The Price of Hannah Blake

by Donway, Walter

  Like an automaton controlled by Maria’s voice, Hannah imitated the movements—not well, but soon she was panting, wondering if they ever would stop. Yes, she was naked; her breasts swung and flopped, but no one seemed to notice, not in the least. The rhythm was of Maria’s chanting: “One! Two! Three! Again! One! Two! Three!” And all around Hannah the strong, perfect bodies were leaping, clapping hands over their heads, slapping their thighs.

  Awkwardly, Hannah was leaping, too, sometimes losing her balance. She was gasping, now, and her body an automaton. She tried to watch the others. Yes, she was naked, but had no energy to spare for that. In 15 minutes, sweat was running into her eyes, itching between her thighs, dripping to the polished wooden floor. Sweat ran from between her breasts; she felt as though there was oil in the crack of her buttocks. Her sandy public hair was dark and drops kept falling from her nose and chin.

  At 25 minutes, she stopped. Just stopped and stood there. Let them whip her, kill her. Nothing could hurt more than this. She could not look at the others; they all seemed to be fresh. Without breaking the rhythm of her chanted commands, Maria came to her, took her arm, and pulled her to the bench where she sat yesterday. She didn’t need to push Hannah down; Hannah fell back heavily. “All right,” said Maria, but she had turned and gone dancing back to the front of the class.

  She watched them. Their bodies seemed carved in muscle, cut by a chisel. When Myra leaped, her big breasts remained almost motionless. Her eyes were wide, gazing ahead. Hannah began to panic; what did they do to you, if you couldn’t go on? Maria had not sounded reproachful, had she? Suddenly, Hannah noticed that her legs were trembling from exhaustion. The sides of her breasts ached from jouncing.

  “Stop!” Maria commanded, and Hannah realized, with a thrill, that she had almost made it. She could have made it, if she had known. Just a few minutes! Maria turned and walked from the hall. Some of the men and woman stood, heads hanging, breathing hard. Now, Hannah could see that they all glistened with sweat. Some simply lay down on the wooden floor; other walked about, slowly, heads hanging like exhausted horses. She kept looking at their sex, then stopping herself; it fascinated her, the rude hair and sprouting prick. They were so exposed, and she was taking pleasure in it; she looked away.

  Could Hannah finish a day? What came next? Probably she could not finish. Then. Charlotte flopped down beside her. Hannah turned and smiled, glad for her friend. Her glance took in Charlotte’s little breasts, contoured stomach, tight thighs. Charlotte said, “Maria was pleased. You have strength and you are determined to do your best; you accept the pain.”

  “Can I keep up? I’m dead.”

  “We may have dance, now. That’s slower. Or gestures and expressions. Later, or some time, you will get voice and singing—if you happen to have any talent. We do different things. This was morning warm-up.”

  “I could have made it, if I had known,” said Hannah.

  “No,” said Charlotte. “We went longer than usual. Maria was waiting for you to poop and quit. Then, we went a couple more minutes and stopped. Actually, you did make it.”

  “But…”

  “She was testing you. How long would you hang on? How much could you take? Would you fight the pain? And you did.” She laughed. “Of course, tomorrow will be worse because you will be so stiff. That shouldn’t last, though; push through it. Look, we have 15. Get down on your belly.” Charlotte pointed with her toes.

  “On the floor?”

  “Why not?” She took Hannah’s arm and pushed her off the bench. Why not, thought Hannah? Lying on her belly covered most of her; she had noticed boys and girls studying her. The floor was cooler. She felt Charlotte take her hands and stretch her arms above her head. Then, she felt Charlotte’s weight on her legs and felt Charlotte’s bush brush her skin. She started to rise but flopped back. Anything to rest! Then, Hannah was sighing, purring like a cat at the hearth. The hands on her back, her neck, her buttocks were performing magic tricks; please, this forever! The hands found every muscle and loosened it. When they began kneading her buttocks, Hannah just sighed and smiled. She closed her eyes, but only for a moment, it seemed, before a hand lightly swatted her butt, and Charlotte said, “Okay, over.”

  Hannah obediently flipped, forgetting her nakedness; she never even opened her eyes. The hands were moving in long stretching motions down her legs, tugging her arms, and doing something quite unimaginable to her feet. All too soon, she heard Charlotte say, “Okay, boobie, time’s up” and felt hands briefly squeeze her breasts and give one quick tug on her pubic hair. She felt as though wakened from the most beautiful, unfinished dream anyone ever had.

