“It’s cold,” he called out. “Can you reach the nozzle?”
Samuel watched the hose for a few seconds before seeing it pulled farther in.
“Good. Just shake it hard when you’re done.”
He dug into his coat pocket and retrieved the map she’d sketched. The more time he spent staring at it, the more questions he had. How did she know the geography of the states so well? Had she traveled to all the places she sketched? Did she have any family that was alive? How had she survived that long wandering the woods? The whitelands’ unforgiving cold was bad enough, and the wolves, bears, and wild dogs lurking throughout the woods weren’t known for their peaceful temperament.
The hose shook back and forth, cuing Samuel. He reeled the hose back. He sloshed through the wet snow and headed back to the shed. After shutting off the water and putting the hose right back where he’d found it, he went back around to the front and inside the jailhouse. Atia was wrapped in the towel, drops of water falling off the ends of her thick hair. Steam rose from her bare shoulders. She was cold, he knew she was, but she didn’t show it.
He scurried over to the old hope chest sitting in the far-left corner opposite the cell. It wasn’t in the best condition. The wood was rotted through in several places, and various parts were covered with holes and layers of dust. He’d known better than to use it without asking the sheriff’s permission, however.
“Sure,” the sheriff had grumbled. “If you can open it. Thing’s been locked shut before I ever got the job, and I never found a key. It’s not like I go into my own jailhouse anymore.”
During their time together, the sheriff often complained about how he could no longer do his job with Atia staying at the jailhouse. Since a permanent prisoner now occupied the lone cell, the sheriff couldn’t make proper arrests for the minor disputes that were a regular occurrence with the loggers. “Sometimes they need to get drunk, brawl it out, and spend a night behind bars to get their senses back. Now I’ve got to be diplomatic and try and get them to talk things out. Not my strong suit.”
Getting the chest to open at first hadn’t been easy. He had to break open the rusted locks with a hatchet he found in the jailhouse’s utility shed, and he’d ruined the blade by doing so. It was Atia’s box now, and he filled it with all of her new clothes and things. Samuel shuffled clothes around until he pulled out a lovely cream dress, the cotton sewn in a way that really trapped in the body heat. He’d almost bought several pairs of tights to help keep her legs warm, but it would’ve been a useless purchase. It wasn’t as if she could slip anything through the fetters that bound her ankles. He had bought her a proper pair of northern boots. They were black with several silver clasps in the front, the toes arched in a semicircle. He thought she would like them. It was impossible to comprehend how she’d made it as far as she had without a good pair of boots.
The gate squealed as Samuel unlocked the bolt and slipped back the gate. He gave Atia fresh clothes, and she dressed herself. They ate roasted goat liver together, and she consumed more than she ever had before. She drank nothing but water, occasionally snacking on bits of bread and meat. Did she like the food? Did she even need to eat? What was she thinking? He asked himself that one nearly a thousand times a day.
Although Atia couldn’t or wouldn’t speak to him, he felt as though he could read her moods based off her drawings. For the time being, she’d only composed landscapes. Some were beautiful backdrops, calm fields, and cloudy skies. Others, jagged mountains and dark nights. But there was one sketch in particular that amazed him. The details were impeccable. Samuel assumed it to be a painting of one of the redland cities. None of the houses in the town square were made of wood. They were all composited of nothing but mud bricks and stone. The ground was covered in sand and trees with large pine-like needles that Samuel couldn’t identify. The town was right next to the ocean, and Atia had drawn the waves rolling onto the shore. One of the buildings she drew was bigger and more complexly designed than any building in Haid. The structure was comprised of six dome-topped towers aligned in perfect symmetry around a giant steeple, the towers all elaborately designed with various carvings and patterns. He’d heard once that the redlands trained their soldiers in old cathedrals various religious groups would frequent for prayer. Although the Laevis Creed forbade the clergy from congregating in any buildings that were previously used for religious purposes, the redlands military was able to reuse the old buildings as they saw fit. The redlands didn’t have land suitable for crops or natural resources like the other states, but their military was well respected among the other states.
