Maelstrom Chapter 1

Chapter 1

For years the little egg waited, dormant, in a cocoon of warmth underneath the ground. It seemed to be by sheer luck that the little thing was protected from all the harsh seasons of the plains. But the makeshift nest lay undisturbed, even after humans came. The humans carved a road through the sea of grass and sandy soil, broken in its uniformity only by clusters of flowers, depending on the season. It was in this way that the humans passed by the nest, constantly moving, never noticing one tiny little sand dune and a scraggly dead tree. It was in this way that, one summer, the one person came. This was the person that the egg had waited for all this time.

I sat in the grass in the sun and took a deep breath. The scene could not be more perfect, not if it was painted. The sweet spring air carried the perfume of a billion spring flowers, while the sun bathed everything in gold. The stream behind me sounded like it was chuckling, though I knew it was naïve to think so. On such a beautiful day and in such a beautiful place, I decided I was allowed a little naivety; I rarely got it any other time.

A breeze came up and played with my dark, tangled hair. As I looked out past the road I saw it sigh through the grasses and make them ripple like waves on an ocean of green. Forever the hills and grass and plains seemed to stretch, broken only by the dark line of mountains to the east.

The peaceful atmosphere shattered like fragile glass as I heard that hateful voice of my captor. “Meerahya! Get ober here right now!” came the shrill whining of the child. I sighed in anger and exasperation. Would that moron ever leave me alone? What an idiotic question. The answer was no, of course Patricia wouldn’t. The child took no other pleasure in life, despite her wealthy upbringing.

I hoisted myself to my feet with a bone-cracking stretch and walked slowly around the back of our campsite. I thought she was behind that sand dune to my left, and I meandered around to meet her. Passing the carriage where it leaned lopsidedly on a block, I wondered what Greta had done with the broken wheel. The spokes had snapped for some reason, and we’d been unable to continue. Our camp made use of what little shelter there was on these plains: a dead tree and the mound of sandy soil piled up against it. I think the mound could have once been a hill that had eroded away. It was a rather unsteady arrangement, but we made do.

Our only remaining horse eyed me balefully as I passed. He got ornery when his partner was missing. Larry, the carriage driver, had taken the other animal to a town nearby to get parts for the wheel. He and I got on well, and he was somewhat sympathetic to my misfortune. Greta, however, was not. Greta was an old, grandmotherly caretaker who doted on Patricia. According to that old bat, the ten-year old could do no wrong. I was of a very different opinion, but I kept my mouth shut for my own safety.

As I rounded the corner, I heard her voice again, shouting: “Meerhaya! I’m takin a baf!” I suppressed my annoyance that she had pronounced my name incorrectly once again. My name was Mirayah, not “Meerhaya”. “Why can she not pronounce anything correctly? Even my Dunian is better than hers,” Came the vicious thought to my head. I had an accent, and I still spoke the local language more clearly than she did.

A branch from the tree sailed past me, missing by a hair’s breadth. I swayed a bit out of its path. “Next time yew don’t come when I call I’ll beat yew. Now halp me git outta dis dress,” She commanded me haughtily. I closed my lips over a sigh and lifted the hem of her pink gown over her plump belly and sausage-like arms. She flipped her straw-colored hair back over her shoulder and squinted at me before pointing at a spot by the bank of the stream. I plopped down a little bit to the left of where she pointed, just to annoy her. She ignored me and waded into the middle of the water.

She was only using a bath as an excuse to play in the water, and she did not need me. I lost focus almost immediately. As per my usual ritual, I looked around and analyzed the escape routes. Any opportunity to run away, any glimmer of hope, was a welcome thing. I glanced at Patricia, but quickly looked away. There was always a path of escape that was open to me, and it never closed. But killing was not in my nature, even one so vile as that girl.

I was dozing in the noon sun when I heard Patricia splash out of the water. I opened my eyes and sat up straighter, making it look like I’d never been asleep. She marched up to me and pointed to her dress where it lay in the grass. I scrambled to my feet and helped her put it on.

“Imma take a nap in da sun. I’m goin on top of da liddle hill. Yew stay dere, at the bottom of dat tree,” She pointed imperiously at the place she wanted me to sit. I obediently seated myself there and watched as she went around the back of the hill. Sand showered down on my head as she climbed up and laid down atop the dune. The dead tree groaned under the extra weight, but I thought nothing of it. I heard her crawling around above me, and eventually she settled down. Her breathing slowed down until I was sure she was asleep. I waited for her to drift off before I closed my own eyes. The sun was pleasant and warm, but the grass was making the scars on my wrists itch. I moved my hands out of the dirt, resting them on my lap. I wished I had my scarf, but last winter I had burnt it because it was infested with fleas. I snorted at myself. If I was not careful, the rest of my clothing would be, too. I needed to replace all of it, from the torn leggings to the stained tunic to the piece of rope I used as a belt. I had a pair of holey, ill-fitting boots and a worn leather jacket stashed under the seat of the carriage. It was too warm for them right now, but I liked to keep them safe and hidden. Jackets and shoes were a valued commodity for a slave. I was lucky to be a house servant and not a field worker, who would have no chance to obtain proper clothing like what I had. Some would say I was also fortunate to be a personal servant to one of the family, instead of being a kitchen slave. They were wrong; I would rather scrub privies that tend to Patricia.

A wry smile nearly touched my lips, but I suppressed it. The image of me scrubbing privies was laughable- me! With that thought still in my head, I wriggled into a patch of sunlight nearby. The warmth was pleasant and soothing, and I dropped off. It was a skill of mine; to fall asleep anywhere and anytime I wanted to.

