by Jean Davis
More valuable would have been the knowledge of the land from the starving children who had wanted to play with her. But she'd been too busy being proper throughout her childhood for that nonsense. Knowing how to start her own fire or find food seemed priceless now. Since being torn from her home, there was a distinct absence of bells to ring in order to summon anyone to assist her.
She muttered curses under her breath. As much as she loved her parents and Zane, it was their fault she'd been carted away, cursed, scarred and raped. Had she been one of the commoners, she would have suffered a far shorter time. And she would have been dead.
Maybe it was her mother's fault. If Sahmara had been a boy, none of this would have happened to her. Then again, they probably would have killed a son outright. She stubbed her toe on a rock and swore at it.
At least she was alive.
The sun took its time warming the air. She trudged onward, glancing over her shoulder now and then and jumping at the slightest sound. Tiny yellow songbirds flitted over the tall stalks of grass, while larger brown and white birds soared overhead, neither of which she recognized.
Sahmara tried to envision the maps of her father’s trade routes. Some of them ran between Revochek and distant lands beyond Atheria which lay across the narrow stretch of land that bridged the two countries. Blue ripples of water had surrounded the two bulbous brown masses of land. Why couldn’t her parents have held reading maps and knowing what was edible in the wild as valuable as knowing the important families of Revochek, or organizing a household and keeping accurate ledgers?
Atheria was the enemy. They seized ships and plundered trade routes. More detail of the surrounding world and politics had never found its way to her delicate ears.
By the time the sun was high overhead, sweat dripped down the sides of her face. She made out the cries of distant gulls. She had to be close to the shore. Her stomach knotted, whether from hunger or fear of being caught, she didn't know. Thirst was the only thing she was sure of.
Though she’d never been one to light candles in the chapel or to sit through droning services on beautiful mornings beside her mother, Sahmara closed her eyes and turned her face upward to the sun. She offered up a prayer.
“Please, Mother, let this be the ocean that leads me home. I am alone and tired. Please help me. I’ll do anything.” The required words her mother had taught her as a young girl had slipped her mind years ago. Was she supposed to be kneeling or standing? Did she need to burn incense? Her mother had always returned from services smelling of sweet smoke.
Sahmara opened one eye and looked around. Finding nothing to burn or offer up to the Mother, she knelt on the ground and bowed her head. Something sharp bit into her knee. She yelped. Hot blood met her fingers as she examined the wound. Of all the places to kneel, she’d picked the one with a sharp rock. Tears came to her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” she said in a broken sob. “I have nothing to give you. Please, please help me get home.”
She knelt there, waiting. For what, she wasn’t sure--maybe a voice in her head or some indication that the goddess had heard her wayward servant.
All she received from the heavens was silence.
With a sore and bloody knee, she got to her feet and staggered onward. After hours, she saw the deep red sky overhead reflected on water. Golden grass gave way to shifting sands and thin green grasses like tiny whips that tore at her already scabbed legs and feet. Sand-worn strands of grey-brown rock offered steadier footing but their ambiguous edges nearly led to twisting her ankle. She limped toward the water only to realize, as she reached the edge of a cliff, that it lay far below her.
Looking down, she made out a wooden hovel tucked against the wall of crumbling rock. A rough path had been carved into the cliffside, leading downward. Before she lost the day’s light, Sahmara started down the trail.
The view from the wind-whipped side of the cliff wasn't what she'd wanted to see. There was no sight of the narrow bridge of land that would lead her home, only endless water and a long stretch of sandy shoreline. At least she’d found water. She licked her parched lips.
Sharp rock shards bit into her bare feet as she slowly made her way down the narrow path. The wind was much colder at the bottom and the sand icy now that the sun sat at the edge of the world.
A rough voice greeted her in Atherian from the shadows along the rock. “You’re a ragged mite, are ya not?”