Samuel felt a connection to the picture in a way he couldn’t fully explain. Perhaps because it was an entirely new world to him. From what he’d heard, as well as from what he’d seen from Atia’s sketches, the greenlands seemed fairly similar to the whitelands, minus the large amounts of snow that lasted throughout most of the year. But the redlands seemed much more exotic and warm. His mother was a native of the redlands. When he looked at his own skin, he could see remnants of the bronze shade she’d left for him. He wondered what kind of life she’d lived before meeting his father. What if she was the child of some wealthy politician? She did have a photograph taken of her, and that sort of technology was expensive. She must have come from a wealthy family. Did she have any family left? What were her friends like? What did she do for fun?
Those questions always led him to questions about her relationship with his father. How did they meet? What had caused her to be so bold as to make love with a clergyman? Did she love him? His father always refused to talk about his mother and what had happened, and that left Samuel to speculate on his own. He only knew what he could deduce from the picture and occasional comments his father made. She was a redlands native; she had a warm heart, and a warmer smile. He couldn’t understand what had drawn someone like her to his father.
Finishing her food, Atia lay down flat on the stony floor and stared at the wall above her. Samuel pushed up his dark-framed glasses and scooted closer.
“Atia,” he said.
When the word left his lips, he wondered if it was strange that he’d given the girl his mother’s name. She looked nothing like the young woman in the picture his father kept on the desk. And there was a part of him that was attracted to the girl, and that seemed out of place in conjunction with his mother. It wasn’t a sexual attraction to the girl. At least, he didn’t think so. To be truthful, he wouldn’t really know if it was. Her fierceness, her strength, her beauty, even the mystery surrounding her enamored him. He knew there was a part of him that enjoyed spending time with her. He knew that he cared for her deeply and that he really did want to be her caretaker. He also knew that he’d never felt this way about anyone before.
Atia kept her head still, but her predator eyes moved to the left and looked at him. Samuel rubbed his hair. He needed to have more courage than this if he was going to learn more about her.
“Can I ask you something? I ask you a lot of questions, I guess. You don’t speak, I know. But how come you don’t write words?”
He tapped his shoes.
“You’re not a demon, right?”
She remained stoic.
Samuel lowered his palm onto the ground, his heart beating. “I won’t tell anyone if you don’t want me to. Not even the mayor. I promise.”
He meant it.
She parted her lips, the air escaping as she exhaled.
“You can understand me,” Samuel said. “What I’m saying. I know you understand my language. Don’t pretend you can’t. Please. I want to help. I want you to know I’m your friend.”
She sat up, the chains rattling harshly. She lifted her one hand and pointed to the outside window. Samuel was dumbfounded for a moment before he understood. His mouth went dry, and he instantly felt guilty.
“I’m sorry. I can’t let you go. The mayor—”
Her eyes penetrated him, her jaw tightening. He pulled back, a wave
of fear returning over him. Was she going to attack him? Instead, Atia closed her eyes and rolled over onto her side, pressing her stub against her chest. She laid her head on the ground, and her damp hair covered her face like a blanket.
Samuel scooted back into the bars and lowered his head. She was a prisoner. Of course she wanted to be free. But he couldn’t help her that way. He couldn’t fail at his job. Even if she managed to escape and the mayor didn’t blame him, which was highly unlikely, Samuel would more than likely lose his job as a patrolman. The thought of going back to his father and being ordained a cleric made him sick. He couldn’t decide which fate would be worse.
Returning to the jailhouse, Samuel promised himself he wouldn’t push Atia with so many questions. He would have to wait and give her time. Hopefully she would trust him soon. He knew his employment was contingent on gaining her trust. How he was supposed to prove that was beyond him.
