Young Writers Society

Auctions were split up into three parts: the display, the talent, and then the bidding. Korra lined up on stage with other girls, her hair in fifteen or so braids, her nails painted silver, and her mother’s earrings dangling from her ears. They had spent hours preparing, adjusting the dress and fixing her hair. Her mother had given hair triangular parts and crisscrossed the braids with hair cuffs added to individual braids. Kohl lined her eyes, rouge was on her lips, three gold dots curved below each eye and she had run her first three fingers, tips dabbed in gold face paint, along her cheek bone. They didn’t bother trying to hide her scar.

There were ten other girls on stage, ranging from height and size and skin tone. Miraculously she was the only one in red and gold, her dress like fire. The others girls were in green and bronze or blue and silver, one girl wore black and white. She knew she was not the prettiest there but maybe she could be the most talented. Every girl is bought, she reminded herself. If you weren’t bought for talent or looks you ended up in a whore house. After that there really was no chance of you ever seeing your family again because they would not further disgrace themselves by keeping in touch with a prostitute.

After the display they went in alphabetical order to show their talents. As always they went by first names and Korra was the only “K”. She was after a tall girl named Horus who sang. Her mother had appeased her father by changing the design of her dress slightly so two sashes of red cloth made an “X” across her chess, partly covering the sequins but the skirt still had a split starting at her left thigh and exposing her leg. She took the earrings off for the dance and left her hair down, so it would spin and flare like her skirt.

Truthfully the dance was a blur. She remembered the clacks of her bracelets hitting together, the shaking of the chains around her ankles, how the light caught on the sequins making her shine. She remembered feeling nauseous and nervous. She remembered the eyes of men and women, some of which owned brothels or ran them for men who never visited, others who owned or were there for Ansar-ah (Escort Houses). She was sure her weeks of practice kicked in, she was certain she had just heard the drum beat and her own footsteps against the wooden floor despite the dance being one that should be done on dirt, hence the bare feet. Korra was certain she hadn’t messed up, she still felt like she did but she always felt like that. It was just so that the whole routine was a blur for her and she had been hurried off stage so the next girl, Omara, could play her loutar.

While they waited for the last two girls to go she and her mother sat in a side room fanning themselves with hand fans and sipping chilled peach tea.

“You did wonderful, sweetie,” her mother praised.

Korra smiled appreciatively but it came out more tired and she was tired. A weak “Thank you” was all she could muster.

They didn’t talk much, Korra was afraid of what she would ask and her mother was afraid of what she would answer. So they waited in silence listening to one woman scold her daughter for crying while two of them chatted endlessly in Hebrew, Korra’s second favorite language. A heavy set girl kept braiding and unbraiding the string on her dress while her mother wrung her hands in worry. The air was tense; no one wanted to be here. Korra could sense that. Yet somehow this became a custom, the idea that twelve was enough time for parent and child to make a bond before they were considered adults and had to make a decision about their lives. Korra barely had a childhood. Kamar was born when she was four and suddenly she was hushed whenever she made noise, told to slow down whenever she ran, relocated to Katara’s room, and pushed aside in favor of their mother’s first boy.

A meekness had been beaten into her, a deep-set fear. Suddenly everything she did was wrong and immature when she was only four. She wasn’t allowed to play in the house so she would play outside with the other kids and wait for Katara who seemed to be the only one left to care about her. When she was five she was expected to get good grades and be able to read on her own, she started to learn French and sing and had to get used to having a school day of seven hours that changed with the season. As she got older she was expected to take care of Kamar and help her mother and sister and when Katara left it was just helping her mother and taking care of two boys that were not her own and a house she would have rather not be in. The only semblance of her childhood she still had was the Ocelot Girl Scouts and the stuffed animals on her bed and now all of a sudden she was an adult and about to be bought.

Would that I were to be married, she thought, even a loveless marriage would be better than a childhood lost early.

“We will start the bidding at ten hundred Almar notes,” said the auctioneer, a gray haired man with his beard in dreadlocks.

Hands were raised followed by the price and as it went up hands went down until there were only two men fighting for her. She dared a glance up to look at them; one was old and thin with a long beard and circle glasses while the other was younger with an afro that she liked. They both wore black tunics with a different gold symbol over their hearts, the unmistakable mark of Ansar-ah buyers and when it looked like the old man had won, another hand shot up to trump his ten thousand with twenty thousand.

