Dirt (The Dirt Trilogy)

by K. F. Ridley

  He gives in, his lips full with heat, his gentleness intense, making me want more. With this one perfect kiss, he has me. For the ten longest, most wonderful seconds of my life I am right where I want to be, in the incandescence of Rowen’s arms, his body pressed to mine warming me with his. When out of nowhere, he pushes me away hard. Not gently, not with care. He breathes heavily as if he’s been running as he tries to pull away from desire. “I can’t do this.”

  “What is it? What did I do?”

  “I am your protector. Th…there… are rules. I’ve trained. I don’t understand how...” He bursts up from the floor ruffling the mat.

  “What are you talking about, Rowen? What’s wrong?” I screwed up by being born and now I’ve done something to push Rowen away.

  As he storms out of the tent, I follow after him. He presses his palm against the flat part of my upper chest below my neck. His fingers firm against my clavicles, “Stay here.” I stop in my tracks with his hand up against me. As he approaches the doorway, he hesitates; turning back with a softness covering his face and he pulls his hand away. His voice softens, but I feel a hole bore through my soul. A vacancy fills my heart that isn’t supposed to be there.

  “It’s not you, Ashe. It’s…it’s me. I’ll be outside. Get some sleep.” How can I sleep now?

  There’s a price on my head and Rowen has rejected me. On the inside, I’m in a state of panic as everything falls apart. I step back from the door and plop down on the mat. I’m exhausted, physically, emotionally, mentally. I figure besides being alive, I can’t do any damage while I sleep.

  10

  It can ’t be morning. Darkness fills the room. The small fire from last night is gone. In fact, I’m no longer in the hut. The stench of rot and filth fills my nostrils.

  “ The secret awakens.” A dark sinister voice comes from the corner of the strange room. A man wearing a black skirt that meets the ground and long-sleeved tailored black jacket stands quietly in the corner. There are no windows. Burning torches mounted on the stone walls provide a limited view of my surroundings.

  “ Who are you? Where am I?” I insist my fear breaking through my uncertainty.

  He ignores me. He’s on the other side of a set of bars that I check in vain. My fears are confirmed; I’m locked in. His ominous shadow heads off with enthusiasm, like a kid who has done something he’s proud of. I sit in the corner dazed and alone. How did I get here? Where is Rowen? Is this a nightmare? The slime of my own skin lets me know this is real.

  Three men march toward my cell. A tall, lanky man covered in a cloak brown and black unlocks my cage.

  “Straif wants to see you.” Air passes coarsely across his vocal chords like that of a chain smoker. Straif, I remember Rowen mentioning him. The Dark Thorn, they have me. My mind races and panic travels along my nerves instigating the trembling of my hands. Shadows around me reveal themselves. The men all look a lot like Phagos and Duir, dark wrinkled skin, green piercing eyes, long blond unkempt hair, and wearing long black skirts. Two of them grab me tightly, one on each arm, forcing me to my feet.

  “Move it,” one of them instructs.

  “Follow me,” the tallest one demands.

  I do as I’m told. I’ve no idea how I got here. The last thing I remember was falling to sleep in the hut at Skewantee.

  We walk up several flights of a stone stairwell, narrow, aged, smelling of dust and revolt, with one man in front of me and two men behind me. My pace slows and one following jabs me harshly in the back with a cane.

  “Straif doesn’t have all day.” His rough voice joins the chant of his cane each time it hits the stone floor.

  “Where are we going?” I have nine days left before I’m to become their victim, so I thought I’d ask.

  “We’re going to prepare for your birthday. And what a party that will be,” the shortest of the three responds with a wicked sneer and haunting tone.

  “A little early don’t you think?” Sarcasm coats my words as I ascend up the staircase.

  “You’ll be eighteen in seven days and we’ve been waiting for the day a very long time. Everything must be in order.” He speaks as if he knows something I don’t. As if I’m unsuspecting of their plans. I don’t know the details, but I know enough.

  Seven days. I thought I had nine days before the dreaded day, my eighteenth birthday. How long have I been here? Where is here. I’ve lost two days.