Atia was drawing another picture. Her hand moved the pencil in precise swipes as her stub anchored the sketchbook on her lap. He didn’t say anything, but sat next to her and peeked over her scarred shoulder. He expected to see another landscape portrait, but this drawing was different. The entire page from top to bottom was filled with the most intricately drawn roots.
“The roots?”
She rubbed her stub across her arm.
“Like my father’s mark.”
She pushed her red hair back behind her shoulders and continued her drawing.
Samuel swallowed. “The ribbon would help hold your hair back. That way it doesn’t keep falling on the paper when you look down. Want me to get it?”
She did nothing for a while, but then gave a slight nod.
With nervous hands, Samuel retrieved the chartreuse ribbon from the hope chest and got on his knees behind her. He gathered her thick hair in the crevice of his thumb and index finger. Her strands felt heavy and soft. He brought the ribbon up to her hair. He wasn’t sure how to tie it, but he knew it was similar to a bowknot. He grabbed both ends of the ribbon and looped them around, making two knots to form a crooked bow.
Atia added more shading to the roots.
“Do you know about the creation theory? Mostly only clerics know it. Or demons, maybe. I’m not sure.”
She didn’t acknowledge his question. He decided to continue anyway.
“Long ago,” he said, “Azhuel blew into the dark void covering the world and made the lands and the plants and the mountains. After surveying His creations, He knew that the world needed more. He added creatures: fish, birds, rodents, and bugs. But still, the earth seemed to be missing something. Azhuel took a very deep breath and exhaled as hard as He could. And out from His breath came humans. He was most pleased with the creation of humans, as they were the purest reflection of their creator. He loved them dearly and gave them dominion over all the earth.”
She moved her pencil up to the branches and added more leaves. Samuel did better on his second attempt at the bow, but the loops weren’t proportional.
“But then, when the demons saw what Azhuel had created, they crept out of their realms and made their way into the earth. Demons were the enemies of Azhuel, a horde of shapeless beings who Azhuel had banished to the lower realms for their insatiable hunger for inflicting pain on other creatures. They hated Azhuel, and since they could never harm Him, they decided instead to afflict his prized creations. Demons roamed the earth freely, tormenting the souls of mankind. Human beings became clay in their dark clutches. Their once-pure spirits went dark, and soon they lost all connection to their creator. Azhuel was heartbroken.”
Samuel pulled back on the left loop until it was almost identical in size to the right one.
“Azhuel decided to do whatever was necessary to save humans from the demons. He couldn’t inhabit the earth in his god-form, or else the power of His presence would crush the world. So, He threw Himself into the earth’s surface and spread His pieces out across all the lands and oceans. His broken body became like unending roots. He made sure to be wherever there were people, from the deserts of Kinhu to the icy mountains of Septrea. And then He brought Himself up to the surface in the form of a large tree. The life tree.”
Atia gently stroked the pencil back and forth, shading the branches. Samuel adjusted the angle of her bow, centering it. He blinked slow.
“That way, Azhuel would be able to watch over His creation. His unending roots would forever be buried deep in the earth’s surface. And any soul that surrendered itself to the roots in death would be brought into eternal light.”
She finished her drawing and laid her pencil down beside her thigh. She tore the page from the book and handed it to Samuel. He studied the picture intently.
“The scriptures say that mankind can again communicate with Azhuel because His roots are everywhere. All we must do is shed our blood and pray. And, when we die, we return to the earth to be with Him forever.”
Saying the words aloud, Samuel could hear his father’s voice telling him the same story over and over again as he was a child.
“I don’t know if it’s true. It sounds like a wild story to me. But I know some people believe. My father does.”
Atia parted her lips, her warm breath turning to steam as she scooted her body closer to the firepit.
