Hell from a Well (Hummingbird series), page 10
Many breeding programs were tried with no clear victor. There was a space at the bottom of most articles that listed contact information for the submission of suggestions. It was a relic of the old ways of thinking.
Mail.
They hadn't had mail in decades. Her children had never seen mail. The messenger was as close as they came. They didn't get visitors from neighboring villages but once or twice a year, and they consisted of families trying desperately to keep in touch. A mailing address seemed meaningless with no mail. It was hundreds of miles away when even twenty would have put it out of reach. And she had suggestions, with no paper to write them on.
Political appointments filled one week's news. Names and qualifications with bios. They sounded like bright, competent leaders, but then, that was always the case in the state-run paper.
Plenty of entertainment, little of real value.
"Reaha, you and your sister keeping things straight in your brothers' room?" Myla asked after prayers.
"Yes, Momma."
"Look, your father said he talked it out with your brother, so you shouldn't have that problem again. But, the less you mess with—"
"Not a thing, Momma. We left it all where it was!"
"Seems wrong, don't it. He hit his sister, then offered up his bed to strangers."
Reaha quietly folded her rug.
"Your father said they may have olives this year. Won't that be nice? Olives."
Reaha put her rug on the shelf by the window. "Yeah, it's been a long time since we had olives."
"He thinks there will be enough for every family to get a full jar. I think you were nine the last time we had olives."
"What do olives taste like, Momma?" Ashina asked.
Myla smiled. "They are divinely oily and a firm kind of squishy, packed with flavor." She drew the shades on the windows as the children went back to bed, middle of the day. She would wake them again for their next prayer, and one more time before they had to leave for their dusk gardening chores.
Ashina snuck up behind a weeding Sylia. She counted eight scorpions pinned on her spear. "Eight! Already?"
Sylia looked round. The crop was tall enough to hide them while they squatted. She pointed to another stick back where they started just an hour ago.
Ashina squinted. At least another eight. She playfully shoved her sister, "No fair! I only got two."
Sylia shrugged.
"Can I have some?"
Sylia smiled.
She hugged her silent sis, took a sip from the bottle, then got back to work.
As they neared fall, the asphalt garden actually pulled ahead in production. They had carefully charted the water levels and estimated that it could actually be expanded next year. Not much, but a little, assuming that this year was a normal year for rain.
Water buckets were a chore, but they weren't carried far, and harvesting was a breeze. Add to that the convenience of eating meals at home instead of miles away in the middle of a field and it couldn't be beat.
Unfortunately, it was deemed too easy a chore for her kids. They were stuck at the far away garden, even the girl who came up with the idea.
Reaha put the last load on the sled, drank deeply from the bottle, then started to pull it back to the village. Tour grabbed one rope, put it across his shoulder, and leaned forward, as did the others.
It started to move. They grunted it up the slight hill, then tried to stay ahead of it as it slid down the other side. Ashina and Sylia returned to the garden to start loading the next sled while the other three tugged it home. Three was enough, after that first bit.
When the second was partially loaded, they started home as well, helped by one of the adults.
Ashina and Sylia dropped the ropes well short of where they were supposed to and ran to their mother. Myla stopped each as her father knelt beside a figure on the ground. Tour and Sirin were standing just behind him, staring down. A state official, flanked by two others, delivered two more whips counting out "seventy-nine, eighty!"
The father picked up the lump and carried it back to his house.
"Come with me, children," Myla said in full dress, "We have two sleds to deliver before we can go home."
Myla and her husband were in and out of the boys' room all day, where none of the children were allowed.
Neither Sirin nor Tour would say what happened, but every time the door opened or closed they got a glimpse of Reaha, face down on the bed. Shirtless, her back covered in red lines.
Reaha had been accused of being unchaste. A rumor suggested that because of her attire, she wasn't being virtuous enough. It was a rumor. But under the law, she was to receive eighty lashes for even unproven accusations.
The father had cried, but only after he had gotten her back inside. He hadn't stopped the beating, nor did he even protest the will of the state.
The state left with all of the surplus as well. The tax to the poor.
Chapter 12
Reaha didn't moan at all as Myla sat on the bed. Eighty lashes. It was brutal. It was her daughter. A beautiful girl, less so now, who had done nothing wrong. "My child," Myla whispered. "Are you hungry at all?"
Reaha lay, silently.
Myla kissed her eldest girl on the cheek and held her hand. "They put rules on bedroom doors, and beat girls who outgrow their clothes. My child." She sniffled. "My adorable girl." She stared at the wall. "When I was young, we learned of the Greeks, at least I think it was the Greeks. They had a right of passage for their warrior boys. They would tie them to posts and whip them until they screamed. The more tearless lashes they took, the greater the warrior and the braver the soul. They called it getting their wings." She hovered her hand above her daughter's disfigured back. "My angel's wings." She sniffled again.
Sirin sat on the other bed. It was time for sleep, if anyone could after such.
"Your sister is here for you. As am I, my child." She kissed her cheek again, then ran her fingers through Reaha's hair.
