by Lee Bezotte
Kugun stood up from his chair, took the girl’s plate, tossed it back onto the counter, and grabbed her arm with a painful grip. “Yer goin’ back ta yer cage! If yer lucky, the ladies at the brothel will feed ye tomorrow!” He then dragged her to the back of the building, tossed her in her pen, and closed the lock with a heavy metallic clack. With face red and fists curled, he stormed back into the building and slammed the door.
Still smarting from the slap, Maren’s lip quivered and a tear ran down her face. She deeply missed the kindness of her friends. It was late afternoon, and she had the evening and night to think about what was going to happen the next day. She was hungry, lonely, and in pain. After staring through the bars into the filthy back alley for several hours, she fell asleep.
The aroma of eggs, fish, and fresh bread filled the air. Maren could hardly open her eyes since her sleep through the night was once again filled with fear and restlessness. As she laid curled up against the side of the cage, she could hear the sizzling of the eggs as if they were a mere handbreadth from her. It then dawned on her that the top of her head could feel heat radiating upon it.
She jolted upright and was shocked to see a man sitting in the cage with her. He seemed to be cooking breakfast on a pan, but she could not see it, nor could she see the flame it rested upon. The morning was still young and the daylight hadn’t fully broken through the last remnants of night, but she could see that he was old yet strong, and gray but youthful. Strangely, she wasn’t at all afraid of him, for she sensed a certain undefinable quality of goodness about him.
“Good morning, Maren!” the man said cheerfully.
There was a peculiar chime to his voice, and his words seemed to be more felt by the girl than heard. As his simple greeting washed over her, an excellent clarity was present in her thoughts in a way that she had never experienced before. It was as if there had been an unnoticed buzzing in her head her entire life, and now it was gone. Wanting to say something, but not sure what, the girl exclaimed, “That breakfast smells delicious!”
“Don’t look at it,” the old man instructed plainly. “Just keep your eyes on me.”
When he spoke a second time, Maren was drenched in strange sensations. She began to giggle for no reason, and her shoulders felt so light that she thought she might float up to the top of the cage and hit her head. Then her eyes began to water, and she cried. She wept and laughed, felt sorrow, joy, and everything in between, all at once. Feeling out of control, she started to fear. Just as she began to panic, she felt the man touch her hand, and there was peace. It was not simply the kind of peace one feels on a quiet afternoon picnic though. Rather, it was an absolute assurance that whatever she had to be afraid of was already dealt with, and her only part now was to appreciate it. She was about to ask the man who he was, but she already knew. Instead, she inhaled deeply, then asked, “What are you doing here?”
The man smiled and raised his eyebrows. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he stated. He then swept the hair from her forehead and said, “So lovely, so creative, so passionate. You don’t belong in a cage.”
The words moved through Maren like wind through a wheat field. Her lip began to tremble slightly, and she admitted, “I thought I was going to help with the festivals.”
The old man tilted his head, looked lovingly at the girl, and sighed, “Oh, Maren, we both know that is not the reason you are here.”
Maren felt ashamed for being dishonest with her answer. She could still smell the breakfast cooking in her cage, and she glanced around.
“Don’t look at it,” he reminded her. “Now, my dear, why are you here?”
Looking into the man’s eyes, she swallowed and answered, “I wanted more.”
“Hmmm. And what was it you wanted more of?” he asked, rubbing his chin.
“More pie,” she confessed.
“You do like the sweets,” the man said. “And how can I blame you? They’re delicious! And what else did you want more of?”
Maren remembered the food, the music, and the pirate play. They distracted her from the responsibilities of the farm. They came easily and felt good, but she was beginning to see the dear cost for her decisions. “All of it,” she sniffled.
“Thank you,” the old man said. He then took a deep breath and leaned slightly forward toward the girl. “You have a beautiful imagination,” he beamed with a smile growing wider beneath his beard.
“I do?” she asked.
“Oh yes, definitely. And do you know what?”
“What?”
“I gave it to you,” he sang.
“You did?”
“Absolutely!”
Maren chuckled with delight at the thought. She had always been close partners with her imagination but had never considered that it was beautiful.
“However,” the old man continued, “I didn’t give it to you just for play.”
The girl didn’t fully understand what he was saying. She pushed her mouth to the side and squinted. “Then what’s it for?” she asked.
“Oh, I love play,” the man said. “I love make-believe and laughter. But to stop there is to only use a small part of the gift I gave you. With your imagination, you can create. With your imagination, you can solve problems. With your imagination, you can even bring things that are in my world into your world! It is far more than simply a means of shutting out the unpleasant business of the world around you.”
“But how do I do those things?” she asked.
The old man stared compassionately at Maren for a moment, then answered, “You’re going to have to spend more time in the world outside of make-believe,” he answered. “It is here amongst the disagreeable, troublesome day-to-day where the best opportunities lie.”
A tear began to make its way down the girl’s cheek as the man’s words sank in. “But the real world is so painful,” she protested.
The old man sniffed and a tear ran down his own cheek, mirroring Maren’s. “Yes,” he said, “but pain is the anvil on which true greatness is formed.” He then reached over and touched the girl’s hand again.
