Beneath, part two

A girl without a name or country wandered the hills. She wore only a thin coat and trousers which barely defended against the biting cold. But still she never sought sanctuary or escape from even the harshest of elements. She followed the road even when the road was rough or dangerous. She never fought, and she never had to, even when she passed bandits. She simply looked too destitute to bother with, for in truth she was. She did not try to hide from the cold because she could not feel the cold for her mind had been dulled to it. She did not stop in towns because she felt no hunger. She did not take the road more travelled because she had no desire for the company of people. She was numb to comfort, and pleasantness. The road only grew rougher as she walked, the weather only opened to more viscous shades of cruel and the personage only became more sparing.

                After the days had become weeks and the weeks had become months, and the months had blended into meaningless spans of time she sat on the side of the lightly worn path that at one time had been a road. She had no more left in her. She fell back against the earth and waited for death’s merciful grip to release her from this eternal nothingness. Yet still it refused to come. It always refused no matter how she beckoned it. She clenched her eyes shut trying to force the world of the living from her vision, but the dark frightened her too much.

                She opened her eyes and there was someone looking down at her. She looked back up at the round ancient face. The face held little shape seeing as it was covered in lines atop deep furrowed wrinkles. It appeared to smile down at her, and so she tried to smile back at it.

                “Are you all right deary?” the wrinkled face asked.

                But how could she answer. No, I’m not alright, I’m alive. She decided it was simply best not to answer.

                “Did you fall off the road?” it asked when it received no reply.

                She nodded because that seemed an acceptable explanation. An old wrinkled hand reached out to her as the face shook with pleasant disapproval. The girl was on her feet faster than she thought possible. The hand might be have been old but it was also strong. The hand and face belonged to a sturdy looking old woman who barely reached the girls shoulder. The old woman smiled up at her with pale deep set eyes.

                “I’ve been telling the council they need to fix the road,” she muttered conspiratorially as she wandered past the girl.

                 The girl watched the old woman as she hobbled down the overgrown path. What a curious creature. The old woman turned and beckoned the girl to follow. She did and kept at the heels of the old woman as she walked. They had not gone far when the woman began to hum a jaunty little tune and the girl couldn’t help but smile at the woman’s joviality. She was such a curious figure. The girl doubted that she had ever seen so happy a creature in all her miserable life.

                “Aren’t you cold deary?” the old woman asked without turning.

                At first the girl shook her head, before realizing the old woman could not see her, and hurriedly replied, no.

                “My old bones always feel cold now a day. The cold makes ‘em stiff, then I can’t pick my herbs,” she said as she patted the handle of a basket that hung from her arm. The old woman shook her head sadly at the thought, but even though the old woman’s expression was downcast she seemed no less happy. She picked up her little tune once more as they walked. She cut a queer figure against the unkempt growth of the road. Small and almost doubled over with age she resembled a kindly turtle.

                They walked so far that they entered the square of a small town. The place was alive and had it not been for the new empire’s banners being present on the gate, she would have thought the place to be completely untouched by the ravages of the war. The square was bustling with several hundred marketers. The old woman maneuvered through the crowd with ease, but for the first time in years the girl could not. The mass refused to part for her as they always seemed to before. She ended up elbowing her way through with great effort. The old woman placed her basket on the ground and took up her position as a seller. The girl came and stood beside her watching with fixed attention as the old woman drew people from across the square. She was surely some sort of magician to hold such power over people.

                In the space of not even an hour the woman had emptied the basket and held a heavy purse. She laced her old arm through that of the girl’s and lead her to the local inn. The old woman bought a warm meal for them both and tried to strike up conversation.

                “I am Ma Demy. I come and sell my herbs here every week during the season and I always leave with an empty basket,” she beamed proudly.

                The girl smiled but was reluctant to state her own name plainly. The old woman seemed to be lovely, and the girl had no wish to offend or frighten her. But she also could not stand the thought of lying to so kindly a creature.

                “I was once called Mariposa… but now I would like to be something else I think.”

                Ma Demy thought a moment as she sipped at her warm tea, “My youngest granddaughter’s name is Sasha and I am rather fond of the name. Would that name suit you deary?” The girl bowed her head in ascent, and the old woman smiled, “fine. Then would you be kind enough to pass the butter, Sasha my child?”

                After their meal they walked the road back to Ma Demy’s home. It was a long walk on a treacherous path and it surprised Sasha that the old woman could manage it. She watched as the old woman teeter dangerously along the uneven earth. It nearly made her die of fright every time the woman rocked headlong towards the rocks. Even with the terrifying unbalanced nature of the trek the woman still managed to remain incredibly sure footed. Sasha could not even begin to match her path it was so precise.

                Eventually the path broke into a field of rich grain. Across the field lay a small stone hovel. They reach the rock pile of a house just as the sun was setting and the field was cast in a vibrant orange light. Sasha looked out over the beautiful spectacle and remembered for the first time in a long time what made the earth beautiful. She only went in after the old woman beckoned her to enter and ‘stop letting in the cold night air.’ Ma Demy was pilling wood into the fire place bending at a painful angle to reach logs that were far too heavy for her to lift. Sasha quickly came and snatched the logs away from the old woman and built up the fire so fast that it nearly exploded to life. The old woman applauded the spectacle, and took a place by the warm fire.

                “You have quite a skill with fire,” she commented, “It nearly leaps up at your beck and call.”

