by Karen Miller
“Lesson one, little hell-cat,” he said, his fingers untangling from her hair to stroke the sharp line of her cheek. “Raise your hand or voice to me again and you will die never knowing the pleasures that await you. Do you understand me?”
The black desert flies were greedy, their eager sucking made her skin crawl. She’d seen what they could do to living creatures if not discouraged. She tried not to dance on the spot as the feverish flies quarreled over her bloody welts. All she understood was the Trader did not mean to reject her. “Yes.”
“Good.” He waved the flies away, then pulled from his gold and purple pocket a tiny pottery jar. When he took off its lid she smelled the ointment inside, thick and rich and strange.
Startling her, he dropped to one knee and smeared her burning legs with the jar’s fragrant paste. His fingers were cool and sure against her sun-seared skin. The pain vanished, and she was shocked. She hadn’t known a man could touch a she-brat and not hurt it.
It made her wonder what else she did not know.
When he was finished he pocketed the jar and stood, staring down at her. “Do you have a name?”
A stupid question. She-brats were owed no names, no more than the stones on the ground or the dead goats in the slaughter-house waiting to be skinned. She opened her mouth to say so, then closed it again. The Trader was almost smiling, and there was a look in his eyes she’d never seen before. A question. Or a challenge. It meant something. She was sure it meant something. If only she could work out what . . .
She let her gaze slide sideways to the mud brick hovel and its mean kitchen window, where the woman thought she could not be seen as she dangerously watched the trading. The woman who had no name, just descriptions. Bitch. Slut. Goatslit . Then she looked at the man, shaking with greed, waiting for his money. If she gave herself a name, how angry it would make him.
But she couldn’t think of one. Her mind was blank sand, like The Anvil. Who was she? She had no idea. But the Trader had named her, hadn’t he? He had called her something, he had called her—
She tilted her chin so she could look into his green and gleaming eyes. “He—kat,” she said, her tongue stumbling over the strange word, the sing-song way he spoke. “Me. Name. Hekat.”
The Trader laughed again. “As good a name as any, and better than most.” He held up his hand, two fingers raised; his fat friend tossed him a red leather pouch, clinking with coin.
The man stepped forward, black eyes ravenous. “If you like the brat so much I will breed you more! Better than this one, worth twice as much coin.”
The Trader snorted. “It is a miracle you bred even this one. Do not tempt the god with your blustering lest your seed dry up completely.” Nostrils pinched, he dropped the pouch into the man’s cupped hands.
The man’s fingers tore at the pouch’s tied lacing, so clumsily that its contents spilled on the ground. With a cry of anguish he plunged to his knees, heedless of bruises, and began scrabbling for the silver coins. His knuckles skinned against the sharp stones but the man did not notice the blood, or the buzzing black flies that swarmed to drink him.
For a moment the Trader watched him, unspeaking. Then he trod the man’s fingers into the dirt. “Your silver has no wings. Remove the child’s chains.”
The man gaped, face screwed up in pain. “Remove . . . ?”
The Trader smiled; it made his scarlet scorpion flex its claws. “You are deaf? Or would like to be?”
“Excellency?”
The Trader’s left hand settled on the long knife at his side. “Headless men cannot hear.”
The man wrenched his fingers free and lurched to his feet. Panting, he unlocked the binding chains, not looking at the child. The skin around his eyes twitched as though he were scorpion-stung.
“Come, little Hekat,” said the Trader. “You belong to me now.”
She followed him to the waiting slave train, thinking he would put his own chains about her wrists and ankles and join her to the other naked slaves squatting on the ground. Instead he led her to his camel and turned to his friend. “A robe, Yagji.”
The fat Trader Yagji sighed and fetched a pale yellow garment from one of the pack camel’s baskets. Barely breathing, the child stared as the thin Trader took his knife and slashed through the cloth, reducing it to fit her small body. Smiling, he dropped the cut-down robe over her head and guided her arms into its shortened sleeves, smoothed its cool folds over her naked skin. She was astonished. She wished the man’s sons were here to see this but they were away at work. Snake-dancing, and tending goats.
“There,” said the Trader. “Now we will ride.”
Before she could speak he was lifting her up and onto the camel.