  By late afternoon, the group had split, though all worked in the same room. There was dance, acting, song. They scarcely ever stopped. Hannah was only observing, but she gathered that, in early summer, the troupe entered its most intense period as the duke and his court migrated south to this seaside town for pleasures of the seashore and clandestine summer entertainment.

  It was brutal. All those perfect bodies sweated for the duke. When would it begin? Hannah looked down at her naked breasts, belly, thighs, her sex. And, again, it was inconceivable this could be happening to her. Would the duke, the brother of the queen, the grandest royalty in the land, really come? Was it all a vicious myth?

  Three bells sounded. Everyone stopped. They were crowding toward the door. Maria was walking toward a different exit, but she saw Hannah still sitting, and said, “Do what they do, Hannah. Shower.” Hannah did not move, and Maria snapped, her voice a whip, “Go!” Hannah sprang from the bench, out of her trance, and pushed into the dressing room. Anything to escape that stinging voice of command. She scarcely could believe it; no one was here. How long had Hannah sat in a reverie? Her clothes alone hung from the hook. And then she heard, “In here, boobie; I’ve been waiting.”

  Hannah heard the sound of rain. “In here,” called Charlotte. “This is where you wash. Hurry. I’ve been waiting.” There was no one to see her, and she was naked anyway; people had seen her all day. Hannah ran through a tiled portal and stopped. She had never seen showers. Or water that miraculously sprayed you, warm water. Charlotte stood naked, but her hands moved all over her body, soaping it.

  Charlotte asked, smiling, “All new? You’ll like it. No lugging buckets, no heating water. Just pull this chain and it rains warm water. Come on, try it.” Hannah stood beneath the spitting streams. It felt wonderful, after the day, taking away the sweat, the ache. “Soap,” called Charlotte, and the white bar flew toward her. “All over you,” called Charlotte. “Especially the pussy and the arsehole.”

  When they were drying, with great soft towels Hannah never imagined, Charlotte said, “Your room is two floors up, okay? Number 29. I can’t go with you. There will be cheese and fruit in your room, also bread and wine. You don’t have to go to dinner, if you don’t want to, but everyone does.” It sounded like a better meal than Hannah ever had.

  Hannah dried herself, taking too long because the towel felt soft and full in a way she never had experienced. When she was reaching for her blouse and pants on the hook, Charlotte came over to her. She put her arms around her and hugged her, pressing against her breasts. For a moment, Charlotte looked down into her eyes, and then, slowly, her lips came down and pressed Hannah’s. After a moment, she said, “You did fine, today. You should make it, I think. Not for this season, probably; not for the show. But the duke may remember you and ask for you.”

  Then, Hannah was walking along the corridors, seeking stairs. She went slowly and from the windows she saw courtyards, gardens, sometimes other buildings. The sunlight, now, was brushing the tops of flowers and shadowing the walks. Suddenly, she thought: I must remember all this! If I can’t even find my way through the halls, how will I ever escape? She turned around and looked behind her. Two turns from the great hall, one left—no, two left, then up the stairs. Turn right…

  She saw her door and halted, suddenly uneasy. A trap, again? She recalled her terr
or of the night before, her scream. She approached on tiptoe, stopped again, pressed an ear to the door. She was poised to flee, but heard nothing. Did she feel disappointment? Suddenly, she turned the knob and flung open the door.

  It banged the wall. The room sat in ticking silence, but with palpable streams of sunlight falling from the windows. Hannah stepped in, still on alert, and looked around. Then, she closed the door and locked it. Of course, Cara had a key, but not the boys, certainly? Safe, private, another day survived. She wondered why she felt let down.

  At the window, she could see the garden below. It was painted in dark blue and white, the shrubbery at the lawn’s edge giving way to woods, and, far beyond, the sea almost white, glaring where the sun beat on it. A princess might have stood here, she thought, and looked upon such a scene. A princess in a prison, a miserable little princess in a citadel of wickedness, ripe for rescue. But by whom? What prince? The only prince who would come would savor her degradation, staged for his pleasure. Not rescue, but ruin. That was to be life: Hannah naked on stage, “requested,” brought to the duke like Maria. And then, if she yielded everything, they might take her but not hurt her. And perhaps it would not satisfy them, the duke; her body belonged to the duke. She became aware of her body, under the light cotton.

