Sword and Sorcery of Avondale

by Kai Kazi

  It wouldn’t come.

  Pain wrapped around her lungs like the coil of a snake, synching tighter and tighter with every breath – phantom pain that pressed in until her dry, blue-tinted lips parted to drag in shallow air. An image of Korra lying in her own blood, screaming out for Alba but never seeing her come, flitted before her eyes, feeding this snake around her lungs and encouraging it to squeeze tighter.

  Alba had screamed for Korra to stay, for her not to be taken away; she’d called Korra’s name but she’d never said goodbye. Korra had gasped and pleaded for it to stop, for something to be done, but no other word had made it past her lips; she’d never gotten to say goodbye.

  The last she saw of Korra was in a pool of wretched crimson, a baby dying in her belly, and her hands digging into Alba’s arm for comfort, for release, for help.

  And it would be the last she ever saw of her.

  A small nudge in her middle -- an outward pressure of a living creature within demanding recognition -- made sickness roll over her; no longer routine but just as strong. A vile taste came to her mouth, but the pit of her stomach was hollow, devoid of anything to vomit. The thought that accompanied it made her feel dizzy – one day it would be her. The child would burst forth and she would drain her lungs with her screams, drain her body of her lifeblood with the pain; and then perhaps it would die. Or maybe she would die instead.

  Alba bit her lip to silence a sound forcing its way up her throat; the sound wanted to cry out for Korra, begging for her to come like she begged for her mother in her pillow. As if the tears and the whines could be heard across the miles, drawing them near. Korra was the strong one; she was the one who harnessed hate, who held onto her loathing.

  Alba was weak, and the only twisting pain she could feel inside of her was her hunger and her grief. She could never have this baby without Korra at her side; she envisioned herself lying in the darkness with only the dancing, phantom monsters flickering with the candlelight surrounding her. Korra wouldn’t gather her into her lap, let her nails dig into her arms, call for help, whisper encouragement. As if a pit had opened inside of her, the dizziness mixed with dread and formed a hole in Alba’s gut.

  She was going to vomit, and she shot her eyes open, locking on Ms. Wright in the front as she breathed in, willing it away. Her strength wavered, and she wondered what punishment she would find for purging her empty stomach onto the floor.

  Alba breathed in deeply, letting her glassy eyes follow her teacher as she moved back and forth in front of the class; it steadied her. Ms. Wright etched out letters on the black, underlining and writing arrows so they could learn the rules of spelling, of writing; just as they had learned the rules of sitting, and speaking, and praying, and eating, and being this version of a human being who was civilized and correct.

  She moved from one side to the other with grace in her stride, and her thin index finger pointed to a child in the far back that raised its hand, ready with an answer. She nodded as the girl answered right; smiled as more hands went up in response to a question; pursed her lips to list a correction. Alba sat without moving, without speaking; her face a tearstained statue that sat with its back straight and its dress smoothed out.

  Perhaps Ms. Wright wished it was not that way; perhaps someone wished it was better. But the headmaster didn’t care; Mr. O’Hannigan didn’t mind; Mrs. Greenspan didn’t bother. The school only wanted their language gone from their mouths, their hair and their clothes and their shoes assembled how the school liked, their manners flawless and their history crushed beneath their heels. So Ms. Wright stood at the front of the class, ready to serve her god, ready to serve her people, ready to impress civilization upon children who looked on with dead eyes but ready answers.

  Korra had made it livable; and now Alba would never see Korra again.

  Perhaps it would be easier to simply raise her hand, Alba thought, and answer the questions. Perhaps it would be simpler to arrange her hair precisely, and adopt the grace Ms. Wright showed with every stride. Perhaps the only way to live life was by praying to their god, and writing in their notebooks, and keeping her mouth silent as a headmaster and those like him looked her way.

  Or perhaps it’d be easier to end it altogether.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Nita

  It was happening.

