The Long Lost

by Rebecca Woods

  Deliverance

  My feet burned in freezing water that swam in my father’s hard boots as I navigated the darkening streets quickly. I gritted my teeth and tried not to think about the pain as I kept walking. I needed to be swift without looking suspicious if I were to complete my mission without being caught and killed.

  The fading sun had begun its fiery descent and I shivered, as I turned left out of the lane I had been walking down. I welcomed the cover of night, the blanket of shadows and darkness but would love to have been able to savour the sunset from a safe place. It was not to be. Men milling around the marketplace suddenly surrounded me; this never failed to make me suppress a jump and hold myself just that little bit taller to avoid raising suspicion.

  The Square was the central meeting point for the townsfolk and was the site of both the Saturday marketplace and the Sunday morning church services.

  I was foolhardy to even consider walking this way, but something pulled me to almost pretend I was allowed to be with the populace, that my gender did not put me in mortal danger every time I stepped outdoors. This did not stop me from touching the hood of my father’s cloak to ensure that my face was covered enough.

  I often wondered what it would be like to be able to walk the streets undisguised; partaking in the pleasures and responsibilities of being an equal member of the town and worshipping with the others en masse. I was, however, a woman and it was an offence punishable by death to be seen outside my home. The only legal ways I was allowed to leave my house were arrest, a Defender escorted trip (almost the same thing) or because my body was being taken to the Pyre for disposal.

  The square I was in now was ringed with market stalls, free houses and the large marble town hall and I had always wanted to know what the buildings were like on the inside. When I was younger and not defiled, I would sit up in my bedroom and imagine the layout of the rooms until my candle stub went down and I was left with only the stars for company.

  However, thinking of what could be rather than what was in front of me only filled me with a feeling very much like the feeling I got when I thought of my mother.

  There was a time and a place for such emotion, this was not it. Letting the raw pain hurt me in public as it did when I was alone meant I was more vulnerable to capture.

  Thinking of this, I touched my rough woollen hood again to make sure my head was covered. I did not want a trial for desecration of the New World Faith – a trial meant death. I had learned from painful experience what the Defenders of the New World Faith were capable of.

  I shuddered slightly with the cold and from the pain in my feet, drawing my cloak closer around myself. Luckily, the Lord had gifted me with height more befitting that of a man; I had stood as tall as my father on my sixteenth birthday and had grown even more in the years since.

  Disguising myself for my missions was therefore far easier than if I had inherited the petite form of my mother.

  I walked through the marketplace, taking care not to catch the eye of anyone there. A connection with anyone would give me away in an instant. My height and clothing may have been that of a man but my face was unmistakably female. I did not notice what I looked like and had little time for mirrors but was aware that this did not apply to other members of our human race.

  I walked past the bakers who were advertising their wares of soft looking rolls and loaves and passed a gnarly old butcher who was standing morosely in front of rotting animal carcasses that hung dejected from the wooden beams of his stall. The smell that hit me as I walked past made me feel nauseous.

  There were three defenders standing in front of the town hall. They were armed with swords and watching the townsfolk. I was not the only one who felt their insides turn to ice when walking past the defenders; the tension gripped the people around me visibly and I could almost see it dancing in the air like the fireflies of the old world. It was an underlying fear that almost shimmered above them and reflected in the smooth white slabs on the ground.

  I knew better than to lose myself in the cacophony of smells, noises and sights and immerse myself in the feeling that for one spine chilling moment, I was just one of many hardworking, tall bodies passing through the busy marketplace.

  The old and familiar fear hit me again, but I swallowed it and focused on my self-assigned mission.

  The sight of the far wall of the square told me I was almost there; I spotted the alley through the harsh rain and picked up my pace; the ice cold corrosive water making my feet, hands and face sting terribly.

  The crime I was about to commit was unthinkable and nothing I had ever thought I would do or even been capable of doing before my world had been turned upside down; before the horror that stalked the streets daily had invaded my home three years before. I had once been a different person, a much weaker person. I was about to do something unforgivable and lose another piece of my soul if I had one.

  The emotions made me feel naked.

  I reached the alley and started down it quickly, trying to sidestep the puddles that had collected in the uneven ground. The rainwater could melt thick men’s boots made of tough hide, not immediately of course, but over time. You could see the damage it caused on the faces and hands of the people in the marketplace. The butcher had deep lesions on his forehead whilst the tall baker had gloves over the hands I knew were burned badly.

  If my father noticed more erosion on his shoes than fitted the times he had worn them he would be suspicious. He must never know where I went or even that I went out in the evening in the first place. No one must ever know. I transgressed enough in the day as it was.

  The rainfall increased as I turned first one corner, and then another in the darkening alley.

  When I was at the end of the alley I found what I had been looking for.

  As I exited into a deserted square I saw a crude wooden creation held together with large rusty iron nails. It had rough holes cut into it. Through these holes protruded the heads and arms of three women side by side. They were emaciated, starved and extremely dirty. I cared not for the reasons they had been put into the stocks. All that concerned me was helping to alleviate their immense suffering.