  The exercises had left her floating, relaxed and open. She wondered, should she remove her clothing, again? Three sharp raps, peremptory raps, made Hannah jump and start for the door. The raps came again, like an alarm. She hurried over, but then stopped, staring in fear. She began to ask, “Who is it?” She stopped herself. Instead, she approached and pressed her ear to the door.

  “Hannah?” called a voice. It shook with panic. “Hannah?” It was Charlotte’s voice. Hannah’s nerve snapped, and she flung open the door.

  Chapter 11

  “In Honor of Your Wedding Night, Hannah”

  “Thank God!” gasped Charlotte. “I thought they already had you!’

  “Who?” Hannah grabbed Charlotte’s wrist in panic.

  “Charles and the rest! They’re coming to get you! I got here as fast as I could!”

  “Oh, God, no!”

  “Come!” cried Charlotte. “Come now!”

  Hannah scarcely could speak. “I’ve got to lock the door,” she gasped. She began to shove the door closed.”

  “No! You think they can’t get in?”

  Hannah’s hands were shaking so badly she dropped the keys. She stared at Charlotte.

  “Just come, I can show you where to hide till curfew, then you’ll be safe. Thank God I got here! They could come up the stairs any minute!”

  It was enough. Hannah snatched up the keys, pulled shut the door. There were tears in her eyes, “Thank you!”

  She started to take Charlotte’s hand, but realized she was still wasting time, and said, “I’ll follow you.”

  “I don’t hear them,” said Charlotte, running down the corridor. “I think we can get down the back steps and out the garden door! If only they don’t spot us till we reach the woods!” She looked back, and said, “But, look, Hannah, if they do, just run, okay? I’ll stay back and try to stop them. They won’t bother me. I’m an old troupie.”

  They were hurrying down a narrow, winding stair. Charlotte ran on tiptoe and Hannah imitated her. Hannah had to ask, gasping for breath, “When you first came here, did they…?”

  Charlotte had paused at a closed door at the bottom of the stairwell. She turned to Hannah. “Just be quiet, okay? This opens on the garden; if they aren’t waiting there, I think we made it. Ready?”

  Hannah gulped and nodded. She said, choking on unshed tears, “Thank you, Charlotte, thank you!” She seized Charlotte’s arm, but Charlotte shoved open the door and raced out across the lawn. Charlotte ran beautifully, leaping like a doe. Together, they raced down a path between the bushes at a dead run. The bushes snapped back at Hannah, whipping her, but she didn’t care. She had an ally.

  At last, Charlotte slowed, taking a deep breath, and said, “I think we can walk, now. Even if they’ve found you gone, they won’t know right away where to look. Boy, they’ll be furious. Charles planned a real…” she let the words trail off. “A real party, with you as the cake.”

  All the grassy, winding paths sloped downward. The mansion must sit on a hill. They were heading down in the direction of the sea. Finally, the cultivated shrubbery and paths yielded to woods, but woods groomed, tree trunks wide apart, between them no undergrowth. There were soft leaves under foot. Above, the trees swayed and murmured. How could there be danger, here?

  She had escaped once, but for how long? The infuriated boys would not give up. Tomorrow, next week… she could not hide forever. And when they caught up with her, what would they do in their frustration?

  Charlotte whispered, “We can stay, here, Hannah.” They stood before a small stone house beneath the trees. It was dark and silent, like a chapel, with a peaked roof, heavy shutters, and shadows woven on its tiled roof from the sun through the trees. Charlotte said, “You can relax. No one would think of looking here.”

  “Charlotte?” Hannah asked. “Why did you do this, for me?” She felt frightened but moved in this silent, shadowed place.

  “In here,” whispered Charlotte, pushing open a heavy wooden door and stepping in. Hannah pressed in after her, crowding her. Charlotte took Hannah’s hand in a tight grip.

  “I’m coming,” said Hannah urgently.

  As if she had stepped into an enchanted place, lights went on, flaring, casting skinny black shadows up the walls. Hannah glanced around, shocked, and then she moaned and put her face in her hands. They were applauding, a dozen standing in a semi-circle. Behind her, Hannah heard the door bang shut and a lock turn. Girls from the class, laughing. Charlotte lifted the keys aloft with a grin of triumph.

