4A Chapter by W.V. Bard4 Fed,
bathed, and cloaked in freshly scrubbed furs, she left the old man’s house in
far better condition than she had entered, physically if not mentally. From
there on out the trail clung to her boots and either the mud or the tragedy of
leaving her family behind in a crippled pile or possibly even the tug of her
village and home turned the mere act of walking into a chore. She could hardly keep up with her guards and
kept bouncing off the burly, well-fed chest of the one bringing up the
rear. She apologized profusely each time
but never received a response. They travelled the
tight road between villages, one infamous for its many cliffs and sudden
drops into the foggy unknown. Each
village they passed seemed larger and wealthier than the last. But everywhere
the winter had crippled crops, and as they travelled, Pacha glimpsed the poverty
in even the larger villages: she saw the beggars, the clothing hanging limply
off starved frames, the broken wheat crops in the distance tinted white and
grey with ice. She had never thought of
the impact of the winter on the wealthier villages. She had always assumed it only affected her
one tiny, forsaken one " that the Capital or somehow the mass of persons in the
further villages shielded them from suffering similarly from the everlasting
winter. Days passed. Each night they rested where they could "
usually a cottage out in the goonies but once in an even nicer village than the
last. Each village had been reaped, she
knew that much, but wondered where the other children were being taken: if it
was the same place as her, if anyone from a particular village had been chosen
at all, if she was alone. The villages
certainly seemed to function without mourning.
She wondered if her neighbors and childhood friends lived on in the same
manner, as though she had never existed or played any vital part in their daily
activities. At one home in
which she and her guards had quartered in by force, she attempted to ask her
server, the matron of the house, as she placed the soup in front of her. Rusty from misuse,
her voice betrayed her, and all that sputtered from her mouth was a croak and a
groan. “You’re welcome ,”
said the patron, and rubbed her on the back.
“Drink up; I know this journey must be hard for you. This soup has chamomile in it; it will rest
your throat.” Truly it had been
a long trip. Though they had only
traveled three days, she had passed through two villages already and was
officially seated among a much larger house than she had ever seen before, rich
with more furs over the walls and carpeting the floor, even, around a much
larger, brick-encompassed fireplace. She
sat on one of these fuzzy carpets, cross-legged, with her aching legs tucked
tight beneath her so as not to touch the two Processors flanking her. They had taken off their long black cloaks as
a sign of respect to their rich and eager matron, revealing their true garments
of forest green jackets and pants, inlaid with golden thread. Their outfits gave off a rich sheen and shone
sparkling in the dim firelight in the home.
They glowed
intimidatingly in the firelight as a reminder of the Capital’s wealth and
power, Pacha wondered at the matron’s amiability. The men flanking Pacha looked formidable, at
best, and devilish at worst. Their
tanned, moon-like faces, free of any facial hair whatsoever from years of
diligent plucking, but pierced through on noses and browbones. Perhaps they were trained to consistently
wear an
impenetrable mask of disengagement, for they never once responded to Pacha or
her attempts at irking them with anything but expressionless grunts. Her inquiries were met with silence, her “accidental”
punches with glares, her blunders and falls with blank stares. But the woman served
them congenially, babbling on about her son and her daughter, now married off
the both of them and one even training as a warrior in the second district, and
how the reaping went in the village " oh, poor Cleora, taken away at only the
age of nine. And then Jaeneo, the bread
maker’s son, chosen for no reason other than that there were no boys in the
village who matched any sort of criterion " they all really looked the same,
that age group, in this village.
Everyone knew he was only taken as a place holder. What a terrible, dishonorable way to go. Pacha finally
cleared her throat and spoke up. Her
voice cracked out but, lubricated from the soothing soup, she was able to ask,
“So one boy and one girl from every village is chosen?” The matron stopped
her incessant chatter and looked at her oddly for a moment, as if surprised
that she had spoken. Then she
smiled. “Well, I should assume so. Why else would they have taken Jaeneo? He is practically twins with every other boy
in the village! And he does not look or
act like any gods I know of. He was such
a troublemaker….” But Pacha tuned her out and mused over the fact that maybe
she had been chosen for no purpose,
maybe this was not her destiny. Maybe she was just chosen as a placeholder. But the looks she
received from her own villagers all her life, especially three days ago on the
day of the reaping, and especially the looks from the people in the villages
she passed through spoke lengths against such a thought. She finished her
soup, thanked their caretaker profusely, said her prayers and bowed to the
statues with the tiny household and with her guards, then wrapped herself up in
one of the furs by the fire. There,
soothed by the warmth in the great house, she drifted into a sort of
half-sleep, exhausted from walking all day, but kept up by what the woman had
said. A million unidentifiable feelings
and fleeting thoughts kept her just awake enough to suffer through the night as
snores and the sounds of the sleeping filled the warm air. The fire eventually flickered to death in the
reflection of her eyes, and in the following blackness she finally fell into a
deep sleep. Tormented dreams immediately
ate up her consciousness. She was
running, falling, her mother and father just standing and watching her. [[[ Keep
up dream sequence]]] The next day she
awoke in a startled sweat. She untangled
herself from her covers and carefully stepped over her little parade and their
host and swept aside the fur covering to the door-hole. Outside, the sun
was just barely tipping over the horizon, and an icy fog loomed ominously close
to the ground, choking out the crops as it inevitably did every morning. Villagers were just beginning to awaken and
go about their daily duties. An old man
helped his young son pile wood (or maybe it was the other way around) on the
side of their round stone house, a child ran past with a bucket spilling over with
fresh rain water, doors were peeled back to reveal sleepy but hard-set faces
ready to tackle the cold day. A priest
in his morning-wear stepped gingerly over a sleeping or perhaps dead homeless
man with frost burning off the tip of his nose. The village looked
much like her own and the first one she had stayed in in the daily activities
of the early dawn. The only differences:
the abundance of huts " no, houses " and their enormity. A llama wandered
up to her. Its owner, a boy about her
age with the deep black eyes of their people and long swept, traditional hair
yet to be braided ran after it. Pacha
stuck out her hand and giggled as the llama licked it profusely. Likes the taste of my sweat, she
thought. She petted it on its nose and
watched the boy approach. He called out,
“So sorry for " “ but halted awkwardly mid-sentence and mid-gate when he came
close enough to see Pacha’s pale face beneath her hood. He stared at her for a moment, mouth agape,
then collected himself. “I’m guessing you
were chosen,” he said with a slight grin as he approached. He grabbed his llama by the nape of its neck,
and dragged it toward him and away from licking Pacha’s hand. Pacha swept aside her bangs, then winced as
she realized she had just swept a handful of slobber across her face. He laughed and she
smiled half-heartedly at him. “Yes,” she
said, not bothering to ask him how he knew.
