by Karen Miller
“Yes, Abajai,” she said, trusting him. His word was his word, he kept her safe.
The woman and two others took her to a white house two streets away from Abajai. Its lizard roof had scales of blue and yellow. Inside, the floor was made of wood—did so many trees grow anywhere, to be cut down and turned into houses?—and on top of the wood were large squares of colored wool, soft beneath her feet. The women hurried her to a room with no windows. Sunk into its floor was a deep round hole maybe six man-paces across, lined with smooth stones. Stone steps led down into it. The woman Bisla rang a bell. A moment later a large slave appeared at the door. He was bare-chested, sewn with beads across his breast. He wore loose green trousers and red cloth shoes with pointy toes.
“Mistress,” he said, his hairless head bowed.
“Hot water,” said the woman Bisla. “Fresh soap. Cloths. Brushes and combs. My bead box. My hand mirror. Tunic and pantaloons from Dily’s room, cotton, not linen or wool. And shoes.”
“Mistress,” the slave said again, and withdrew.
A wide wooden bench ran the length of one wall. The woman Bisla and her sisters pushed Hekat onto it. Then they stripped off the yellow robe Abajai had given her. Hekat would have shouted and snatched it back again, slapped the women for daring to touch Abajai’s gift. But Abajai had told her his word so she just pinched her lips and let them take it.
“Skinny! Skinny!” the woman Bisla exclaimed, pointing at her ribs. “Does Abajai not feed you, child?”
Abajai had told her not to talk. She shrugged.
“Is that yes or no?”
Another shrug.
“She’s afraid, poor thing,” said one of the other women. “I wonder who she is? Not Abajai’s get!” She arched her thin eyebrows at the others and giggled.
As slaves led by the hairless beaded man entered the room bearing leather buckets of steaming water, the woman Bisla frowned and shook her head. “Tcha! It is not needful to know these things.”
The hairless beaded slave put down the items the woman Bisla had ordered him to bring, then watched as one by one the other slaves emptied their buckets into the stone-lined hole. They left and returned many times until the hole was filled almost to the top. They placed four full wooden buckets to one side, bowed, and withdrew. The woman Bisla spread a large cloth beside the hole and on it placed a brush, a comb, a pile of smaller cloths and a pale pink jar. She took off its lid. Inside was something soft and slippery, smelling like flowers.
Amazed, Hekat stared at the hole full of water. Stared even more amazed as the woman Bisla stripped off her clothes and trod down the stone steps into it. The water reached up to her waist. Bisla held out her hand. “Come, child. Into the bath.”
She shook her head. It was a stoning sin to put your body into water. Seasons and seasons ago, when she’d been a tiny she-brat, a boy in the village had lost his wits and put himself into the largest of the village’s four wells. The godspeaker stoned him slowly, one small rock at a time, and he left the boy’s face till last. The god’s wrath was terrible, it opened so many screaming mouths in that boy’s flesh, wept so many blood tears over that boy’s sin, it only took one stone in the eye to finish him. That dead boy was hung from the village godpost until he turned to leather. Then every dwelling in the village had to keep him under their roof for a godmoon. Once every dwelling had housed him that boy was given back to his family, and his family was driven onto The Anvil.
Only a fool put his body into water.
“Come, child!” Bisla said again, sounding impatient. “You are dirty and wretched and the godspeaker will punish us if you are not made presentable for Abajai.”
Hekat shook her head. Bisla snapped her fingers at the other women, they lifted her by the arms and dropped her shrieking and kicking into the water. It closed over her head as though the god was swallowing her alive, rushed up her nose and down her throat. A haze as scarlet as Abajai’s tattooed scorpion rose behind her screwed-shut eyes. She thrashed to the surface, opened her mouth to scream and the water poured in . . .
“Aieee, you stupid child!” the woman Bisla shouted, smacking. “Spit it up! Spit it up !”
Hekat spat and retched and could breathe again. Making her legs strong she stood up straight. The water stopped at her shoulders. Her unbraided hair was a wet mat plastered to her skin, she coughed and spluttered and her chest was on fire, but she wasn’t dead. Bisla dragged the sopping hair away from her eyes and dug long fingernails into her cheeks.
