The Succling and Her Dues

Chapter Three: Act 3

[Victorian District, 2018 (Continued)]

“You know,” Aquarius started, “You’re quite experienced in the pleasure pool. It seems you have a better understanding of women than most men.” She smiled, while his fingers lazily drew swirls up and down her spine.

Phillip booped her nose with his index finger. “No thanks to you. I’d have it no other way.”

“Stop…” Aquarius blushed. “You’re making it harder for me to hate you.”

“What?” he remarked. “Don’t you want to grow old with me like human couples often do?”

In truth, she often thought about what it would be to live like a human, rather than a man-eating siren. She envisioned them in a small cottage in the rural area of the district, surrounded by lavender stalks and tiger lilies. Perhaps she would mother a child or two, who would play with sticks in an open field shaded by an ancient oak tree, happy and carefree. And she dreamed of every time Phillip would wrap around her from behind and ask her to dance with him, to which she obliged.

Would I have met someone as caring as my Phillip? She’d often think to herself. But there was one, once upon a time. And though their love was forbidden and temporary, she would have done anything for the man. But Cauva took him away from her. And now, Aquarius was determined to have nothing of consequence come to him. Even more so with his mother, as Death charged her with keeping Anara company.

To make matters worse, Death had foreseen her clan falling from the hands of wicked men and warned her. She was to be known as the last, untouchable siren in the world, at the price of never conceiving an heir. Aquarius wanted more than anything to be a mother…

“What is on your mind, love?” Phillip whispered.

“Nothing at all, my Little Prince.” She nuzzled her way into a hug, satisfied and tired. His sea breeze cologne blanketed her glistening skin, and she soon drifted off to sleep.

☽☀☾

Left alone on the floor, Anara sat up, her hair strewn into a nest of curls, knots, and sweat. She had listened briefly to Phillip’s conversation with Aquarius but felt something amiss with how Aquarius responded.

Anara stood up and trudged toward her bathroom, blinded by the sunlight pouring in from the window above her garden tub. Morning already? I haven’t slept yet.

She gathered some lavender buds, rose petals, and a vase of blueberry oil to add to the pooling waters of her bath. It was something Plaucius recommended when she struggled to find the right perfume to please her arranged husband, Keikash. However, it seemed to affect Plaucius more than her king.

She loved that about him.

Soaking in the warm liquid, Anara relaxed her eyes, replaying what happened shortly before losing the one person she most cherished as a mere teenager.

☽☀☾

[Persian District, 1730]

“So, you are not my real mother?” Anara stared into the crackling flames. Questions buzzed in her head, wishing that what she heard was nothing more than a tall tale from a dream Nanektah conjured up. Looking at the mother she'd known all her life, seeing the sadness that consumed her irises, Anara gathered enough courage to quench this sudden thirst for answers. “Then how—tell me. How did I come to be?”

Raising her arms, Nanektah motioned Anara closer.

Anara hesitated. All her life, she had known the woman before her as ‘Mama,’ but to have another… She scooted over until Nanektah’s arms were wrapped around her.

“I remember when I first found you,” Nanektah reminisced. “You were nothing but skin and bones. Such a fragile creature. I picked you up from the ground—in the middle of a desert far from here—and cradled you in my arms. When you looked into my eyes, I… I just knew.”

“Knew what, Mama?”

“That… protecting you from this world was my purpose. The reason I live and breathe today.”

Anara pressed her head on Nanektah’s lap. A small smile crept onto her face. “Did you know my mother?”

“Sadly, no. There was a carcass you were hiding in. I assumed it was your mother.”

The smile that was once on Anara’s lips diminished. Her eyes were beaming and wet and ready to erupt.

Nanektah brushed Anara’s hair back, then continued combing Anara’s hair with her fingers. “I imagine she was quite beautiful. A rare beauty. Like you—”

Twigs snapped near the border of the thicket. Anara jumped up, clinging to Nanektah. Sudden snarls and growls and beady eyes from beyond their tope sent Nanektah into a frenzy, dragging Anara from the fire and into the hut. She pulled the tapestry down and secured the corners with heavy stones.

“What’s going on, Mama?” Anara shifted from side to side. Her eyes were panicked, her lips trembling from Nanektah’s sudden obligation to seek shelter from the night. Those awful howls came closer, forcing Anara to cover her ears. No more! I wish no more!

“Tê klaré, listen to me!” Nanektah gripped Anara’s shoulders, causing her to drop her hands. “There are people in this world. Cruel people. Scared people. I cannot protect you forever.”

“You’re scaring me, Mama.”

From the shadows beyond the field, four men raced to the hut with bloodthirsty hounds following close behind. Their grimacing commander, a burly man with a rugged beard, crazy eyes, and a thick sword, crouched toward the fire. Villagers call him Kōusvül Tęjokå, The Witch Killer. The king sought him, over many, after his disciples discovered a prophecy about a flower who would destroy the earth and unleash Hell among his people. The other men that accompanied him were Bèhræm, the quant one, and the twins, Mërįkh and Paÿåm, built like the commander—awaiting his orders. Together, they called themselves the Ëneÿ ê Fùæ, or the Eyes of Gods.

