Tears of Leyden

by Baysinger-Ott, Naomi

  Chapter 5

  He left me here a while ago, but I still hear his footsteps fading. I wait and listen for any sound of footsteps close to the doorway. Nothing. I hesitantly slip out of my light dress and slips. The fabric gently brushes down my skin as I let it fall to the dusty floor. I lightly step to the rim of the tub. I wait and listen again, regretting this completely.

  Still not hearing anything outside the door, I dip my foot into the water in the tub. It is lukewarm. Most I’d ever experienced were ice cold and not so pleasurable. I am trembling so hard I know I must stop it before I leave the tub altogether. I listen again, praying, hoping and begging the universe not to let my feminine disadvantage of not knowing how to protect myself be put to trial. I slowly slide into the water. Almost immediately, my shaking limbs stop their nervous tremble in the warm liquid.

  I wait for something to happen, for the door to fly open and his beastly figure to take away my one last possession. No response comes to the sound of swishing water in the tub. I relax, relief flushing through me. Sinking a little bit farther, I let myself go.

  I run the water over my skin, dunking my head and then leaning back to enjoy the moment of warmth and floatation. I cannot help but stray my mind further from here to the bases where moeder and little Meleiya could be. Wretchedness overwhelms me and the water threatens to feel cold. I slowly start to sit up a little. Holding back the tears I swallow the sore lump in my throat. Hoping to cleanse my mind as well as my body, I reach for the soap he left for me and begin to scrub. The soap is scentless and I suspect it to be the Sweet soap made in Europe.

  The soap made at home was sickening and smelt awful. Often though, when I was little and went to spend a day with a friend and there was an insistence upon bathing after we played outside, there was no soap in their house. Now that I am older, I wonder if my friends still didn’t have soap. Vader afforded soap well, and I was never at a lack of it more than once or twice that I can remember. He almost made it a have-to for us to have, use, and buy soap. I never understood it, but I knew he had his reasons.

  I rinse the water over my skin and dunk again to get out the soap from my hair and shoulders. I cup the water and let it pour down my face, washing away the rest of the oily gleam of the disinfectant. I shift positions and sit up from reclining against the frame of the tub. I twist my hair, and then lift the soak up robe from its place on the chest. With less caution than before, I stand and wipe down my face and shoulders. I pull it around me and shiver in the air, then slowly lift my feet out of the water and set them back down, tingling, onto the stable ground. I wipe down my legs and find that my hair is nearly dry. Wrapping the robe around me, I steal to the dress Nadeje had left for me.

  It is delicate yet heavy in a plain grey fashion, with several ruffles at the bottom hem. It has a bodice folded neatly inside, attached to the kirtle, and I, unused to such a thing, wonder at how I am supposed to get into it on my own. I slip the chemise around me, and the kirtle next, starting to lace it up. I am surprised how they don’t use corsets with kirtles, instead of bodices, as I thought it was the new fashion. I suppose that Nadeje possibly was not one of the wealthier ranks as to have his sister wear something as harsh as a corset. Also, there is no unattached bodice, which is generally worn over the kirtle and the over dress, but over an attached bodice, I suppose it would have no purpose apart from light breath to the wearer. I sigh out in irritation and realize I have tied the laces wrong and must undo the strings. When I am finally done, it is slightly out of proportion, but if I could I would give myself a clap on the back for it as I can still breathe and feel no constriction in areas I shouldn’t.

  I find myself looking for something only Dutch seamstresses use, and annoyed with my foolishness I take to the dress and slip it over my head. It is heavy to hold, difficult to fit my arms through and extremely scratchy at the skirt. It fits a little snug at the waist, and I assume that is how a European garment is supposed to make you feel. It is exact around height and length of the skirt though. I have heard Spanish women wear their dresses in flair to cover their whole body to keep it under guard or style. In this heavy material about the legs and the waist and the kirtle with the attached bodice, I give them that fully.

