Dymira refused to call out as her body hit the ground. Shadows of approaching guards fell across her as they stopped in front of her to stand and laugh. By the sting on her lip, she could tell that it was bleeding. She dared not move right away; she knew the guards would harass her more if she proved that the blow hadn’t knocked the fight out of her; it had been a hard lesson to learn, and she was only relieved to have learned it before the damage became permanent. She could feel the chill roughness of the hard cobblestone beneath her cheek, and passed the time by following a little ant, carrying a crumb away, with her eyes. She could hear the feet of others moving past her, none of them daring to stop and help her, or even to watch what would happen to her next. Finally she saw the shadows start to recede. When she finally got up, she did it slowly, as if her spirit had been broken. In truth, it was broken, but it only left her with a sharp edge that she would turn on anyone who tried to break her down further.
As she pulled herself to a fully upright position, fortunately without being knocked down again, she beheld another pair of eyes peering out of a black, curtained litter that was off to the side of the boarding procession. It was hoisted up on poles and held by four especially stoic looking guards. Dymira didn’t know who would merit being carried around on a such a thing, but it piqued her curiosity, what little was left of it. Soon the eyes disappeared from sight as the curtain closed again. With nothing more of note to see, Dymira moved along. Every part of her her seemed to ache, but the only thing to do now was walk; she knew the guards would leap at the chance to knock her, or anyone else, on the ground again. She wasn’t going to give them that chance, if she could help it.
Finally the procession reached its destination. One by one, the passengers walked up the gangplank onto the ship, the sound echoing from the distance between it and the water below. A single prisoner turned to make a break for it, scrambling away from the plank in almost feverish haste. Two guards went after him, the larger one catching the unfortunate man by the rough collar of his shirt. The prisoner flailed wildly, fingers curling and trying to scratch his way, however futilely, towards freedom. The guard gave him a stern shake.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the guard demanded, his tone halfway between annoyed and amused.
“I can’t get on that ship; I can’t,” the man wailed. “The ocean is too big; it will swallow us whole!” The fear was obvious in his blood shot eyes. Feeling the tension, Dymira held her breath. As this disruption played out, a few other prisoners also made a break for it, but their fates were sealed much more quickly. Several of the guards drew their guns and opened fire. Within seconds, those prisoners lay dead on the ground, the air ringing from the sounds of the guns, heavy with the scent of smoke and blood. Dymira couldn’t turn her head away fast enough; it took every ounce of her will to not scream and draw attention to herself. She cared nothing for them as individuals, but the memory that stirred from the ordeal threatened to overwhelm her.
“It’s your choice; you can either face the ship, or face the bullet,” the guard said, holding the man in such a way that they were face to face.
“No,” interrupted a guard of a higher rank. “That is far too kind.” He turned his gun around and struck the man in the back of the head with the blunt end. The prisoner went limp in the guard’s grasp. “He has to live with the consequences of his actions. And be a lesson to the rest of them,” he added, waving his hand towards the other prisoners. Dymira kept her eyes averted, schooling her expression to be neutral. It wasn’t a lesson she wanted or needed.
Once the situation settled, the remaining prisoners were crammed into a small, high security cabin. There were twenty seven of them all total; or that’s how many Dymira managed to count when the guards went down the list to verify which of the prisoners were no longer with them. Besides herself, there were five other women, but this offered her no sense of comfort. She had no desire to interact with any of them. The feeling seemed to be mutual. Four of them were too busy paying attention to the male prisoners to bother with her; a fifth curled up in a ball the moment the ship started to move. Apparently she didn’t have any experience on boats.
Dymira settled herself into a corner and closed her eyes. The motion of the boat was oddly comforting, rather than making her ill, despite the fact she’d never been on a ship in her life. She leaned against the wall and tried to forget where she was. After a while, she gave up. She couldn’t forget that she was on a ship destined for a deserted island. She couldn’t forget that all the passengers were guilty of some crime, herself included. She couldn’t forget the guards who enjoyed being cruel to someone, just because that person had dared to break the law. Any law. Even though her imaginings were futile, Dymira kept her eyes closed. She hated looking at the other prisoners. Instead of feeling a connection or desire for unity with them, all she felt was a cold disdain along with a distaste for seeing her lack of freedom reflected by the other convicts. Most of her life she had held a disdain for criminals; she had considered herself a ‘normal’, law-abiding citizen. But when push came to shove, she chose family over the law, and failing to legally justify her actions, had earned herself a one-way ticket to prison.