“This is Abajai’s word! You must do as Abajai commands!”
Yes. Yes. The woman Bisla was right. Above all things she must obey Abajai.
“It is a bath, child,” the woman said crossly. “Surely you’ve had a bath before?”
“I don’t think she has, Bisla,” said the shorter of her sisters. “The poor thing’s terrified.”
“No wonder she’s so filthy if she’s never had a bath,” said the other one. “Be gentle, Bisla. If you frighten her she might complain to Abajai or Toolu godspeaker.”
The woman Bisla loosened her fingers, and managed a smile. “Do not be afraid, child. The water will not hurt you, and neither will we. You want to be clean, don’t you?”
Still breathing hard, Hekat shrugged. The water sloshed against her skin, warm and comforting. All the tight places in her body, the muscles in her legs, her back, that had knotted like goathide rope with the camel-riding, they were starting to unknot. She’d wanted to walk some days, to run beside Abajai on the ground to ease her aching body, but he wouldn’t let her. She hadn’t complained, had never once whimpered, but with every newsun her body had hurt just a little bit more.
This hot water was . . . was . . .
Good? No. Good was a small word. She didn’t have a big enough word for what this was.
She smiled.
“There!” said the woman Bisla, and pinched the end of her nose, but not meanly. “Soon you will feel wonderful, I promise!”
With her sisters’ help, Bisla poured the pink flower-smelling stuff onto cloths and scrubbed Hekat all over, even between her toes. More pink stuff was poured into her hair, so Bisla could scrub that too. The pink stuff turned frothy like sadsa, but not white. Grubby brown, it floated on the water and stung her eyes. But that was only a small pain and it was what Abajai wanted, so Hekat didn’t protest or fight. She gasped when the woman Bisla poured a whole bucket of water over her head, was astonished when her hair was scrubbed again, then again, until the froth at last was sadsa white.
By then the hot water was cool and she was feeling so soft, so floppy, it was all she could do to keep her legs strong and straight. If she wasn’t careful she’d slide right back under the water again. Her wet hair was so heavy her head wanted to tip backwards. If she let that happen it might snap off altogether. That was how heavy her hair felt.
“There, child. You are properly clean,” said the woman Bisla. “Does it please you?”
Hekat nodded. Properly clean was something else bigger than good. What had the woman said? Wonderful .
“Now we must somehow untangle that rat’s nest you call hair. Aieee! Let’s hope Abajai and Yagji are in a haggling mood today or you’ll never be godbraided before they finish their business!”
The woman Bisla helped her climb up the stone steps on her wobbly legs. Then the other two women wrapped her in a large thick cloth and pressed the water from her heavy hair with more cloths as the woman Bisla dried and dressed herself. After that, all three women sat her on the floor. They seated themselves around her and began to tease at her damp hair. It hurt. Their busy fingers tugged and twisted, they made sharp sounds of annoyance and asked the god over and over to help them.
“Has it ever been brushed?” grumbled the shortest sister. “I don’t think it has.”
She was wrong. The woman had brushed her hair sometimes, when the man wasn’t looking. Not often, though, and not for long.
“How many godbraids does Abajai want?” said the other sister, tchut-
tchutting as her comb caught in another knot. Hekat swallowed a cry of pain. She-brats who made noises like that were always sorry. “Even with the god’s help we won’t manage more than fifteen before the haggling’s done. Will that be enough?”
“If you waggle your fingers as fast as your tongue there’ll be plenty of godbraids when we give her back!” snapped the woman Bisla.
Hekat yawned and closed her eyes. The hot water had left her sleepy, all her nagging pains lulled to silence. The knots were gone from her hair now, the women’s fingers whispered through it. Their light touches on her scalp prickled over her warm clean sweet-smelling skin. The woman Bisla and her sisters chattered as they worked, talking of people and secrets, village business. She let herself drift away from it, wondering about Abajai and what he was doing.
“There!” the woman Bisla said at last, jerking her back to the room. “You are godbraided. See?” She waggled her fingers, and the shorter sister gave her a polished silver disc attached to a carved wooden handle. Hekat had never seen anything like it. “Look!” said the woman Bisla. “The god has blessed you, child.”