It was early in the morning when Samuel entered the butcher’s shop. He didn’t need to buy more meat; he and Atia were set on food for at least a few more days. But coming to the butcher’s shop was an excuse to see Claudette. She often smiled when he walked through the doors, and it made his blood rush when she would talk to him like she cared. Except this time no one came out to greet him. A loud boom erupted from the back room. He turned his head, hearing a sudden commotion past the counter, down behind the wooden swing doors. He advanced slowly, listening to what sounded like smashing tools and an animal squealing. He didn’t want to interrupt, so he quietly waited.
“Stupid pig!”
Samuel leaned closer, carefully placing his palm on the left door.
“Everything okay?”
“Sorry,” the shaky voice called out. “I’ll be out soon.”
He inched the door forward but froze. He didn’t want to intrude.
“Do you need help?”
Silence followed, and Samuel took it as a cue to move in. He pushed through the door. In the center of the room was a long metal table covered with knives, mallets, and bloody rags. Pots and pans hung from wiry strings that were anchored into the ceiling. In the back corner, a pig frantically shuffled back and forth, bumping its plump body against the walls. The pig was bleeding from its lower neck, but it wasn’t a very deep cut. Claudette was squatting in the corner on her knees, a large meat cleaver in her grasp. Strands of her brown hair had fallen out of her bun. Her white apron had blood on it, but the stains were mostly speckles. Her eyes were wet with tears.
“Are you okay?”
Claudette sniffled, wiping her nose with her forearm.
“Sorry. I’m working alone today. My mom isn’t feeling well. She caught a fever, so I made her stay home. I knew we had a shipment coming up from the train carts, but I told her not to worry. I’d watched her bleed out a pig before. I tried to cut the throat, but I didn’t do it right.”
The brown pig squealed as it came forward and charged into the table, knocking over several utensils. Claudette buried her head into her arms.
“It’s not like my father is ever around to help. He’s always working at the mayor’s estate. Making real money, he says. I can’t do this by myself. I’m not strong enough.”
Samuel came closer to her. He empathized with her because he thought he was the only one in Haid who felt that way.
“Don’t say that,” he said. “You’re really strong. Stronger than me. Besides. It’s a lot harder than it looks.”
He imagined how much Claudette and her mother must miss the old butcher. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his hunting knife. “I can help you pu
t it down. I’ve done this before.”
Claudette poked her head out, but perhaps was too embarrassed to say anything. The wounded pig was getting closer to the wooden doors, squealing in wild frustration. Samuel stepped back to guard the exit, spreading his legs out in order to make his body wider.
“What can I do?” Claudette asked as she rose to her feet. “To help.”
Samuel unsheathed the blade. He waved the knife at the pig.
“You can put down the cleaver. Probably not the best knife for this.”
She left the cleaver on the table, her red eyes watching the pig with disdain.
Samuel cleared his throat. He felt nervous because he knew he wasn’t as strong as most other boys his age. He was nearly a man, yet puberty had hardly left a mark on his face or body. Shouldn’t he have developed more muscles by now? Not only that, many times he didn’t feel he’d make a decent man at all. He was a sensitive boy, and when it came to hunting, he never enjoyed the kill. But he’d killed animals before. He probably would have to kill again. Hunger often made him do things he didn’t like doing.
“We need to corner it. Trap it. That way I can latch on and get a clean cut.”
Claudette pointed to the lower left end of the room. “Over there. By the drain.”
With Samuel and Claudette on their feet, the pig retreated to the back part of the room. Samuel kept the knife level to the floor as he inched over. He waved Claudette to do the same on the opposite side. They got closer and closer. The pig jammed its body against the wall, huffing as its hooves smashed the ground below. Its black eyes squinted as it tried to run in between them. But Samuel expected it. He jumped onto the creature and hooked his left arm around its neck. The pig writhed, and Samuel fought to keep his grip. He had to move fast. Claudette ran up behind the pig and wrapped her skinny arms around its belly, securing it. Samuel had no idea how Laura was able to do this all on her own. He remembered the pig’s superficial cut and realized it was probably much easier when the pig wasn’t expecting it.
Demon in the Whitelands Page 9