Except the ticket wasn’t truly one way. Natural disaster had destroyed one of the kingdom’s largest prisons. This created a hole in the system; there were more prisoners than prisons to store them in. And the makers and enforces of the law couldn’t abide setting any of the criminals free. So another solution was sought. Those below a certain ‘threat’ grade were rounded up, bound securely, and transported to the coast, where they spent five days being held, examined, and questioned in small, crude cells. After that, they were lined up and forced onto this ship. It was balking at the sight of the huge vessel that had given the guard an excuse to backhand her, interpreting her lack of movement as defiance, rather than awe and curiosity. Or perhaps he simply hadn’t cared. Either way, Dymira chided herself for not knowing better, for providing any reason for the guards to take note of her.
“Hey, your Highness,” sneered a voice from across the room. Dymira didn’t need to open her eyes to know who was speaking. And, since he wasn’t one of the guards, she kept her eyes firmly shut. “Care to join the rest of us.” Apparently Egaire, the owner of the voice, couldn’t take a hint. This time Dymira’s eyes snapped open. If he was that eager to talk to her, then she couldn’t trust his attention would stop at just speaking to her. While she knew him by his reputation as a particularly brutish thug, she couldn’t honestly recall if he was specifically known for attacking women or not. Either way, it was best not to anger him too much. While the guards would eventually stop him, hopefully short of her death, there was no guarantee they would do so quickly enough to spare her long lasting damage. She was even considering answering him, but she never got the chance.
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“Yes, dearie, I know we’re not perfect, but surely you can tolerate us for a little while,” spoke up the woman currently leaning against Egaire. One of his arms was looped casually around her shoulder. Dymira found the smug smile on her face more irritating than the words she just spoke. The woman, Allery, was a prostitute. All the women on board, apart from Dymira herself, had been convicted on that same charge, though some of them had a few other charges added to their convictions. Dymira had no desire to associate with any of them; her upbringing had seen to it that her internal narrative cast such women as a lost cause.
“I’ll pass,” Dymira said quietly, her tone carefully polite, her expression neutral. This politeness only served to anger the other woman, and sensing the shift in emotion, Egaire stepped forward, his fist raised to strike, or at the very least threaten, Dymira. Nothing came of it, however, as the voice of the guards cut across the beginnings of the dispute.
“Everyone out on deck; you have work to do.” The gruff order wasn’t contested, and the prisoners filed out silently. Still, the look Allery gave her as she walked by told her that the conversation was merely on pause; it wasn’t over yet. The line out of the room was orderly. Some of the convicts were clearly sea-sick, and the rocking of the boat left them with no desire to fight. Others were more deeply sick from long years in captivity and living off of poor rations. A few, like Dymira, had only recently gained the dubious status of convicts and hadn’t been beaten down enough to lose all their vitality. And some, like Egaire, would scratch out a living no matter where they were, no matter the cost. Among all of them, however, was a certain desperation. At least, on land, there was a hope of escape. But, even if they managed to elude the guards here, the only place to go was the watery depths. For now, getting along was preferable to the certainty of drowning to death.
Once in place, the prisoners were divided up into work crews and assigned various tasks across the ship. Dymira listened carefully for her name, only to hear she was part of the scrubbing crew. Her only response was to press her lips together in dismay. The sailors, not associated with the guards, eyed them with scrutiny, but didn’t protest. After all, it was their ship and they had to work and live on it practically full time. They weren’t going to let a bunch of untrained convicts damage the vessel. When it came time to actually put the convicts to work, the sailors were the ones to itemize what needed to be done, and how to do it. The guards frequently bristled, but their boss kept them in line. All around, no one was particularly happy with the arrangement, but most of them were reluctant to be the first one to cause any conflict.