Hekat looked and saw a face. Even though it was against Abajai’s word, she cried out. “Aieee! Demon! Demon !”
The woman Bisla grabbed her wrist. “Demon? Silly child! That is no demon, that is you .” She held up the silver disc. “This is a mirror. Have you never seen a mirror?”
Mirror? Heart pounding, all the warmth and softness in her body turned cold and hard with fear, Hekat shook her head.
“She is a savage, Bisla,” the other sister said.
“Where are you from, child?” said the woman Bisla, still holding her wrist. “Where did Abajai find you?”
She’d spoken too many words, against Abajai’s want. She shook her head again, lips pinched shut. The woman Bisla sighed, and held up the mirror again.
“Look,” she said, her voice coaxing now, like the man’s sons to the shy goats. “It will not harm you. How can it? The face in the mirror is yours.”
She had never seen her face before, never dreamed there was a way anyone could see their own face or imagined why they would want to. She looked.
Two blue eyes, big and frightened. Thick black lashes, long enough to brush her skin. High cheekbones. Hollow cheeks. A wide mouth with plump pink lips. A softly pointed chin. All these face-parts the woman had shown her, touching her own and saying the words over and over until she remembered. She could see the woman’s face in the mirror and the man’s too, muddled together to make Hekat.
Framing Hekat’s face were her godbraids. Fascinated, she watched her fingers touch the bright red and green beads the women had woven into her thick black hair. Her godbraids weren’t like Abajai’s, they were fatter and looser and they didn’t hold as many charms. When they reached Et-Raklion she would ask him to give her godbraids like his. He would do that for her, she was precious.
The woman Bisla’s finger stroked her cheek. “You are very beautiful, child. Do you understand?”
No, but the woman was smiling. Did that make beautiful a good thing? She wanted to know. Abajai had said no speaking, but these words were in service of him, so . . . “Beautiful please Abajai?”
“Yes,” said the woman Bisla. “Of course. Beautiful pleases every man.”
She let herself smile. Pleasing Abajai was all that mattered. In the mirror she saw her teeth, pure white in her clean and beautiful face.
“Now you must dress, child,” said the woman Bisla. “Abajai will be waiting.”
The tunic and pantaloons they put on her weren’t soft and silken slippery like Abajai’s yellow robe but they felt good all the same. They were colored dark green, with gold and crimson threads sewn around the neck and the wrist and the ankles. They sat upon her scented skin lightly, and rustled when she moved.
“Look at her feet,” said the older sister, frowning. “The soles are like leather! Does she even need shoes?”
“Shoes are Abajai’s word,” said the woman Bisla. “In shoes her soles will soften over time. She has pretty, slender feet. They must be protected.”
In the village only men had clothed their feet. Hekat wriggled as her toes were imprisoned.
“Tchut tchut,” said the woman Bisla, and tapped her on the shoulder. “Would you disobey Abajai?”
Never. Abajai had saved her from the man. He was more real to her than the god itself.
The women led her out of the white house with the blue and yellow lizard roof, back to the open place where the caravan waited. The villagers had gone away, now it was just Obid and his guards keeping close watch on the merchandise. A group of Todorok slaves waited in the village space, naked and chained. Hekat stared hard at them as she waited for Abajai to return, but none of these slaves looked precious or beautiful.
Not like me.
She counted two men slaves, three women and four boys. No she-brats. They were taller than the people of her own village. Their faces were wider. All were darker colored, save one man whose skin was dark and pale, faded patches like an ancient goatskin. Strange . One boy slave was fat. She had never seen a fat boy before. The man beat his sons with the goat-stick if he thought their flesh was gaining. Fat boys ran too slowly after goats and couldn’t do the snake-dance properly. That angered the god.
The fat boy’s hair was tightly godbraided and all black, no single scarlet slave braid. Not like the others standing with him. There was water on his cheeks. He was crying . Hekat shook her head, amazed. Here there was so much water, he must be used to wasting it. Here there was so much water, maybe it couldn’t be wasted. But he was still stupid to cry. Water could not melt the chains from his wrist and ankles. Better to stand up straight and show Abajai he was worthy of coin.
