Northern Lights, Southern Stars

by C. S. Johnson

  My stomach rumbles as I consider whether or not to leave the medicines in the pit. I’ll need to get out, and, while I have become stronger over the years of my royal servitude, I’m not sure I’ll be able to climb my way out of here with any amount of extra weight. In the end, I take out a sprig of peppermint and chew on it.

  The fresh taste is welcome against the dullness of my tongue and morning’s foulness, and it helps to settle my stomach as I try, repeatedly, to climb out of the pit.

  It is hard to determine how much time goes by as I attempt to free myself. After several attempts, I finally make it up about three feet from the top when I fall down again, landing hard on a rock.

  “Ouch!” I yelp, as I unceremoniously rub my sore bottom.

  My hair, without its scarf, is full of sweat, and the tight curls have fallen flat into a crimpled mess. It’s hard to tell if the sweat is helpful in managing it or not; my hair is able to be slicked down on my head, but it only makes the longer hair stick out more drastically at its ends.

  “I have to get out of here,” I tell myself, standing up once more.

  Mud and clay fall away from the walls of the pit as my palms find their semi-secure handholds.

  I feel a small ledge of dirt and stone start to give way under my foot, and I begin to whimper. “Please, help me, God.” My prayer comes out in a desperate pant, and I wonder if I offend God by my insistence as I fall to the bottom again.

  This time, I fall on my injured knee, and I can tell I’ve reopened the wound from yesterday.

  I slump down in the bottom of the pit. I tell myself I am taking a moment to rest, but I can’t help but feel my heart is ready to give up.

  Perhaps it is better to die in a ditch than try to go back and face Queen Varyes. I put my head in my hands, ignoring the dirt as I press my fingers into my forehead.

  A voice from above suddenly speaks to me.

  “You stuck down there, lady?”

  I flinch and look up. This time, along with the light, there’s also a young Pommierian girl looking down at me. Her hair is curly like mine, although her curls are smoother. Her skin, although light, seems to have been darkened by the sunlight. From the look of her, she must be one of the farmer’s daughters and no more than twelve years old.

  “You stuck or not?” The girl repeats herself, looking me over. “You have to be. You’re a mess.”

  I stand up and do my best to straighten out my skirts. “Yes,” I say. “I fell in by mistake while I was running away from some bad men.”

  “Bad men, huh?”

  “Yes, they were after me.” I don’t want to tell her that they were going to kill me; it seems wrong to impress such horrid details onto such a young child.

  “We get a lot of people out here that do that,” the girl says. “My oldest brother and I check these pits for runaways. You’re the first one we’ve had in a while.”

  “Runaways?”

  “Yeah. Servants who steal, and the like,” she says. “I’ll go get him and we’ll get you out of there, and we’ll get you to where you need to go.”

  “Oh, thank you!” I clasp my hands together in thanks. “Thank you so much, Miss.”

  “You can call me Mercy,” the girl says. “As that’s my name. I’ll be back.”

  I am very thankful that Mercy is aptly named; while it takes her some time to reappear, she does, and, this time, her brother is with her. He has sunburned skin and short-cropped dark hair, although he seems older than me. He doesn’t allow me much time to make a proper introduction before he drops a rope down to me and helps pull me out of the pit.

  “There you are, Miss,” he says, tipping his ragged hat to me. He pulls the rope back and hands me a plain, old housedress. “Mercy said you’re in rags, so I thought you’d appreciate something a little nicer.”

  “Yes, thank you.” I blush, realizing that there are holes in my petticoats from my ordeals, and I hurry to put the dress on overtop of everything else. The dress is smaller and tighter than is comfortable, and it makes my pockets full of herbs and plants crush further against my thighs, but I decide it’s better to be modest than comfortable right now.

  “Thank you for the help,” I say. “I will do my best to repay you.”

  “No need,” the man says. “We’ll take you to the docks and you can help us out there.”

  “The docks?”

  “There’s plenty of people looking for work and trade, and Mercy and I are headed thereabouts anyway, Miss.”

