It is now when I hear deep whispers. The short whinny of a clip-clopping horse, with carriage wheels singing upon the flagstones. They come from behind me.
As the street tightens and the road goes on and on—the horse and carriage come closer. The unfamiliar voices close in. The world spins and my heart jumps into my throat as I fear that they will continue on—trampling me. Behind me, the large beast snorts.
It comes to a clip-clopping stop.
“Arvel, boy—thought you had gotten used to these tiny streets.” a man, raspy. The grizzled voice of an elder.
The beast taps my head with its slimy snout. I squeak, holding the zither to my chest tighter.
“I think there's someone up there—”
“Who in their right mind would stop on these streets? Excuse me!”
I freeze. I dare not move as boots fall to the flagstones.
My arms tremble. The zither clatters against me.
“Are you lost?” Another voice, younger. A boy.
“She ain't lost—she's one of those whores. Running away, eh?” a hard hand grasps me. Spins me around. “Wearing nothing but a shift—how daring. What're you in for, darling?”
A weathered map of a face. Tanned. Almond shaped eyes sit upon his face like holes cut into cardboard. A wooden pipe juts from the corner of his mouth, smoke rising from it. Jerkin and breeches are tobacco stained.
I've only seen men adorned in crisp cloth-of-gold. Old men. The Orthella's patrons resembled wise men draped in supple cotton surcoats. The clothing of the east, Lore told me once. The lawless east. The only people who lived and worked in Felicity were sellers—sellers of two things: bodies and souls.
I wondered which one this man sold, as he stared me up and down. He evaluates me. Fixes my face into his mind.
“What a pretty runaway you are, too.” a smile that does not meet his narrowed eyes. “Boy—c'mere and meet this pretty young thing.”
A young man scampers over. He resembles his father—but only comes up to the elder's torso. Chestnut hair swirls about his head, like amber clouds. His clothing resembles his father's, but without the tobacco stains. His tunic is stark white. He peers at me—I peer back.
I clutch my zither to my chest.
“How old are you, girl?”
My eyes flicker, my gaze coming to the older man. “I don't know, sir.”
He harrumphs. Brings his hand to meet his hairy chin and scratches it. “You're a polite one. You know how much the Saints gives us for you runaways?”
“Six pieces.” the little boy smiles. “Gets me exactly—”
“Gets us nothing is what!” the older man hisses. Spits the pipe from his lip and catches it.
I breathe, “The Saints pays for…?”
Black eyes meet mine. They are hard. Evil. “The Saints pays for girls who run away. For girls who decide the whoring life isn't for them. You one of those girls?”
My mouth drops. I shake my head.
Softly, the man chuckles. He pockets the pipe. “Course not, that's what they all say. Yuka—get the rope!”
The young man clambers towards the carriage as my eyes widen—I catch my breath—rope? What did they intend to do? “I'm not a Saints' girl!” I tell him—face reddening. “I'm not—I swear!”
When the boy jumps from the carriage, a rope of tight yellow threads in his hand, the elder smiles. Blackened teeth sprout from his mouth like ugly flowers. “Something you can do to persuade us, darling? Something you can give us?”
I hold my zither to my chest. I hug it—my eyes stare.
There was nothing—nothing. An inkling creeps up my spine at what he must be asking for. My body. That's what he wants. I think to run, but I'm not faster than a horse, and the street only becomes more narrow. Only squeezes more. He'd catch me. I'd trip.
I want to go home.
The man holds out his hand. Twitches the fingers upon his palm. “Ten pieces.”
Of what?
I've never handled money in my life. But I have some. I fish the purse from my bra band and open it. One gold piece. Ten bronze. Hana's savings. I hesitate.
“Can you count, girl? Course not. Only thing you girls are good for is spreading your legs. Here.”
He snatches the gold piece. Takes the ten bronze pieces and smiles at his work. He bites the gold piece upon his black teeth. My shoulders lower as I hide the empty purse in my bra band. I sigh. My head lowers.