“I could tell,” he
explained, “you look different.” “I’m from another
village.” The boy raised an
eyebrow. “Right,” he said. He stood for an awkward second, just sort of
taking her in with his eyebrow still raised, and then relaxed back into a
smile. “Well, best of luck. I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around these
parts again. Make sure to remember the
villages you pass through for your return.” Pacha was about to
chide him for his overconfidence in her based solely upon her looks, but her
words caught in her mouth when he bowed slightly to her with a twinkle in his
eye and trotted off, leading his llama by the scruff of its neck. She let the fur
slide back into covering the entrance of the house, washing her in pitch black. It took her a moment for her eyes to adjust. She realized that the eldest of her guards
was sitting up and staring at her. Of
course. She should have expected. -- Apparently they
reached some sort of checkpoint by day five, for when they arrived at nowhere
in particular at a place on the wide trail connecting each village, the
miniature caravan paused. The only
landmark around was about the billionth shrine they’d seen. The significance of this one in particular
was lost on Pacha, but she kept her questions to herself, as usual. Her captors all
spread out to make camp around her, and for the first time in their journey her
guard was abandoned and she found herself allowed to move about without a
Processor breathing down her neck. But move around to
where? Being in the middle of nowhere,
and seeing herself outnumbered significantly, Pacha saw no chance of
escape. She took a few steps back toward
the last village just to test the reaction of her guards. But none even looked at her. She pushed forward a few more steps, feeling a
tie to them grow thicker with each step.
Eventually, 50 paces or so away from them, she stopped. Only one acknowledged her slight defiance,
standing up and just staring at where she stood so far out of reach, but not
bothering to even move toward her. A
bored look graced his ugly, pierced face.
He knew as well as she that she could not outrun the four of them, had
nowhere to hide, and had not the supplies to survive away from her escorts on
the village road. Feeling foolish, Pacha inched her way back
toward her escorts. The diligent one returned
to his duties setting up camp. They pitched her
tent first. Definitely a Capital
contraption, it stood out from the little trail as a man-made lean-to but
blended in perfectly with the mountainside on which it perched thanks to the
layer of grime and dust on its leather walls.
Two wooden poles connected at their tops made for the door, and when she
opened the leathery flap hanging down from its entrance and slipped between
their wide base, she saw that its ceiling slanted so sharply down to a base
pole lying horizontally on the ground that she had to bow as she stepped
in. And of course, painted on that pole
were the symbols of the gods, so that each time she entered she was forced to
pay them her respects. Its opening faced
the cliffs of the Night’s Pass, which fell beneath the fogs to a land far, far
below, where no one but the Chosen had ever traveled and returned. Pacha thanked the
gods as she bowed into her little tent for its tactical placement away from the
cliffs. It was about a third the size of
her old house, so she ought to be used to the space, but at least her home had
been steady, thick, warm. And made of
stone. In this triangular
lean-to, the winds blew right through the leather skin, and though she was
covered in the most luxurious and thickest of furs, she felt the cold straight
to her bones and the frailness of the tent’s set-up sent shivers through her
person. Flimsy as it was, it was hers, at least for
now. No Processors could enter without
first asking her permission. Tonight she
burrowed into her thick covers, able to ignore with great relief the outline of
the Processor guarding her tent. Beforehand she had imagined they guarded her
so as to keep her prisoner, but after her little distance test today she
somehow doubted that assumption. Perhaps
they guarded her safety. She made herself
as heavy as possible so as not to be blown away down the Night’s Pass in the
raging winds. But before burrowing into
a fortress of furs she just noticed the hand holding the ropes which connected
the entrance’s peak. Although she hated
it desperately for tearing her away from her village and spotting her in the
first place, constantly breathing down her neck like an angry watchdog, tonight
she appreciated that steady hand helping to hold her little tent in place,
through the winds and even the rain that began splattering later in the night. She never got the chance to see if his shift
was relieved, for she fell asleep to the steady beat of the rain as soon as it
began. But when she awoke in the morning
to shouting, a new hand was holding onto the rope around her contraption’s
entrance. Pacha stepped out
from her little fortress and into the cold fog around it. Draped around her shoulders hung the furriest
of her furs and against the morning iciness it protected her head down to her
feet. “What’s going on?” She asked. No one responded,
as usual, but this time she got an answer.
There, approaching in the distance, escorted by four similarly cloaked
men, was a boy she recognized from her own village, the boy with whom she had
shared her first kiss. © 2012 W.V. BardAuthor's Note
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