Tank Top 01: The Crossroads Cell

by James Lynch

he Crossroads Cell

  == > ==

  James B. Lynch

  The Crossroads Cell is a work of fiction. All incidents, dialogue, and characters are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  TT001-20111029a

  www.dragontayl.com

  The Crossroads Cell

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  Naael awoke to a barrage of aches and pains. His emergence into consciousness was not smooth or gentle, but neither was the floor. With a series of mental jerks and drops, he floated in and out of awareness. As he brushed the surface of true wakefulness, he considered categorizing his many bruises, cuts, and abrasions, but was interrupted.

  Not unlike the rest of his body, his nose felt assaulted, almost resentful. Wherever he was, it smelled awful. There was a poorly covered latrine nearby, the lingering odor of many unwashed bodies, and his own stale morning-breath to contend with.

  He creaked his eyes open a fraction, and they added to the complaints. At least his left eye, which was swollen and hot. His vision was drawn to a soft, white-gold light that he registered was “up” but not on top of him. It gave his surroundings a very dim, dark-brown hue.

  I’m in a small room, he registered. Though he hadn’t put everything together, he did remember this was unusual. He hadn’t been indoors much for two or so sixdays.

  Naael groaned softly and rolled from his side onto his back. His stomach felt weak, bruised like his legs and sides, his arms and head. He felt a sharper pain across one wrist, on an elbow, and at his thigh. Abrasions or cuts. The worst seemed to be his shoulder, for he’d clearly slept on it the wrong way for hours. It throbbed and needles ran down his arm as it also woke.

  “A prison cell,” Naael muttered, his pained eyes open enough to recognize the short, narrow room. Dirty stone walls stood close on all sides. The small window provided light, but he could see bars and the wall was thick enough that he could not see the sky itself. Across from the window a small door with a grate had no handle, nor could he see hinges on his side.

  He looked around more properly, despite a twinge from his sore neck, and began the painful process of pushing himself up against the nearest grimy wall. A very thin layer of straw had been scattered across the floor. There was a drain of sorts, from which much of the unpleasant smell came from. The muffled clattering of carts and chattering of people poked in through the window.

  The light left many darkened shadows, but there could be only so much to see in such a small room. For some time he sat, his aching butt on the hard stone floor, piecing together what had happened, and looking around his new space.

  It began with the fair, he thought. He’d come of age only to discover that he’d no idea what he wanted to do. He tried working on a farm, a ranch, and in a shop. He’d tried preparing food, mending clothing, working in a smithy.

  That almost worked, he interrupted himself. The hot forge, the strong workout beating metal into shape, he could have stuck with that, but something within him said that wasn’t his final step, and he’d left that one too.

  He’d gone to the fair intending to meet with a local carpenter, offer his service to help build things and work with wood. The fair was enjoyable, with children running in and out of tents, music coming from many directions, and bright colors everywhere.

  One small stall, emitting smoke as though the whole interior smoldered, featured a tiny, wizened woman. From her awning to her shawl she looked tattered, dark, frail. She had been surrounded by fortune teller trinkets, and she had looked just enough like a beloved aunt he could only just remember. Naael had given her a silver coin more out of charity than belief in her powers.

  She’d acted mysteriously, speaking in a creaky voice as she’d traced lines on his palm, looked into a bubbling bowl, spread even more incense in her burners, and consulted some cards. He’d done his best not to laugh, and to look attentive at her performance.

  In the end, not having expected anything other than the good feeling of having given her a much needed coin, Naael had come away feeling odd, as though the fumes of the incense had infused his body and made him slightly feverish. He could remember only a few of her words:

  “To Jirin, young master. To Jirin you must go. Your destiny is searching for you in Jirin, but you are not there!”

  He’d intended to discard the information, and had begun his new career as a carpenter the next day, but the words did not go away. As each hour passed, he heard her voice louder in his head, felt the nervous anticipation in his stomach. Finally, six days later, he’d collected his pay and prepared for the ten day march to Jirin.

  It’s as good a place as any, he’d thought - trying to excuse his bizarre behavior. Surely I can find work there as easily as anywhere.

  Naael groaned again, shifting against the wall. The cell felt stuffy and too warm. “Some introduction to Jirin,” he muttered. With tentative motions he brought his arms up and attempted to stretch them to either side and to straighten his legs.

  “Careful there,” a voice said so unexpectedly that Naael actually jerked against the wall. He registered none of the pain that must have erupted from his sudden spasm.

  The voice had been cool, close, calm, and female. It was so completely unexpected Naael couldn’t fathom its presence and even thought it might have been imagined. He’d just spent the last half hour or so of wakeful thought alone in a prison cell, and if he’d had a companion, he would not have expected it to be a woman, nor sound so smooth and unruffled.

  In the corner more or less across from him, as though forming from the shadows themselves, the silhouette of a woman shifted into shape. He stared at her, frozen and agape, heart hammering in his chest.

  Crouched like a gargoyle on a pedestal, right down to her full head of dark hair reminding him of wings, she seemed unusually small to him. Despite her stillness and diminutive form, he was still finding it difficult to believe she had been there all along. Yet even in the dim light, he could see some of her features.

  His outstretched feet almost touched her hands, which were dangling just above the floor, right between her feet. He had the oddest impression she might be sitting with her palms on the pommel of a short dagger, its point balanced against the ground, but could see no weapon.

  Startled shock still kept him motionless. He couldn’t even fumble a reply. How did I not see her?

  “Listen, human,” she said tartly. “Let’s start our brief relationship with a deal. You don’t bite, and I won’t.”

  Human, he echoed in his head. She’s not human. He considered her smaller stature, that she could have passed for an extremely short woman, but not alarmingly so.

  Naael nodded, and finally withdrew his feet. He didn’t feel like admitting he hadn’t seen her. “You’re tehlian?” he asked.

  It was her turn to nod. She did so once, slowly, deliberately. “That’s right.”

  Something thumped against a wall not far away. He could feel the vibration through the stone, followed by a few indistinct, raised voices, but they died down quickly. The prison cell was beginning to feel a little too warm and humid to be comfortable.

  “What are you in for?” the woman asked. Her tone was neutral, less aggressive than it was, yet not exactly friendly either. Naael got the distinct impression he was being given a chance to start over.

  “I -” Naael almost stammered. “I’m not entirely sure.” He frowned and thought back.

  “There was a brawl,” he explained. “I’d just arrived. At first, I stayed out of it like everyone else, but then three men were taking it too far - doing serious harm to another. I stepped in to try to break it u
p.”

  Naael felt his tender, puffy eye, and could feel his stomach still recovering from numerous punches and kicks. “I think the city guard or watch or whomever arrived, but by then I couldn’t see or think straight...” he trailed off.

  The woman snorted. After her cool, detached demeanor up to this point, her derisive puff sounded friendly, as though she were commiserating. “You’d just arrived?” she asked. “As in new to Jirin?”

  Naael nodded.

  “They probably blamed the brawl on you,” she surmised. “It would have been the easy way out. Even if law enforcement didn’t believe them, everyone could have collaborated.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  She shrugged.

  Naael leaned his head back against the wall and shut his eyes. The cell still felt too warm and stuffy.

  He awoke with a start, and