“Hey you
can’t put us in here! We’re not animals you know. Hey Noot, you can’t do this,”
said Dutch, knowing full well he didn’t understand English. But Noot had understood
the sentiment of her words and just shrugged his shoulders hopelessly. He
wasn’t the one in charge. He was no big deal.
“This is filthy.” Dutch was in high dudgeon.
“Christ, I wouldn’t keep a pig in here,” she said, rattling the bars of their
new cage.
Their journey down from the mountainside had been
full of hopes and great expectations of a brighter future. They had been so sure
that their travails were over. The land had looked luscious and promising…until
they had been led into this compound.
The ground was muddy and trampled, and the stink
reached up to high heaven. Little pools of yellow urine glistened in the paw
prints made by god-knows-what before them. Everywhere they stepped, the mud and
piss (probably mixed with a high percentage of faeces) squirted up between
their toes. No-one dared to move more than was absolutely necessary and they
were very careful not to overbalance or slip, for a fall into that stuff would
be unthinkable.
“Oh……my…..GOD!” said Sweet Mary, holding her arms
up high as if that would keep her feet out of the mud. “I think I’m going to
die.”
Dutch caught herself on the verge of saying
something facetious and bit her lip instead.
“I know
some ladies at our local beauty Spa,” said Rose, “who would kill for this kind
of mudpack. Apparently it’s very good for the skin – removes dead skin cells
and kills any fungus lurking between the toes.”
“UUUUUURRRRRGGGGHHHHHHHH. Please stop,” said
Sweet Mary, pulling one of her feet out with a terrible slurping sound and
releasing a cloud of noxious gas up into her nose. She tried to shake the detritus
off her foot and succeeded in splattering everyone else.
“Oi,” said Dutch. “Keep it to yourself.”
“Sorrreeeeeee. But realleeeeee. This is
disgusting,” said Sweet Mary. It was then she heard her own voice: a whining,
hysterical, spoilt ninny; the worst of who she used to be. At this realization
her body calmed down and she took a deep breath to steady her nerves. What was
she play-acting for, pretending to be precious? As a null-whore she had seen
and endured much worse than this from her clients. She was much tougher than
she let on to others – had survived worse evils than they could ever imagine.
It was all just a baby-doll charade she played out – for her clients – for her
friends – for everyone? For the first time in her life she felt truly disgusted
at the person she was – the damsel in distress, whoring for sympathy and doing
her ‘poor me’ tricks to get what she wanted.
She bent over and was suddenly sick in the mud.
Dutch was at her side in an instant, steadying her with a comforting hand.
“Water!” she shouted at the Ahram and Noot
instantly scuttled away. In double quick time he had returned with a bag of
liquid and, daring the wrath of his comrades, he passed it through the bone
bars of the stockade in which the prisoners were being held. The water revived
and refreshed them somewhat, but their trial was just beginning. More and more
villagers were beginning to arrive, pointing and hooting and peering at them
with their beady little eyes. The young boys, full of mischief and high
spirits, trumpeted loudly and prodded the strange new creatures through the
bars with sticks so that they had to dodge and splash about to stop from being
injured. The pen was about ten paces by five and afforded no escape or privacy
at all.
“Sorry about that,” said Sweet Mary to Dutch. “I
always used to get sick when…” and once again she heard herself talking, always
wittering away to any ear in the vicinity of her open mouth, describing to them
every little pimple and palpitation as if it was of vital importance to the
listener. Of course she felt great while she was talking but she’d never given
a thought to what the other person felt, and the fact that they might also like
to say a few words about themselves. Everyone always listened politely, but
then she often witnessed how those same people couldn’t wait to talk behind her
back. “Full of herself,” and “think she’s so important,” are just a few phrases
that came to mind.
She also remembered a girl she knew who always
talked about relatives and friends she had never even met, telling longwinded, boring
stories about their colourless lives and how she felt having to listen to all
that hogwash. So that’s what people felt about her and her chattering,
nattering mouth – because she talked just as much rubbish as her friend – just
say anything that comes to mind and believe that you’re being vivacious and
entertaining. Oh Lord, how embarrassing. So she closed her mouth and discovered
poor Rose in tears because one fat little Ahram boy was vindictively poking her
with a stick as if she was a rabbit, delighting in her distress. This was more
than Sweet Mary could stand and she marched over to him, grabbed his stick and
pulled it out of his hands without any effort. Ahram hands were very delicate
and weak compared to human ones.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she said. “Stop
that!” and she smacked the bars of the stockade right in front of the little
boy’s face. “You get out of here,” she said waving the stick threateningly at
him.