The fat boy stared at her, and she stared back. Then Abajai came out of the godhouse with Yagji and the godspeaker Toolu and she didn’t stare anywhere but at Abajai’s stern face. When he saw her, Abajai smiled and crossed the open village space. His long fingers dipped inside his robe and dropped three bronze coins into the woman Bisla’s palm.
“You have pleased me and the god.”
“Go now, Bisla, you and your sisters. Tend your menfolk and your hearths,” said the godspeaker. The woman and her sisters nodded, and walked away.
Abajai looked to Yagji, who went to one of the pack camels and from its panniers pulled a stout wooden box criss-crossed with leather lacings. Strung on the lacings were so many charms and amulets the box looked infested. Yagji carried the heavy box to Abajai, who beckoned one of the slave guards to him. Without having to be told, the guard knelt on the ground, making himself into a table. Yagji put the box on the guard’s back and together, with great care, he and Abajai began to unlace it.
Each charm and amulet had to be touched, with fingertip or lip or tongue or a charm pulled from a pocket or set into a ring. With every touch a wisp of godsbreath puffed into the air. Only when the godsbreath had been blown away was the charm or amulet safe to unstring from its leather thong and only then if the right man had touched it, in the right order. If the wrong man tried to unlace the box, he would die a horrible death.
This was how the Traders protected their wealth, Abajai had explained on the road. Even though Traders were beloved of the god, men were sometimes foolish and thought they could steal from Trader caravans. Or sometimes Traders fell into misfortune so they perished and their money was found beside their bodies. That money by the god’s law must be returned to the Traders’ city but if it was not protected by godsworn Trader charms a man might not do his duty. He might keep that money and spend it for himself.
Hekat marveled that men could be so wicked.
The godspeaker Toolu had brought a large woven basket with him from the godhouse. When the godsbreath was blown from the last amulet, and all the box’s leather lacings unlaced to show its burden of coin, Abajai poured silver and bronze coins into the basket. Last of all he took a single black purse from the box and added three gold coins to the silver and bronz
e. When he was finished there was more air than money in the unlaced wooden box.
The godspeaker Toolu nodded, and carried his laden basket back into the godhouse. Yagji closed the box’s lid and relaced all the leather lacings, threading them with the charms and amulets. His fingers moved swiftly, surely. Hekar marveled at how he remembered every charm and amulet’s proper position. Abajai stood quietly watching, a small smile curving his lips.
Just as Yagji finished, the godspeaker returned carrying a large scorpion carved from some shiny black stone banded with thin strips of bronze.
Yagji stood back. The godspeaker placed the carved scorpion on top of the leather-laced wooden box and closed his eyes. It seemed to Hekar that the whole world went silent.
“ Breathe, god,” said the godspeaker Toolu, in a voice like distant thunder. “ Breathe, god. Breathe, god .”
A thick black mist oozed from the carved stone scorpion and onto the charms laced over the wooden box, soaking into them and swiftly disappearing. The guard who was a table shuddered and groaned, but did not collapse. Blood dripped from his open mouth to splash on the ground beneath him.
“The god has breathed,” said the godspeaker once the mist stopped oozing, and picked up the carved stone scorpion. “Merchandise has passed between us. Payment is given, payment is taken. Our business is done.”
“Our business is done,” said Abajai, as Yagji put the wooden box back into its pannier on the pack camel. “It has been a good Trading.”
The godspeaker nodded. “Travel well, Trader Abajai. I will not ask where next you buy and sell, for this I know is Traders’ business not fit for a village-bound man to know, even if he is the godspeaker.”
Abajai’s small smile grew wider. “Well do you know the ways of Trading, Toolu godspeaker.”
“But be wary as you travel through Et-Jokriel,” said the godspeaker, frowning. “The times are grown uneasy. Green fields turn brown and where water flowed freely, in places now it trickles. Where there was water now is dirt. The sky is blue, crops wither in the sun. Jokriel warlord dreams of grain within his empty barns. He sends his warriors over the borders to raid and fight his brother warlords. He is not the only warlord so afflicted. Hammers ring on anvils, Abajai. Bloodshed rides the wind.”