. A sylph man stood and began speaking. Rye’s attention moved past him. The next man was a fairy with his wings unfolded but closed. The tips softly tapped against each other as he followed the sylph lawyer’s opening remarks to the adjudicator. He was relaxed but concentrating. Rye had not seen wings since her escape from Fairyland. They triggered instincts that had lain dormant, a different world of unspoken language that had been missing around her.
Rye pushed her attention past the fairy man to the woman beside him. She saw wing tips and a bro
wn robe of a priestess. Rye’s wings tried to tighten defensively. Her broken one stabbed a sharp pain into her back. The priestess turned her head to stare back at Rye with an expression both bleak and unforgiving. Her wings opened a little and quivered. Rye shrank into the chair. She grabbed the wooden railing in front of her and clenched tight to anchor herself against the surging desire to flee in terror. She had to remain in control of herself. That priestess could not hurt her in this room.
Rye closed her eyes. She heard Mr. Summerbank talking, but tried to ignore him. She needed to slow her breathing down to a calmer level. That blank period in a police station had brought her here, and the blank period with her mother was likely to determine the outcome of this hearing. Another blank period would be tantamount to pulling the noose around her own neck.
The sylph lawyer for the Fairyland government started talking about the murder of Penance, a matriarch of the Birdwood Valley Commune Farm Number Two.
Rye saw her mother dead at her feet. The urge to flee for her life had driven the younger Rye to snatch up Holly and run. The Rye in the hearing room trembled as her self-control frayed.
“Rye Woods,” Mr. Summerbank said, “was not present at this trial. She was not afforded the opportunity to defend this charge in person or by proxy. I submit, Your Sagacity, that a trial which proceeds without the presence or knowledge of the defendant cannot be regarded as just in any sense of the word. I therefore submit that it would be unjust and contrary to the moral and intellectual basis of our own legal system to grant this so-called conviction the same weight as an outcome of a trial by peers. Accordingly, I ask that this point be struck from the repatriation application.”
“Madam Adjudicator.” The Fairyland lawyer stood. “The judicial system of Fairyland is not on trial here. I contend that it is beyond the authority of this hearing to pass judgement on the validity of the laws, and the means of enforcing and enacting those laws, of a sovereign nation.”
