The women collected their belongings and placed them in large woven baskets carried on their head or strapped to their backs, freeing their hands to bid their guest forward as they climbed out of the river bank. They stood on a simple dirt road defined by the lack of vegetation, a winding path that disappeared with the river behind the foliage at the bend. Once through the thicket, the sight of the mountains revealed themselves unobstructed. The small village nestled in the hillside was nothing more than a decoration in the vast chain of mountains spread across her view. She assumed the plains carried on with the river but it now became clear she had wandered to the entrance of a valley.
The village houses sat on small plots of land carved out from the rolling hills, at peace with solitary monoliths dislocated from the summit. They approached the first of such dwellings, a manmade cave tucked into the hump of the hill and capped by a large wooden shed. The front of the house served as part of the foundation, composed of uneven layers of river rock stacked to the ceiling except for the door and wooden shutters built facing the sun.
A stout old woman bearing a square jaw waved to the women from the window. When they came close enough for her to read their anxious expressions, she grew pale with apprehension and rushed out to meet them. The women were unsure of how to explain the situation and so Pamilla, the one who had gifted Artemis the red dress, stood apart from the crowd and pointed to the person in question. The old woman’s eyes drifted over and upon seeing Artemis, she let out a sudden shout and raised her hands in the air.
“If you are going to invite a Markova to my home, you should tell me first!” Danica said.
Danica stormed past the locals and came close to crashing into Artemis headfirst. She clasped the young woman’s hands together with the forcefulness of a concerned grandmother and invited her inside for a cup of tea, forgetting the others in her company as she dragged Artemis along by the sleeve.
Danica used modest, depreciative language to describe her home but the room was spacious and possessed a kind of rustic charm. All the basic functions of village life were fulfilled by the presence of worn old cots, two wooden cupboards, a wood-fired stove, and a wide circular table arranged near the door for her many guests. The dirt walls were sealed in by an off-white material that resembled stucco and a flight of stairs ran along the right wall to the upper story, underneath which was a space to stock cluttered sundries.
Everyone found their usual seat around the knee-high table and settled in while Danica shoved a few sticks of wood in the furnace. The white smoke wafted through an overhead vent and out the other side of the hill, and when the fire grew large enough, she placed a large copper kettle on the exposed flame and joined in the conversation.
“Welcome to my home Markova, my name is Danica Babic. My family has lived in this village for ten generations, except for my son who has gone off to live in Istora. If you need anything at all, do ask me for help.” She said.
“I am lost Miss Babic, I don’t even know where I am.” Artemis confessed.
Pamilla stopped an ongoing conversation with another woman to answer her.
“Artemis Markova, the name of our village is Novska. We are at the mouth of the valley three days south of Restreika Province. No one could blame you for not knowing where you are when we are so far from the village center.”
“I must have come from a great distance because these names are unfamiliar to me.” Artemis said.
A middle-aged woman with a gaunt face and heavy eyebrows interjected. She had remained quiet during the whole affair.
“Markova, you speak Krovatskan without an accent so I cannot imagine that you’ve come from too far away.”
Artemis was dumbfounded by this revelation. She did not intend to speak anything other than English but found herself communicating with them in Krovatskan. The situation was not unlike a bilingual individual switching languages in the middle of a conversation with someone who spoke both, an unconscious decision made by the desire to get the point across. Artemis was saved from explaining this inconsistency when the kettle started to shake and bubble underneath its heavy lid. Each of the women rose from their seats and helped themselves to the white cups sitting on the shelves, leaving Artemis to think over her story. Pamilla brought a second ivory cup and put it in front of Artemis while Danica made sure to serve her first.
The tea was brewed from a dried bark sunk at the bottom of the pot and removed after straining the liquid through a mesh ring in the spout. It smelled strongly of the earth and looked a deep mahogany red in the light. Artemis hesitated before she took a sip and found the drink to be less bitter than she expected though far from pleasant, closer to medicine than beverage.
When Artemis drew the cup away from her lips, the women started to drink their tea in unison. Even if their culture were foreign, the protocol they adhered to did not lend the impression of simply an honored guest. None of the women addressed themselves with the title “Markova” and they made sure to use the term when addressing or referring to Artemis. Without hearing their private conversations in detail, the word stuck out time and again under their whispered voices.
“I am sorry if I have misled you all somehow but I am not a Markova.” Artemis said.
“My dear, no one who has worked the field could have such fine skin. I do not think our children can be born with such soft and gentle features with their mothers looking as they do. It is undeniable to us that you are the product of a good heritage, no matter what your circumstances may be.” Pamilla responded.
Artemis was unaccustomed to being appraised on the basis of her looks alone, at least never to her face. In the body of a man without striking features and a childish face, the inconvenience of admiration, jealously, and desire were alien concepts reserved for other people. The attention given by these simple villagers was already stifling, it could only stand to be worse when less wholesome peoples were concerned.
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Artemis made no effort to correct Pamilla and said nothing to confirm her assumption. The decision added mystery to her background and proved to be a strong lure for their collective curiosity. Village life was a monotonous affair and the only two stimulants in these doldrums were the inane little nothings they gossiped over and stories from travelers outside the valley. They made sure to take advantage of the stranger with a thorough interrogation.
“Where are you from then Markova?” A woman asked.
“I am from California.” Artemis said.
“I have never heard of it.”
The women looked to each other to see if anyone recognized the name. No one was able to recall, whether past or present, a country named California.
“And where is this country located?” Another woman asked.
“I mean to say America. The country is America but I’m from the state of California.”