Air hissed between the fat Trader’s teeth. “Ten silver pieces! Did you have to give so much?”
“To give less would be insulting to the god.”
“Tcha! This is madness, Abajai! You will regret this, and so will I!”
“I do not think so, Yagji,” the thin Trader replied. “We were guided here by the god. The god will see us safe.”
He climbed onto the camel and prodded it to standing. With a muffled curse, the fat Trader climbed onto his own camel and the slave train moved on, leaving the man and the woman and the goats and the dogs behind them.
Hekat sat on the Trader’s haughty white camel, her head held high, and never once looked back.
CHAPTER TWO
As the village and its splintered, weathered wooden godpost dwindled into the heat-hazed distance behind them the thin Trader Abajai said, his hand warm and secure on Hekat’s shoulder, “The others we purchased. Do you know them?”
He and fat Yagji had bought four more villagers after leaving the man’s holding. A woman, another she-brat and two boys. Unlike her, they walked with the rest of the slaves, chained to them and to each other, guarded by the five tall slaves with spears. Sitting before Abajai on his white camel, with its coarse hair tickling her bare legs, she shook her head. “No. Hekat knows man. Woman. Man’s sons.” A shiver rippled over her skin. “Godspeaker.”
“No-one else? You had no friends?” said Abajai. “Who will you weep for tonight, Hekat?”
She shrugged. “Hekat not weep.”
Riding beside them. Yagji sighed. “Must you talk to it, Aba? It’s not a pet.”
Abajai chuckled. “I’ve heard you talk to your monkey.”
She looked over her shoulder at him. “Monkey?”
“An animal. Smelly, noisy, greedy.” He smiled. “Yagji will introduce you when we reach Et-Raklion.”
“I won’t,” said Yagji. “She will teach little Hooli bad manners. Abajai, you should sell this one before we get home.” A red stone carved into a single staring eye dangled on a chain around his neck; he clutched it with plump fingers. “There is a darkness . . .”
“Superstition,” Abajai grunted. “The god desired us to find this one, Yagji. You worry for nothing. We will reach Et-Raklion.”
Hekat frowned. “Et-Raklion?”
“Our home.”
“Where?”
Abajai pointed ahead, to where the ground met the sky. “Further than your eye can see, Hekat. Many godmoons traveling beyond the horizon.”
She shook her head. That place was so far away she couldn’t imagine it. Already she was lost. The barren land stretched on every side, dressed in all its hot colors: red, orange, ochre, brown. Spindle grass withered beneath the uncovered sun, dull purple, dying green. The sky was a heavy palm pressing her flat towards the slow-baked ground. Beneath the padding of camel-feet, the clanking of slave-chains, the clicking of rock against pebble, silence waited like a sandcat poised to smother and kill. If she wasn’t careful, she’d forget how to breathe.
Abajai’s hand returned to her shoulder. “Fear not, Hekat. You are safe with me.”
“Safe?”
Beside them, Yagji tittered. “He may be a monkey but at least my little Hooli understands more than one word in five!”
A
bajai ignored him. “Yes, Hekat. Safe. That means I will protect you.” His fingers had tightened a little, and his voice was gentle. The wonder of that was as crushing as the sky. “No hurting. No hunger. Safe.”
She became one with the silence. In the village no she-brat was safe. Not from the man, or his sons, or the godspeaker who stalked the streets like a vulture, always looking for sin to stone.
“Safe,” she whispered at last. The white camel flicked its ear at her, grumbling softly as it walked. She looked back at the Trader. “Safe Et-Raklion?”
He smiled widely at her, teeth blinding. Tiny gemstones sparkled, blue and red and green. She gasped, and touched her own teeth in amazement. She had not noticed his gemstones in the village. Abajai laughed. “You like them?” She nodded. “You wish for some of your own?”
Fat Yagji moaned like a woman. “Aba, I beg you! Protections in your teeth is one thing. It’s proper. But in her mouth? The waste !”
“Perhaps,” said Abajai, shrugging. “But I will buy her an amulet in Todorok. Other eyes are not blind, Yagji. They will see what you cannot.”
“Yes, yes, they’ll see,” grumbled the fat Trader, like a camel. “They’ll see you’re godforsaken!”