At his touch, the sense of goodness that Maren felt about the man was magnified, but it was also accompanied by unexpected sorrow. It was a heaviness so immense that, had it lasted more than a brief moment, the girl was convinced that it would have taken her life.
“Do you remember what Son told you?” the man asked.
“That I’m part of your great story,” she answered, rubbing the tears from her eyes.
“That’s right!” he said with a grin. “You were made to be free, powerful, and heroic. Not a slave to plays and pies.”
“I want to be heroic,” Maren declared. “But I’m small, and I don’t have any friends.”
“Really? No friends?” the man asked.
Embarrassed for giving another untruthful answer, the girl corrected herself. “I have friends that have been very good to me.”
“Yes, you do. They were a present from me,” he said with a wink.
Maren sat and peered at the old man’s face for a moment and thought about her friends. She remembered the way they cared for and protected her. The way they were patient with her quirkiness and loving beyond reasonableness. As she thought, an idea emerged. “I have to go back and free the other slaves from Laor,” she blurted out.
“My goodness! That IS a heroic notion!” he said.
“It is?”
“Indeed. And do you know what?”
“What?”
“I believe in you.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely!” the old man cheered, and he grinned proudly from ear to ear.
As Maren basked in the man’s applause, the smell of breakfast grew stronger. She could feel her stomach rumbling and wanted to put it to rest. Quickly, she glanced down to get a look at the fish frying. She licked her lips, then looked back up to see the old man’s face. To her bewilderment, he was no longer there. The man was gone, the food was gone, and the buzzing in her head had returned.<
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“I hope ye slept well, girly!” she could hear Kugun yell from inside the apartment. “’Cause as soon as I’m done eatin’, yer goin’ ta da brothel!”
For the first time, Maren noticed the filthiness of her cage. It disgusted her, and she felt compelled to escape from it before Kugun came out to sell her. She reached between the bars and yanked on the lock holding it shut. It did not budge, but neither did her desire to get out. She reached around again, with both hands this time, and pulled down with all of her weight, but it still would not open.
The girl stopped and listened for Kugun. It was quiet in the apartment, so she reckoned he was still eating. She examined the bars of the cage and wondered if she could squeeze between them. She stuffed her right arm through and managed to get most of her right leg out. Not confident in this strategy, she withdrew back into the pen.
Suddenly, she heard the sound of dishes being tossed onto the counter and she knew she had to make her move. She went back to the bars and squeezed her head through, badly scraping the back of her ear. Looking upward, she managed to get both arms and a shoulder out, and began to push hard to force her torso through. Her heart beat like a timpani drum and her hands began to shake. She wanted to groan as her belly and hips fought hard to stay in the pen.
Just then, the door opened and Kugun shouted, “Hey!!” as he jogged toward her.
Maren reached down, grabbed a handful of dirt and pebbles from the ground and flung them up at the man’s face. As he spit and wiped his eyes, she pressed with her feet from within the cage and pushed as hard as she could with her hands from without. With one final effort, she got her body through, pulled her legs out, and scrambled to her feet.
“Why, you worthless imbecile!” the man roared as he reached for her.
She ducked under his arm and ran as fast as she could. The morning fog was still thick, and she didn’t know which way to run, so she darted forward down one of the narrow winding alleys that snakes its way through the interior of Ahmcathare.
“I’ll find ye, little idiot!” Kugun fumed.
She could see his silhouetted form searching just outside the alley’s opening and did her best to make no sound.
“And when I do,” he added, “Yer goin’ ta wish ye’d never seen a blackberry pie.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
No Easy Way
The smells of pheasant roasting and coffee brewing hovered over the campsite. Son sat staring at Tcharron as he devoured his breakfast from the other side of the fire.
“What’s your story?” the slaver asked, still chewing on his last bite.
The boy startled, as he wasn’t expecting to be asked any questions. After all, he had hardly been addressed by the man since they’d left the tavern. “Huh?” he blurted.
“Why are you part of this barmy lot?” the man said, rephrasing his original question.
Son didn’t feel comfortable speaking to Tcharron. He had a feel and smell of menace about him. Looking around, he saw Faymia cleaning a knife nearby, and Dulnear was next to her enjoying a cup of coffee and a book. Their presence brought him a sense of safety so he answered, “These are my friends.”
“Your friends?” the man snorted. “Don’t you have boys and girls your own age to run around with?”
The boy exhaled and explained, “Well, they’re really more like family. Dulnear taught me the ways of a warrior, and we work the land together.”
Tcharron squinted as if he struggled to comprehend what was being said. “You’re telling me that that ogre over there is your mentor?” Rubbing his chin, he continued, “The beast sets slaves free and helps wee lads. I don’t even know what to say.”
“He saved my life,” Son added.
The slaver looked down at his plate and finished what remained without saying another word. When he was done, he set it aside and stared into the fire. Though his hands were free, his legs were still bound with ropes around the ankles.
“And Faymia saved mine,” Dulnear stated, as if he was a part of the conversation the whole time. He got up from his place next to his wife and sat down next to Tcharron, sharing the log on which he was sitting.