  I’m shoved into a huge room beautifully adorned with enormous pieces of art. Most appear to be early Renaissance and reveal magnificence. Huge columns support the ornate cathedral ceilings. No chairs. No furniture. There’s a vacant podium which extends along the full back of the room standing about three feet above the black glistening, polished floors. They’re like ebony mirrors clearly capturing each reflection. Specks of light from the torches illuminates the enormous space.

  A force pushes me again from behind by the tallest of the three pawns making a surge of pain run from the middle of my back down my side where his thick yellow fingernails pierce my skin through my shirt.

  I stumble to the middle of the room. My escorts remain by the door quiet, pretentiously awaiting reward. They’re very overconfident. Is my capture their accomplishment? I’m helpless, alone, and worried about Rowen. I know this is bad, but it’s going to get worse. I’ll be eighteen in seven days. I’ve lost time. Maybe time is different here. Are the days shorter? It’s possible. Anything is possible.

  I’m not feeling myself. While standing here helpless on display, I realize I haven’t had my medicine since I arrived in Durt. No one knows of my health problems, not even me. I only know I have one. My unnamed illness may kill me before they do. The thought of the unknown of what might happen if I don’t take the yellow muck scares me to death. I’ve never really had to worry about it until now. Because my illness has never been explained to me, my imagination has no limitations about what would happen if I miss a dose. Death is insinuated. If not death, I know the consequences would be bad. I recall all of those times I complained about the yellow muck, now I wish I had it. In the loneliness of my destruction, I wish I could taste the bitterness of the yellow syrup, the hope it gave me, the peace it gave Dad.

  Anticipating the arrival of the infamous Straif, I start to believe waiting is going to be a part of his torture, a part of my suffering.

  Crisp against the floor, I hear each footstep distinct and echoing through the massive room. From behind one of the large pillars, a tall blond man with a wickedly flawless face swanks onto the platform. I wouldn’t say he’s beautiful, because of the evil that evaporates from his skin, but splendor hides underneath what’s on the surface. His black robe floats behind him. He is statuesque and sure of his space. Turning to face me, he sits down in one flowing motion, graceful and intentional right in the middle of the platform. He stares at me saying nothing. The massive room fills with deafening silence. I look at the three behind me who wear anxiety in the creases of their eyes. They’re obviously unsure of what will become of them now that their leader has arrived.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my Ashe. Ashe Leigh Fair.”

  I turn back focusing on the dark voice at the front of the room.

  “Who are you? Where am I? What day is it?”

  “Whoa, whoa. Wait a minute my dear. One question at a time.” He’s not endearing. His voice is twisted and infected. He appears to be one who would enjoy a slow methodical torture of whatever victim, whatever sacrifice he may have on hand. Consequently, I’m today’s special. “Perfectly understandable that you have much to ask. I’m Lord Straif. Leader of The Dark Thorn. In regard to your second request, welcome to my humble abode, the Conul Cuan Caverns. You’ve been asleep for two days my dear, so to answer your real question, there are seven days left until the celebration of our life and your death.” He pauses. “Unfortunately.” His deep voice is calm and straightforward.

  I hear the slow agonizing tempo of another set of footsteps enter the room. A black cloak covers
the man who makes the sound of hard feet pressing into the black marble floor, and I notice the green emerald glow of his eyes. Professor Bran stands on the podium staring at me as if he knew I’d be here. How did he get here? What was he doing in Missoula? I tremble as I realize he’s been a part of this all along. What is his role in my ....my... death going to be?

  “Well, well, well. I see you’ve made it,” he says with arrogance. He’s proud of himself. I keep my mouth shut. He doesn’t have the same effect on me he had before. Now, he’s repulsive. His enchanting methods to lure me in satisfied his plan. I’m here and that’s all he wanted.