  I step back and look out the window and realize I had been before it as I’d bathed. Was I that senseless? God forbid anyone saw me through the glass. No…it was only the market. Everyone rushed past…plus the bath was so large it showed nothing of its cleanser. Also, his curtains were partly untied.

  I leak out a shaky breath and fold my towel. I set it and my dirtied dress on the board in his shelf he left open for me. With a more relaxed condition but still a little rigidness, I step towards the wooden door.

  Chapter 6

  I look around a bit, viewing his collection of the usual necessities in a home. It is rather empty, showing the newness of his stay here. The kitchen was hardly anything apart from the stove, a pitcher of water, and a trap door leading into the small storage which holds something unknown. It is attached to the bare entry room, and the dinner table sat in nothing but a small nine foot way to his bedroom. It is cleaner in the hallway, and dustily tiled in his room, suggesting that he spends more time in the dining room than anywhere else. The living room has a dirt floor and a tall shelf stacked with what looks like maps, atlases, and few books. The kitchen cupboard is empty accept for four cups, a few plates and bowls, and some drying silverware lies on a kitchen towel on the table.

  When finished with eyeing my surroundings, I take recognition of the small door leading out to the central market and streets. I find myself alone, and slowly gravitate towards the comforting sounds of the outer streets during market hours. The door is splintered on one side and has been left a little small for the frame, leaving it so that I can just barely see the shadows of people and wagons passing through the open slivers. I arrive softly and breathlessly at the door, trying to control my breathing and stampeding heart even though I know it will continue on.

  Could I escape? I lightly put my hands to the door’s rough wood. Would he notice my leave? I put my ear to the door and listen…oh the sweet sounds of freedom outdoors! How I wish I could just…I press my hands to it and find it unlocked. I grow anxious again and my heart goes wild. I can do this…I must… this is my last chance. I move my hand to the knob and start to ever so quietly turn it…then, it all ends too soon.

  “What are you doing?”

  I whirl in his direction, leaving the still unopened door to rest.

  He stands there, watching from his station of calm with gentility and no alarm whatsoever. I do not move, afraid of what harm he might cause me if I am found guilty. I keep my heart under check and trying not to give in to its pace, I listen and count its beats. 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6…

  “Lyra,” he says it softly but firmly, in a way no one has ever managed the tempered calmness of their voice before me.

  I look up and find his eyes ever so gentle yet stormy, worried, but the storm within them is not a cold one, but one which is humid and yet still windy and causes the waves upon the shore to rise up and down like crowds at an execution…one that causes the hairs at my spine to rise and my insides to unwillingly churn and tremble. I watch his features, the well-shaped jaw and the dark hair. I cannot seem to open my mouth. I should not feel guilty for my disloyalty…or should I?

  I look up into his eyes and stop. He is watching me expressionlessly, as though trying to recognize my mood and place. I shift a little, feeling cornered. He does not react to my silence, but just swallows mannerly. I suddenly cannot stand my compression and wish more than anything not to be here, with him just standing and staring at me. I back up and reach for the door knob but he straightens and is alerted to my movements.

  “Do not try it…”

  I stop and shrink back a little, cursing my obedience. Even as I flinch, I know I had no reason to, for his voice had remained temperate.

  There is a moment of silence, then he sighs and steps back a
little, becoming aware of my discomfort.

  “Miss Thimlet,” he finishes softly.

  I hesitantly look up at him and my heart relieves itself with the comfort of my proper name.

  He watches me quietly before he once again breaks the silence. “I want to help you,” it is gentle, and unlikable for me to think of when comparing him to an enemy. He says no more, and I wish to say less.

  “Well you can’t,” it is soft and not meant to be cold.

  His expression is of one who is concerned. I don’t understand it. “What could help you?”

  I feel a lump form in my throat and it is hard to think as the word engraves itself in the walls of my head. Family. It stings inside and leaves little pains in my heart. After it clears a little I manage.

  “To know of them.”