“You going to need that instrument, girl?” he asks. Touches his finger to the wood. “That's a pretty piece of equipment. Wouldn't want the Saints knowing you stole it, huh?”
I look to the long body of the zither held tight in my arms. This was my little piece of home. My past. This was Lore and the others. My sisters. This was Yarne—my first house mother—when I looked at it in the right light. This was my happiness—a part of me.
This was all I had to remind me of happier days.
This was it.
A songstress without her zither was simply a girl with a pretty voice. Nothing—nothing.
Without it—without my zither—
My eyes snap to his. I bite my lip. “No.” I take a step back, moving the zither to my side as I put out a hand. The palm faces him. “This—this is mine.”
“Well that's too bad.” the man sighs, the boy at his side snaps the rope straight between his two hands. “Might as well get her, boy.”
The child races at me, rope in hand. A knife dangles from his leather belt as he pumps his legs. It glints.
I rise onto my toes and sprint.
The road dashes by me. All gray. Some white. A vicious blur that zooms by. The boy is at my heels—nips and lashes with the rope. He uses it like a whip. Like he's used to this game. Chasing whores. Chasing women disenchanted with their lives.
But I'm not one of them.
He gains on me. The moment the corridor forks three ways, I sprint forward only to double back and take a street to my right. This slows him—but he roars. A tiny monster licks at my heels—he's huffing and puffing, panting like fire is exploding from his lungs—when, far behind him, the hooves of a horse clatter upon the stones of the street. I turn into an alleyway when a great beast whinnies, a carriage goes thundering—sliding into the squeezing walls of the alleyway as everything within it pours to the ground. The boy's father drives the wild horse as it careens onto the ground with an explosion of timber and steel. The animal screams—the boy screams with it. I hurl myself over a large wooden box beside an alleyway door and I think I've made it. I think I'm free—but a rope catches around my ankle. It snakes and tightens.
My chest slams into the box. My zither barely missing the tumble as I hold it above my head.
This is my only memory. My only piece of home.
They cannot have it.
But the boy is strong. He pulls and pulls and the father scrambles from the mess he has made with the horse and carriage. Their strength has become combined and I can do nothing as I hold the zither above my head—as my chest slams upon the ground and my teeth jitter in their sockets. My zither goes sliding across the flagstones as I cling to a stone that juts from the street.
I scream.
Birds leave their perches. I hear their black wings beat against the air.
As the alleyway door is flung open. It moans on its hinges. A woman's face peers out. She couldn't have been no older than me.
Emerald eyes glare at me—then follow the rope to my captors.
She disappears into the doorway, only to come rushing back with a wide silver knife.
“Get away!” she shrieks, brandishing it erratically—like a tree spurned by wind. “Let her go you damned slave catchers—I don't condone slavery here—leave her be and get away!”
The pulling stops. I reach out to grab my zither.
“She belongs to the Saints.” the old man shrieks back.
“People don't belong to people.”
When the rope slacks, I scramble up. “I'll tell Kapua you're harboring
his girls! He doesn't take kindly to thieves. You'll be giving your life—all for your ideals? For this whore you've never met?”
Red hair flashes like flame when the woman bends down to slice the rope from my ankle. But for the few seconds she is blind-sighted, the old man roars as he rushes at her—sprints with a wiry fist aimed for her face.
The boy flashes a knife and throws it to the old man. He catches it. Grips it in both hands. Aims the blade down.
He goes for her skull.
I heft my zither over my shoulder. It's heavy. A fine instrument. A beautiful voice.
My only piece of home.
I slam it into the old man's stomach. The instrument splinters. Cracking in two. Sighing its high-pitched song—it's final breath. The old man staggers. Chokes on his breath.
As the redheaded woman shoots up and stabs him in the stomach. Once. Twice. He drops to his knees.
“Take him.” she spits to the boy. “Take him and never come my way again.”
4. Gifts of Misfortune
I mourned it.
Fell to my knees, threw my head back and cried out as the boy and his father disappeared down the alleyway.
