Ashes Remain

by Alethea Stauron

  His brown eyes fall…

  … descending over to a midsection of garden forty-five yards from him. Rueshta slants his jaw over at a gardener — Akhtar. One of the bottommost ranked growers aboard the craft. A slave just like him. Akhtar stands, tending to an orange tree under the same strong glow of light he’s worked since a young boy.

  “Cousin,” Rueshta’s words exhale, sounding no more than a careful breath. Akhtar gleans along the orange grove with a flimsy woven hat made of straw and handspun wool. His sun-bleached clothes hang over him with a few holes. Worn out by his job of bending, stretching, and climbing. His body is strong. He’s assumed weaker than the rest of any working the fields aboard the spacecraft, but continues his duties just as diligently. His eyes are hazel green with an outer line of honey. Akhtar gathers ripe oranges, piling them carefully into a hefty tan basket with handles. “Cousin,” Rueshta whispered one more time.

  Akhtar looks up and sees Rueshta. He continues cautiously with his work, making eye contact as subtle as an itchy nose. A form of sign language they’ve learned, speaking peripherally and from the corners of the garden.

  Rueshta nods a subtle gesture with a flick of his ear. Akhtar nods while pretending he’s massaging the back of his neck. When the gardener gives his recognition, Rueshta and Akhtar both turn toward another slave — Nicholson.

  Nicholson is as tall as they come and stronger than any other slave aboard the unregistered craft. Forearms as large as boulders. His chest is as dense as an armored breastplate. Bronzed skin from the tanning sun that daily taunts him. Reminding him he’s only a slave. Only allowed to work the garden until the next scientific experiment calls him away to hang in chains for days. Nicholson finishes planting a fig tree into a freshly pruned area. When he wipes his brow, he notices Rueshta and Akhtar watching with cheeks.

  Rueshta walks toward him, “Nicholson, cousin.” He latches his psychic connection, and pretends to be observing his work, “I’ll block your mind. This communication will not be found. Tell Akhtar what I’ve said later. I can’t be seen speaking to him.” He plucks a stick from a branch, observing its green veins, “This is good work,” and continues, “It’s him. Lucius is Yuleshua. Our King. The Mangoram were just here… I heard them.”

  “Is he…” Nicholson’s eyes fight grief, “Has he failed our fathers?”

  “He still remains a true Gamerin. Let Hatrueshian know. He can inform the others in secret. The superiors will catch on, if I go see him this early. They know what abilities he has. It’s too soon after seen in the docks.” He lowers his eyes, swinging a gander back toward the orange grove where Akhtar keeps a look out. He tells Nicholson, “Sam saw me listening in as the Mangoram was giving his testimony. I don’t think he caught on that I was listening though. They continue to think I can’t read their languages.”

  “None of them know of what you can do. He’d never expect —

  “I know,” Rueshta uses telepathy, “They don’t know I have Gamerin abilities pumping through my veins, and taking after my father,” he glances away to face Akhtar again, who faithfully acts as a lookout for them both. Rueshta tells him, “To them I’m only a slave. The son of Yaztarifenn. My father is a mere prisoner hanging as a trinket in the catacombs.”

  Nicholson thinks, “But our master considers you his son. That influence alone has protected you.”

  “Don’t make me sick,” Rueshta wrestles scowling, “The very thought causes the chambers of my heart to choke. I hate seeing him smile at me. It hurts to smile back.”

  Nicholson points toward a bud of the tree, and speaks casually, “This sapling is three years old. Its fruit will be fine for plucking with its age. And it’s sprouting now, even though, it won’t increase in size for another three years. But it took years for it to get this far. All the fruit before now was fed into the ground for its own strength. Up until now, the fruit appeared as waste, but with this next harvest, it’ll be the foundation that bears the sweetest fruit.” He glances at Rueshta with telepathy, “The fruit you bare will save us all. Stay strong, cousin. Our King will come. Dextorus and the general are working on our behalf. Have faith.”

