Whispers of the Ancient Tree

No Way Out

However, as it turned out, fate is a creature with a rather peculiar—if not downright malicious—sense of humour. The next morning, the sharp clang of rusty iron keys pierced the silence of the cellar. The silent figures headed straight for me. Before my sleep-deprived brain had even registered the loud thud of their boots, rough hands grabbed me by the shoulders and dragged me out of the cage as if I were a sack. I couldn't resist. Apparently, the collar had started working in earnest. Every survival instinct I had was screaming at that moment that my peaceful morning life had just been lost forever.

They led me down a narrow corridor, turned left, then right, past the kitchen, from which came the smell of something meaty and appetising, and... sat me down in a room. An ordinary room. Not a cell, not a cellar, not an autopsy theatre. A proper room, with a bed – even a mattress – a sheet, a wooden table, a jug of water and a window barred with a grille. Yeah, thanks, very generous. Grilles are my favourite architectural feature. Out of all the girls, they chose me. Why?

I sat on the wooden bench by the window all day, shifting restlessly from time to time because of the hardness of the seat and the hopelessness of the situation. I surveyed the room like a scout, taking in every little detail.

The bed was too bulky to hide under, and the sheets were too thin to tie together and strangle anyone. Even if I crumpled them up, they'd probably just tear. The bars were sturdy, not rusty and not wobbly. Unfortunately. The walls were made of stone; it would be impossible to claw my way through them, even if I pretended to be a professional mole.

It would have been funny if it hadn't been so sad. But I was genuinely trying to come up with something clever.

A bad, but not entirely hopeless, option was simply to kick the door in or pick the lock with something like a straw, and then make a run for it. I could have pretended to be ill, preferably foaming at the mouth. Yes, and chewed a bit of soap to make it look convincing. But what if they'd decided I was contagious and burnt me or thrown me off a cliff into a pit? After all, I'd actually die.

And just as I was about to spit at the ceiling out of sheer boredom, the door creaked. A plain, middle-aged woman appeared in the doorway, dressed in a simple dark grey dress, her black hair pulled back into a tight bun, her face... as still as stone. But there was a look of anxiety in her eyes. It was strange, as if she was afraid of even what she was about to say. She stepped closer.

"If you want to survive, keep quiet, don't flinch and don't put up a fight," she leaned in even closer, her voice growing so soft it was as if someone might hear even her thoughts. "Otherwise, you'll end up in the most dreadful of harems. In those places, your life won't be measured in years, or weeks, or sometimes even days. You could vanish in a matter of hours!"

It sent a shiver down my spine! What on earth was that? I looked into her dull eyes in surprise. But the woman looked very serious, as if warning me. I said nothing and nodded slowly to show that I'd heard her and was grateful for the information. Strange and rather baffling though it was, it was surely useful information nonetheless. Goodness, where on earth had I ended up? And more importantly, what had I done so wrong in my life? And to whom?

And yet they do have a conscience; how else can one explain the fact that they fed me before I went to bed? The woman left the food and hurried off, leaving me alone with my supper. And the dinner turned out to be rather good.

On a wide earthenware plate lay a mountain of stewed potatoes that looked quite appetising at first glance. The potatoes were honestly trying to make a good impression: their sides were golden, they exuded the aroma of garlic and bay leaves, and they were even giving off cosy wisps of steam. The bones, stripped of all meat, stuck out from the dish completely bare and made a rather distressing impression.

A few large plums were modestly perched beside the plate, as if trying to take up as little space as possible next to the main course. This strange still-life composition was topped off by a tall goblet filled to the brim with a thick liquid of a deep ruby colour. It looked so thick that it resembled raspberry jelly more than a drink.

And so, having had supper and rested, I finally saw the dawn break. As it turned out later, it was time for the auction. The wealthy gentlemen were preparing to return home, getting their carriages and stagecoaches ready amidst the rumble of thunder and flashes of lightning that split the gloomy sky. But they were in no hurry to leave empty-handed. Only after making sure that the horses were ready to set off would they say something to the coachmen, return to the hotel and, it seemed, make their way down to the auction hall. I watched all this from the window of my room.

Without offering any explanation, the same escort led me into another room, through the door opposite. I was nervous, but tried to keep my composure. After all, I had no choice; no matter how hard I tried to cheer myself up, the collar made me feel listless, and then there were those words the woman had said... I just couldn't get them out of my head. It turned out that the new room was what they called the 'preparation room'. A lovely name for a place where they douse you with ice-cold water, scrub you with a comb with prongs like a porcupine's, and pull a dress over you that's clearly intended for... er... airing out the body. It's just wildly provocative! Well, I suppose I should have expected something like this.

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