As soon as the prisoners were set up and taught their jobs well enough to function without constant reminders, an uneasy quiet settled over the crew and passengers. The salty smell in the air, and the rocking of the boat didn’t do well with many prisoners, and even some of the guards looked a bit green; most of them had never been on an ocean voyage before. Dymira managed to keep herself from getting sick, but she didn’t like the smell of the boat any more than the next person. The creak of the wood kept the hair standing on the back of her neck, yet the sound of the waves slapping against the sides sounded oddly pleasant to her. She worked quietly, her head bent over her task as she scrubbed along the grain of the wood, keeping the strokes methodical and even. Her way of working was less about diligence and more born of a desire to avoid the notice of the guards or the other prisoners. She had no particular opinion of the sailors, but she also didn’t want to give them a reason to take note of her either.
Even though the work was hard, there was something therapeutic about it. Especially when a nice breeze came off the ocean and wafted across her back, easing the sweat that had started to accumulate. It was much more pleasant to work on the open deck than it was inside the dark, dank confines of the prison. Yet, at the same time, the open air that symbolized freedom was merely a tease. In many ways the boat was a more effective prison than the jail had been. There was nowhere to escape to other than death by drowning. And between the guards and the sailors, there were too many people to fight if the prisoners wanted to make a grab for the ship itself. Not to mention the fact that it was unlikely the prisoners would be able to bring the ship safely to port; she doubted any prisoners with a history of piracy would have been allowed on board.
After an hour, the breeze was no longer offering any solace. Instead of lifting the sweat gently from her back, it was just making her feel a chill, the clammy sensation of her shirt sticking to her skin exacerbating the aches her muscles were starting to feel. She hadn’t been in prison long enough to fully acclimate to the rough work; her job before her incarceration had not been menial labor, though she certainly hadn’t been high enough class to avoid it entirely in her day to day life. With every push and pull of the brush, she could feel her back protesting, ripples of pain radiating from her spine. The silent tears she shed, and the sweat from her work, both trickled down her face, stinging the spot where she had cut her lip earlier in the fall, pain compounding on pain. But made no sounds; any sign of weakness would be exploited, turned into fodder against her by guards and fellow prisoners alike. She kept herself with her head bowed; all anyone would see was a prisoner hard at work.
Finally, with a muted cry of relief, she finished her task. Standing, she turned around and looked at the expanse of deck before her, clean as it could be considering the stains that had accumulated over the years. Dropping the brush in the bucket of soapy water gave her a grim sense of satisfaction and a weary sort of pride in a task well done. The feeling was short lived. As she was daring to stretch out her cramped muscles, she saw a group approaching her. It was Egaire and two of his close followers. Each of them had a prostitute on his arm; apparently fraternizing with other prisoners wasn’t a punishable offense her. Five of them were smoking, leaving Dymira wondering where they had managed to acquire the cigarettes. The sixth was the prostitute that had been curled up in a ball earlier, and she was still looking quite unwell. Her breaths were shallow, and it was more than likely she didn’t want to inhale anything deeply, cigarette smoke or otherwise.
Dymira watched them warily, the tension causing her body to protest. She didn’t want to deal with a confrontation. She started to relax a little as the group continued walking by, not saying a word to her. She had almost believed she was in the clear when they paused at the end of her section. With clearly communicated deliberation, they each dropped the remains of their cigarettes on the newly cleaned deck. Dymira held in a sob.
“Ooops,” said Egaire, unconvincingly, letting out a blunted laugh.
“We didn’t mean to,” chimed in Allery, her laugh a high-pitched contrast to the one that came before. The others laughed as well, all except for the one prostitute who looked decidedly ill. But when Egaire realized that she wasn’t laughing, he roughly elbowed her in the ribs, causing her to become sick all over the deck, making the discarded cigarettes a moot point. The group then walked off again, still laughing, though they were half dragging the sick prostitute. Fighting back tears, and a swell of nausea, Dymira got back to work again. She tried not to wonder if Egaire had hurt the woman specifically to produce this effect, or if it had just been bad luck.