The slaver looked at the warrior plainly, then asked with a hint of sarcasm, “Is that what you people do? Go around saving each other?”
The man from the north chuckled quietly. Inhaling deeply, then exhaling, he answered, “Life is meant to be lived alongside those who bring out greatness in you. You protect each other, care for each other, and inspire each other.”
The shifty man looked over with a half-cocked smile and pointed out, “I have men to protect me but you keep maiming them.”
“Those are not friends,” Dulnear argued. “You pay them, so they owe you their protection. An entourage of lackeys is not the same as a clan of committed companions.” He then cleared his throat and added, “And I would not have maimed any of your men had they not tried to harm me first.”
Tcharron stared into the fire a little while longer. Grabbing a nearby stick, he used it to poke at the embers. “This has been my life for as long as I can remember,” he confessed. “Am I supposed to go around looking after grannies and kissing babies on the cheek?”
Dulnear produced a large knife from under his coat and watched the slaver throw his arms up in defense. He reached down with the blade and cut the ropes from the man’s legs. Once he had tossed them into the fire, he said, “Just start by doing one kind thing.”
“Why would you do that?” Tcharron asked. “What’s to keep me from running away?”
With a flick of his wrist, the man from the north released his knife through the air, impaling a scurrying squirrel and pinning it to the trunk of its tree. “I am sure you will do the right thing,” he said. He then got up, retrieved the squirrel, and brought it back to the fire to skin and eat. When it was cooked, he shared it with the slaver and told him the story of how Maren bravely fought off bandits on the road to Blackcloth.
Dulnear, Faymia, Son, and Tcharron walked through the dreary village of Dorcadas cautiously. As they did, the townspeople either stared or scampered away timidly. Faymia was used to people behaving that way upon seeing the man from the north for the first time, but this felt different to her. There was a darkness about this place that caused her to wish she had waited where they’d tied the horses just outside of town. “These people are terrified,” she observed out loud.
“They live under the shadow of the most powerful slaver in Aun,” Tcharron answered. “Fear and suspicion are all they know. They hang over this place like a damp fog. I’ve been here as a guest of Ocmallum himself and still didn’t feel at ease.”
A shiver ran down the woman’s spine as she considered his words. She swallowed before asking, “Are you really going to help us find where Maren is?”
The slaver from Ahmcathare pursed his lips and looked at the woman as they walked side-by-side toward the town square. “I reckon I will,” he answered slowly. “But then I must head back to clean up the mess you all made of my inn.”
After saying nothing at all since leaving the horses, Dulnear broke in, “I am hungry, and I would not want to approach the slaver’s estate on an empty stomach. Let us eat.”
The town square contained a derelict, crumbling fountain in its middle, and was surrounded by gray, gloomy stone buildings that suggested Dorcadas was once a beautiful village but had now been abandoned by cheer and ambition. As they walked through it toward the nearest pub, Faymia noticed that all sound seemed to be hushed. She couldn’t hear birds singing or children laughing. Even their footsteps seemed to make strangely little noise.
The tavern was large but mostly empty, with tables and chairs covering the floor in a haphazard manner. It reeked of smoke and filthy mop water, and the barkeep didn’t bother to welcome them. They took their places around a table toward the back and Dulnear sat, as he always did, facing the door.
“What a hole,” Tcharron observed, sitting across from the man from the north.
“’
Tis but a shell of its former glory,” the northerner agreed.
As they settled in, a barmaid appeared before them. She was young and pale and wore a bonnet to cover her thin, stringy, dark hair. In a quiet voice, she asked, “What can I get for you?”
“We want hot food,” Tcharron answered abruptly and abrasively without looking at the girl.
Faymia looked at the servant and noticed her frailty, her worn hands, and the dark circles under her eyes. She was moved with pity and said, “I apologize for our companion’s rudeness. What are you serving during this time of day?”
Without making eye contact with anyone at the table, the barmaid answered, “We have lamb stew warming.”
With a kind smile, Faymia replied, “Excellent. We’ll have four lamb stews and some bread if it’s fresh.”
Without saying anything, the young girl nodded and walked across the room toward the kitchen. As Faymia watched her, she felt a tear pool in the corner of her eye. She clenched her fist and looked across at Tcharron. Barely restraining her emotions, she chided, “We don’t treat others that way.”
With eyes bulging as if the woman had said something utterly ridiculous, the slaver began, “But she’s just a—”
Raising her voice slightly, Faymia interrupted, repeating herself, “We don’t treat others that way!”
Tcharron bit the inside of his cheek as he glared at the woman. Inhaling deeply, then exhaling, he answered in a sarcastic tone, “As you wish. Do I have your permission to order some ale when she returns?”
“If you do it nicely,” she answered, still looking rather stern.
It wasn’t long after that the barmaid returned with four bowls of stew and some cold bread. As they sat eating the semi-adequate meal, they discussed their plans for retrieving the whereabouts of Maren from Ocmallum.
“Do you think he will willingly give us the information?” Dulnear asked.
“I highly doubt that,” Tcharron answered. “Even if he knows that her life-rights were obtained illegally, it’s likely he would try to keep them.”
