The path wound through damp back alleys and past bins until the markets’ back door transitioned to quiet residential streets with small patches of greenery imitating parks. Chantria slowed to a stop and stared at the stars. Born amidst swirling clouds of chaotic blues reds and muted golds, celestial bodies enveloped the true sky, or so prophets predicated. Gaze lowering, the editor found the lanterns lining the streets still glowered a vicious red. Townhouses towered in the dark like slim parasites, masquerading in human form. Books and clergy warned incessantly about the corrupt and insinuated them into her darkest fears. Their soldiers fought and died to protect her and everyone else from, an invasion of the shadows. Yet when she dwelt on the existential fear of changlings she had never seen nor met, those terrors were a second-string villain compared to the parasite camped in their home, claiming all joy for himself.
A glance at the clock told her she was 20 minutes late. If Ayele were still awake and sober enough, he would imprison her for a week at best, especially if he found her melded. Truly, Chantria feared if her uncle learned she was no longer his property, liberty was the least of her worries.
One fear overrid another, giving her a bit of daring. Why not stay out and leave early tomorrow? Chantria found a bench in the narrow park and set her satchel to one side. She might be able to avoid a beating and meet Kijani at the Timber, as was her obligation. Then Chantria and her sisters would likely move in with the brothers and…then what? The editor couldn’t imagine a wholesome, regular family life any more than she could muster a fear of alien parasites. Nevermind Kijani, all men in the city, expected souls from melded women to build their line into an ordered future. How could she possibly deserve motherhood? Would any man even want someone so defiled?
Motherhood naturally required a level of intimacy Chantria wasn’t capable of giving. Little souls deserved better than her damaged self to care and nurture them. Despite knowing the truth of herself, thoughts of Kijani not surviving the night at the border threatened burning tears. Staring at the red lantern, her world revolved around Chantria prayed to the tree of souls that Kijani and his brothers would live through the battle.
The editor's mind circled in prayer while the ebb and flow of magic shared drained and filled at the speed of waves crashing against rocks in a storm.
I call to the seed of order from which the soul tree came, may its coat shield you during battle as it did the embryo of souls.
I pray to the roots of the soul tree which transmute chaos to order, may they ground you to this life as they do the Ash itself.
I beg the trunk of the soul tree to lend you its strengths so you may stand steadfast against the chaos as the soul tree against the engulfing dark.
And... Chantria paused, one finger tracing her lips. when you return, may our union bear fruit on our branch.
The storm of magic rose and fell with the tiding of battle. Cold settled on Chantria's skin like a blanket of snow, but she continued her circular prayer until the flickering red lantern turned a steady white. Weary from cold and prayer the editor stared at the statue of time that stood in the centre of the parks shimmering greenery. Its gilded edges a testament to the holy order of time, but its simple ash hands remained a humble declaration of the 3rd hour of the day. Ayele, would surely be as asleep as the streets by now?
Chantria hurried home and slipped through the back door in to the darkened kitchen, but froze halfway across the threshold when she saw Ayele's sturdy frame sitting on the chair facing the door. Three bottles of wine stood beside him and the room smelled of alcohol. Clearly, he intended to stay awake to carry out is punishment for her tardiness, but Ayele's snore released her tension. The alcohol won and drew him to sleep before her return. Praise be to order.
The editor sighed in to the room and locked the door with a whisper of sound. Creeping up the stairs Chantria avoided the loose creaky floor boards out of habit and snuck through the airy hallway. The editor looked in on her sister, Taraji, first, but her bed was empty. Anxiety spiking, she walked the three steps to Liseli's door and found them both huddled together in the same bed. Ayele, must have been in a terrifying rage, and she wasn't here to shield her sisters. It was her fault. Chantria wanted to take her sister's and go, but where? With no other family and Ayele holding her sister's accounts and documentation to ransom, she was the only one earning anything. Her ability to work was limited by Ayele's patience and her productivity. Once time ran dry Ayele would make her a slave to entertain his friends and her sisters would be trapped in this house until his death.
The ever-present guilt settled with the closing of her sisters door. Chantria was sure she wouldn't sleep and there was little point with three hours left of her night. The Misal opened in the 10th hour of the day and something told her, if Kijani survived the night, he would be waiting for her at the Timber the hour the café opened. Hope remained, that she would be able to get her sisters out with marriage. As Iniko said: brothers usually melded with sisters, there was a chance the editor's back breaking efforts would end, and she could rest for a few hours. Hope was the last to die and Chantria had waged war in secret to grasp a spark, but she didn't know if their halves would treat them well.