  I knelt down by the first women, one I knew by name. The rough, wet ground hurt my freezing knees through my cloak and I looked around-frightened that I would be caught.

  “Herena”, my voice sounded hoarse and I could hear the fear and sorrow that layered it thickly.

  The woman’s eyes were closed and her muddy face was still. I touched her stringy, muddy hair and put two fingers up to the woman’s cold throat. A pulse beat there thick and powerful and the skin felt warm. This woman had fought for survival in the first days of her imprisonment before the inevitable acceptance of her grim fate.

  Her face and arms were badly burned by the rain and I felt a crushing sorrow for her.

  The smell was indescribable, not diluted even slightly by the burning rain. It made me even more determined that these women would suffer no further indignity, no more pain. I had seen another woman made to suffer for the indignity of being a woman and owned by a man who had offended those in power. I would not see it happen again. If any God watched over this burnt earth then I was sure he would understand; I hoped he would.

  I called the woman’s name again and scanned her face for signs that she was awake. The woman’s stupor could mean I did not have to carry out my work. I dared not hope for such deliverance from my task but could not help the little flicker of happiness that danced in the darkness inside me at the thought.

  Herena stirred and opened her eyes, she opened her mouth and I could see that the skin had dissolved into large, deep cracks on either side of her mouth.

  The stricken woman coughed, spraying spittle across the freezing air.
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  I repeated her name, not sure if she could hear me.

  The woman’s bleary eyes seemed to struggle to focus on me but she managed it after two failed attempts.

  “Child…what do you do here?”

  She struggled further to focus on my face and finally succeeded in giving me a steely stare. The wind picked up and teased one of the stringy strands of her prematurely grey hair. I knew the woman to be no more than thirty but her visage and countenance were both that of a crone twenty years older.

  I did not answer; instead I reached inside my cloak. The less talking I did the better; I did not want to lose my nerve at the last moment.

  I drew out a small glass bottle with a clear liquid inside tempered and restrained by a wooden stopper. My father kept a good store of potions and liquids in his office for cuts, scrapes and illnesses.

  I looked at the other two women, wondering what to do about them. The woman next to Herena had opened her eyes and was staring at me with naked interest; her blond muddy hair suddenly picked up and toyed with by the rising wind. Her eyes opened wider and there was madness in them that scared me.

  “I should scream,” said the blond woman. “I should tell the Defenders that you bring unspeakable blasphemy and disobey the laws of God”.

  I ignored the woman and tried to focus on my task. I had a talent for sensing people and their intentions and thus sensed the condemned woman wouldn’t scream, that her suffering and resulting empathy with the other two women would prevent her from exposing me as she completed her work. However, I could not be sure. The woman’s intentions could change in a flash; she may even think in her starvation-induced madness that exposing me would save her. It would not make the slightest difference. The woman was condemned to die slowly and painfully.

  I would have to work quickly and efficiently. I looked around again, the space was deserted.

  I prised off the wooden stopper from the glass bottle, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid.

  A scuff came from the lane behind me, it sounded like the scraping of a shoe against the ground. I jolted, inserting the tip of my thumb in the neck of the small bottle to stop the contents falling out. Who knew if I would also need it?

  I felt a strange tingle on the back of my neck that blasted its way down my spine; I was going to have to turn around. This sixth sense had never before failed me, sworn as I had been to secrecy by my mother when I had tried to talk about it.

  “You must try not to be remarkable Auriana,” my mother had said one night as we sat sewing beside the fire. I had told her of my strange senses the night before and been met with a chilly silence which had lasted the rest of the evening. “If you want to grow up, marry and start a family of your own then you must tell no one of what you see”.

  “But mother” I had protested, “You” I dropped my voice to a whisper even though my father was at a dinner, “You have taught me my letters”.

  “I know” my mother had said, “I know, and it is one of the things you will have that is just yours. You must tell no one”.

  My mother’s large dark eyes had been fearful as she spoke. I had never forgotten the anxiety on her prematurely lined face as she had spoken. I had always remembered the words “just yours” also; like most women I owned nothing and was completely dependent on the charity of my father as I was unmarried. It made me fearful but it was all I had ever known and I did feel safe sometimes.

  I was jolted back to the reality of my current frightening situation, I listened again for another sign that someone was watching my from the dark lane; I turned slowly; hardly daring to even breathe. There was no one there.

  I turned back to Herena, who had mastered her struggle to focus on me but was clearly feeling the strain.

  “Do you still wish for me to do this Herena? It’s not too late”.

  The older woman gave a cough which I realised was a feeble attempt at a laugh.

  “Do you think they are suddenly going to unhand me and let me go child?” The length of this sentence beat her for a second and she coughed raggedly.