  “My name is Ebony,” I say, straightening my shoulders.

  “That’s the name of the Princess of the Colonies,” Mercy says. “Do you know her?”

  Mercy’s still young and sweet, but after all my troubles of late, I didn’t really want to hear her tell me I was the Princess of the Colonies. I was Princess of Marula, and we were part of the same empire. And I suppose with the borrowed housedress on and a night in the wild, I am not recognizable as the Princess of Marula. I try to think of something to say, but I’m unable to come up with anything clever or helpful.

  Mercy doesn’t notice. “I heard she died.”

  “What?” I put my hand over my heart, feeling it pump harder and harder as Mercy keeps talking, explaining how it was clearly the fault of the Colonial Equality Movement members, and how the Refugee Return Movement would see an increase in applications going back to Marula.

  The kingdom thinks I’m dead ... already? It’s only been a day!

  Queen Varyes didn’t even wait a day to make sure I was really dead.

  I don’t know why I am not surprised. Now that I know of her intent, I can see all the little jabs she’d made at me in the past weeks had indeed been a practice run, an exercise in my humiliation. She had taken advantage of my goodwill and Rion’s, and I had been fool enough to let her.

  “Mercy, calm down,” her brother says as he offers me his hand. He helps me up into the small cart he has with him, pulled by a single horse that looks older than the sun. “My name is Humble,” he says, as he climbs up next to me and takes the reins. “Come. Let’s just get to the markets this morning, shall we?”

  Mercy hops up behind us, and I feel eternally grateful as we make our way to town.

  The roads are much bumpier and uncomfortable in the cart than they were in my carriage. I am a little grateful for this, since it makes it hard for me to talk. Humble and Mercy are content to chitchat about the weather as we go along.

  “Have you heard anything about Marula?” I ask, as they mention several ships are likely to set sail today, thanks to the wind in the air.

  “What about Marula?” Humble asks.

  “I heard one of our ships was attacked there.”

  “Oh, yes,” Humble says. “One of my acquaintances runs the office that brought in the news. Shame the ship was destroyed, but thankfully the cargo was all out of it before the Mopana officials finished with it.”

  “Why would they attack a ship with no supplies on it?” I ask, confused.

  Humble shrugs. “Who knows? There are all kinds of reasons that men and women do horrible things.”

  “Perhaps they were threatened,” Mercy says.

  “That’s terrible,” I say.

  Humble and Mercy exchange glances before she shrugs. “That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?”

  It is more than appalling to hear a child speak on the horrors of life. Her comment shocks me into silence, and, while we near the Pommierian port, I think about what I could do.

  Queen Varyes, if she believes Enri and Alfonse, thinks I’m dead. She already announced it to the kingdom, and it is likely that they believe it, too.

  I could go back to the palace and make my grand reentry, covered in mud and dressed in farmer’s clothes—couldn’t I?

  But then, what would stop her from imprisoning me or even having me killed again?

  What am I going to do?

  And what about Rion? Varyes would be sending a notice out with the post today, especially if there was a trade s
hip leaving port.

  I have to let him know I’m alive. I feel the pouches in my pockets. Was it possible I could pay for a ticket to Marula if I trade the spices for some money?

  If nothing else, I need to send Rion a letter so he’ll know I am not dead. Perhaps then I could trade some of the herbs for room at an inn until he gets back or try to find safe passage to Marula to meet up with him. He would recognize me, even if I am covered in dirt and mud.

  He’d been so worried about me going to Marula because of the uncertainties there, but there was nothing uncertain about the Queen’s desire to kill me.

  What if he’s delayed?

  I could work. I have experience as a maid, don’t I? A small salary, a small room, and the opportunity to send Rion a letter—that is all I need for now, and my idea is much safer than going to the Queen and demanding she stop trying to kill me.

  She’d already proven, thousands upon thousands of times, she won’t listen to anyone if she doesn’t have to.