  Akhtar glances over from the distance, coughing fanatically. Almost choking on his own throat. He gets louder as a visitor enters their section. The visitor grabs a handful of dates from a woven basket and some plumbs in another. His eyes shine of blue-green. He has short dark hair pulled forward like a Roman soldier and picking from a fresh selection of goods. His posture is rigid, appearing disgusted for standing near a slave. He stares away from Akhtar, gathering his selection of spoils from the slave’s quarters.

  Akhtar tries clearing his throat, swallowing down what came up, “Went down the wrong way.”

  The visitor turns his head deliberately slow, making eye contact with Akhtar. He snarls, “Shut up, slave.” He strikes Akhtar back seven feet, knocking him into a rolling tumble across the ground. “Worthless slave,” he growls, “Nobody asked you to speak to me.”

  Akhtar peels himself from the ground, gasping for breath. His voice hiccups, as his lungs gradually regain a small amount of air. He finally gasps, coughing for real air this time. His deep breathing sears through his newly crushed injury of broken ribs.

  “You and your kind better keep to yourselves. You’re not worthy of speaking to me,” and glances over at Rueshta, “In fact,” his lip snarls higher, “none of you are worthy of speaking to me. Especially, the sons of traitors.” The visitor leaves with his small collection of goods.

  Rueshta looks away from Nicholson, “I’ve blocked your mind. Heal him quickly, Nicholson. Use whatever you have. Hurry…” Rueshta picks up an empty bucket from the ground, “Keep up the good work. The Master will be pleased with this new stock. See to your fellow garden-keeper. Seems he’s fallen.” Rueshta gathers himself, carrying on with his daily work. He gathers water from a nearby fountain, ending his meeting in the servant quarters of the city.

  Nicholson rushes over, elevating his broken cousin from the ground. He places his hand over Akhtar’s chest, secretly releasing whatever healing he has. Akhtar wheezes, “I thought you couldn’t do that anymore.”

  “Shush,” Nicholson says psychically, “Some of it has come back. I know it won’t be long before they drain it again.”

  Akhtar’s eyes drop, “I can’t anymore. My mind doesn’t work. I can’t recover it. My body doesn’t regenerate its healing,” his eyes climb up the bark of a tree, “I only grow things. They think of me as worthless.”

  “No. It’s because they hate your father. Someday our king will save us… you’ll be able to speak like this again. He’ll make you whole. You’ll be reunited with your father Hoshtravay. It will be as it was intended to be. Yuleshua will make it so.”

  “I don’t even remember what my father looks like. I need to get back to work. The stockpiles are getting low if they’re coming in here.”

  ◆◆◆

  A small uproar spreads thru passages and lobbies. The vessel’s commander clutches an iron banister and hunches himself over railing. He listens to the ruckus from out in the halls behind him, and hides his reflection. He stands in the echoing crypt, gazing down into a large pit stretching over four hundred yards in perimeter. Plummeting down a hundred-twenty feet. “Silence,” he yelled in a powerful voice. A voice ricocheting the raucous sound bussing off of walls. The entire ship heard it. He continues, “You’ll wake the ears of those wanting to listen. Speak in silence, you fools. The cript has ears.”

  The ship grows quiet. He remains within the cavernous warehouse, glaring into what appears as infinite floors below. “Did they wake you?” There are rows upon rows of walkways spiraling down toward the bottom of a vault. Lit up only by illuminated stones. The stones are held in place by chains and metal brackets. His trophies. Sarcophagi.

  Eight thousand amber stones fringe along the walkways. Within each one — a Gamerin.

  The commander speaks out over the chasm, “That’s probably them now. To deliver m
e the good news and bringing my son’s murderer to me in shackles. Wasn’t he your king? He’s Gamerin isn’t he? After all… it’s in his genetic code to fail. He’s failed you once before, hiding himself in solitude. He and his worthless harvester servant.”

  Silence takes over the atmosphere. Those imprisoned in the stones have no voice outside of telepathy. They hide their thoughts with one another.

  Telepathy, he listens in. “What are you all speaking of to one another?” No words, only sensing the anguish of those trapped within their amber coffins. “Be silent you traitors. Stop your whining,” he yelled below.

  Samstarsey enters behind his commander. He enters timidly. “Sire,” Sam swallowed.