Laughing, Abajai waved away an obstinate fly. “With this prize? Yagji, kiss your eye for blasphemy.”
Yagji didn’t kiss his red stone eye, but he touched it again. “You tempt the god to smiting, Aba. Boast less. Pray more.”
Hekat sighed. Words, words, buzz buzz buzz. “Abajai.” He’d said she could use his name. “Tell Hekat Et-Raklion.”
“Don’t,” said Yagji. “She will see it soon enough.”
“She can barely utter a civilized sentence, Yagji,” said Abajai. “If I do not speak with her how will she learn?” He patted her shoulder. “Et-Raklion is a mighty city, Hekat.”
“City?”
He held his arms wide. “A big, big, big village. You know big?”
She nodded. “Yes. Big not village. Hekat village small.”
His sparkly teeth flashed again. “She is not stupid, Yagji. Underfed, yes, and starved of learning. But in no way is she stupid.”
Yagji threw up his hands. “And this is good, Aba? Intelligent slaves are good? Aieee! May the god protect us!”
The talking stopped then. In silence they traveled away from the sliding sun, chased the long thin shadows it cast down the red rock ground before them. Abajai was like the god, he knew where to ride even though the land was empty. Hekat felt her eyes drift closed, her head nod like a wilting weed on its stem. Abajai’s hand rested on her shoulder. She would not fall. She was safe. She slept.
When he shook her awake the blue sky had faded. It was dusk, and little pricky stars sparkled like the gemstones in his teeth. The godmoon and his wife were risen, small silver discs against the deepening dark. The white camels lifted their heads, snuffling, then slowed, stopped and settled on the ground.
“This will do,” said Abajai, sliding from his saddle. “Stake the slaves out, Obid,” he ordered the oldest and tallest of the guards. “Food and water.”
“How much, master?” said Obid. “That village was poor. Supplies are low and no hunting here.”
Abajai looked around them at the sun-killed plain. “A fist of grain, a cup of water, night and dawn till my word changes. In twenty highsuns we’ll reach Todorok village and trade for fresh supplies. What we have will last until then.”
Hekat felt her eyes go wide. Twenty highsuns? So far away! Had any man in the village ever traveled so far? She did not think so.
While Obid and the other guards settled the slaves and camels for the night, Abajai and Yagji unpacked baskets and sacks. She watched for a moment, aware of a growing discomfort. She jiggled, looking around. There was nothing to squat behind. Yagji noticed. He stopped unpacking and tugged at Abajai’s sleeve.
“Hekat?” said Abajai.
“Need lose water.”
“Pish, you mean?”
Did she? Guessing, she nodded. “Need lose water now .”
He went to his white camel, opened one of its carry baskets and pulled out a small clay pot. “Pish into this and give it to Obid.”
To Obid? She stared. “Obid want body water?”
“I want it.” When he saw she still didn’t understand, he said, “Your village. Do the people keep body water?”
“For goat leather. No goats, Abajai.”
“No, but we turn our body water into coin when other villages need more. Pish now, Hekat. We must make camp.”
So she pished, and gave the sloshing pot to Obid. He did not speak to her, just poured her water into a big clay jar unstrapped from the sturdiest pack camel. As she walked away she felt the chained slaves’ gazes sliding sideways over her skin, wondering and jealous.
Let them wonder. Let them hate. She did not care for them.
After pishing, tired and sore from camel-riding, she yawned cross-legged on the blanket Abajai gave her, amazed as the Traders produced rolls of colored cloth from the pack camels’ baskets and turned them into little rooms.
“Tents,” said Abajai, seeing her surprise. “You will sleep in mine.”
There was food in the white camels’ baskets, better than the slaves were eating. Better than any food she’d smelled in her life. Yagji made a fire with bricks of dried camel-dung and warmed the food in an iron pot over the flames, adding leaves she didn’t recognize. He kept them in little shiny boxes and talked to himself as he pinched some from this one, some from that. Yagji was strange. As the food slowly heated, releasing such smells, her belly turned over and over and she almost choked on the juices flooding her mouth.
“Don’t snatch,” said Abajai as he handed her a pottery bowl filled halfway, and a spoon. His knuckles rapped hard on her head. “Dignity. Restraint. Conduct. You must learn these things.”