Sahmara froze and frantically looked for a place to hide. The beach was wide open but for the shadows along the rocks where the voice had come from. At least she knew enough Atherian from her captivity to respond if she had to. That might just keep her from being discovered as a slave.
“There’s nowhere to go out here, mite. Come on, you’ll freeze by morning. Best get off the sands.” A bony hand grabbed her arm.
Sahmara shrieked. She jerked her arm away.
“No need for that. I ain’t gonna hurt ya. Come on now.” The hand beckoned her toward the shack.
Too tired to resist, Sahmara followed the hunched figure. She walked through the doorway of cobbled together scraps of wood and immediately appreciated being out of the cool wind. The sputtering light of an oil lamp illuminated the ramshackle single-room structure.
Driftwood and broken, painted planks of ship lumber formed the walls that butted up against the face of the cliff on one side. A worn pallet, pierced by moldy straw at the ragged seams lay in the corner. A wooden table and bench occupied the rest of the space.
Next to the stone wall sat a jumbled circle of blackened rocks. Warmth emanated from them. Sahmara crept closer. Glowing embers winked at her.
“Go on mite, you’re like to be half frozen. I’ll make some tea.” A gentle shove pushed her toward the low fire.
Sahmara crouched down near the warm stones and fell unceremoniously on her backside as her legs gave out beneath her. Embarrassed, she turned to see if her host had noticed.
Thin white hair hung in wispy tufts from the backside of a brown scalp. The thickly-bundled figure puttered at the table with two wooden cups and a leather pouch.
Her savior turned and drew near, carrying the cups in spotted but steady hands. “Let’s have a look at ya then.”
One white eye stared forward while one dark eye raked her over as though she were for sale at market. A frown formed on the old woman’s weathered face. “Came down the wall, didn’t ya mite? A slave run off then is it?”
A wracking cough interrupted her assessment. She doubled over, then finally gasped a deep breath and cleared her throat. “I can give ya a day but then you’ll need to move on. They’ll be looking for ya, and I don’t need no trouble.”
Sahmara forced a weak smile, grateful for any respite she could get. She winced as her lip split. “Is there a port nearby? I'd like to find a ship to take me home.”
“You've got coin for passage, enough they'd overlook ya being a run off slave?”
She sighed and shook her head. “No coin at all.”
The woman sucked on her lip a minute, staring just over Sahmara's shoulder with her good eye. “Not supposed to be here, I think. South for ya then. Follow the shore.”
She pulled a kettle from the hook over the fire and poured steaming water into the cups.
Taking the chipped cup in shaking hands, Sahmara swirled the pungent mix around. The steam soothed her wind-chapped face. “Thank you.” She gulped it down. “It’s very good.”
“I have some cheese.” The old woman hobbled back to the table and pulled back a thick stained cloth. Using a well-worn knife, she cut off a thin wedge of yellow cheese, tinged with grey at the edges. She worked her way back to the fire. “Here ya are then.”
Sahmara ignored the heavy odor and took a big bite. She didn’t even taste it. The second hit her with a sour earthen edge.
“That’s right. Eat it up.” The old woman gave her a toothless smile. “Finish your tea now. It's time for bed.” She pointed to the narrow gaps in the boards. Darkness had t
aken over the sky.
Sahmara nodded. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, mite. Ya might be a slave, but at least ya got your manners.” She cackled and then took a deep drink from her cup. “They call me Reva. I suppose you can too.”
“I’m−”
“Yours don’t matter, mite. Better if I don’t know.” Her toothless smile held the ghost of motherliness, making Sahmara miss her mother horribly. With a sniff, she nodded and tried to keep her knotted stomach from purging the cheese. She held out her empty cup.
“There now.” Reva took the cup and set it on the table. She went to her pallet and pulled a tattered blanket from it. Reva draped it over Sahmara’s shoulders. “Ya can sleep here by the fire.”
A tear slipped down Sahmara’s cheek as she lay down and pulled the blanket over her.
Reva put out the lamp. Seconds later the pallet rustled as she got comfortable. “Good night, mite.”