There were no boys Reaha's age left in the village, not that that made a difference to the state. It would have been interesting to know who had spread such a rumor, but, it would have changed nothing.
Officially, she wasn't beaten because of what she wore. Officially.
Myla woke that morning, still sitting in bed with her daughter. Sylia stood quietly between the bed and the window, the smell of fresh buns filled the room. Sylia stood and stared at her sister's bare back. The lines were just as well defined as they were the night before.
"Go on, now, Child," Myla said.
Sylia took the folded sock and pulled out the tray. The buns were ready.
"Thank you, Child, now go. She doesn't need you here, to see her like this."
Sylia started breaking the buns open instead, then spread a dab of butter on each half.
"Butter? Where in the world did you get butter?"
Sylia just shrugged, handed Myla Reaha's hairbrush, took the little bowl of butter, and left.
The far garden was fully harvested, the near one had another week or two before its last harvest. Reaha was missed, but it was well understood. She lay in bed for weeks. The worst of it was all the gossip. The lashes were for the unproven, as the law allowed. But to the average mind, punishment was proof of guilt. Reaha had no reason to leave the bed with the entire village believing the rumors they did.
The children played scarecrow outside when Myla stormed from the bedroom. "No, I won't let you!" she yelled back.
"Myla, Wife," he said, "You know I'm right."
She stomped her foot as she pounded the kitchen counter with her fist.
"Myla," her husband came to her. "The past is. Nothing is here for her. I have an old friend, two towns over. They have sons, about her age. Another year and we can't really arrange such a thing."
Myla pounded it again, shaking her head.
"His boy is a nice enough soul. I think they even played together once, before we moved here. Lost a hand in the war before the Twelfth." He put his hand on her shoulder. "They say he lost it running in fear. He wasn't cut out for war, and he understands the shortcomings of wrongful rumors and first impressions. It is for the best." He put his hand on her hip, "And, it is already done."
"She should have the choice, the right to choose." They had sold her first girl.
Ashina ran past the window; Sylia was right behind, waving a scarecrow stick full of webs and bugs in the air.
Myla stepped past him and headed straight for the boys' room, closing the door behind her.
Reaha was in an accepting mood and took it well. She still had a pretty face and looked fine from the front. Dressed, none would ever know. Another town was a better place, in her mind. She had until spring to finish healing and prepare herself. That was enough time to adjust, and for goodbyes.
She even liked the idea of one hand. It evened things out.
She was just like her mom, strong, accepting, and silent when words alone could change nothing.
Dried seeds were swept from the streets and divided into sacks for every home to store as fall reached its end. They topped off the oil and prepared to hunker down for winter while the father took eight of those days to finalize the deal.
Myla helped her daughter walk from the bedroom to the dining room table, pulled out a chair, then sat her down.
"It's nice to have you at the table, Reaha," the father said on his first day back.
Reaha nodded, but slouched forward to avoid contact with the back of the chair.
"Your mother made that fig pie thing you like so much," he said.
"Thank you, Daddy."
Myla and Sirin finished setting the table while the other children scooped portions onto their plates. It was an awkward meal, at first. Nobody wanted to stare at her, but looking away was just as bad.
But they quickly got used to seeing their oldest sister, again. They looked her in the eyes when they spoke.
For dessert, Myla served her the biggest slice, but Reaha was only able to nibble at it. Her appetite had yet to return.
Reaha was just now able to lie on her side. Just the right side. Walking around was still difficult. It was surprising how much the muscles in the back were involved in standing and getting around. It was painful to lift her arm, but just moving at her elbows and wrists allowed her to do most things.
Sirin or her mother usually helped Reaha dress and get around.
This was the first night she felt able to sit at the table. Just sitting was a chore, but Reaha wanted to appear normal. It was important to her.
"Hey, what are you doing?" Reaha asked. The shades were pulled, so it was difficult to see who it was.
The brush pressed lightly above her forehead, then slowly went down her long hair.
"Sylia?"
The brush returned to above her ear.
"It isn't morning yet, is it?"
She pressed her finger to Reaha's lips before adding another stroke.
"Sirin still asleep?"
Sylia nodded.
"You killing time before the buns are done?"
She put the brush near her ear again.
"Momma up?"
That was a yes.
"How long before they're done?"
She shrugged.
Reaha smiled. "You still don't answer those kinds of questions, do you?" She touched the girl's knee. "You don't have to brush my hair, it doesn't seem so important now."
Sylia smiled, but continued.
The weather was turning cold, but it wasn't winter yet. They had a small surplus of food, the state had taken mostly coffee and staples. Fortunately, potatoes had figured heavily in the asphalt garden and had gone unnoticed by the state accountant. Stored potatoes looked like a pile of dirt, and no accountant was ever going to dig to count.
Reaha wasn't yet able to handle tasks or chores, but she played cards well with the other girls. It had been awkward at first, until someone suggested that she sit backward in the chair with a pillow between her chest and its back. That made all the difference. She still couldn't move her arms that much, but cards were fine.
They played cards a lot.
Myla had asked them to. It helped keep their spirits up and made Reaha feel more like family. It was also a nice memory to carry into her new life next spring.