The verses of the Creed of Ash which formed the basis of their religious doctrine forbid ill-treatment of each other. It demanded loyalty from the wife and ordered the men to provide. All money she earned was legally hers, but all money her husband earned was for the family unit, because if the man died in battle the woman was responsible for the family. When both their parents died during a break at the border, Ayele was supposed to take up the mantel of their protector, but he chose to make them his slaves. With nowhere to go for help Chantria was stuck with her sisters until she could save the money to escape in the night.
The editor opened her bedroom door and slipped inside for fear her door would wake the beast, but her heart stuck in her throat and stopped a scream. A topless figure sat on her bed reading a book by the light of the newborn moon. In her exhaustion she forgot Ayele could use magic. What she saw down stairs must have been a decoy so his prey would feel secure.
Ayele placed the book on the nightstand and stood. "You're back late, Chan. Where were you?" he said, darkly tanned arms trapping her between is body and the door she pressed herself against.
Chantria didn't dare look in to the hazel eyes of his gaunt features bespeckled with grey beard in case he spied her melded soul. Panic freezing her to the spot she couldn't force herself to answer immediately.
Ayele, had little patience at the best of times and the hands that caged her to the door balled themselves in to fists threatening to grab her throat and strike her. "Well?"
"I got a trial shift at a bar. I just finished closing." It was a line Chantria took from the book she was editing, but it sufficed as a believable lie. She could pretend she got the job and release a portion of her pay as an editor in to the account each month to keep up the façade, it would both slow down her plan to leave and stop him from pimping her out.
Ayele leaned in, his drink heavy breath brushing her ear. "Did you get paid for this?"
"No, it was a trial." Chantria said, her voice shaking.
"Refuse the job. I don't want you back this late. It's far too dangerous for a woman alone on the streets, at least the ladies in the brothels have an escort." her uncle said undoing the clasp at her collar.
Eyes widening, Chantria saw his manhood bulge against his light cotton trousers and knew what her punishment would be for this transgression. Most have heard of fight or flight, but the body keeps score forever and the editors knew the consequences of fighting would be worse than letting the inevitable happen. Ayele let her terror drag on torturously as he unlaced her dress with care and pushed it off her shoulders until the azure linen pooled at her feet. She cursed her choice of bra; the lilac cotton with a magnetic clasp was easily undone by her uncle and it swiftly followed the dress to the floor.
Ayele licked his scarred lip. Grasping her breast, her uncles rough hands were remarkably gentle. "You look so much like your mother, Chantria. I was always so jealous of Chike... Come to bed."
"Ayele please..."
He slapped her, the strength of his blow carefully calibrated to sting but not to leave a mark lest he mar his little doll. "I'm your uncle, Chantria, and I deserve your obedience. A man needs to find relief once he's aroused. The other girls aren't my type, but if you don't do as you're told I will have to relieve myself with your sisters. "
The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.
Chantria buried the rage, buried her shame, buried the blazing hate and disappointment in herself. If playing the whore saved her sisters, then she would accept the whore. Slumping onto the bed, she raised her hands and Ayele tied them to the headboard. The editor never got out of the habit of fighting and it had become routine for her uncle to tie her down, but he knew better than to kiss her. The last time he tried Chantria bit his lip so hard it left behind the scar as a reminder.
With a shuddering breath, she felt her legs parted and all courage left her. Unable to watch, Chantria looked away and found the novel he was reading minutes before.
Ironically, Ayele was reading her latest book.
~*~
A bare 2 hours later Chantria woke with her alarm, and forced herself to sit up. She couldn't remember much of what happened a mere few hours ago, not exactly. The memories were so vivid they bloomed and fade like a dream, but she knew what happened. She still felt Ayele's hands on her body and the pungent smell of sex remained in the air.
Still naked and not caring who saw her in the morning rays the editor opened a window. The morning is always so peaceful... Taking in the day Chantria let the remaining memory of the last few hours fade in to the furthest reaches of her mind. The mills around the trunk continued to turn and collect the water that fell through the rivets of the soul tree like waterfalls. It was too early for the streets to come alive, but the houses, built in a spiral around the trunk of the Ash, stirred as their inhabitants yawned, stretched and opened their windows. Chimneys misted the air with smoke as ranges were lit to heat the home and cook the morning meal. In their home, this was Taraji's job.