The boy got such a fright he left a line of wee
in the dust as he ran for his life. She then turned on all the other boys,
splooshing around the perimeter of the cage like a lioness protecting her cubs,
whacking the bars with her stick and sending them all packing. She might not
have been able to defend herself due to her null wave implant, but it had no
effect when she was defending someone or something else
“And stay away,” she said, giving the bars a few
more whacks for good effect.
The group looked at her with wonder and wide open
mouths; even Righteous seemed awestruck as she plodded her way back to them.
“Nice going,” said Angelo. “You’d have made a
brilliant school teacher.” And everyone laughed and the whole atmosphere
relaxed.
“I’ve had enough of being treated like a pig.”
“No-one seems to be in charge here,” said Angelo.
“We need to speak to someone in charge.”
But they were distracted again as a ruckus broke
out not far away. It was the boys again, and boys with sticks will always find
something to beat with them. So, not daring to taunt the humans, they had turned
their attention to a bat-type animal hanging from a nearby tree. Soon they were
prodding and poking the poor thing until they finally succeeded in dislodging
it from its perch. With a squeak of terror the little creature flipped and
flopped this way and that trying to avoid the blows, helplessly flapping its
over-heavy wings and began dragging itself towards the stockade as if it knew
that sanctuary lay in that direction. The hooting hooligans were getting very
excited now, hitting this way and that willy-nilly and trying to stun the
creature before it reached safety. But with
a few deft twists and turns, hops and jumps, the creature finally fell between
the bars of the cage and collapsed in the mud at Sweet Mary’s feet, its little
mouth opening and closing in shock. She could see it had been hurt from the way
it continued to flap around on the floor, unable to launch itself into the air.
Such an ugly, misshapen creature she had never seen before. Just a bundle of
fur, feathers and fungus that seemed to be perpetually moulting, bits dropping
off it every time it moved. It had no arms or hands or feet, just a head and a
body-bag of skin that flipped and flooped its way forward. It also had two curious
eyes that swivelled independently and seemed to be looking in every direction
at once.
Two of the braver boys
sidled up close to the cage in case they got lucky.
“No!” shouted Sweet
Mary, stepping in between them and the bat/cat/rat animal. “Don’t you dare hurt
him!”
The boys hooted their
disappointment loudly but retreated to a safe distance once more. Sweet Mary
bent down and picked up the wounded bat/bag/rat/bird thing.
“There, there,” she said
stroking its little forehead and holding it ever so gently. The bag of skin
then lovingly attached itself to her hip, covering her almost like an apron and
began making contented squeaks and splutters.
“There you go,” she
said.
“Well,” said Officer
Angelo, letting out a deeply held breath. “You seem to have won yourself a
friend.”
“Rags,” she replied.
“What?”
“I’ll call him Rags.”
“Where’s Noot. He could
tell us what it is.” But Noot was nowhere around. It had been ages since he was
last seen and everyone felt sadder and a bit more alone for that.
The day wore on and
still the Ahram kept coming and going at their own inimitably slow pace. By the
afternoon the humans were hungry and tired, but no-one even thought about
eating the fruit rinds and scraps of food that had been thrown into their cage.
Rose had gone very quiet
and everyone could see she was struggling.
“My legs are killing
me,” she said. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand up.”
“Sit on your haunches,”
said Dutch, “and hold on to the bars.”
Soon they were all
crouched down next to the stockade fence, trying to snatch a few moments of
sleep before they had to stand up again and stretch their legs.
As the evening drew in,
the stream of visiting Ahram began to slow to a trickle until none were left
except for the two guards who had been with them all day. Then even they went
home and anxiety settled on the heads of the humans as the sun went down; the
thought uppermost in everyone’s mind was…would the ice come? Is that why
everyone had disappeared? All running for safety somewhere and leaving them to
their doom? There was silence among the little group as the sun dropped down
behind the mountains and they waited to see if the vegetation here was also an
illusion.
The sun was soon gone
but the light stayed on and the valley remained as green and colourful as ever;
the bones illuminating everything as bright as day, much like they saw it from
the top of the mountain early this morning. And…no ice. They were apparently safe
inside the ring of mountains. The valley was real. Still, the relief of that
thought did little to counteract the fact that they would probably have to
spend the whole night in jail. Suddenly rags detached himself from Sweet Mary
and flapped out through the bars of the cage to disappear among the trees.