Warm and safe as she could be under the circumstances, Sahmara closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.
The hall was tainted by the metallic tang of her father’s men being put to death by Atherian swords. True to his Ma’hasi training, Zane stood in front of her, his sword at the ready. At the other end of the hall, her mother screamed as soldiers pinned her to the ground. Her Father bellowed threats from where two men held him back. A third held a knife to his throat.
They kept asking her father questions, but Sahmara couldn’t understand them. He spat in their faces. The soldiers punched him in the gut, dropping him to his knees.
Others came at Zane. Glorious, beautiful Zane, her protector. He fought them until they dropped at his feet, unmoving. No matter whom her father married her off to; Zane would come with as her guard. She’d never be without her secret lover.
She held onto his back, her neatly trimmed nails grasping his smooth leather shirt. She felt faint. The scent of blood made her nauseous.
“It will be all right,” Zane assured her.
Six men approached. They all had swords. So many footsteps all at once. Her father shouted. Her mother screamed.
A hood slammed over her head. Blind, she screamed. Swords rang out. Men grunted. Metal clanged on the floor. The melee ceased.
She reached out, feeling for Zane. Her arms were wrenched behind her back. Something hit her head.
Sahmara woke with a gasp. Reliving those last moments with him had tormented her nights since she’d been torn from home and Revochek. They wouldn’t have killed Zane, would they? Or her parents? She pressed her eyes shut and rubbed them with the heels of her hands. She wasn’t alone in the world. She couldn’t be alone.
“About time ya woke up,” Reva said from the table.
Her eyes took a moment to focus after all her rubbing. Something smelled delicious. The old woman sat on the bench, sipping from the chipped cup.
“I got some work for ya. Not as young as I used to be.” Reva beckoned her toward the table. A steaming cup sat waiting for her. “In return, I'll give you a few things for your journey. Can't very well send you off like this.”
Sahmara itched her scalp as she did nearly a hundred times each day and eyed the cup hungrily. She tucked her matted locks behind her ears as she went to the bench and sat.
“Break your fast first and then on to your tasks.”
The gruel in the cup was a far cry from fresh, warm bread, fruit, and eggs but it beat waking up to a filthy soldier beside her. The contents of the cup filled her stomach with warmth and brought her a measure of comfort she’d not felt since leaving home.
“Feeling better?”
Sahmara nodded. She drained the cup in short order.
“Good. Get into the sea and give yourself a good scrub. You’re smelling up my house.” She pointed Sahmara to the door. “Leave them rags here. I’ll see if I can’t find ya something a bit more respectable looking. Ya won’t get far looking like ya do.”
“Thank you for helping me.”
“You’ll be helping me too, mite.” Reva cackled merrily. “One thing before ya go.” The old woman grabbed her knife in one hand and Sahmara’s wrist in the other.
Sahmara jerked her hand back, but the old woman held on with surprising strength. She slid the tip of the knife against Sahmara’s finger.
Sahmara watched in horror as Reva thrust the bloody finger into her mouth and sucked at it ravenously. Her shock wore off a second later and she managed to yank her finger back from the wet, toothless maw.
Reva lapped a drop of blood from her chin with her long, red tongue. “Eager enough for my help, but so reluctant to pay? You’re all the same.” She shook her head, sending wisps of hair floating through the air like sea foam. “Go on then, the water is waiting.”
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SAMPLE • A BROKEN RACE
Prologue
Nickolas yelped as his favorite aide fell to the floor. Blood gushed from his nose.
“Mr. Forrest, are you okay?”
The middle-aged man grasped his throat with both hands, his face turning red with white blotches. “Get help.”
Nickolas ran from his room and down the hall. All around him, people in white uniforms like Mr. Forrest were sprawled across the floor. Most of them had been there for weeks. Most of them were dead.