  The commander straightens his shoulders, “Sam… please tell me Yuleshua is captured after using our Mangoram services. Tell me he’s been kicked out of that general’s army and found guilty of defiling her.” He slides his jaw. “Please tell me I have the woman, and she’s lying in my chambers awaiting me.” Sam is silent, sliding away from anger. The commander says, “Answer me,” his low tone sings.

  “My Lord, I have recently spoken with the Mangoram. They scanned her energy. She’s yet to be defiled by him.”

  “The one they sent… what of him? I’m not enjoying where this conversation has already trailed to. A simple yes or no answer, Sam.”

  “No, my Lord.”

  “Not one rule? Nothing broken?”

  “I’m sor—

  He backhands Samstarsey, toppling him yards back against a wall. He stomps in Sam’s direction. Pressing his face against Sam’s cheek and spitting frustration across his nose, “I don’t want to hear your pitiful apologies. You’ve failed me. He’s already proven his weaknesses. I have proof. Why haven’t you brought him to me?” He releases Sam’s jacket collar, “You were supposed to have someone too tempting for him not to kill. That’s why you were bothering me. The Mangoram were supposed to find evidence linking to his incrimination. We were to collect our payment while they collected theirs. Where were you confused on this plan?”

  “We did, my Lord. We followed your orders.”

  “Then why isn’t he here? In shackles? Hmmm? Why isn’t he begging me for forgiveness for what he’s done?” He exhales, “I’ll tell you why. Because this wasn’t my original plan. That’s why.”

  “My Lord, he’s crafty. Stronger than we had anticipated.”

  “I need his blood, you fool. We can’t raise awareness without success. I can’t get us home without his blood or the stone around his neck. I need him as a prisoner or willing to work with me.”

  Sam calls out, “I’ve seen Rueshta, my Lord. Rueshta works even now on the weapon.”

  The commander swivels around to observe his amber caskets, “What about my most loyal servant? What has he to say about his progress?”

  “I’ve seen his blueprints.” He unravels his injured body from crates and barrels, holding himself up. “Rueshta’s nearly done. We’ve shot several of our slaves and it proves promising.”

  “Excellent,” he sneers down into the prisoner’s cavern, “Let my plan unfold. Let a red dawn rise over Yuleshua’s head.”

  In the wee hours, before the light in the sky turns to dawn, Josephine’s eyes lift. She’s dreamed of him all night.

  He’s here. He’s downstairs, lying on the couch.

  Josephine gazes at the bookshelf and her crystal kitty cats. Every one of them are still dim. Her room is dark with barely a faint light from her driveway brushing across the curtains behind her.

  It’s too early right now. He’d be asleep.

  She stares through dark crevices of each book, making out spines, determining which ones are the fakes lining her hidden safe. She thinks about her favorite kitty cat in her collection. She squeezes her eyes to see the one with the purple heart in its hands. But the room is too dark. At least, she can smell morning. Either morning, or it’s raining outside. Perhaps some misty weather with windy spring, bringing bluebonnets into existence.

  Well, I’m awake with my thoughts running a million miles an hour. I’m awake, but I could let him sleep. I could sneak by him, possibly make breakfast without his knowing. I can’t help if I drop a couple pans and wakes him up. Surely, he’ll forgive me. Or if I sneeze or cough as I’m passing by and he’s startled out of sleep.

  Josephine closes her eyes, realizing how her mind is coming up with schemes to spend more time with him. And it’s not even daylight outside.

  I’m not being very nice, thinking like this… just so I could spend more time with him.

  Her room is noiseless. She plasters her ear to the air, trying to hear any drops from outside. Any drips shedding from her roof. Nothing. Only gusts of a breeze every few moments. She’s staring at the dark western windows. Her western windows face pure Gray forest.

  It smells like morning. Like rain. She rubs her hands across her blanket. I do know one thing, I gotta get changed out of these frumpy pajamas.

  Her body rolls to face the northern window a few feet over from her head to look for rain

  but,

  in a chair

  and wearing a smile, Lucius fights snickering from reading her thoughts before she turned.

  He looks so handsome this morning, she thinks. Now, I don’t have to wake him up.