She didn’t know those words. All she knew was she’d displeased him. For the second time that day salty water stung her eyes.
“Tchut tchut tchut,” he soothed her, no knuckles now, just a gentle pat to her cheek. “Eat. Slowly. I will fetch you drink. You know sadsa?”
Mouth stuffed full of meat, aieee, so wonderful, she shook her head, watching as he took an empty bronze cup and filled it from a leather flask. Yagji nodded. “Good idea,” he said. “If you insist on having it in your tent, best it be well fuddled.”
Abajai shook his head. “Hekat is no danger.”
“You say.”
“The god says,” Abajai replied, frowning.
Yagji put down his own bowl and rummaged through the leather bag that held his little boxes of leaves. “Best be safe than sorry,” he said, tossing him a small yellow pouch.
Abajai rolled his eyes, but he took some blue powder from the pouch, dropped it in the bronze cup and swirled. Then he tossed the pouch back to Yagji and gave her the cup. “Sadsa, Hekat. Drink.”
No man had ever served her before. Women served men, that was the way. Almost dreamy, she lifted the bronze cup to her nose. Sadsa was creamy white, and its sharp, sweet-sour smell tickled. There were tiny flecks of blue caught in its frothy surface. She looked at Yagji, not trusting him. “What?”
“Sadsa is camel’s milk,” said Abajai. “Good for you.”
He didn’t understand, so she pointed at the yellow pouch still caught in Yagji’s fingers. “ What ?”
Abajai laughed. “I told you, Yagji. Not stupid.” Bending, he patted her cheek again. “For sleeping, Hekat. It will not harm you. Drink.”
He had saved her from the man. He did not chain her naked with the slaves, he clothed her and let her ride before him on his fine white camel. She drank. The sadsa flowed down her throat and into her belly like soft fire. She gasped, choking. The dancing flames blurred. So did Yagji’s face, and Abajai’s. She put down the bronze cup and ate more meat. Her fingers felt clumsy, wrapped around the spoon. Too soon the bowl was empty. Hopefully, she looked at Abajai.
“No,” he said. “Your belly’s had enough sur
prise. Finish your sadsa, then you must sleep.”
By the time the cup was empty she could barely keep her eyes open. It slipped from her silly fat fingers to the ground, and rolled in little circles that made her laugh. Laughing made her laugh. What a stupid sound! The man didn’t like it, he’d hit her when she laughed. Laughing was for secret. For almost never. But Abajai wasn’t angry. He was smiling, his green eyes mysterious, and in the leaping firelight the jewels in his teeth were precious. The scarlet scorpion sat quietly in his skin, keeping him safe. She tried to stand but her legs had turned to grass. She lay on her back instead, staring at the pricky stars, and laughed even harder.
“Oh, put it to bed, Aba,” said Yagji crossly. “If this is what we’ve got to look forward to on the long road to Et-Raklion I doubt you and I will be speaking by the end.”
“Et-Raklion,” she sang to the godmoon and his wife. “Hekat go Et-Raklion. La la la la . . .”
Strong arms slid beneath her shoulders and her knees. Abajai lifted her as the god’s breath lifted dust. “See how the god smiles, Yagji?” he said. “She has a sweet song voice to match her face.”
Yagji said something she couldn’t understand, but it sounded rude. His upside-down face wore a rude look. Dangling backwards over Abajai’s arm, she pointed at it. “Funny Yagji make goat talk. Meh meh meh .”
Abajai lay her inside his tent on something soft and warm like a cloud of sunshine, and covered her in a blanket that didn’t scratch her skin.
“Sleep, Hekat,” he said.
“Abajai,” she sighed, and felt her lips curve as she fell headfirst into the warm dark. “Abajai.”
She woke in daylight from a bad dream about the man’s dogs, needing to lose water so badly her belly was cramping. Abajai snored, a long still shape beneath his striped wool blankets. Heart pounding from the dream she fumbled the tent-flap open and stumbled outside, where Obid and the other guards walked up and down the snake-spine of slaves, taking away their dirty wool blankets, making sure none had died in the night. They carried pots, and one by one the slaves squatted over them, losing water. Making coin for Abajai.