  Humble drives the cart into the docks, and I am surprised by the amount of activity. People are rushing around, while animals are being herded into different areas. Shoppers carry baskets full of food.

  “Humble,” I say, tugging on his well-worn sleeve. “Do you think I could get a job here?”

  “Don’t you worry about a thing, Miss Ebony,” he says. “I’ve got a place ready for you.”

  “You do?” I frown. “But we’ve only just met.”

  “This is what I do,” he says. “Just stay put, and I’ll get you settled into to the Return.”

  “The Return?”

  “Sure. Maruli folk like you all want to go back to Marula, don’t you? Well, I’m part of an organization that pays for your passage there.”

  “You are?” My eyes lit up. “That’s wonderful.”

  “It sure is,” Humble agrees, as we pull up beside an office.

  The words “Refugee Return Movement” are carved into a sign hanging by the office front, and I realize what Humble is talking about. Humble goes inside, and Mercy and I wait with the cart until he returns with a grin on his face.

  The Refugee Return Movement doesn’t want me as Queen here, anyway, I think, remembering Dr. Merlacur’s comments at Rion’s ball. Perhaps they will be my way out of trouble in the end.

  Humble helps me descend from the cart before he leads me to the office. I am not sure what to expect.

  Before I can ask any questions, the office door opens, and Humble forcefully pushes me inside.

  “Here you go. Another runaway for you,” he says, forcing me into a row of mercenaries.

  Humble’s previous kind expression has fallen away, and there is nothing left of the kind stranger who’d helped me out of the mud pit.

  “I found her in the ditch by Pommierian Orchards,” he says. “Maggots always go for the apple trees, don’t they?”

  “Runaway?” Before I can process all the changes around me, I am charged with a list of crimes and a large pair of hands clasp themselves around my shoulders.

  “Now, give me my pay,” Humble orders one worker, a burly man with a sack of coins tied to his belt. “I need to stop at the bank while I’m in town.”

  “But I’m not a servant or a slave,” I say. I look over at Mercy as she sneaks in and stands behind her brother. “Tell them.”

  More rancorous laughter erupts from the men in the office.

  “The Princess is dead,” Humble says. “So, nice try.”

  “It’s not really a good one,” Mercy says. “It’s more like madness.”

  “Where is your mercy for me?” I ask her quietly, and she shrugs.

  There’s no more help she can give me. I turn back to Humble and the other men.

  “You can’t do this,” I say. “Slavery’s been outlawed in Pommier.”

  “Slavery’s been outlawed, has it?” The burly man laughs as he repeats my words in a mocking voice. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re going to sell you to the Mopana then, isn’t it? They especially enjoy Maruli slaves.”

  Another loud man leers at me, looking down my body with his rakish eyes. “They should especially enjoy you. They might not even wait to leave port before they find someone who will buy you.”

  The men laugh cruelly, and I feel sick to my stomach.

  “After all your years trading with Pommier, your nation’s wealth makes them twitch with envy,” the burly man adds.

  My mouth drops open. “But where is my right to a trial?”

  “We’ll give you a trial.” The second man steps forward and runs his hands down my dress; I am grateful for the medicinal herb pouches that keep him from intimately touching me, but I still feel my face burn with shame. If my hands had been free, I would’ve slapped him.

  “By the look of it, it’ll be a real show,” the man says.

  I turn to look at Mercy one last time, pleading with her to help me. “Sorry,” she whispers, taking hold of the small bag of coins they toss in front of her. “But it’s for the best.”

  Humble spits. “Take her to the docks. I know the Return is leaving soon. And hurry. I want my money before the debtors come for me.”

  As I’m forced to walk toward the docks to board my ship, Mercy appears beside me.

  “Ebony.”

  I glance down at her from over my shoulder, doing my best not to trip as the Return crew members make me walk towards my doom.

  “Don’t hold this against us. Debtor’s prison is a terrible place,” Mercy tells me.

  “Your creditors can’t give you any more time?” I ask.