  Lucius leans over his arms across his thighs. He’s less than two feet from her. His smile evolves with his thoughts, wanting to tell her, but decides,

  I think I shouldn’t let her know I woke her, so I could spend more time with her. I hope that doesn’t make me a mean boyfriend. But… she would’ve done the same.

  Josephine hugs the blankets, folding them beneath her face. Her hips sway from side to side. She licks her lips, curling them inward as her smile grows. She says, “Hi.”

  His smile warmly greets her, “Good morning, beautiful.” There are not many perfect words to explain how he feels. They gaze at each other, as the northern window picks up driveway light. The light brushes across his left cheek. His voice is low, “You looked so peaceful while you were sleeping.” He raises slowly to his feet with an arch forward. His hand brushes over her cheek, and gives her a small kiss on the corner fold of her mouth. Enough to maintain innocence.

  She watches him stand away from her and she immediately stretches under blankets. Continuing to smile from his kiss. She re-cuddles herself and wonders, “Have you been there all night?”

  His heart skips a beat with his mind swirling.

  She speaks to me so easily, not knowing who I am. Do I really wanna tell her? Wouldn’t she push me away? I can’t give up what I feel… I love her.

  His eyes meet her gaze, “Not all night. Just a little.” He follows her lead, doing a small stretch. The bottom of his shirt rushes to just below his waistline. “It’s still so early. And my sitting here… I woke you.”

  “Probably not,” Josephine giggles.

  “That’s what it was. Believe me. I’m sure of it.”

  She blushes, “You wanna know something?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’re gonna make me blush —

  “Too late for that,” he said.

  She squeezes blanket over her nose, “I am. Aren’t I? Well… I was gonna go downstairs and watch you too.”

  He chuckles, “I’m sure you were.”

  She crosses her legs and sets up, nearly bouncing like a child from enthusiasm, “I was too excited from you being here. I actually woke up several times last night.”

  “Sorry,” his expression drifts down to her shabby pajamas.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “I’m sure it is. I wanted to see you.”

  Her shoulder’s roll, arching back and confessing, “I was gonna make coffee and breakfast and… hoping you would accidentally wake up from the noise I’d be making,” she slumps her shoulders, “… on purpose.”

  He chuckles a loud huff, “Josephine, you don’t have to worry about waking me up. I couldn’t be more awake right now.”

>   “Me too.”

  Time moves slowly, looking into each other’s eyes, both wanting to say it, but rather enjoying the moment. Lucius unwraps his vision from her, glancing over toward the northern window. The light in the sky is already devouring the power of her driveway light. “It’ll be sunrise soon. I should’ve let you sleep. I don’t want you to be tired today because of me.”

  “Not today. Not with you being here.”

  “I love hearing that. Your words comfort me.” He strolls toward her door and glances back. “I’ll be on the loft while you get dressed. Remember… like a good boy and a good girl today.”

  “Absolutely,” her brow snags.

  Outside her door, Lucius is too nervous to even pace. I can’t just tell her. I’ll lose her if I blurt everything out. His head droops downward. Maybe a little today and a little tomorrow.

  He listens to the atmospheric vibrations, and knows she’s safe and dressing. She just beyond the door, and just as in love with him as he is with her. His forehead caresses the wall panels, and his fingers barely touch the door. I’d give everything to be what you want. He squeezes his eyes shut and his lips make words deprived of sound, “Please… love me still.”

  ◆◆◆

  Not long and she swings the door open, greeted by a charming gentleman leaning against the railing. Her breath falls short, “I have you all day?”

  Lucius slightly nods. “All day.”

  She nibbles her bottom lip, “Is it okay… if I touch you now?” Her eyes swivel, “Not in a bad way or anything. I just… I really wanna give you a hug.” She shrugs with a face of pure innocence. “I kept my promise. I was a good girl. I fell asleep and everything. Even when you kissed me this morning, I was good,” weaving her fingers together beneath her belly button. Her expression is difficult to resist.

  He gestures over at her top drawer, giving her a subtle reminder of the thong incident last night. He clears his throat, and says, “You did keep your promise. And you were… mostly good.”