I am Mercy

by Mandi Lynn

  I am Mercy

  Mandi Lynn

  Kindle Edition

  Copyright © 2013 by Mandi L. Strezelewicz

  The following is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, or transmitted in any form, digital or printed, without the written permission of the author.

  mandilynn.com

  MARSEILLE, FRANCE—1343

  “Your eyes.”

  The man hovers over me, gripping my shoulder. His fingers dig into my bones. I stand in the middle of the market, surrounded by people, but that doesn’t change the fact that if I were to scream, no one would hear me.

  “What are you?” he asks.

  He pushes me away, and I stumble into a wooden cart full of barley. The merchant glares at me before turning his attention back to a customer.

  “Are you a witch, girly?”

  The man is large, huge compared to me. I stare at his hands; they could kill me. He wouldn’t hesitate to strangle me.

  “What are you?” he screams, and this time more people in the street glance over in our direction.

  “I’m nothing,” I sputter. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” The words were meant to sound strong but come out only as a whimper.

  “Silver.” The man points to my eyes.

  I wrap my arms around my middle. Strangers in the street stare; they want to see what this man sees.

  “This girl has silver eyes! She barely has an iris!”

  “No,” I beg.

  The man slaps me across the face and grabs my shoulder again. “Anyone who holds witness to this young girl, come forward. If no one speaks to her innocence, then she must be the Devil’s child.”

  I look across the field of strangers. Everyone in the marketplace has stopped and turned their attention to my eyes. No one rushes forward to save me or to stand witness by saying I have nothing to do with the Devil’s work. Instead the faces look curious. How will this end? They want to know. Will this man kill the girl he holds? Or will he beat her, rape her, and leave her in the streets, scoffing at her uselessness in the world?

  “Please,” I cry. I had been saying it to the strangers in the street, but when they make contact with my eyes, they all look away. The man holding me prisoner is my only hope now. “Please …” I look to the ground and with a shove, I’m on my knees, my skirts sprawling out around the cobblestones.

  It’s my eyes. The irises—they lack pigment, leaving only a small pupil in the center of my eye. It tells the public I’m unsafe, not to be trusted. Mama tells me that I’ve been like this from birth. I was born the day the sky grew dark. The moon and sun aligned in the sky, and all that could be seen was the circular outline of the sun’s rays behind the moon. Everyone knew to look away from this turn of nature, but I was drawn to the sight. Years later, here I stand, silver-eyed and accused of being a witch.

  “Will they hang her, Mama?” a little boy whispers to his mother in the crowd.

  I look at him in his dirty clothes that hang from his body. He clutches his mother’s skirt, as he looks back at me, hiding behind her with a muffled cry.

  They all want to kill me.

  A sharp pain cuts across my back. “Be there any witness to this girl’s innocence?” the man shouts again, a leather whip balanced in his hands.

  I haven’t done anything wrong. I didn’t look at anyone, like Mama told me. I kept my eyes down. I paid for my food, was careful not to disturb others, but this man looked at me. He saw my eyes, and that’s all it took. Most strangers glance quickly, see my irises, and walk away, afraid to bring attention to something they can’t explain. This man gripped my hand as soon as he saw me and questioned me without allowing time for answers.

  The whip comes down on my back again, and I curl into a ball on the street. My body numbs the pain, and soon the tears streaming down my face are the only things I can feel.

  “I’ve done nothing,” I say in a whimper.

  “She speaks lies!” a woman in the crowd shouts. “I saw her steal the kale! Look at it! She’s hidden it in her satchel!”

  Lies. They all lie. Why do they want me to die?

  The man coils the whip around his wrist in order to bend down and take the satchel slung across my body. I release my grip on my belongings and give up fighting. Even though I know the lashings have stopped for now, it’s as if the leather still drags across my skin. Hot, fresh blood warms my back, pooling on the cobblestone path. No one moves to help me.

  “What’s this, girly?” He holds out the kale I had purchased just seconds ago.