Beseeched the gods.
Beseeched the zither.
But it sang its final swansong and lay upon the ground in brown pieces. Silver strings will never be played again. Its unique voice of crystal bells will forever be silent.
I cried.
“Hey,”
A gentle touch—tentative. Unsure.
“Hey?” she says again, hand to my shoulder. Her fingers pinch. “You need to get up and get inside—if that boy makes good on his father's threat to get Kapua, you're going to need to hide—”
I turn to look into her face. Pale. Freckled. Dancing green eyes that are confident. Cheery. “Don't worry.” she says. Winks. “I've done this thousands of times before.”
She forces me up—invites me inside.
Brown tile shines beneath me when I'm in. She slams the door behind us—bam! Ushers me forward through an airy hallway lined with wood. A wide room opens up before me with bright sun. Light pours from the far wall, from a bay window. A round table of wood sits just beneath the light. Opposite it, multiple cupboards line the walls. They're heavy with jars. Strange jars—but my vision is blurry. Tears threaten to fall and I hang my head.
She sits me down at the round table. Four chairs, I count. A small place. Tall. Cupboards jut across from me—holding the strange jars. Jars with strange energies. They're little balls of black light wearing thin veils that end in a tail. The tails dance as if someone's blowing on them. Are they magic? I wonder. Could a person capture magic?
I had never seen anything like it.
I stare at the jars. The tears disappear as my eyes follow the bouncy movement of the little balls. Some of them swish around in their jars—like dancing fish.
The redhead walks towards the cupboards opposite me. The bloodied knife falls to the counter with a clang before she pulls out two cups and leaves them. Moves away to handle an oval shaped jug that's larger than her head. Opens its lid with a sigh and pours something gray into the cups.
Drops of gray splash upon the counter as her hands tremble slightly. “Plum wine.” she murmurs. Halfway gazes over her shoulder. “This'll help your nerves—and mine.”
Softly—silently, I watch a sliding door crack slightly open towards my left. Opposite the redhead. Opposite the cupboards.
She approaches the table and places two porcelain cups before me. Moves to scrape a chair out for herself and sits next to me. She offers a hand. “Akane Kokoros.” Akane smiles, but I hesitate. I look down at her hand. “I run a shelter here. First and—probably last—of it's kind. Women only.” her grin widens. I take her hand. I shake it.
What luck.
“Naia.” I tell her. My lips mimic her grin.
“Naia.” Akane nods, red hair tumbles down thin shoulders. The green of her long tunic mingles with red. “You'll be at home here. And if Kapua comes knocking, we'll stand for you. You'll never have to go back there again, you hear me?” she clasps my hands within her own. Her palms are warm. Welcoming.
I realize that my jaw is shaking—my teeth chattering silently against each other—and I calm myself. I let my hands melt into her embrace.
Should I tell her I'm not a brothel girl? Should I keep quiet?
Did it matter?
I slide my hands away from her grasp. I place them in my lap. “Thank you, Miss Kokoros—truly. But I am actually—,”
“—a songstress?” asks a smooth voice. Heels click upon the tiles of the floor and I look up. Gentle purple eyes meet my gaze, they are carved into a diamond like face. “I remember you.” she says. Her voice is calming and still, like the untouched surface of a lake. Her eyes are unnerving—unnatural. “Naia…I heard you murmur it, but I never believed the Orthella would let you go. Your voice is magical…but your zither…” she holds up its two pieces, prostrate against the velveteen of her plum gown. “…it's broken.”
The tears come again—but they do not fall.
I nod. Unable to speak.
“It's good you came to Kokoros. It's very good.” she coos. Inclines her head. Bows it. “Your voice is what inspired me to leave the Saints. One night, the wind guided your song to my window—giving me strength. I'm glad you didn't take my route. I'm glad you found us—but very sorry you're here.” In a single, graceful, movement she bows from her torso. Silver tinged locks of sable are parted down her shoulders. “I'll leave you to it, miss.”