  She shakes her head. “With my father dead, if Humble ends up in prison I’ll be forced into an orphanage or the workhouse, and it’s not safe for young girls like me in places like that, where we don’t have any power in determining our fate.”

  I have no words to say to her after that. Mercy waves to us, before Humble comes up beside her and gives her a handful of coins; I am left to survive on my own.

  If I can survive at all.

  *19*

  Ebony

  “GET A MOVE ON, GIRL.”

  The voice behind me is harsher now. He pushes me, and I fall to the ground, landing hard on my knee. The wound from earlier once more rages with pain, but this time there is no time for me to bandage it up.

  The man tears at my skirt, ripping it and exposing the blood now running down my leg.

  “Stand up and move. Before I tear off more of your clothes.”

  I scramble back from him, seething with quiet rage and trying to hold back my tears. This man would never say such a thing to me if he could see I was truly Princess Ebony. But no one recognizes me as the men escort me through the alleyways behind their office. Poor Maruli and Pommierians alike dismiss me. Dr. Merlacur’s words come back to haunt me.

  He was right. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying not to let my fear and sadness overwhelm me. Dr. Merlacur was right. I don’t know how to help myself now, and if that is any indication, I wouldn’t be able to help rule a nation either.

  “Nothing makes women move more than the threat of exposure,” the man says, this time giving me a smirk. “Until I have to hit them, of course.”

  “Hey, don’t damage the goods.” The burly man from the office steps forward, giving me a moment to recover. “We won’t get as much for a slave that’s already beaten.”

  I can’t believe what is happening to me. I really can’t. In the past day, I have gone from being the Princess of Marula and the betrothed of Prince Rion to a runaway slave about to be sold to the Mopana.

  As I walk through the docks, I suddenly wonder if it was the Refugee Return Movement that was behind the attack on the Pommierian ship down in Marula. It makes a sick kind of sense; the Refugee Return Movement is funded by Pommierians who don’t want to live with the Maruli here, so they are further enjoying the profits of selling slaves to the Mopana. And not even the Queen seems to know of it, or it would have been stopped.

  Wouldn’t it?

  I don’t li
ke to think she would be fine with allowing such atrocities happening in her kingdom, but her treatment of me, especially after my father’s death, did nothing to help me feel certain of her objection.

  I see other Maruli lined up by the ship; several of them, like me, are being closely escorted, and some of them even have their hands tied. No one looks twice at them or asks any questions.

  How can I do anything to help them? I can’t even help myself.

  “Please, Lord,” I whisper, before my voice fails me.

  The last time I prayed for deliverance, I was picked up by a deceitful pair of runaway slave traders.

  I don’t have any other hope, though, do I?

  “Help me.” My words barely make a sound; no one hears me as I walk across the docks. I feel like I am drowning in people, in voices crying out.

  “Help me!” Off to the side, a woman is calling out into the crowds. “Where’s the doctor? Where is he?”

  My hand falls to the pouches in my pockets.

  Maybe the woman can use some of my medicines. I reach down slowly, trying to feel for my pockets. There is no reason that we should all be miserable, after all. Dr. Merlacur said that I wasn’t able to help myself, but it isn’t true that I can’t help others.

  Just as I manage to grab onto one of the pocket ties, a man comes running up. He is a Maruli man, wearing a clean jacket and shined shoes. He is not much taller than me, and, from where I am, it’s hard to say if he’s much older than me, too. He walks with a freedom I don’t have, though, as a member of the community who is recognized and eager to partake in the role he’s been given.

  He is carrying a small bag, one he places in both hands as he approaches the screaming woman. I almost smile, to see him scheme his way out of a handshake like that.

  “I’m here,” he grumbles. “If you’d kindly calm down.”

  “Oh, Dr. Bonpette, oh thank the good Lord you’re here. My sister’s only gotten worse since you left yesterday.”

  As I watch him struggle to deal with the hysterical woman, I slow my steps.

  I wonder if this Dr. Bonpette will be able to help me, too. I watch as the frantic lady leads him into a small doorway.