Fall proceeded uneventfully. This was the first year that they didn't run out of newspapers. Reading stories was good family time and a perfect distraction for the monotony of winter.
Myla stood to reach the warm bowl of water, then slowly rinsed the shampoo from Reaha's hair. "I'm going to start on your back, now, just let me know if I'm too rough."
Reaha braced herself. It usually hurt, but she rarely cried out.
The light from the lamp showed off the scars on her daughter's back. Most were healed and were like little raised wrinkles on otherwise perfect skin. A few had gotten infected, one was still pussy. Those concerned her the most. She didn't know what kind of marriage her daughter was headed for, but this needed to be healed first.
Clean, boiled water, was the best medicine they had to offer.
It brought back memories of when she bathed her children when they were under three. She hadn't seen Reaha without clothes for a decade. A lot had changed. She was a beautiful, young woman. Her back would never be the same. It was sad that she had to wash her grown daughter. It had horrified her that first time. Enraged her the second time. This time she had actually counted the marks. She counted sixty-three, but she knew that was wrong. The deepest cuts were from repeated blows landing on the same place.
Myla helped her daughter stand, then dabbed her back with the towel. Her back was raw so Myla held a sheet around her topless daughter as they walked back to the boys' room.
Reaha lay face down on the bed, letting the air dry her back the rest of the way, while her mother tucked her in, as best as she could. "I know you don't like this part, but I'll try to be easy on you, Child." Myla sat even with her waist, then slowly started to rub each scar.
Reaha tensed immediately, but said nothing.
"I'm sorry, Child. You don't want the skin sticking to the muscle underneath. I know it hurts, Child, I know." Myla wiped her eyes on her sleeve, then continued until she had made sure none had attached. "Done. Want me to stay with you, read you something, Child?"
". . . No, I'm fine, Momma."
"I'll send your sister Sirin in, then."
". . . No, let her play. She doesn't need to watch me sleep. It makes her uncomfortable anyway. Maybe when it's dry enough—"
"You don't make anyone uncomfortable, Child."
". . . even, even Daddy?"
Myla sat on the bed, "Oh, Child, he's not trying to get rid of you, he just thinks this is best for you. A few years from now, it wouldn't be proper to arrange such a thing. We get you healed, and only your husband will need to know what happened here."
"I, I think I remember playing soccer with him when I was four. I just can't— in my mind he's still four."
Myla adjusted the sheets covering Reaha's arms. "I remember him that way too. He was terribly shy, I remember that." She dabbed one of the open sores.
"Momma. . . What, what is it like?"
She lay in bed to look her daughter in the eyes. She worked her hand under the sheet to hold hands. "I wish you. . . I—" She stared at the ceiling. "I wish you could date him. I think that's important. I think you should get to know someone for a few years before, before sex gets added to the equation. I don't know if you can, I don't know if he's still that shy little boy. I hope you get that opportunity. I'd like to think this horrible thing that has happened to you can give you that excuse. Can give you that time.
Your father said he didn't seem that enthusiastic, like he wasn't ready to get married. Perhaps that can work in your favor. He's injured, much like you. Perhaps you can find even more in common."
"No, I mean, it."
She smiled. "If it's nice, you'll learn how to make it nicer. If it isn't, you learn how to make it quick." She faced her worried girl. "Heard tell he had problems hurting the enemy, he hesitated much longer than he should. I doubt he'll be harsher to you. You're my beautiful girl. Once he feels the warmth of that smile, he'll want to make you smile more." Myla kissed her. "Just like the rest of us. He's not immune." She tucked her in again, then left the room.
The first snowstorm of the year came early, if people dared to predict such things. It remained bitter cold for nearly a month as the weather refused to yield patterns people could recognize. Hints of green were in the dusk and pre-dawn sky, but it seemed only Myla and Sylia noticed.
Winds swept and piled the snow against every door and wall. It made journeys for oil and water nearly impossible. The wind-chill drove the older girls to abandon the boys' chilly room.
Reaha got a bed to herself, for obvious reasons. She wore long-sleeved shirts turned with the buttons down the back, left as open as possible, and what few of Myla's zipper-removed dresses she could squeeze into.
The lamp was moved out of the boys' room to double up the window in the parents' room. The blown snow blew out the lamps a few times a week, not because of the speed of the wind, but the piled snow. The lamps kept the smell down by getting and venting the air and smoke outside. It had a weird way of doing it that wasn't obvious until the snow piled against it, closing it off.
It cleared with a week of calm and unseasonably warm weather that let the eldest girls move back to a less crowded room. Without Reaha's help, Myla went with the children to wrestle with water and oil, something she hadn't had to do for the last few years.
Potatoes were a given. Potatoes didn't last but so long outside and had to be eaten or lost. It reminded everyone of the years of just getting by, but now they had so much more to go with it. This fall, it no longer accounted for the bulk of every meal, but it retained a prominent role. Baked potatoes made great breakfast food and complimented most meals. Tonight's was diced and lightly fried with a few onions and went nicely with the dog meat a neighbor provided.