  I’ve got to get a handle on what’s going on, what’s about to happen. I need to keep quiet and try to figure out what I’m up against. I’m not dead yet. I’m not going to give in to them, not until I haveto. Not until it’s my only option. Still, beyond all hope I try to remove the speck of doubt seeping through my brain; the uncertainty of what I might become. I’m the sacrifice of all living things. I hope there is a way to overcome this nightmare that isn’t a dream at all. There has to be a way to survive. I’m not giving up on life easily. Rowen gives me hope that there is more to life than what I’ve known. Where is he? Is there even a reason to fight? I relive our moment in the hut, the completeness that absorbed me. He is worth any battle I might have to face.

  Straif elegantly rises to his feet.

  “Well done, Bran. She arrived in plenty of time.”

  Bran remains behind his leader quiet and sure of himself. Straif steps off the podium and approaches me face-toface. He’s a skyscraper towering over me. Fear seeps from my pores as sweat runs down my neck. The disgusting scent of evil poisons the air. He revels in his ability to terrorize me, looking me over as if I’m about to be run through an auction, circling me.

  “In a few days, you’ll change history my dear, Ashe. The world, your world will never be the same. We’ll finally have our place.” He takes his pale finger, with his long crusty yellow fingernail, and brushes it along my cheek. He leans forward, his dry red lips to my ear and whispers with a long sinister breath making sure I hear him.“Nothing will ever be the same.”

  Sickened, I remain motionless, too scared to move. He smells of sour, dirty water. The unwashed. The unclean. The stench makes me hold my breath. After he fills me with unrest, he walks away. Bran follows as the leader leaves the room, his black cloak sweeping through the air. The professor gives me one quick glance, his assignment fulfilled as if to say, “I win.”

  The goons who presented me to Straif take me by the arms, twisting and pushing me toward the door. I move like a rag doll. Putting up a fight is futile. Beyond the tall wooden doors, I follow the steps in which I am forced.

  We walk by a huge room filled with small creatures running about, working, moving huge pieces of antiquated ornate furniture, laying out rugs, causing dust to fly through the air, clouding the space. As we pass by the open doorway of the room, they freeze in their tracks catching a glimpse of me. The apparent reason for their duties is preparation for the big day, the day of sacrifice. Their yellow eyes gleam as if they have seen a celebrity. Some perch themselves on tabletops like buzzards in order to get a better look. Their crooked smiles reveal their needle sharp teeth and they appear to want more than an autograph. My eyes capture their every move frame-by-frame, second-by-second.

  “Move it,” the bulky blond growls jolting me from the moment. “Those imps would have you for lunch if we turn them on you and we have to keep you in one piece. At least for now.”

  The guard closest to the open door sticks his huge square shaped head into the room and yells, “Get to work, Mongrels!” With that, the hideous wrinkled beasts begin working sporadically. I stand out here in this world of blond beings. It’s strange, in Darby, I felt invisible.

  As I walk, the tiredness in my legs oozes through and I feel stranger by the minute. There’s tingling throughout my entire body, how my leg gets when it falls asleep except this strangeness covers my entire body. I’m feverish. Maybe, I’m getting sick because I haven’t had yellow muck in days. Straif may not have me alive after all.

  My escorts lead me down the dark corridors with only shades of light offered by randomly lit torches. We descend to lower levels of the caverns. My legs are heavier with each step. I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I do know I’ve got to find a way out of here.

  I worry something dire has happened to Rowen. Will I see him again? I knowhe won’t forget me. Something happened that night in the hut. Something neither of us will forget.

  Works of art from every period imaginable line the walls of the huge hallways, from artists I know from my world. Michelangelo, Picasso, Monet. Baroque, Surrealism, Renaissance. I wonder how they acquired them. Some of the pieces cover entire walls, while others are a few inches in diameter.

  As we walk down more and more flights of stairs, we make our way through another corridor. Then I notice two paintings, in oils. They’re mine. The assignments from Professor Bran. “The Family Portrait” and “My Home.” What are they doing hanging on these walls? As we walk slowly past them, I pause briefly gazing intently at my homework. Memories of my once beautiful home, with the shrubs surrounding and protecting it bring a sense of peace, but as I stare, the colors begin to move, merging together, morphing into another picture: a picture of burned ashes, destruction, rubble; a picture of darkness, destruction, and disdain. I think I’m losing my mind.