The sickness worked faster in some than others. He dodged a pair of hands that tried to catch the leg of his pants as he went by. Flies buzzed around his face. His eyes watered and his stomach clenched. The doorway used to be his favorite place. There, he could watch the people who would come to visit his friends. Now it gave him nightmares.
Mr. Forrest had assured Nickolas that he wasn’t going to get sick like the others, but now there wasn’t anyone else left to take care of him and that brought on a panic that shook his whole body. He tried to breathe like the therapist taught him to, but it was hard. All he wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and close his eyes. But Mr. Forrest needed help.
Wrapping his arms across his chest, his habitual rhythmic nod took up a silent beat. He forced himself to keep walking.
Amanda sat at the desk by the courtyard where Mr. Sam, who kept them safe inside the home, used to sit. He’d left days ago, and he’d taken the keys with him.
Mr. Forrest wanted to go home to his wife and two boys. He hadn’t been happy about getting locked in. None of them were. But Mr. Sam said it was for their own good. The television showed riots in the streets, buildings burning, bodies outside in piles. Inside might be safer, but Nickolas longed for the fresh air and sunshine of the courtyard.
He frowned at the blue coat she wore over her pink shirt. “You shouldn’t wear Mr. Sam’s coat. He’ll be mad.”
“He’s dead. Like everyone else.” She pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. Her big blue eyes looked up at him through blonde bangs that hung almost to the tip of her nose.
“We don’t know that. He’s not here.”
“Jackson said so.” Tears welled in her eyes.
“Where is he? Mr. Forrest needs help.”
She pointed to the day room where they often played games together. “He’s talking to a strange man that came in.”
“How? The doors are all locked.”
She whispered, “He had the keys.”
There was only one body in the hallway to the day room. Most of the staff had gone to the doors. A few had made it out before Mr. Sam had locked them inside. Some of Nickolas’s friends had too, their families coming for them soon after the first people started to get sick.
No one had come for him. Mr. Forrest said it was probably because his family was scared or sick, but Nickolas knew it was because they didn’t like him. That’s why they paid for him to live here instead of at home with them. If he was here, they didn’t have to look at him or make him stay in his room when people were over.
Nickolas smiled, his father couldn’t yell at him here. This home was better than theirs.
&
nbsp; The virus had moved through the home in days, making almost everyone sick, friends and staff. Only the three of them didn’t get the fever that was the first sign of getting sick.
Nickolas found Jackson talking to a man with very dark skin and snow white hair. It must have been important because Jackson had his earphones around his neck. Not just one ear open to hear, with the earphones twisted in his hair like he usually did, but completely off.
Music kept him calm. Everyone wanted Jackson, who was taller and wider than even Mr. Sam, to stay calm. The last time he’d gotten angry, it had taken five of the staff to hold him down before they could give him medicine to make him happy again.
Nickolas shivered. There weren’t five people here anymore and none of them knew how to do the medicines except Mr. Forrest. And now he was sick.
“Nickolas.” Jackson waved him over.
The old man smiled at him. “Hello, I’m Father Frederick. Mr. Sam sent me to get all of you.”
Shuffling footsteps signaled Amanda creeping up on them. “He’s not dead?” she asked hopefully.
“I came from a hospital. Where sick people go,” said Father Frederick. “He was there.”
Nickolas tried not to imagine nice Mr. Sam all bloody and blackened on the floor like all the others. He pictured clean white sheets and smiling nurses. “He’s safe then, in the hospital?”
Father Frederick took a long time to answer, looking at all of them slowly before taking a deep breath and letting it out. “How much have you seen of what is going on outside?”
“We watched the news,” said Jackson proudly.
“Yes, then you’ve seen. Atlanta is in a state of emergency, or it was. Not enough people are alive to care much about that anymore.” A sad smile took over his face.
Father Frederick pulled a small black book from his pants pocket, clutching it with both hands. “There was a broadcast on the radio two nights ago. A call to bring all healthy survivors to a secure building outside the city. There are doctors there, and scientists, people to help keep you safe.”