There was Music

Part 1: Prison-3

I remember walking together to our favorite stream, which ran along the foot of the forest hills north of Hamath. It was a sunny day, one of the last that year. Jed told me about his experiences in Pernor, how he had finished a preliminary phase of training with the Pernor Guard and would be placed in a scouting contingent under the command of some captain.

Jed was excited about his new post. “It means I will not be confined within the walls of the fortress,” he explained. “I will be trained as a Pernor Hunter, protecting Pernor’s borderlands. The mountains encircling Pernor are taller and wilder than anything here. I want to explore every corner. Someday I will show you.”

Jed was always fond of nature.

“That would be wonderful,” I replied, finding myself interested less in the where than the who. “I am proud of you,” I added, hoping to focus our attention on us.

“It is settled then,” he replied with a grin.

I pictured myself like Mother. Except that, instead of being the wife of a rancher, I would be the wife of a soldier. Would we be allowed to live together in Pernor? The idea appealed to my imagination, for my parents did not raise me or my two brothers for leisure. In our own way, we were close to the land, to dirtying our hands—to disciplined work. I loved horses, but my eldest brother, Ürstus, would inherit the ranch. I did not mind. I wanted to see more of the world, and I envisioned myself doing so with Jed.

I was too shy to share any of this with him, of course.

Instead, I rambled about Father and the ranch, about how a noble from the Illiri city of Girion had purchased most of our trained destriers. I mentioned how Father had brooded the rest of that day, and how that was unusual. Jed listened attentively, asking some questions about the noble, but ultimately said nothing more.

Later, I came to understand that Dwairian, Lord of Girion, was preparing to challenge Alöwean rule through a military uprising. The five western Illiri clans were not unified under one ruler. Each clan, of which Hamath was one and Girion another, was ruled by its own lord who was ultimately subservient to Alöwean authority. Dwairian saw himself as the king our people needed. Apparently, many Illiri agreed.

As I have mentioned, I did not think about what was happening outside my life at that time. I was content. Jed and I only had a few days together before he needed to return to Pernor, so I did not want to waste any more of our time with such seemingly irrelevant talk. My world was small, and Jed was a warm light in it.

He kissed me for the first time that day, while we stood next to that woodland stream. I was not ready when it happened; my lips were caught limp, unresponsive. Excited and embarrassed, I felt myself blush. It was then that I was sure our relationship had changed; that we could never go back to the way it used to be.

“I love you,” he said, timidly. “I think I have always loved you.”

My heart leapt within me. I blushed again.

“I love you too,” I mumbled. I said it because it seemed like the right response. But I did not really know what love meant.

I still do not.

We kissed again, better this time, and longer—we were learning—and then walked back home hand-in-hand. My heart beat so ferociously in my chest the whole time, I was sure Jed could feel me trembling. Still, it was a sacred moment.

If there ever was a seed of love planted within my heart—if that was supposed to be its first blossom—then it has long since withered and died. The memory to me is a youthful cliché. How naïve we were. The sound of Jed’s young voice is like a distant murmur. Though I can recall what I felt, I struggle to remember the actual sensation of being kissed by him, the joy of it; or the gentle strength of his hand, and how I relaxed into its security.

There is no more warm sunlight, only burning heat. There is no more quiet winter, only piercing chills. I yearn to remember the tangible touch of affection, to be gathered into a caring embrace—the vulnerable hope in all of it. But those sensations are now ghosts. The light has dimmed. The past no longer seems real. Reality has become shadows: darkness, cruelty, and more darkness—an endless revolution I cannot escape.

For years, I have fought to protect my spirit from being overrun while my body is assaulted. Again and again, I tell myself that my mind is still my own, my bastion of freedom, and that my memory preserves one last bridge to good. I have defended it with every measure of power I can muster. But now I wonder if I was deceiving myself. Perhaps that part of my mind has also been overrun.

* * *

Footsteps echoed outside. Keys rattled.

The cell had darkened again: nightfall.

The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Tall silhouettes came forward and picked Prisoner 43-1-12 up off the ground.

She did not resist them. She had tried that many times before, but it was useless to resist what happened next. She had to focus all her strength on fortifying her mind: to shut down her thoughts and sensations so that her body could become a shell, her spirit protected behind barriers of resolve.

Yet it was never easy.

They dragged her to the room. Inside, the prison warden waited. Dressed in gray, he studied her as the guards placed her before him. She collapsed to her knees, too weak to stand. Hands seized her arms to bring her back up.

Was that a shade of compassion across Nabilak’s face? Why did he look at her like that?