I came to awareness when a sudden cascade of sand landed on top of my head. I looked above me at the lip of sand and saw that Patricia had wriggled further out on to get at the sun’s warmth. I brushed the sand off my hair and closed my eyes again. I was beginning to doze off when more sand rained down. I scooted around the trunk of the tree and settled back against the bark. This time I had barely closed my eyes when more sand came down. I was getting up to move when all of a sudden the trunk of the tree groaned loudly. Patricia rolled over away from the sound, and the tree bent over even more. I was scrambling to get out, but by now it was too late.

The dead wood splintered and a whole limb fell on my leg. I struggled frantically to pull my ankle out from underneath, but it was stuck fast. The sand was showering down now, and it looked like the tree was going to fall, bringing the whole mound down on me.

“Patricia! Get off the dune, quick! Get off, get off!” I shouted. I heard her shriek and saw more sand and dirt come down. I suddenly saw her crouching in front of me, and she had my hand in hers. She was trying to pull me out, and it wasn’t doing any good. I heard a splintering crash as the tree gave way, and I realized that it was all coming down.

Everything was happening in slow motion then. I shoved Patricia and she went tumbling away from the falling sand. With a tremendous heave I tried to force my way out, but then it all struck my back and hammered me to the ground. A rock struck my forehead and everything went black.

“Run, Addae! Run, Mirayah!” yelled the voice of my father over the sounds of fighting.But my father was dead, and my mother Addae, too… I knew was dreaming. That did nothing to lessen the agony of what came next in this dream. I saw everything in vivid detail, exactly as I had seen it nine years ago…

The flames glared orange in my eyes, and the screams rang in my ears. My father and mother both grabbed one of my hands and ran with me. I remembered the terrified looks on my parent’s faces. My father’s pale skin was in stark contrast with my mother’s dark native complexion. Then we were swallowed by the cool darkness of the forest, and the only sound was the faint rustling of our own movements. We slowed down, our breathing ragged in our chests, and we thought we had lost them. Then, suddenly, a crowd of screaming pale men burst from them trees in front of us. Caught by surprise, they knocked us over before we had a chance to run. My mother protected me with her own body, and the slavers had to kill her to get to me. Her blood soaked me when they ran her through, and I screamed in fear. Meanwhile, another man pinned my father to the ground.

“Look at this one!” the man jeered in his coarse voice. “He betrays his own race in favor of the savages! He must be insane. He doesn’t deserve to live!” I screamed when they killed him, too. They grabbed me and held me still while the same man poked and prodded me. “A little half-savage, I see. I assume those were your parents?” he said as he grinned menacingly in my face. I tried to bite him. He only laughed and said, “Let’s keep this one. She’s feisty!” They struck me in the back of the head with the butt of a spear…

I was painfully awake before the rest of the nightmare could proceed. I gasped, and inhaled dust. I tried to get up and move as I coughed and spluttered, but I could not because of a great weight on top of me. Panic rose in my throat as I remembered where I was. I slowed my breathing down in an effort to quell the fear.

“Keep calm. Keep calm. Keep calm.” I repeated to myself in a muffled voice. I felt the terror in the pit of my stomach recede as reason took over and I began to systematically dissect the situation. Slowly, I tried to move each part of my body. I managed to free my left arm, and I used it to feel around.

I was lucky. When the rest of the tree fell, the trunk missed me. But some of the upper branches were around and above me. My head would have been covered in sand in an instant, had the branches not kept it away from my face. However, the rest of my body up to my shoulders was covered, and my leg was still pinned under the limb that had first trapped me. I could not move anything but my left arm and my head. My ribs were bruised and the injury on my head throbbed. Despite the fact that I had barely moved, I could feel my heartbeat pulsing like the stab of a knife in my head. It was difficult to think straight for long. I took a deep breath, and as I did I realized what my problem was. I was running out of air in the tiny cavity created by the tree branches.

There had to be a way out of this. There was always a way out. I had gotten through far harder and survived. My life was a one big mess of hard situations and challenges. Yet racking my brain produced nothing, and the more I tried to think the less I was able to. My head was fogged with the pain and drowsiness from the concussion, and the air shortage was making it hard to focus. The mental crisis continued, and the longer it was drawn out the less sense I could make. I lost all sense of time.

“So this is how it happens.” I thought drowsily. “So this is how I die. This is humiliating.” I had kind of hoped I would die in battle. It was a vain fantasy, but I had always wanted to go down in a blaze of glory, doing something I believed in. I wondered if it was acceptable to cry now, but I stopped myself. I had not cried for nine years, and I intended to keep up with the trend. Although, I really wished I had died in a different manner: maybe in an attempt toward freedom. I would have been willing to die then. Or maybe if I had gotten back home and waged war on the slavers: I would have died happy then. Instead I was going to silently suffocate here, without knowing freedom again or going back to my people. I felt unfulfilled and sad that I would never live my life all the way. I never fell in love. I never had children. I never killed the people who murdered my father and mother, as per my clan’s customs. My parents would go without being avenged, and their souls would wander the surface of Earth for all eternity in torment. They would never return to her, never become a part of the cycle again. I would not either, for I had not carried out my duties.

As this thought struck me, I decided it would be all right to cry now. I tried to muster up some tears or a sob, or anything, but they did not come. I closed my eyes and began to pray instead. I prayed quickly and quietly until my voice left me, and all that was left was the movement of my lips spouting nothing into thin air…