  He watches me and I can see him considering what I am saying. Finally he gets to the root of my meaning and understands. I can’t help but feel gratitude for his wisdom, making him not have to inquire further, past the basics to the parts that kill my heart.

  “You wish me to…and I promised that. I promise again, but let me know if there is more that we can do before we receive what it is you wish to hear.”

  I try to think of anything apart from news that they are okay, that they are safer than myself, or at least only out casted to a different dwelling, but it all comes down to nothing.

  “I don’t think I can find anything right now that I…would…” I stop, my head feeling fatigued and pain beginning to dully thud in the back of it.

  He seems to notice my tire. “Just let me know.”

  A moment passes by while I hear the sounds softening in the market behind, and I realize it must be close to evening already. My stomach grumbles emptily, but I put it to the back of my mind with the thoughts of Meleiya and Moeder still drifting through my head. I wait, not sure of what to do.

  He seems to notice. He stands more upright and then speaks. “Do you wish to sleep within my quarters?”

  I pale.

  He quickly mends it. “Of course I would bed out within the other rooms, but the bed will be perhaps more stabling for your ease of conscious…and the door.”

  I feel reality bleed and pour back into my circulation and grow tired from the momentary exercise of my relief and panic.

  “I…do not wish you to be removed from your territory…”

  He looks past me, as though trying to see what I am saying. “Territory?” he is calm, but seems curious. “You call it such?”

  I let out a shaky breath and try to ease my mind into a calmer way of thinking, but I am suddenly feeling much drained, yet not sleepy. I shake my head and pinch the top of my nose with my hand.

  “Please take your quarters,” I step back a little as I accidentally totter onto my heels.

  He seemed to take actions louder than words. “You are tired,” he observes softly to me. “Come. Let me settle you and then I shall sleep elsewhere.”

  I look up at him and feel my shoulders weighing me down. Not knowing what else to say, I blandly taste my mouth. “Thank you.”

  Chapter 7

  I slowly awaken with not much of a thought as soft beams of early morning sunlight start to migrate over my face, the window’s air giving me shivers as I burrow deep into the bed. Inhaling quietly I take in the fresh sent of warmth, just as my home smelt of in the dream. I sigh and try to forget that horrid nightmare which had seemed so real. All had been a dream. I start to drift and smile at the familiar sounds of riders shouting at their horses or bartenders shouting their wares. All is as was before.

  Then, I slowly start to open my eyes. At the sight of the large room, I feel my heart grow unconditionally heavier. It all slides into place in my head. I slowly rise, unable not to as the horrors slowly flood back in. I feel my throat clog with guilt and curse myself for sleeping so very comfortably.

  What had I been thinking? Taking refuge and so effortlessly falling into a deep sleep? I tremble as I make my way off from the bed, my bones and muscles feeling heavy and yet good, as if they had been revived from last night’s slumber.

  I arrive at the table and now I am in need of food. There is no resistance to the smell of hot oats boiling in a pot. Nadeje is facing the stove and crouched down to fix something. When he rises and turns, seeing me standing here looks as though I have stunned him. I can’t help but wonder what it is like from his point of view, to have a young girl in his house, to have to guard her from something you yourself don’t know the reason of. I find myself actually believing that maybe he is as fearful of the circumstance as me, him perhaps more of the consequence of failing, me of the outcome of his success.

  He steps back a little, and for a moment in his face is a blind point of uncertainty. It is blanched and lost, as though he has just seen a ghost. I cannot help but feel a little agreement with whatever made him this way. Seeming to see the truth of me being in his kitchen however, his expression loses its stupor and he firms. He looks down a moment at his hands as though unsure of what he had last planned to do with them. In them is a bolt. Seeing it he seems to spark to life again. He looks up to me and then slights his glance to the table again.

  “You are probably hungry?” It is not so questioning, but it is kind.

  I do not respond. I myself am unused to a man being near me in a house, all alone, inquiring me about breakfast.