  I shift my gaze to the merchant I had bought it from, but he cowers away. Another man from the crowd comes forward and kicks my back.

  “Don’t you look at him,” the stranger yells.

  “I purchased it.” But it’s just a shout among chaos. My words are nothing.

  The merchant speaks up, “She bought nothing from me. The girl is a thief!”

  When I look at him again, he stares at me with malice, like I really am the thief he accuses me of being.

  This is where I will die. Not because of the flu or starvation, but murder. These strangers want to kill me under false charges, and no one here is willing to stop them.

  “Please,” I say again, turning to my would-be killer. The crowd stands over me. The man’s feet are just inches from my face, and I know that, if he wanted, he could draw out my death and see just how long I would suffer before my body succumbs.

  He laughs at me and uncoils the whip for the second time. The crowd gathers.

  From the corner of my eye I see mothers push their children back, guarding them from the scene that is about to unfold. Men close in, make jokes, mock me, kick at my body, even though I give no fight.

  My tears are cold. My hands are dirty. My body is broken, but my eyes supposedly hold an evil everyone can see. I am not this evil.

  I look up at my accuser and he smiles, whips the leather to make a loud snap. It cuts in front of my line of sight. It doesn’t touch me, but a fast, cool breeze of air warns me of the danger. He takes his stance. This time, when he brings down the whip, I can tell he means to hit me.

  One.

  I put up my hands to block the blow.

  Two.

  I close my eyes, trying to forget the face of this horrible man.

  Three.

  “No!”

  Someone screams, just as the leather cuts across my hands and face. It’s not my scream.

  “Aida!” she calls out again.

  My hands fall away, and I catch a glimpse of my accuser winding his whip back again for another blow. He wants me to bleed. He wants the witch’s blood to spill. Doesn’t he understand, witches don’t bleed? That’s what the tales say—witches can’t bleed. It’s the only way to tell a Devil’s advocate from a human.

  “I bear witness. Aida is my friend! She’s no witch! Stop yourself!” the girl screams in terror.

  My head turns, and then I see her. Cyrielle.