  “No!” said Hannah. It was a whimper. “Oh, please…” She said it not to Charlotte or the others, but to a plunging feeling in her chest, a sudden fathomless betrayal, where nothing was what it seemed and there was no bottom.

  How had Charlotte..? No, all of them! Actresses! Trained in every expression of emotion, in drama! A skit to trap Hannah! So easy. And she was a poor country wench, an utter fool! There had been no boys coming! She whirled, her hand a fist, and struck Charlotte in the face. As soon as the blow connected, Hannah’s fist flew back and, lower now, hit Charlotte in the belly. Then she kicked upward, with all her might, into Charlotte’s shin. Suddenly, she recalled Maria’s words: “The women are so cruel. Watch out for the women.”

  Hands, strong hands, grabbed her from behind. Charlotte’s hands were lifted, and she fallen back against the door, but she was laughing, simply laughing. At last, Hannah looked at the faces around the room. She saw Myra staring at her and Myra smiled. She said, “I’ve been waiting all day, for this! Isn’t she a little beauty? I kept trying to find an excuse to touch her; I couldn’t wait!”

  “No,” said Hannah, but without hope. She backed toward the wall, but the hands held her. Behind her, she felt Charlotte’s body, and Charlotte’s voice said, “Golly! She’s a lioness!”

  The girls wore gowns—white, cream, the yellow of early spring, pink. Their shoulders and arms were bare, their hair coiffed, some wore tiaras. All wore high heels. Hannah stared. None of it registered in her brain, not at all. She was a farm girl. All her life, she had worn a few rough garments. Now, in this woodland hut, more baffling than their nudity earlier in the day, were woman who looked like ladies of Queen’s court.

  Myra stepped from the semi-circle and approached, never shifting her gaze from Hannah. Her walk was regal. She said, “This little thing never should wear clothes.” She reached toward Hannah with long, slender fingers. Hannah could not shrink back; they held her. She said, “Come on, Hannah, change into something more comfortable.”

  Hannah shook her head, glancing at the others. She had no allies, no friends. She caught Charlotte’s eyes, and, in response to the furious accusation in her own, Charlotte said, sweetly, “Don�
��t fight it puss. It won’t hurt. It will happen. You know that it always does happen, here.”

  Myra reached out and grasped Hannah’s blouse at the neck, pulling it over her head. Hannah’s foot lashed up, but Myra was ready, easily avoiding the kick. Hannah glared, furious, at Myra. But it was Charlotte’s soft voice that said, “Oh, puss, why?”

  Myra stood back, smiling, at ease, as though discovering merriment in all that Hannah did. Then, striking like a serpent, head lowered, she slammed her head into Hannah’s midsection, winding her. At the same time, her hands came up and seized Hannah’s breasts, crushing them; suddenly, somehow, she was behind Hannah, arms encircling her, squeezing her breasts. Myra was laughing uncontrollably, happily. Her lips fastened on the back of Hannah’s neck, and she murmured, “So, so beautiful!”

  Hannah kicked viciously backward, but her foot struck nothing. Myra’s legs weren’t there. An image came to Hannah of Myra in the exercise room, her glistening muscles like wet mahogany. And then, she had an image of Myra on a floor, naked, with men all around her, their pricks out, waiting. Was it true?

  Myra’s arms were around her waist, now, and a murderous squeeze expelled Hannah’s breath. Myra lifted Hannah off the floor and Charlotte darted in, seizing the cuffs of Hannah’s pants and pulling. Hannah kicked and screamed, but the pants came down and off. She kicked furiously at Charlotte’s pretty, laughing face. Charlotte easily dodged. She straightened up, waving Hannah’s pants with a triumphant cry. Hannah was naked, now, from the waist down, too, her long, slender legs kicking at air. When she realized it, she gave a cry of despair. Had Myra not held her in the impossible grip, Hannah would have slumped to the floor, curled in on herself. Then hands shoved Hannah forward, and she stumbled into the semi-circle of clapping girls.

  Hannah made one long, piteous plea, “Don’t do this!” Then, she thought, desperately. “Never show them your modesty. It is an intoxicant.”