The editor tore her eyes away from the view and picked a dress from her small closet. Her favourite, was a red wrap dress with gold trim, but that was entirely inappropriate for the Misal. The next, option was a white dress with rose embroidery, but she didn't feel worthy of the priestly colour of purity. So, she settled on an emerald green dress with leaf embroidery around the cuffs and high collar. A very traditional dress even Ayele couldn't disapprove of.
Chantria took her time with her hair. Making sure each strand was in equal sections before she styled it in to the usual French braid and, tying off the braid at the nape, she twisted the rest of her waist length hair in to a bun. Chantria smoothed any fly away hairs with a comb dipped in a mixture of liquid gum, rose oil and alcohol. The editor paused, eyes set on the circular jewellery box she rarely paid attention to, but today she opened the lid. There were a few odds and ends: sun and moon earrings her father gave her the night before he died. Festive silver rings carved with geometric lines and inset with rose quartz meant to highlight her braid and bun. A pendant of jade carved in to a leaf and white rose and a simple silver ring were inside. They lay untouched and lonely for years and, while pretty, held too much pain for her to dare wear. Chantria never had time to dwell on her feelings and, if she were being honest with herself, she didn't dare for fear they would swallow her hole. The editor closed the box and picked up her bag of make-up. She had a little pink eyeshadow pallet, coal eyeliner, simple foundation and a blush lipstick. Twisting the lipstick between her fingers Chantria debated the colour, but, as disgusted as she was by her own skin and tears stinging her eyes she decided it was pointless to gild slime.
Chantria checked her hair three times before grabbing her satchel and heading down for breakfast. Taraji had the porridge waiting and was making eggs. Her deep brown hair was in a loose bun held together by a red ribbon and a copious number of pins. Taraji stood by the stove dancing to a tune only she could hear, her red dress swaying in time to her movements.
The editor didn't have the heart to interrupt her sisters' thoughts. Creeping down the stairs and to the table where her bowl of porridge waited, but the wooden chairs scraping gave her away.
Her sweet sister turned to face her. She was the picture of summer. Lightly tanned skin and bright green eyes lit up by a smile on her freckled face. "Chan! I'm so glad you're back, Liseli and I were really worried."
"Sorry, I got a trial shift at a nearby bar and worked the closing."
Taraji's smile brightened. Her sisters didn't know about her business by design. If either sister told Ayele in a desperate attempt to keep her with them, they would be trapped in this abuse for decades longer. "Did you get the job?"
"Ayele didn't like the idea of me being back so late."
"Oh... What are you going to do?"
It wasn't a subject Chantria wanted her sister to dwell on. "I'll find something. Liseli told me you got cast in a play?"
"Yeah! The theatre was looking for people to act in a new play. I'm to be the Valkyrie, so I get a few songs, but I'm not the lead."
"Will you be back on time?"
"Oh, yes, Ayele even sweet talked the director in to some free tickets for us all!"
Chantria replaced her spoonful of porridge with a cup of thickened coffee. The thought of Ayele at this moment put her off her food entirely. She would have to be mindful of her clothing on the night if eye didn’t pick them out for her. "That sounds fun. I'd love to hear you sing." Chantria replied, keeping her tone bright.
"Uncle Ayele even said we could go out for dinner on closing night."
Chantria suppressed a furious sigh. Ayele enjoyed doing that, one minute he was kinder than anyone; the next he raged like a beast at the smallest perceived slight. It was a deliberate tactic to confuse that Chantria saw through earlier than she liked to admit. Ayele knew she was wise to him, but it only enraged him more. Truthfully, the editor lost all care for Ayele’s tantrums long ago, so he upped the ante when she turned 16 and begged to go to her first gathering like the other girls at school.
After what felt like days Ayele finally untied her hands "All men do this, Chantria..."
Sobs took her voice as she rushed to get dressed.
The editor bit the inside of her cheek and forced herself out of the memory.
"Chan? Are you ok? You look pale."
Chantria laughed. "I'm always pale!"
Taraji didn't look convinced. "Paler than usual."
"I'm fine." Chantria said, going back to her porridge to prove the point despite her lost appetite.