  She runs toward me, but my thoughts leave me. The last thing I hear is my own shallow breathing.

  ~~~

  I had a dream once that I passed on and no one cared.

  It was just me, lying on the dirt floor of our small cruck house. Papa decided I wasn’t good enough to sleep on the thin mattress of straw. I was dying; why would it matter if I were comfortable or not? So they left me there. With no tears or goodbyes, they departed. My family.

  A heart beats only as long as someone is there to witness its livelihood. As each second passed, the air grew colder, and the sun slipped from the window’s view. Dying was strange, un
like I’d expected. I was light-headed, with a crushing pressure on my chest that kept me from moving or screaming. In my dream I cried, because I could tell nothing was happening. The glory of the Father didn’t bring me salvation, like I had been told.

  I was dying. I was alone.

  BOOK 1

  I.

  Anton walks into our small home, the walls made of wattle and daub, a straw roof with a hole above the fire that Mama uses to cook our meals. He’s a tall man with a strong build, perfect for working the fields. Margo married him three years ago, after Papa arranged a trade—Anton’s best sheep for Margo’s hand in marriage.

  To Papa his daughters are nothing more than an item to sell. That’s all women are worth after all, right? We’re too weak, too tender, to work in the fields like men. We are to cook, to clean, to tend to our husbands. Compared to the heavy work our husbands and brothers do, we are nothing but the womb that produces the next set of workers.

  Mama doesn’t notice Anton at first. He’s supposed to live in the next village, raising his family. He scans our home, until he notices me skinning a rabbit in the corner. When his eyes rest on mine, I drop my knife. It makes a soft thud as it comes to rest in the dirt.

  “Taking your latest victim?” he asks.

  I begged Margo not to marry him, but she was charmed by his very presence, with his lean muscles and dark hair that fell to his chin. He was never to be questioned. And that is why he hates me, because I’ve always questioned him.

  “Dondre brought the coney,” I say, holding up the bloodied fur. The meat of the animal rests in a skillet next to me, waiting to be cooked.

  “Anton, what are you doing here?” Mama snaps at him, finally turning around. Her dark hair is gathered in braids around her head and covered by a hood, just as all married women should fashion themselves.

  “I’ve come to deliver your daughter.”

  Margo walks through the threshold then, her own child in tow. Joelle is four years old, the mirror image of Margo, with light hair braided down her back, like Margo used to wear before marriage. Upon entering, Joelle lets go of Margo’s hand and finds company with Mama.

  “What’s wrong?” Mama asks, pushing Joelle away to see Margo.

  “Always welcoming, Celine.”

  Anton is about to pick up the knife I dropped, but Mama doesn’t give him a chance to step farther into our home.

  “Out with you!”

  She doesn’t trust him. Never has. Maybe she understands this man, like I do. Papa may have convinced Margo to love this man, but not Mama. She can see the glimmer of venom lighting his eyes.

  “Fine,” Anton says, taking hold of his daughter’s hand.

  Joelle protests, dragging her feet, dropping herself on the ground, not consenting to be moved.

  “Joelle, come!”

  “Papa, we just walked here!” She digs in her feet, slurring her words.

  “Now.” He tugs her, lifting her off the ground.

  “Leave the child!” Mama yells.

  Anton lets go of Joelle, and she skips away, putting the cooking fire between herself and her father. He stands there glaring at Mama, then he turns to me and spits on the ground. He walks out the door and doesn’t bother to glance at his wife or daughter as he leaves them behind without the slightest regret.

  Joelle finds her way to her mother. Margo sits on my bed, just barely able to hold up her head.

  Now that I see her, I understand why Mama asked what was wrong. Margo’s skin is pale, and long hairs hang loose from the braids piled on her head underneath her hood. All I see is skin, bone, and dark circles under her eyes.

  “I’m fine,” Margo whispers. Her voice is coarse. She coughs and her entire body moves as her hand clutches her throat.

  “Lie down, Margo,” Mama says.

  Margo obeys and lies on the mattress. On the other side of the room Joelle brings her knees to her chest. She mumbles something, but I’m unable to understand her words. I wander over to Joelle’s frail body, but when I do, she moves away.

  “Aida, get me a wet cloth! We need to cool her. She’s burning.”

  I follow Mama’s instructions and grab a scrap of fabric as I step over the threshold. In the blinding sunlight I can still hear Mama’s voice lingering from within.

  “What has he done to you?” she says. But there is no surprise in her tone—she always knew this would happen someday.

  “Nothing, Mama,” Margo says, but her voice is fading.

  Anton. Mama didn’t care when Anton grabbed me, whipped me, tried to kill me. Papa didn’t care either. I was their spare child who had survived against all odds. At my birth they were prepared to let me go. One look at me and my parents knew: this infant is only a ghost of what we wished to have.