Villagers strayed far from them, as they pillaged the poor and wreaked havoc on those accused of witchcraft. Though many had considered fetching them for the price of Nanektah’s head, in the end, they dared not, as she provided medicinal needs and winter garb that their sultan would not.

Tonight, they have finally come to claim said girl from the prophecy, along with the witch they have scoured over for many suns and moons. Thunder, bursting in the violet tufts in the sky, allowed heavenly tears to sprinkle the ground.

Inside the hut, Nanektah pulled Anara close to her chest, holding onto her for as long as she was able.

“You promised you wouldn’t leave me,” Anara cried.

“Shh, shh. I know. No matter where you are. No matter who you are with. I will always… be there. Never forget me, Tê klaré.”

Anara gave her a farewell kiss on the lips, then more from the forehead and chin, to the left and right cheeks. A common honor given to family most cherished before they die.

After the final kiss on the cheek, Nanektah reluctantly pushed Anara away. “Go… Run!”

Racing to the back of the lengthy hut, careful not to knock into clay pots, and clear jars of colorful beads, Anara glanced back. Nanektah’s tears rolled from her eyes as the tapestry ripped open. Strange men, decorated in furs black as night, with markings made with charcoal, surrounded Nanektah with curved swords. It was then that Anara escaped through a thicket-facing flap, barreling toward the rooted trees, praying to Syifus. Begging for her mother’s safety.

“Where is the girl?” Kōusvül asked. His hooked blade pressed against Nanektah’s throat.

“What girl?” she remarked, staring up at him.

On her left, Bèhræm tugged harshly on her hair. “Enough games, Witch! Tell us where she is!”

“I know where she is not,” Nanektah laughed.

Kōusvül grabbed her face, crushing her cheeks. “Tell us where, and you may live. Would you not rather have your life spared… even if you are the village witch?”

She spat in his face, smirking as he released her to wipe away the foaming saliva that collected from his chin and beard.

Mërįkh stood behind and dug the tip of his sword into the back of her neck. She hissed, but the blade did not break the skin. “What of the others you’ve managed to keep alive?” he inquired.

“They died many years ago,” Nanektah retorted. “Rumors have sated within your encephalons with fatuous yarns.”

True, she had many orphans within her residence, they all suffered from injuries she could not heal. Each one was buried in the thicket, with runes carved in trees to offer them Death’s blessings. As a woman who could not bear children, her heart ached for each of them. The stories from villagers mattered not to her swollen heart. It was in their deaths that she made peace with what was, thus her destiny to become a nursemaid had been fulfilled, as Death commanded.

Mërįkh pulled his sword away. “Tell us where she is!” He circled until he came into her view.

His smoldering amber eyes did little to spark sudden fear within Nanektah. Though her face did not show it, she understood why they struck terror. He would be the worst of the four, as his looks were far more intimidating than Kōusvül, The Witch Killer.

“After the moon passes the sun, the stars will blanket the sky no more. When the seas part and unleash famines that will squander the lands to dust, and the one you call Sultan, King, and Ruler of All is dead, that is when you will find her. And Death shall condemn you to live out your days and nights in the barren lands of Göl. I know not where she is, you have wasted your precious time here…”

Unsatisfied and angered by her response, Mërįkh socked her in the face, rendering her unconscious.

“What have you done!” Enraged by this, Kōusvül laid a devastating blow to Mërįkh’s stomach.

Mërįkh plummeted to the ground, holding his gut. His face reddened as he huffed.

“She is as good as dead to us, now,” Kōusvül muttered.

The words she recited were partly from the prophecy Sultan Keikash Alzar feared. These riddles circled within Kōusvül, but he had little comprehension of their meanings. All he knew was that there was a girl coveted by a witch who lived on the outskirts of the farthest village from the palace.

The air finally filtered through Mërįkh’s lungs as he hoisted himself off his knees. His back hunched over a bit, still recovering from the pain. “It was not a lost cause,” he mustered. “It has been many a day and night since we’ve bedded a maiden. We can relieve ourselves before we continue searching for the girl.”

Kōusvül paced, tugging at his beard, then sheathed his sword. “Is that so?” He chuckled and sauntered toward him, placing a hand on Mërįkh’s shoulders. “If you insist.” His hand clenched the handle of a small dagger behind his back. “Then you best hurry.” Kōusvül plunged the dagger into Mërįkh’s manhood.

Mërįkh, shocked and convulsing, shrieked obscenities.

Kōusvül looked at the other men, his face stern and wary. “We have orders, you see. There are matters at hand. Matters with limited time. Time best spent without f*****g a haggish wench.” He hugged Mërįkh and whispered, “Sleep well, my friend.”

The dagger slid out, blood spewing everywhere. Mërįkh dropped to his knees, and Bèhræm stepped forward, slicing Mërįkh’s throat.

Paÿåm, silently gagging in the corner, held back his tears. He unsheathed his sword and decapitated Nanektah. Bagging her head and turning to Kōusvül, Paÿåm asked, “What shall I do with my brother?”

“Leave him,” he responded. “The dogs will come. They have starved long enough. For now, come with me so we may deliver some news to the villagers.” Kōusvül pointed to Bèhræm, clearing his throat. “You. Search the surrounding area. She must not have traveled far. When you find her, bring her to me. Alive.”

Bèhræm nodded and exited the hut, passing their hounds and venturing into the thickets.