  The ball flew across the field and a mesh of bodies slammed into one another, feet pounding into the ground as players sprinted back and forth, all aiming for the ball. It was another school’s field that was brutalized in the game, falling victim to players slamming into its grass, their feet ripping up its soil as they clashed.

  Nita watched hazily, his eyes locked on Hakan’s back, tracking him only by his number as he ran. Pamuy sat beside him, not paying much attention as his eyes drooped; he leaned forward, running his hand through his short cropped hair to stay awake. The sun was dipping, but its balmy heat sapped them of energy, just as time had slowly sapped at their enthusiasm.

  They waited like careful hunters in the forest, melding into the landscape as they waited for their prey to approach. The game stretched on for longer than their patience wanted to tolerate, but they watched as time passed them by. Stalking would take long hours and quiet waiting, and waiting for their opportunity would ask nothing less. At the end of the game, then they would come alive.

  “I swear this game is never going to end,” Pamuy muttered, his voice thick and drowsy. “And I can never tell who’s winning.”

  “I know we’re winning,” Nita provided, though he didn’t know much more than that. His thoughts were always elsewhere as he waited on the edge of the field for Hakan -- a translator to be called on. Usually his mind lingered on home, but for the first time, the game and his home had become one thought, becoming the only subject his mind could care for. “The other players keep calling our players mean names.” He added, as if that reaffirmed his assessment.

  Nita leaned back on the uncomfortable bench, trying to catch a glimpse of the exit without being seen doing so. Not far from the field was a thick forest. Nita had seated himself and Pamuy at the far edge of the field, in a position that was not ideal for watching the game, placed the stands between them and the school. If he needed to use the restroom, rounding them would be the efficient route to reaching the school, and it placed him out of sight of the field. As soon as he was out of sight, a veer in his course would bring him to the forest.

  Then their lives would be back in their own hands. There would be no more lashes across their backs, shoes that rubbed and blistered their feet, schedules that brought them up and down the halls like livestock – no more shouting and reprimanding and demands. They wouldn’t need letters to reach home; they would reach home, and it would be their own native language they spoke when they arrived.

  Nita shifted his sight back to the field, fearful of his glances giving him away. He watched as the ball moved to the other end of the field, Hakan helping it Albang. His coach’s bragging – to the teachers, to the other schools, to the other players -- exploded into thunderous cheers as Hakan’s skills were placed in action. Nita could see the resentment in the other player’s eyes as clearly as Hakan, and just as his fluid English betrayed him, Hakan’s skill in the sport was his downfall among peers.

  That wouldn’t matter after today.

  Nita’s watched Hakan respond to the couch’s instructions flawlessly, without Nita’s hand signals and whispered translations to help. It was a big game, the couch had said, slapping Hakan on the shoulder as they arrived; they couldn’t afford to have anything stop them. This included no mistranslations, so despite his improvement in English, Hakan needed his translator. Nita had watched Hakan hold back his laugh, smiling at his coach – nothing would stop them today; that was true. Truer than he knew.

  A sharp look from Nita brought Hakan’s humor back into check – there was too much in the balance – but excitement was just as thick as their anxiety. Sugary drinks and fluffy, pink-colored treats known as c
otton candy helped to fill the void when they arrived, and the sun baking down on them soothed out their energy, but the stress lingered like a sickness. When the game came to a lull, players catching their breaths, there would be a nervous glance exchanged between the three.

  “It will only be a few hours more now.” Nita whispered, too afraid to say more as he clasped Pamuy’s hand and smiled. The teachers cared for the game, for winning, for their manners, and their English, and their religion, and their civilization – Nita wanted nothing of it. In a time so short it threatened to take Nita’s breath away, he’d never have to conform again. He could cast away their civilized manners, and be the heathen they hated so much – he could see the family they despised.

  “I know. It’s going to be wonderful,” Pamuy said, suddenly coming to life; a smile grew, until he was grinning from ear to ear. His voice was strained, choked by excitement, “I’m going to see my mom.”