  My eyes, my luna eyes. Once upon a time my mama loved me, because she thought I was dying. She named me Aida de Luna. Helper of the moon. My silver-white eyes connote purity, but also evil. They were my mark of death. Born of the sunless hour, my parents waited for my passing, but it never came.

  On the side of our house a pail of water is reserved for cooking, so we don’t have to walk all the way to the river’s edge every time we need some. I soak my scrap of cloth in the bucket, and the droplets wet my fingers.

  When I return, Margo’s thick wool kirtle has been removed, so all she wears now is the thin, pale chemise that clings to her body. Her body is burning up, sweat coating her skin in a milky layer.

  “Tell me where it hurts,” Mama says.

  “It doesn’t. Anton’s just being delirious, is all. I fainted in the fields, and he acts like the Devil possessed me.” She laughs, but Mama’s face grows serious.

  “Aida,” she says, her eyes never leaving Margo’s.

  I pass Mama the cloth, and she lays it on Margo’s forehead. The water droplets slide over her skin, and Margo seems relieved by the cool touch for a moment. Mama motions me close and whispers in my ear, so Margo doesn’t hear.

  “Take Joelle outside. Tend to the sheep. Do something to distract her. I don’t want her near Margo.”

  And just like that Mama prepares for Margo’s decline.

  No evil will infect her household. It’s the reason she keeps me hidden. If I were allowed to wander the village or work the fields, people would see me, see how different I am by one look of the eye. And just like that, I would no longer be wanted. It’s what happened when Anton beat me near to death. I didn’t know then that, in a short few years, the man who accused me of being a witch would marry my only sister.

  Cyrielle had saved me, but Papa would rather let me sleep with the sheep than in his household after word flew within the village that I was accused of witchcraft. Mama resisted his ideas of confinement at first—she might have still loved me then—but soon she stopped thinking of me as her daughter. I was the child they gave birth to, ignorant of the eyes that spoke of evil.

  “Come, Joelle.” I hold out my hand, but she shakes her head. I kneel down to the mattress and grab her hand before she has a chance to move farther from me.

  “No!” she screeches. “Mama! Mama, stop her!”

  She’s not talking to me. She’s not even looking at me. She looks to her sick mother. Margo doesn’t glance our way as I scoop up Joelle in my arms. She screams, cries, and pushes against me until I have carried her from the room and into the daylight.

  “I don’t want you! I want Mama!” I put her down as fast as I can, and she stomps away. Her voice is loud enough that it stirs the sheep that graze within their fence.

  “You can’t see your mama right now,” I say, but Joelle tries to walk back inside. I catch her arm and pull her toward me again. My grip is harder than I intended, and she stumbles, crying as if a knife had been plunged in her chest. “Shh, Joelle, your mama needs rest.” I try to cradle her in my arms, but she only pushes away from me.

  “No!” She hits my arm with the little strength she has, but it’s done in vain. Her body goes limp; she finally surrenders, and soon her cryin
g quiets enough so all that is left is a mumble.

  “Mama will be all right.” I curl her body toward me. I imagine this is what Margo looked like when she was small, but I can see Anton in this child’s body. Every time Joelle looks at me, I see him in her face. The nose angled just so, the sunken eyes, but most of the similarities are in the way she holds herself. He’s there when she looks at me like I’m a monster.

  She must have fallen asleep because all her murmurs stop. Her body is dead weight against me. Inside I can hear Mama tending to Margo, and Margo insisting nothing is wrong. But if nothing was wrong, she’d stand up, take her daughter from my arms, and find Anton—wherever he may be. The problem is she can’t. Something is very wrong.

  II.

  Cyrielle is a girl I’ve known my entire life—a neighbor’s daughter who has always been a friend. She was there before people looked at me as some evil thing. To her, I was just a normal girl to play with. When I was small, Mama and Papa taught me to keep my eyes hidden, but as I grew older looking to the ground to hide my gaze became rude. The only way my parents could hide my eyes was to act as if I didn’t exist. Cyrielle saw me though. Every day when she finished her chores and I finished mine, we played by the stream.

  One day Cyrielle’s mama found us and saw me. The woman screamed, clutched her daughter, and dragged her away. It was a long time before I saw Cyrielle again. I was only about ten at the time, and I stayed home with Mama to help care for my baby brother, Dondre. I watched Mama nurse him, and she taught me how to prepare our food, wash clothes, and clean our pots, all so she didn’t have to.

  Cyrielle found a way to sneak over to visit me, even after a scolding from her mama. She greatly enjoyed the art of escaping with only a whisper as her trail.

  I thank the Heavens for Cyrielle. She saved me, when no one else would.

  ~~~

  I lay Joelle across my thin mattress before leaving. Mama is gone somewhere—roaming the fields for herbs that may help heal Margo. My sister is asleep when I creep from the cruck house and leave her daughter behind. They can manage. It will only be a short time before I come back.