Again, the women were confused by her statement.
“What are the names of your neighboring countries? Maybe I can draw out where it is.” Artemis said.
“Vatskanaya borders Lachgaria to the East and Solmati to the West.” Pamilla said.
Artemis was fond of history and possessed a strong memory to complement her passion. The three states of Vatskanaya, Lachgaria, and Solmati did not register under any telling of historical record. It suggested that all the chronological and cultural knowledge she prided herself in knowing was now more useless than it had been before. The situation did not come as a surprise when the jarring switch in bodies was considered.
There was not much time to think about the precarious circumstances surrounding this transformation when the women’s questions were already welling up in their eyes. She said whatever came to mind to keep the conversation going.
“America is very far west from here. It’s not a surprise if none of you have heard of it because it is on the other side of the world. I was taught Krovatskan by my tutor but I know nothing about Vatskanaya’s history or culture, let alone anything about the geography or towns.”
“Ah!” A woman yelled. “I understand the situation now!”
Everyone turned to the woman to hear what she had to say.
“Artemis Markova must be the bride of a Markus or a Dragovic!” She continued.
They found the speculation to be a solid working theory, a classic drama conjured from their imaginations to describe the events leading Artemis to wander the river bank naked and confused.
Artemis was the victim of an arranged marriage, an idea drawn from the fantastical stories they recalled from childhood, wherein beautiful Markovas were forced to accept the proposals of old or hideous Markuses. Faced with the transgression of a loveless marriage, she balked at the last second, and fled during her morning bath in a stunning lack of good sense, a condition which often plagued noble ladies. It was a wonder how the searchers did not find Artemis in her dash for freedom and it was suggested that the escort was incompetent or took the wrong turn at the intersection. The women reached these conclusions among themselves with few words to guide the discussion, and Artemis’s baffled face served to be evidence enough.
“We will keep you hidden Markova.” Pamilla reassured her.
The other women nodded their heads in agreement with their hands affixed to their trembling cups. Artemis needed time to plan ahead and could not find the strength to refute their findings. From the moment she woke from under the white birch tree to the taste of bark tea in her mouth, she had been dragged along by the current.
The subject of their talk moved onto the marriage statuses of noble bachelors and the identity of the Artemis’ antagonist. There were a few nephews of the king, far removed from succession, and local lords mentioned, gradually shifting from eligible youths to old widowers. The name Kerard Dragovic was raised. Before a single second had transpired, a fit of laughter echoed in the room. Artemis could not leave the name untouched.
“Who is Kerard Dragovic?” She asked.
“A disreputable man lacking loyalty to the king.” Pamilla said. “He may control the dominion of West Crusetchia but no one trusts his intentions. The Dragova of Istora has been left waiting six years since they were betrothed and he intends to make her wait still, causing her to become the subject of cruel jokes and baseless speculation.”
“He seems a horrid man.” Artemis said.
“Indeed.” Came the reply around the room.
They finished drinking their cups of tea and remarked at the change in sunlight through the windows. The men would soon return from the fields expecting dinner and nothing could be prepared while they spent their time under Danica’s roof. One by one, the women said their farewells and kissed each other on the cheek before exiting the door with their baskets of clothes until Artemis and Danica remained.
“Markova, I invite you to stay. The valley becomes very cold during the night and I do not think your dress will be enough to keep you warm.”
Artemis accepted the offer without protest. She laid down on her back to look at the ceiling in a bout of introspection as the question of identity lingered in her mind. She was a refugee drifting about devoid of time and purpose, kept in a state of nonexistence by the nature of her arrival. Everything had to be reduced to the practical, simplified to immediate needs and the short term. Each day she passed would be a victory.
Danica could tell, by the same supernatural sense afforded to all old women, that Artemis was famished. She hobbled over to the stove and revived the fire by tossing in the remaining sticks from the bundle, heating a simple dinner of leftover bean stew and black bread. Artemis turned her head to the smell of food cooking as it wafted over the room.
The cast-iron pot was too hot to the touch to bring over to the table. Danica ladled the contents into a wooden serving vessel and could hardly lift it higher than her waist with her arms buckling under the load. Artemis rose to help despite the protests of her host and set it down at the edge along two clay bowls.
Danica divided the thick orange liquid between them and instructed her to eat it with the bread or the stale texture of the bread would be too leathery. Artemis tore a thick slice of black bread apart and could feel how dry and tough it became after an indeterminate time on her shelf. She took a bite to test the flavor and mopped the rest along the base of the bowl to finish the scraps. The taste was nothing special but comfortingly familiar although this was the first time she had tried the dish. Danica asked her if the food was palatable and she answered with a brilliant smile. They finished the stew in a relaxed silence and wandered over to the cots.
“Is it difficult to live by yourself Danica?” Artemis asked.
“I had planned on joining my son in Istora but every year it feels less and less likely. There are far too many things I would need to get settled and my legs are in no condition to make the journey. I do not intend to make excuses in my old age but this is my lot in life.”
Artemis mulled over the thought while Danica placed fur covers over the bed linens. The window was kept open to air out the smell of smoke and in came the occasional draft from the chilly summer night air. The stove fire died down to the smallest embers and the room grew dark except for the faint red outlines of the dying coals. Artemis rolled herself underneath the bedding and examined the room as her eyes adjusted to the absence of light. It was a pleasant little house with dirty floors, signs of age, and the smell of a stranger’s odor. But each deficiency could be overlooked because of Danica’s hospitality. Artemis was able to sleep at ease on her first night in a strange world.