  When he looks up his eyes are stormy and dark but not his expression. It is an odd combination, his eyes balancing out the soft openness of his face with their deep but not unsettling secrets. I like them. The moment the thought occurs to me I feel a flame of heat wash across my features and force down the want to run away and curse myself. I settle with doing so inside my head.

  “At least by now I hope?”

  It puts me back in my place and I try to focus on the words over the imprecation going on in my mind. I can only manage a nod, knowing he spoke of food and wanting something of that nature.

  He drags his gaze from me and after a moment of thought he steps towards the cupboard to my right. I do not move as he takes from it a plate and a fork from the cup holding the silverware. He sets the fork down on the table and turns to the stove. I watch his back as I hear the sounds of him scraping something off of a dish, then a scoop of something more liquid flowing. When he comes back he places it down and I see eggs and potatoes mixed with some small irregular black things that I suppose to be Spanish.

  He turns back to the stove and picks back up the bolt. He turns and seeing me unmoved, stops himself. “You want it, don’t you?”

  I glance to the steam rising off the plate and my mouth waters.

  He waits, and when I don’t respond he comes forward and takes up the plate. I almost protest, but instead of moving away from me, he moves towards. For one awful moment I believe he will spoon feed me, but instead he stops a good foot away and holds it out to me. “You can eat in my room if you like.”

  I can’t get myself to understand the simple proposal. He is watching me kindly, not in any way insincere. I look back down to his hands and slowly take the plate. It is warm and smooth. He steps back after I have done so and I can’t help but wish he hadn’t brought over the plate as my stomach twists with discomfort. I step back and manage to knock into the door. I am sure I am blushing now. I hate myself.

  Thankfully, when I say nothing, he turns away and picks up the bolt to kneel next to the stove. He begins to handle something unknown to me and I turn and walk back into the room.

  After I close the door, I step to the bed and sit down on the edge and close my eyes. My hands are so tight on the plate it takes me a while to loosen them. I breathe deep and sigh with thanks to God. I don’t know whether to eat or to sacrifice it. All my people are starving, and here I sit, not inches from food I could eat freely and without price. The smell of the food is comforting, and makes me remember how much my stomach is cramping. I look down to the plate and after a few more breaths I poke the fork into the eggs.

&nbs
p; Chapter 8

  The eggs and side dish, whatever it was, did well for me both physically and mentally. It was savory and very good cooking, not that I would’ve minded if it was not so good; I was shoveling it down so fast I hardly tasted it.

  I had gone nowhere after eating, until there was a knock at the door and I was forced to answer. Nadeje offered to take my plate and asked if I was better. I merely gave the plate and nodded to his words and then closed and locked the door after him.

  I lay here now, unsure of what to do, my stomach feeling full and unused to being this way. It has at least been a few hours that I have spent here, and I am pretty sure I should go out. I also don’t go out. It must be evening again, and everything outside would look dim as it does when the sun sets below the wall. Closing my eyes, I find that here is the only place I can find peace. I stay here, ready for sleep if that is the path of least resistance.

  When I wake up, it is sunny outside. It must be morning, and for some reason, I am hungry. Not just hungry, but starving. I blame it on my conscience knowing that food is within reach here. I empty my thoughts from my sleep and pray a moment for Meyleia and moeder. It hurts, but knowing that I could mentally be helping them in some way, it makes me feel like maybe my survival wasn’t for nothing, maybe because I am free, I could help.

  When I am done I unhurriedly step back to the door and open it. Nadeje sits at the table with his front to me. He is holding some papers, and his brow is crinkled slightly. When I enter the room and turn after shutting the door, his gaze rises to me. The way his face dims its expression, I know something is wrong. I feel my pulse begin to pound in anticipation and I know the surging feeling I feel in my stomach is not something I can ignore or call coincidence. I want to ask him, to beg him, to shout at him to tell me or stop looking so grave, but I cannot move my tongue. I am stuck.