“Oh dear. Even Rags is
deserting us,” mused Sweet Mary. But within a few seconds Rags was back,
clutching a small fruit in its shaggy skin pouch, and re-attached itself to
Sweet Mary, crooping and snorking from the effort. Sweet Mary took the fruit
and handed it to Rose who was in most need of it.
“Thank you very much Rags,”
she said, petting the rag bag on her hip, whereat Rags launched himself off
into the trees again, and returned in no time with yet another fruit.
Soon the humans had
eaten more than their fill and felt a whole lot better about life. Except for
Righteous, who wouldn’t eat a thing. Silently he stood staring into
nothingness, not responding to any of their entreaties. He felt no physical
discomfort. He was hardly even aware of his surroundings. What he felt was far
worse. For the first time in his life he felt fear. So much so, and so unused
to it was he, that it paralyzed him from top to toe. He felt as if something
terrible was going to happen at any moment, and so close, so immanent was the
peril that he could hardly bear to keep standing there. But there was no escape,
and so utterly terrifying was the emotion that, had he the means, he would have
killed himself rather than continue facing this awful feeling.
Sweet Mary once again
was the first to discern, to some extent, the depth of his anguish. She walked
over to him and put her arms around his waist and held him closely, her head
resting against his stomach, right over his solar plexus. Righteous immediately
felt a warmth surge into him and his senses made an effort to locate the source
and hold onto it with all his might. He was more helpless than a baby. Tears
began to run down his ebony cheeks and drip onto Sweet Mary’s head. He cried
quietly like that for a very long time. Sweet Mary felt his diaphragm shudder
and convulse and slowly, slowly relax until he was quiet and calm again. She
was the only thing that kept the fear at bay; so he wrapped his mighty arms
around her as if he would never again let her go. Throughout the night the two
of them stood like that, unmoving. Dutch, Rose and Angelo seemed to take
succour from the sight and their own ordeal felt much lessened by watching the
two.
The evening mists began
to rise from the damp ground on which they stood, chilling their ankles, even
though the mud itself was quite warm and the evening barmy. Added to that, the
gentle heat radiating from the bone bars made the night air quite comfortable.
Even so, Rose shivered slightly and wrapped her arms closer around herself.
Then, for no reason at all, she went and leant against one of the bone bars,
resting her forehead against the milky smooth surface. It was then she heard
it. The same soft sweet music she’d heard from the dragon statue on the first
waystation they sheltered on. The strange tones soaked into her body and
infused her with calmness and strength. She felt no more fatigue than a
feather, and let herself drift ever higher with the circling spirals of music
that took her over, delicate and floating like a gentle breeze blowing first
here then there, rustling like leaves in the wind. And then she disappeared
altogether.
After many eons Rose
found herself standing in a pure white room, dressed in flowing white robes and
silver slippers. There were diamond shaped windows that looked out onto the
ragged red mountains with white wisps of cloud trailing about the peaks. She
looked down into the valley far below and saw a beautiful patchwork of fields
and rivers and plains, as inaccessible as some fairy tale land. She turned in
towards the room again and noticed her childhood dressing table. On it was her
little pink diary, new and sparkling like the day she had got it. There were
all her bobby-pins and hair-bands and brushes…and as she came closer to inspect
them she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. Not as she was now, but how
she looked when she was a child, with freckles and large front teeth and wiry red
hair. The strange sight made her feel so sad that she burst into tears, and of
course the little girl in the mirror did the same. In no time the two of them were
sobbing their little hearts out, though she couldn’t really have told you why,
it just felt nice to do so. It was then that the woman appeared. Through her
bleary, tear-stained eyes she caught a glimpse of her outline, fading in and
out of the whiteness of the room. Rose stopped crying immediately and wiped the
tears from her eyes so that she could get a clearer look. It was her, the woman
who used to come to her when she was a child, when her heart was breaking; and
that was more often than you would have thought.
She hadn’t seen her
angel for many years: the strange halo around her body, the tinkling melody of
her voice when she spoke, like a singing waterfall. She also remembered how this
angel had often brought her to this white room and the hours and hours they had
spent together. Until now, Rose had always thought it was just a figment of her
overactive imagination brought on by all the stories she used to read - and needed
to believe in - of a little girl being rescued by beautiful fairy princess.
And as all these long
forgotten memories rose and threatened to overwhelm her, she heard a strange
noise behind her and turned around in the mud to see Righteous Alchemy flaming
like a black brand, burning like a midnight sun in the centre of the stockade.