  I knew the Defenders would never let these women go. The condemned women had been sentenced to a slow and painful death from starvation and exposure. I didn’t know of course what specific offences had been committed but I could hazard a fair guess.

  The woman stopped coughing, the blond woman next to her looked away and began praying under her breath quickly: “Oh Lord, forgive this child, for she knows not what she is doing”. I ignored her again. No religion based on love, forgiveness and understanding would be interpreted this way. Not that I’d ever read the Bible, the only surviving book from the Old World, but I had eagerly drank in the fireside teachings my mother had taken pains to provide me with – teachings of healings, forgiveness and revelations of saints, teachings of a loving messiah who had loved and healed in equal measure.

  Stories of Jesus had given me hope when I had felt all light and happiness to be gone from my heart forever.

  The stories about the angels of the Lord had also captivated me, that image of the Holy Lord connecting with Man in such a way. I had begged my mother to tell me the stories again and again as we sewed by the fireside during our rare moments alone and free. I had been told to tell no one, not even my father of the stories.

  Jesus had been a friend of men and womenfolk, a saviour. He certainly did not seem to me to be the cruel dictator and destroyer of Worlds he was painted as by the Defenders, who seemed to skip the nicer stories and focus on the parts of damnation of judgement.

  The thought of those stories once again alerted me to the danger of what I was about to do. I looked around again to check no one was coming down the darkening lane.

  This place was busy in the morning, hence why the three women had been put there as an example. I had chosen the time of day less likely to see thoroughfare through this deserted square and I needed to act quickly.

  I held up the small harmless looking bottle to Herena’s lips and paused before it made contact with her skin.

  I looked into the older woman’s bleary eyes, careful.

  “I’m ready child,” said the woman’s voice as if she had read my mind. “It is…quick?” Only then did her eyes betray a flash of fear that was gone quickly and replaced with a steely determination.

  “The quickest”, I said, trying not to let my emotion come through in my voice but it was too late. I felt tears fight the backs of my eyes and tried to harden myself. How many times had I done this? How many women had I saved from a painful and drawn out death? Way too many for it to affect me like this, but cry I must and did at that moment, my tears freezing on my face and mingling with the burning rain.

  I was releasing women like this from unimaginable torment and abuse but sending them to what? I was sending them to Oblivion; to a place I was taught all women went. Oblivion at least meant one was free of pain. Oblivion was nothingness but I had started to wonder if that were better than what I was rescuing them from. It had to be.

  “Quick then” said Herena “And you get home to that father of yours”.

  I took a quick breath and the woman opened her parched cracked mouth. I poured the contents in and the woman swallowed greedily. The blond woman’s praying got faster and I knew I would have to run before the minute was out.

  Herena’s consignment to Oblivion did not even take that long. No sooner had she swallowed the liquid than she shuddered and I saw her open eyes lose what sight they had and blankly reflect the stormy sky above. At least there would be no more storms for her.

  I had already offered my services to the two other women, I knew better than to push it. I ran.

  The Stalker

  A shooting star streaked across the blackening sky as I went home; It killed me to have to slow my pace deliberately but I ignored my fast beating heart and tried to calm down while still moving quickly enough. I walked back through the marketplace, past the same people I’d passed not ten minutes before though it felt like eons; it always d
id.

  Every time I did this, I felt changed as a person, altered somehow; as if some inner purity had been sullied. I tried to ignore the grief at the thought of what I had just done and concentrated on staying alive in the moment.

  The stars were big and bold tonight, far off orbs of light that were removed from the dirt and grime of Zafiya. I would be able to look at them when back in safety.

  A scuff behind me, I turned quickly. A tall and cloaked figure had walked past quickly, the cloak being made of an unusual looking material. The face was covered.

  I felt my stomach twinge with fear when the face suddenly turned towards me. That feeling on the back of my neck returned with increased ferocity. I sensed this was a significant moment but I did not know why. I did not plan on remaining here long enough to find out. I allowed my pace to pick up slightly.

  I walked through the other alleyway towards home, praying he did not see fit to follow me. Dare I chance another look behind me?

  I decided not to look back until I had got to the end of the alley. It seemed an age until my blistered feet in the large men’s boots completed the journey across the rough uneven ground; but I finally got there.

  I looked back. There he was, striding through the dark alleyway. I knew I had about half a minute on him and had better use it wisely. I exited the alleyway and vaulted behind a high stone wall, crouching down on the other side and pulling my hood even tighter around my head.

  With my black cloak on, I’d never be seen by the inhabitants of the big house the wall surrounded and I’d hopefully lose my curious pursuer.

  I was extremely fast but I could not chance trying to outrun him. This seemed to be my only option. If I could only lose him I could hop another wall somewhere and use my brilliant sense of direction to navigate my way home safely.

  I often ran across high roofs and hid from defenders. I knew what I was doing and prided myself on my ability to stay hidden.

  The footsteps stopped on the other side of the wall, hard boots scuffed cold rough ground and I could hear ragged breathing. I dared not breathe or even think.