“Oh, that old story. I did master the spear, but he started it. Truth is what you make of it. I am dying. If you must know – my full name is Jeraldine.” There.

There was a small pause where she closed her eyes and her brows tried to grasp a solid thought that played hard to get.

“I thought I would have died sooner. Of scurvy or of childbirth.” She let out a low chuckle and sucked in a breath, acknowledging a pain from deep within her weary bones. “The water from those big drupe fruits of the warmer eastern nations… they do a lot for the body. Especially when you are out at sea for so long. Those islands and coastlines have fruits that do elongate the life.” She smiled. “I should have lived out my life out there, but sometimes – you have to finish what you started when you can.” She closed her eyes. She struggled in that old body. Something fresh and young tried to come forth. It wanted the hot, sunshine of the tropical seas. Lythe, brown skin that welcomed the sun. The sun that also punished the deserts in lands that were in vast continents that the sea only longed to grasp with tsunamis of angering. Tsunamis were born from the deep earth.

A sharp slap with long fingers met a young face. “Do not with that cloth. It hurts.”

“Yes, Mim.”

A flash of anger softened and her crooked fingers reached to touch a soft cheek,  “My wretchedness. You didn’t know with your flavour of kindness.” Her hand, strong while weaving rope and gripping a handle of any blade, was a withering bloated knuckled fright.

“Old age is not what you want, I suppose.”.

A worn leather booted foot stepped on the powdered and perfumed man’s neck. The man’s bulging eyes crawled up the boot. His gaze went up to the baggy crotch that was covered by the shaggy tail of a tunic, then to a rather wide belt that cinched a small waist. Tears welled up as the boot put on the pressure. He saw glistening tattooed skin of a chest and a tan throat. He ended his mental and panicked investigation by finally settling on eyes that gleamed a dark bemusement. Never mind the shining and sharp scimitar at his throat. He knew nothing would be worse than those damning eyes.

She brought her face close to his ear as he heard and saw about a dozen more swords point at him. She sniffed his wig and for a split second – he thought she would nuzzle his neck. She whispered so close to his ear, it was almost an enticement.

“I heard you like little girls. Your first wife told me she was a mere lass of twelve summers when you took her. My mother was there when she tried to birth your first two large headed babes. Such a small girl.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed. It was the truth. He was over twice her age but needed a wife.

Captain Jera brought the sharp tip of her blade to his throat as she continued. With a hot breath she uttered  “I was the same age as her.”

She paused and took a good long look at the ridiculous thing on his head. The powdered wig was too ostentatious. It reeked of perfume and had a curious underlying scent. A sort of humble scent. Almost reeking. With a swift movement from her left hand, she removed the wig and heard a slight ripping sound and a yell from the prostrated older man. She gazed upon a bald head with patches of wiry gray hair and what looked like waxy glue. She grinned. He started to cry.

She brought her mouth to his ear again.

“Why are you crying, man?”

The dozen blades that surrounded him stayed steady and hers was so close to slitting his throat from ear to ear, he could feel it without it so much as touching his second chin. The glint from a high noon sun blinded his eyes as it shone from the scimitar. He stopped wheezing. He was still breathing hard and looked at her with a vengeance.

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“You are not going to do a damn thing to me. I have lived my life and have no regrets. I have heirs. I have connections. I have wealth.” He took a breath and sneered. “I remember you. I remember your mother. A street folkwoman.” He spat. “Good for nothing. Do you even know who your father is? I bet not.”

It was a bluff. They both knew who her father was.

She sneered back and pressed the end of the blade so hard, a small bead of blood bloomed.

“I should kill you. I will. Not for me but the others. Your kind is scum of the very earth you are about to piss on.”

With a stout nod, she let out a sharp whistle and a giant cat came forward. The dozen swords stayed, but a couple of bodies gulped and beads of sweat from various faces started to drip down in anxiety and fear.

A bristly bearded older man muttered “I’m about to shit myself first if he don’t.”

Sheraya looked at him and didn’t say a thing.

Captain Jera waved a dismissive hand and the dozen blades disappeared. The floor cleared except for four individuals including the captain and one small cloaked figure that entered the room after the big cat.

Sheraya stayed as one of the four. The wriggling fat, sweaty old man let out a moan of fear and trepidation. The big cat bared its teeth. Sheraya bared her teeth, too. In Sheraya’s home country – they sharpened their canines for both aesthetic and intimidation reasons. Hers were capped in gold and she looked especially fierce to the bald man.

Four that were left, grabbed each an arm and a leg. Another hidden figure came forth with a bowl. Small, tattooed hands held a red bowl.

Jera looked down at the ugly and red faced bald man, who suddenly burst into tears. She spat.

“You are, what do they call it from where you and your fellow assholes stand, a disgrace?” She turned and bellowed “No, worse than that. A predator of mere children. A MONSTER!”

She closed her eyes and bowed her head, as if in prayer. She thought of all of those that she met. Then, she thought of Adal, who turned to smoking that leaf that got him killed all of those years ago. Her eyes were shut, but she sensed a light presence besides the bald man’s panic and dirt in his spirit. She opened her eyes and saw nothing, but still sensed that lightness.

In her mind, she saw a smiling and golden young man.

“Forgive, eyaha.” She heard. But it seemed that nobody else heard a voice. The men and women that held each of the fat man’s limbs stayed steady and didn’t give any evidence that they heard the voice.

“Forgive.” A whisper.

It was Adal, but yet – not Adal. Jera wanted to see the fat man’s guts spill.

There was the secret move of her left hand, two fingers and the thumb touching the last knuckle of her ringed finger. She wiggled the pinky.

A terrified yell erupted from the fat man. All four people, roped each limb and he gave a fight. Underneath his frame was fight, not a whole lot, but he resisted. The fat man thought about his wealth, the coin and the estates he stole. The flashes of the extravagant parties where he had many servants drug his participants. The fires he had burned of the poor that paid tax. The young girls and boys that those poor families paid just to live to subsist on air and bone soup. He struggled and yet, didn’t. He knew that his time was nigh. He thought of his uncle that taught him that being cruel was his birthright. His uncle did not disclose that a pound of flesh was not denied his deeds. Oh, the deeds. How was that fair?

The fat man struggled to think that this plight now, was not fair – yes, it was wrong to deflower children, but BUT – it was his right, he owned the people that plowed those fields and tended the crops and apiaries that made the parties possible. And this woman that he sort of recognized, with the solid and calculated eyes – one of them green and the other hazel – he knew her. Her father was his half brother. Had the same mismatched eyes. One was blue though. The fat man rolled his own eyes as flashes of his own decrepid behaviors played in scenes that he had forgotten.

Four horses each with two footmen, were brought in. Each of his hands and feet were tied and knotted to a horse. Young geldlings.

Jera walked out of the small arena. The fat man huffed and cried out many obscenities.

“Bitch!”

“Whore!”

Jera lifted her head as she exited. That fat man made whores. And even then, they weren’t. Because it was men that did that.

 She heard the slaps on the flanks. She heard the yelling of the terrified fat man as his arms and legs were ripped from his fat middle. The crack of separating bone. The smaller sounds of flesh being rendered apart. The splat of innards as they stretched and fell upon the ground.  She almost turned back to see if his head went with the left arm or right.

Later, years later. One of the four told her “We shoved a broken wine bottle up his arse, just to make sure he knew what it was like, miss. Sometimes, we gotta make sure justice is justice. For you. For the others.”