  Hakan’s talent -- if the coach’s cheers were anything to judge by -- was holding out. The audience roared, cracking the air like thunder as a point was scored, and another, until the rhythm was like a storm. The game was nearly over, Nita assumed, and it was clear that Carlisle was going to win; the fuming silence of the opposing crowd, flaring with boos and discord, only proved this point.

  “We’re going to be gone in just a moment,” Nita whispered under his breath, anticipating the end like anticipating a strike of lightning.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Alba

  Korra had been strong -- strong enough to keep food from passing through her lips for days -- but Alba had never had the strength. The absence of Korra was like someone had reached inside of her, wrapping their fingers around something vital and ripping it out. Perhaps when the child came, it would be the same. Alba couldn’t live with this pain, and she wouldn’t survive that pain either.

  In contrast, hunger wasn’t so bad after all.

  Alba lied in her bed, the sun setting outside of her window and dimming her room into darkness. The candle on the table beside her stood without a flame to hold, and the shadowy creatures that formed in the corners, on the floor, on the ceiling, waited in anticipation for the fire to make them dance. Shallow breathes struggled to fill her lungs, the bones of her rib cage too heavy, too thick to allow it, and the weight of her head assured her she wouldn’t rise to strike a fire.

  Her cheeks felt as thin and gaunt as the inside of her belly, swelling out with the baby but collapsing in with the hunger. Ms. Wright’s plate waiting before her at the lunch table, the twisting hunger that brought a gasp from her lips and tears to her eyes, the frightened looks from girls and the worried, grave glances from teachers, couldn’t overwhelm the pain that Korra’s absence left behind. The ache that pierced her mind like needles digging deeper, dragging her down, weighing her down, casted away the appeal of tasteless food, of anything but a sip of water.

  Exhaustion was like a thick blanket pinning her down, but sleep wouldn’t come to her; even her nightmares had fled. Perhaps they needed food as well, like the child inside her needed sustenance. Headmaster Morris planted the baby inside of her, and he must have planted the nightmares in the same way; poisoning her from the inside so that it would fester, killing her slower than the hunger could manage.

  Alba felt ripples of movement across her stomach, insistent kicks and cries from the baby screaming to come out. Fear shot across her skin like freezing water dowsing her form, shocking her alive, shocking her eyes wide and stricken. Her shallow breath paused in her lungs and she waited for white pain to flash in her eyes; she waited like watching a snake about to strike. Her heartbeat thudded in her chest, her only gauge of time in the dizzying cage her mind was locked inside of. Moments stretched out and Alba took in a shaky breath, wetness filling her eyes; maybe she had waited too long to refuse food – maybe the child would rob her of her last energy before twisting up and dying, taking her with it in screams and blood instead of a quiet, final sleep.

  She sobbed shallowly, the sound coming up as a strained wheeze. “All I want to do is go home,” Alba mouthed, feeling no strength to speak. “I just want to see my father. And my mother. And my little brother. I want to go home.”

  It had been so long since she had looked into her father’s eyes, feeling him kiss her on the cheek and hug her tightly. He loved her, and he was warm and kind; perhaps no one like that existed in this civilized world. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt her mother’s hands brush through her hair, soothing, comforting, as her voice hummed songs as thick as honey. She couldn’t remember her mother’s face; the rise of her cheeks or the curve of her lips or the way her hair framed her features was gone in Alba’s memory.

  The thoughts that came scared her, frightening her until her body quaked, but the thoughts persisted anyways. She’d never see her parents again, and she’d never see Korra either. Each day, the thoughts grew stronger, flitting in her mind where images of her parents had once been. The thoughts kept the food from passing through her lips, day after day, until her lips blued and her cheeks became sunken.

  She was going to die. If she was dead, she wouldn’t have to live in this school and all the horrors it offered. If she died, she wouldn’t have to strain her mind to remember the face of her mother, of her father, and know she’d never see them again. If she was dead, she would never feel the pain of the baby ripping itself free – whether it lived, becoming like its father, or died, leaving her hollow and Albane.