“I admire your stamina, 43-1-12,” he said.

Why did his voice remain so gentle?

Nabilak nodded to the guards. They brought her to the long wooden table, pulled off her tunic, and stretched her face-down on the dank surface. Her limbs were bound and stretched to tension. She cringed, but could not move as frigid water was splashed over her flesh. Her arms began to ache. She gasped for breath.

“Remember that you have a choice,” Nabilak urged calmly. “This lasts as long as you wish.”

Damn you and your voice, she thought.

“It can end right now,” he continued. “Say the word, and I will help you.”

Damn your word.

Nabilak crouched down to look at her face, which was half-buried by her extended left arm. He ran his fingers lightly down her back. “Just one word,” he said. “It is it not difficult, 43-1-12. It does not require much. Just say the word. Why subject yourself to more of this needless a***e?”

Her body trembled. She clenched her teeth and closed her eyes. She had defied oppressors before, and would do so again. If only she could stop shaking.

Nabilak sighed and stepped away.

There came a whooshing sound. Pain stung the nerves on her back. She let out a soft cry, and cursed herself for doing so.

Nabilak continued to speak, louder, as if proclaiming a verdict. “I will not allow you to persistently defy the authority of this prison.”

The whooshing sound of the cane returned, its sting more painful this time.

“Striking a guard will not be tolerated.” Nabilak suddenly came closer, his voice softening again. “But I can protect you, 43-1-12.”

Again, the cane struck.

“Let me save you,” Nabilak continued.

Again.

“Just say the word and it will be over.”

Again.

Each time the pain escalated. She wished she could contain her cries, but her body was not strong enough. She tried to dissociate her mind from it, yet each time the pain escaped her throat.

“How long will you pretend you can endure such needless suffering?”

Again, the cane struck.

“Continuing this would be long and meaningless.”

The flogging continued. Soon it would begin on the back of her legs. She prayed for strength, for detachment. She prayed for the pain to end. She prayed . . . to what? Her will, the air, some unseen presence? She did not know. The people of Hamath worshipped no deity. For most, there was only the Dryden, Keeper of the Dead, and the effort to evade it as long as possible.

Would dying free her of pain? She thought she caught the glimmer of the Dryden’s flaming blue body at the corner of her eye. Was it there watching her, waiting?

No, she could not think about death. She would defy it like all the rest. Instead, she would focus on enduring; for therein might be the power to overcome her adversaries.

But it was never easy.

Horses running, the sound of their coming like the wind when it pounds against the outside walls of our home during a storm. Down the slope the horses gallop, a fiery sun rising behind them.

Two young men, each riding his own stallion, drive the herd skillfully toward the corral. Ürstus and Sindor, my brothers.

Father scolds them for hitting the mounts too hard with their riding crops. They were slow to learn.

* * *

“Get up,” Mother said.

I looked pleadingly at her, but her expression offered only appraisal as she waited to see what I would do.

“Get up,” she repeated more firmly.

With her arms crossed, she stood under the shade of the trees, which bordered the small field where three times a week she instructed my brothers and me on techniques of self defense. Today, we were focused on hand-to-hand combat.

My knees stung. I looked at their dusty, scraped flesh. Both elbows were no better. Blood swelled from a deep gash at the base of my right palm. I gritted my teeth against the pain, knowing that tears would invite more harsh words from my mother.

“You pushed her too hard,” my eldest brother, Ürstus, scolded Sindor. They were two years apart. I was the youngest by three years, only nine at the time.

“I did not,” Sindor exclaimed. “She exaggerates everything.”

“Quiet,” Mother said. “No one is to blame.” She focused back on me. “Are you going to keep lying there?”

I glanced at my brothers.

“Why do you look to them?” Mother asked. “It is not for them to determine what you do. You must decide. Hesitate, and you will be at their mercy. Act, and they may be at yours. So get up.”

“Why?” Annoyed, I sat up. “I do not want to be a warrior.”

“You think people will show you compassion simply because you are a girl?” Mother took a step toward me. “That is not the world we live in. You have to be strong, assertive, protect yourself and adapt as needed.”

“But they are older than me.” I indicated my brothers. “They are boys, and boys are stronger.”

“No,” Mother countered. “Do not use your age or s*x as an excuse. Men may generally be stronger, but we are often more resilient. Anyway, there are ways to turn a stronger adversary’s power against him.”

“Mother?” Sindor interjected.

“Yes?” she replied, her tone softening. She shifted her head toward her second son, but her eyes remained on me.