“I can go higher if you like,” said the new bidder, looking at the old man from an Ansar-ah. They glared at each other for a minute until the old man nodded, admitting defeat.

When the auction was done he came to find them, introducing himself as E.Z Nazir who Korra knew of vaguely. She had heard his name on the radio a few times, seen him on the cover of a few magazines. She understood he was rich and, according to one of the girls in her class, frequented auctions for toys and concubines. He wanted a few words alone with her in his room which to her great terror her father allowed. So she sat nervously across from him at a roundtable that was not wide enough and nibbled at the sandwiches placed in front of her. She had not eaten much in the past few days, especially not that day, but she understood there had to be a certain level of restraint on her part. She had been taught that girls weren’t supposed to eat a lot in public and public was the presence of a man not your family. She observed him, summed him up in quick glances and shy gazes between her lashes. He was of an average height, maybe two or three inches above her, with an unthreatening build and a pleasant enough face and yet, she felt afraid of him.

“Korra, correct,” he asked and she nodded. “Do you know why I bought you?”

She shrugged, alarmed.

“Really, not even a guess. I could have picked you because you are a lovely dancer or because I think you were the most intriguing or beautiful girl out there.”

“Are— those the reasons you picked me,” she asked tentatively.

“Well they certainly could be, however-,” he reached over and gently traced her scar, causing her to flinch, “-I have a fondness for broken things, even better if you’re a fighter. And well, I just think you’ll last long.”

His finger fell and she shivered.

With a grin he added, “I’ll be here for the next three days, this is where we shall depart. So make sure you say goodbye to everyone.”

“Looks like we’re at the end of our lives together,” her mother sighed.

They were sitting on the couch in her room; looking at strings of pictures she had decorating the wall over her bed. They had put the couch in after Katara had left, knowing she wouldn’t come back. Her mother had come to give her a parting gift, a small bronze comb to put in her hair. Then Korra started talking about how she was scared and so she had stayed to comfort her. Korra had her head in her mother’s lap. Gripping part of her night gown.

Korra nodded and after a few moments asked, “Mommy, where did Katara go?”

Her mother was quiet so she sat up and faced her, the older woman was crying.

Korra’s eyes widened, she had never seen her mother cry before. The woman was always a mask of cool composure. “Mommy,” she placed her hand on her arm, concerned.

“I’m alright,” she said wiping her eyes. “I can’t believe how long it’s been. Twelve years is just not enough time.”

“Heh, you’re telling me,” she joked, tearing up herself.

Holding a fit to her nose she tried to stifle any sobs that might dear to escape despite the years of training to keep such actions in check. “She’d be sixteen by now. I always wanted the two of you to continue school, get married and make a home for yourselves. She wanted to be a Tia.”

“I know.” Countless times had Korra heard her sister speak of her dreamed up future. She practiced teaching Korra and Sugar when the girl would sit still.

Her mother sniffled and tried to smile before giving up and answering the question, “Katara called us once, you were on a trip with the Scouts, she said she was fine, kept asking about you. Gosh you two were close.”

They smiled; her mother gave a weak laugh followed by a heavy sigh.

“She was at an Ansar-ah, a small one, told me how she’d fallen in love with someone she met there. Well fifteen is a lovely time to be in love and I wasn’t going to tell her she couldn’t be. I didn’t think anything about it until a few months later we got another call from the Ansar-ah about Katara. She had run off with one of the other girls. The woman had told me they had taken all their money and some of their clothes and just left one night, bribing the maids not to tell.”

Here her mother stopped and breathed slowly. Korra didn’t think she would go on and thought she would be okay with that. She could just keep the idea that her sister was safe and happy and free with a lover that made her feel safe and happy and free. And then her mother went on.

“But a few weeks after their escape, they were found by the police. And where the other girl gave up and accepted the consequences, Katara refused and kept trying to run-” she began to wring her hands, looking down at them as if they could help her go on. “-I guess it was some hunter or officer, they never specified. But whoever they were they shot her in both legs. So rather than admit defeat and face the shaming and ridicule that would come afterwards your sister— well, your sister finished the job and killed herself.”

And that’s when Korra broke.