Taraji sat in front of her with a plate of poached egg and toast. There was a moments pause in which her bright-eyed sister chewed her lip in obvious discomfort. "Chan... I know Liseli and I aren't Ayele's type... But you don't have to shield us like that."
The second in which her horror came crashing down on her like the end of days felt like an hour, and in that time the editor managed to force herself to frown. "What do you mean, Tara?"
"We heard Uncle Ayele and you talk when you came back yesterday."
"I'm not sure what you mean, I went straight to bed." It wasn't exactly a lie, she did go straight to bed when she came back in the early hours of the morning... but at Ayele's behest and satisfaction. Chantria hated lying to her sisters, but she couldn't stomach the thought of her sisters finding out what Ayele was doing to her. Her humilation, and most of all, her sister's guilt at allowing themselves to be used as tools for Ayele’s manipulation would set them on a war path they couldn't win.
To win this game of mental warfare they simply had to leave and sever all ties of control. Copies of their birth documents had to be made, a home purchased from her salary, and they had to leave slowly and in Ayele’s absence. Ayele's rage when he realized his toys were gone would no longer be their concern.
"We thought Ayele..."
"Tara, I got back late and, I'm sure Ayele was furious when I didn't come back on time yesterday. Maybe what you heard was more of a dream?" Chantria suggested as guilt stabbed her chest. The editor was gaslighting her sister. Rewriting reality to suit her means, and, by extension, making Tara feel crazy for thinking their uncle would rape her. In any normal situation, what the editor was doing would be wrong in the extreme, but she didn't see any other way. Chantria would rather offer herself as sacrifice than see her sisters hurt.
Taraji cocked her head and thought for a moment. "You're probably right. Ayele is nightmare inducing when he's mad..."
"He is, at least there will be a few hours of peace to go over your script for the show. He's never up before the 15th hour anyway." Chantria said and finished her porridge.
Laughing, Taraji nodded. "And Liseli won't be up before noon either."
"Anyway, I'm sorry, I have to rush off. I have a job interview later today." She replied rushing out the door. It wasn't even a lie; she had a meeting with a client booked through her scroll. Naturally, her picture would be off, but she didn't want to risk business by being late... And she didn't know when Kijani would be at the timber to meet her.
“Good luck!” Taraji said, waving her out the door.
Chantria walked to the Timber in a daze and the barest nod of acknowledgment toward her emerging neighbours. She retrieved her scroll from the lockers, and feeling nothing but a black hole growing inside her the editor walked in to the Timber Café, but as the first note of a sob escaped her, the editor ran to the bathroom.
That first sob, was merely the beginning of rising winds that unleashed a pent-up storm in her soul. The tornado of emotion ripped up the solid foundation in which she planted herself and threw her around like a doll torn apart. With tears streaming down her face, she berated herself in the mirror for wasting time crying while she longed for compassion. I don’t have time for this. Get a grip.
It took ten minutes to breathe through the tears and stop crying, but the damage was done. She couldn’t go back out looking like a whore whose last john abused her. Chantria ran cold water in to the marble basin and held her face just below the water line for as long as she could stand it before returning for air. The editor continued until the swelling her eyes reduced and her emotions settled in to an exhausted, muddy numbness like the carnage left a tornado left behind. There weren’t many patrons in the Timber at this time and taking up a cubicle for a little while wasn’t going to inconvenience anybody. So, while the inner carnage remained, Chantria attempted to pick up the pieces and recovered the little bag of make-up from her satchel.
The editor was rusty, but still a dab hand with make-up. After applying foundation, Chantria gave her eyes a subtle winged eyeliner and coloured her eyelids with layered shades of pastel pinks and white frosty glitter eyeshadow. Chantria finished with a touch of lipstick. The effect was pleasant enough and hid the exhausting havoc the storm of her sobs left behind. Walking out of the cubicle Chantria set herself up in her usual booth and started the day's work with a meeting. Her image on the scroll was shrouded for anonymity, but she deliberately forgot about the tinted glasses Ayele demanded she wear when out. The purpose of the tinted lenses was null and void and she would have to carry the consequences.
Chantria’s work day was hindered by growing anxiety the longer she worked alone in the booth. She expected Kijani to be waiting at the Timber Café when she arrived, but he was gone. Anxiety turned to fear as the thought occurred that their first meeting could have been their last, but fear collapsed in to relief when she saw him walk toward the glass counter and place an order.