When she turns on her heel to leave, she takes my broken zither with her before disappearing behind the sliding paper door across from the cupboards with a soft click.
Footsteps tap stairs, and I listen.
I wonder what she's going to do with my zither. My poor broken zither.
I wonder at what my voice did for her. My song.
I wonder which song gave her the strength to run—maybe I could sing that to myself to get rid of this feeling. This feeling of helplessness mixed with betrayal. This hurt.
I can't blame Althea, nor Hana. The only person I have to blame is myself.
If only I'd tried to come out as a full-fledged songstress earlier. If only the string of my zither hadn't broken that night. If only…
Akane pulls me from my thoughts, “You and Shanti know each other, then?” When I nod, she taps a finger upon her chin. “So, your stories are similar?”
“Yes.”
“Then Kapua won't be coming for you?”
“My home is the Orthella. That is where I come from.” Where I belong.
Her face falls. “Oh, well—you'll still fit nicely here. But you'll need to earn your keep like the others. And—,” Akane gazes into my face. She brushes a stray hair from my cheek, her smile sad. “—today, just rest. It looks like times have been hard for you, Naia. Go find Shanti and she'll lead you to bed.”
Though the sun has only recently risen, I feel as if night has already fallen. I feel as if I have been awake for several days—my sleep stolen. Misfortune has robbed me of my vitality. My youth.
And so, I do as she instructs. I move through the small parlor—eyes glazed, heavy. Heart aching. I find the cupboards and the quiet paper door. When I apply gentle pressure, it opens for me with a hiss. I am met by a pathway of stairs that reach high into darkness.
At the top of the staircase, I hear a door hiss as it is slid open. Floorboards moan at the soft swish of the stockings upon feet as I climb the stairs. When I make it to the second floor, a hand reaches for my own. When the hand pulls me up, I imagine I'm looking into Lore's calm face. Full of love. Affection. Free of drink. But it's Shanti—and it's almost as if she can sense my presence, just like Lore could. Gently, she clasps my hand within her own and pulls me into a hallway. She takes a right.
Two wide sliding doors are cut into oaken walls. From the back of the hallway, a window opens halfway. It is a sleepy eye where white light pours, littering the shiny floor of t
he small hallway. I hear the hard thump of carriages outside. I catch a whiff of spring, the gentle scent of flowers on a wind made humid with the promise of rain.
I want to go home.
Shanti leads me to a door to her right. Slides it open gently. It hisses.
The room is only slightly bigger than my room at the Orthella. She has already laid out a mat for me, and it lays parallel to her own which is decorated with plush pillows. All purple or plum. Between these mats sits a little table that is low to the ground. On top of it sits stationary. A brush and an ink pot. Behind this, a large window is closed with thick blinds of flax.
Shanti gifts me one of her pillows, along with an overdress of lavender which she folds and lays down beside my mat before she leaves the room. Leaving me alone.
I lay myself down, head propped upon the pillow. It smells of goosedown and I breathe it in.
It smells like strangeness. Like a home that is not my own.
I hear loud chatter in the streets. Merchants calling. A bell—ding-dong! Ding-dong!
I close my eyes.
Girlish laughter erupts from outside my door.
I snap my eyes open—thinking it's Lore and the others. Thinking I'm home.
But the voices are foreign. The chatter is benign.
I am not home.
And I begin to fear that I never will be.
…
I have barely slept when Shanti shakes me awake—her arms heavy with plump bags full of pastel colored fabrics.
“You're to help me.” she smiles.
5. The Weaver Girl
I throw on the lavender gown above my shift in a daze. When she drops the bags with a sigh, I quickly scoop them up.
As Shanti smiles, purple eyes narrow. “Are you sure you can carry all that?” she asks with a slightly cocked head.
I nod—determined to help. Determined to earn my place here—the tears of yesterday gone for the moment. “I'll be okay.” I murmur, barely believing myself as the bags of fabric pull heavily at my arms. “Where do you want these?”
Heartfelt Sounds Page 2