                Sasha bowed her head, for in truth it did. There was no grand illusion, she merely spoke to the fire and it answered. The old woman pushed an old tea kettle over the roaring fire carefully. She waved the girl to come sit beside her, and so she did. The old woman began spinning the long and complicated story of her life for the girl. It began, when she was young, not much older that Sasha, she had been married off to an older man. Now granted the man was kind and they lived happily married until he suddenly passed. Her first husband had left her a small cottage on his estate, in which the two now sat, while the rest went to the children of his earlier marriage. She lived quite happily in that cottage growing herbs in a small garden which she sold in the market. It was on one of those market days that she met her second husband, and fell madly in love from the first moment she saw him. Together they had eight children, all of whom still live on the far edge of the estate. Together they lived happily until he too passed. At this she was terribly grieved. She didn’t know what to do with herself, until she saw her youngest grandchild at the time, Sasha. The sight of that child brought her out of her misery enough that she found her third and final husband, whom had only passed this last summer.

                “Three husbands, eight children, twenty four grand children, and twenty nine great grand children for the moment,” she beamed with a tap of her nose.

                Sasha smiled. The old woman had led a life full of love and happiness, but what had she done? There had been no happiness, no joy, no light for so long in her life. She was barely a woman and yet there had already been more than her share of suffering. She could still feel the shackles cutting into her wrists, and the darkness would never leave the corners of her battered mind. Sasha envied the old woman. She envies her little cottage, herb garden, her eight children, twenty four grandchildren, twenty nine great grand children and three husbands. By now it would be reasonable for Sasha to have had at least one, but she had never enjoyed the company of a man outside of the war rooms and battle fields. Sasha watched the old woman as she began bobbing to her happy little tune as she brought the kettle off the fire. She was such a motley creature, with her wrinkles and high spirits.

                Though the old matron’s story was wonderful, Sasha’s curiosity had not been fully quenched, “But what of the war? Surely it has been here?”

                “Oh the war was far away, and had little to do with simple folk like us. Some went to fight, but by the time war reached us it had already been won and finished.”

                Sasha broke into a little smile. She really had found a place where there had been no war.

                Old Demy poured out two cups of tea, and set one before the girl. The two sat together next to the fire in silence as the old woman sipped at the tea. Sasha held the burning cup between her palms but felt nothing. The heat could not reach her in the freezing dungeons of her mind. The old woman sighed contently as a rush of warmth flowed through her body relieving her acts and pains. The old woman noticed that Sasha did not drink, and asked if she did not care for the tea, but Sasha simply stared into the fire and held fast the cup in her hands.

                “Would you care to stay here deary?” Ma Demy asked the girl. It was difficult but the girl managed to pull herself from her reverie enough to nod. The old woman smiled her broad wrinkly smile and settled deep into her seat next to the fire. It was nice having someone to care for again.

               

                Sasha stretched out on the blanket mattress the old woman had given her. Rain fell in a steady irregular rhythm against the small panes of glass that were supposed to be windows. The only light that filled the small room was the coals glowing in a small makeshift stove. The cottage had four rooms, a great room and kitchen, two small bed rooms, and a pantry. Old Ma Demy slept in the room right off the great room and Sasha now reside in the other. The room was sparse for it had not been used in more than a decade. Sasha could almost hear the laughter of the children that had lived here. The room was filled with happiness. There was an aura of home that made it nearly intoxicating. Childhood was one of the many pleasures of which she knew very little. She could remember her parents, their faces lingered upon the edges of her mind. She remembered vaguely playing in a field of wheat much like that outside the very window she watched, but those memories where so thin they were more of a dream. From a very young age she had studied her craft under the astute eyes of her tutors. She lived in luxurious palaces being served elaborate meals on silver platters. But there had been no love. There had been no joy. There had been no childhood. She didn’t know why she had such a gift, but she would have happily traded it all for one more hug from her mother and a kind word from her father. The last thing she carried of her life as a normal child was a simple gold locket empty of all but memories.

                She thought about her mother’s face and how little it resembled her own. She could see her mother’s features far more chiseled and distinct, her liquidly brown eyes, her vibrant smile. None of these things were present on her face. She didn’t even know if her parents were alive. She thought of what they might be doing if they were. Her mother would be clearing the dishes from their evening meal, while her father might be sitting by the fire smoking a pipe. That was what parents did wasn’t it? She had so little experience in the matter.

                She didn’t sleep at all that night and instead watched the storm break and the sunrise. When she could no longer stand the idea of pretending to sleep she went out and built up the fire in the small fire place. Heat filled the chilled air, casting off the worries of night and bringing the uncertainty of morning. Sasha carefully peeked into Old Demy’s room and saw the slight rise and fall of the pile of quilts atop her bed. After silently retracting her head from its precarious position she walked back through the small living space. The fire burned contently in the great stone fire place, while the rest of the room remained absolutely still. There was little to occupy her in the house, so she went outside. The air was bright and full of life. Fresh air had been sorely lacking in her existence for so long that every encounter was glorious. She closed her eyes and felt a blanket of cold morning air alight upon her skin. There was brightness to it that the dungeon air did not have.

                She could still feel the echo of pain and lament that reverberated from the walls. Her people were a proud people and would never show pain, or fear. But still the echoing pain of the cell walls crawled across her skin like fleas on a dog. She rubbed away the sensation with her palms. The dawn was magnificent. The sun’s brilliance shone against the sky in golden rays of light and warmth. She pulled it towards her by the hand full. There was so little to reach out for in the darkness of her prison, just stones and cold metal chains. Here there was grass and trees and wind and all manner of living creatures. She looked out over the path that led away from the cottage. It disappeared into the woods, and for the first time she felt truly free, here hidden from the world that had imprisoned her. She raised her hands towards the heavens and danced on unchained feet, on soft soil, in the shining light of day, and reveled in her freedom.