  Without Korra, there was no one to stand at her side; to help her up in the mornings when she couldn’t rise; to brush her hair when her arms felt too weak; to hold her hand when the sobs wracked her body, whispering comfort in their weak, nearly-forgotten tongue. There were no stories shared in whispered secret, snuggled tight together under the covers, calling up memories of their families, of their tribes, of things that made them laugh and smile.

  Korra felt her fear, had her nightmares, struggled with her pain. Alba had nothing without Korra, and so being nothing was all she wanted to do. The hunger had promised to take it all away, but the baby kicked inside of her, rippling movement across her belly, threatening to be swifter.

  Alba couldn’t handle the pain of her parents, her little brother, only existing in memory. She couldn’t handle the pain of Korra’s absence. Alba wouldn’t handle the pain of the birth.

  With the same effort, the same pain, the same dizziness and breathless gasps that rolled her from her bed every morning for class, Alba tumbled from her bed. Her hands and knees caught her, her belly hanging like a weight in her middle, threatening to make her collapse in a heap, but her thin, shaky arms held her up. The world swam around her as she gripped the edge of her bed, wavering as she stood.

  One step, two steps, breathless gasps, a wave of dizziness that nearly made her crumple – all blending together into a sickening rhythm, until she sat on the edge of her windowsill. Her legs dangled out the edge, her back curved sharply so her head could lean out into the open air. The ground waited below her, a long plummet that made her taste fear in her mouth.

  Her vision blurred with tears. Her voice too weak to speak, she mouthed, “I’m sorry, father.” Her lungs stretched helplessly to fill the void, to drag in enough air to manage the sobs that choked her.

  She could never go back. There was a child in her belly, and scars on her legs that would never fade. The nightmares were gone, but they waited like rabid dogs in the recesses of her mind, ready to claw her as soon as food filled her stomach. The classes, the teachers, the priests all ripped and tore at her, reaching inside of her and ripping out anything that resembled her identity. They had taken her people from her, and anything about her that she loved. A single day alive would offer no reprieve from the pain, and the child inside her kicked, promising to intensify her suffering.

  The drop was simpler than it all. All she would need to do is lean forward, and gravity would take her down the three floors in an instant, finishing it in a way starvation could not manage
. Her mind was a symphony of dizziness, of spinning and flickering colors of pain. Somewhere inside of the frenzy, she found a strand of a memory, pulling it forward – a song her father had sung to her, oh so long ago. His voice was gone, lost in the fading memories, but she chanted the words in her head. It didn’t sooth the pain, but she clung to it like the last lifeline she could hold.

  Someday, she told herself, she would see her father again in the afterlife. Then he would understand everything.

  A simple shift of her weight, leaning forward over the thick rise of her belly, and she would never have to see the colored glass of the church again. She’d never hear a voice barking at her, condemning her stance or her shoes or her speech. No more sermons or uncomfortable seats, or teachers that praised the actions of people with lighter skin, condemning her people and everything about them. No more “civilized” or “heathens.” No more headmasters. She could be with her ancestors and it’d all finally be over.

  Gravity took her and the ground rushed up to meet her. Colors exploded everywhere, flashing and blaring before coming together into a precise, finite point, and then it was over.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Nita

  The Carlisle team won.

  Hakan’s anxiety was held down for those last few precious moments and his praised skills pushed forward in its place, until the game was over. The field and stands alike exploded into cheers; players leaped into the air with screams melding with the spectators’ like rolls of thunder melding into one. They had beaten the white-faced competitors in their own field, at their own game, in the civilized way, and people of both colors – students and teachers alike – were overwhelmed with the thrill of it.

  Nita’s hands shot into the air, mirroring Pamuy’s; a shout of victory bursting from his mouth, but not at the score – for other reasons entirely. People flooded the field, and the air was a deafening buzz of voices and shouts. Nita’s ears were beginning to ring, barely able to see through the thickening crowd to Hakan in the distance.