  I look closer at the picture of the family portrait. Dad is standing by me holding a picture of my mother, the original. As my gaze ponders the oils begin to mix spontaneously on the canvas and I see my father sitting on the side of a bed in an unfamiliar room with his fist under his chin. His brow is wrinkled in worry.

  “Get a move on, Secret.” I receive a firm push from one of my escorts forcing my back to spasm.

  He tosses me into my cage, behind the bars of confinement. Without a trial, I’m guilty of living. An infraction I didn’t choose. My entire body tingles. Something is terribly wrong with me. Along with my physical detriment, every inch of my heart is a shallow vacant glass.

  I have to figure a way out of this prison. I sit for a while contemplating my dilemma. How can I escape? I don’t even know where I am? “Caverns.” Apparently I’m at the bottom of a hollow. My fingers and toes sting with periods of numbness, but fear helps to cover the physical pain.

  As a little girl, I was sometimes scared to go to sleep. I would lie in bed and imagine holding my mother’s hand as I floated into dreams. She helped me to go to sleep without fear. I needed her more than ever. But she’s not here. She’s never going to be here.

  My mind continues to race until I lose the battle. Darkness fills my eyes and sleep takes over.

  Awakening from a deep stupor, I still smell my disgust like the pet of a cruel, neglectful family. I hear chatter coming down the stairwell. “Okay, later,” a husky feminine voice responds to someone. A woman covered in black brings dry bread and putrid water.

  “ Here, Secret. Eat up.” Her slick blond hair is pulled tightly in a bun, raising her eyebrows as if she’s had a botched face lift. She hands me a cup made of mirrored glass providing me a view of my worn reflection; a reminder of my predicament. I look horrible and I need to go to the restroom. Maybe the female guard will be more agreeable.

  “ Hey, I need to go to the bathroom.”

  “Shut it up. You’re not coming out of there,” she barks. I don’t know why I thought she might be more understanding. After all, she is one of them.

  She sits outside my cell. I guess she’s supposed to watch me, making sure I eat something.

  “There has to be a bathroom in this God-forsaken place.”

  “All right, all right. But no funny business. There’s only three more days till … well, just don’t try anything.”

  Three more days. I must have slept through the last few days again. The way things are going, I’ll be dead tomorrow.

  The gangly woman unlocks the
door and grabs me by the arm. Even with her small frame, she has the same strength as the male guards. She jerks me out and we ascend upstairs.

  I take a quick glance at my paintings from Bran’s class. As the original work of my family dissolves, another oil illustration comes forth, morphing quickly as colors merge to form an image of me walking up the staircase. Then it dissolves back into the boring image of my previous existence. I stare briefly at the picture of my home, a pile of ashes emerge and then briskly disappear back to the original state of mediocre artwork. As we walk up five flights of stairs I realize the paintings were Bran’s way of watching me. He had me paint those pictures in order to keep track of me. That was his role in my capture. The paintings are Straif’s security cameras.

  My pace slows, preoccupied in thought as we pass the paintings. “Move it.” The female guard starts down a long passageway. Almost every inch of wall up to the height of the towering ceilings are covered in art. These pieces, however, don’t hold any secrets I can uncover. They hold only beauty.

  She walks through a large wooden door.“Come on.” I hesitate into the bathroom as she stands there watching me.

  “I can’t go while you’re in here.” She folds her arms across her chest. “Where am I going to go? Really?” I guess she doesn’t really want to be in here with me either.

  “Take care of your business. And make it fast,” she says and struts out of the bathroom, her black robe chasing behind her.

  I use the restroom and wash up in the sink. The plumbing is different than what I’m used to. The cool water runs out of the rocky walls into a basin refreshing my skin. There are no towels, so I use the bottom of my ragged brown t-shirt. The mirror over the sink is cracked and a vibration away from shattering to the floor, but I’m able to make out the reflection of the window behind me. It’s small, but it’s still an opening to the outside.